by John Harris
Her face hardened. ‘Then we read of his suicide in Paris. I was heartbroken. About two years later I read that Henry Cazalet had been arrested for gross indecency with another man. For the first time I began to get a glimpse of what it had all been about.’
She became silent again. Finishing her drink, she sloshed fresh brandy into her glass without asking Woodyatt if he wished to join her.
‘Actually,’ she continued, ‘I didn’t even know what “gross indecency” was. I made my brother tell me. I remember he went red and told me it was something I didn’t need to know about. But I made him explain.’
‘And Frank?’ Woodyatt asked.
‘He hates this part of the story.’ Daphne Darby smiled. ‘Eventually I married,’ she went on. ‘As I was expected to, and as I wanted to. A man called Marlowe. He was handsome, dashing and quite magnificent, and he killed himself hunting within a year. I married again quite soon afterwards. A nice man called Julian Winterton. Handsome again, of course, wealthy, all I wanted. Like my brother, he was one of the first to be killed in France in 1914.’
Daphne Darby’s face wore a lost, bitter look as she continued. ‘Then, late in 1916, Frank turned up again, minus a leg. He’d also married but his wife had gone off with another man. We fell into each other’s arms. I needed comfort and he needed someone to lean on.
God! Woodyatt thought, it happens all the time. In every generation, in every war, people needed comfort.
Mrs Darby was toying with her glass. ‘I was eternally grateful to him,’ she said slowly. ‘And always will be. I think he’s grateful to me, too, though I’m not sure I’ve been good for him, or he for me. But that’s the way things happen, isn’t it? The Redmond affair ruined his career, of course, and he started to go for the bottle. He still does. Come to that, so do I. You’ll have noticed. Two bad lots in the soup together, who didn’t fit in with the old snobbish attitudes that started again after the war ended. Finally we saw this house and decided to chuck it all up and live here. It’s not a very romantic story, but it explains why I know so much about Redmond.’
She shrugged. ‘You have to remember,’ she said, ‘that, while to Frank he’s someone he was intimately concerned with, he was still only someone he’d seen now and again. To me as a girl he was a dream, and I watched him like a hawk. I knew the cadence of his voice, every twitch of his eyebrows, every flicker of expression. I was in love with him. I knew what he looked like, the way he behaved, the way he moved, the way he stood, the way he held his head. The man you’ve got is Redmond.’
Two
Woodyatt frowned. Daphne Darby was right, as Dominique had been right. People in love didn’t forget. Despite her treachery, he could still remember every tiny thing about his wife with blinding clarity. He suspected he always would. It was obviously the same with Daphne Darby.
But how much could he trust her? After forty years how much did the memory retain accurately? He’d found that after many years things he’d known well differed when he’d seen them again. The steep hills of childhood became gentle slopes. Things that he had believed large were small. Women he had thought beautiful, he had realised, had never been so. How much could Daphne Darby really remember? And was she looking for revenge on someone, anyone, for what had happened? Did it colour her view? The bloody case, he thought, had more twists and dead ends than a maze.
Darby was clearly worried by the turn the war had taken. As they talked, Dominique sat alongside Woodyatt and he could feel her hand against his. Her face was expressionless and he remembered what Daphne Darby had said of her. She was enduring and resourceful and had helped with many of the decisions they had been forced to take. If only, he thought, she’d cease trying to be brave.
‘I think we should be moving,’ Darby insisted. ‘There’s fighting north of here round the bridges of Saumur.’ He passed a hand over his face, as though trying to brush aside his gloomy thoughts. ‘Christ, what a mess,’ he growled. ‘It said on the wireless that French soldiers rescued at Dunkirk are being sent back. The French government’s demanding them, it seems, to form a new army to carry on the fight from the North African colonies. On the other hand, there are others who are coming back willingly. There are even a few enrolling in London.’
‘For what?’ Dominique asked.
‘Franc tireurs. Agents. I don’t know what they do these days. I’m out of date and out of touch.’ He produced a map. ‘The area the Germans want under the peace terms,’ he said, ‘is going to include this place. They’re at Angouleme, Tours, Vichy and Lyon. But I’m told there is a gap north of Bordeaux that’s still open. If we can get through we could be taken off tomorrow.
They all drank a little too much. Darby was suddenly uncertain of the future and it affected them all.
Mrs Darby had put Dominique in Woodyatt’s room, but she made no attempt to draw close to him. He was aware of her unease and that she wasn’t asleep.
‘Are you awake?’ she whispered.
‘Yes.’
‘After you’ve got your prisoner to England, will you be sent to the fighting?’
He thought about it for a while. ‘The chances are that I’ll stay in Intelligence,’ he said. ‘But I might be sent.’
It was some time before she spoke again. ‘Colonel Darby said that many French people who’ve been taken to England are coming back. They’re coming back to fight, to act as agents.’
‘They must be mad.’
‘Must they?’
‘Would you come back?’
‘You forget what they did to me.’
‘They’d do it again. And worse. They’d shoot you.’
‘Perhaps this time I could do the shooting.’
She lay stiff and straight alongside him, making no effort to move nearer. For a long time they lay in silence, Woodyatt staring at the moonlight streaming through the window. She seemed to be asleep at last and he wondered what had been running through her clever and complex mind. Then, hearing a small sound outside, he lifted his head. As he did so, Dominique sat up. They were still for a moment and in the silence they heard a creak on the landing.
‘He’s trying to slip away!’
They were out of bed in a moment, snatching at clothing. Montrouge was by the door. He was fully dressed, wearing his long overcoat and carrying his case. Woodyatt switched the light on and the old man froze. There was no sound from the room along the corridor where the Darbys slept.
‘Where are you going?’
The old man shrugged. ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ he retorted. ‘I am coming back. I was going but I have decided it might be wiser not to. There is a car outside in the road. It was not there earlier. I suspect, young man, that those pursuers you talked about so much have found us again.’
Woodyatt glanced at Dominique then he pushed the old man into his room and went to the landing window. Through the darkness he could just see a car. A match flared inside it as someone lit a cigarette.
Returning grim-faced to the bedroom, he faced the old man. ‘Where were you going?’ he demanded.
There was a moment’s silence then the old man sighed. ‘I grew tired of the questioning,’ he said wearily. ‘I decided to make my own way south. I changed my mind. With ladies and old men it’s a privilege.’
‘It’s also imperative – if you’re who I think you are.’
Montrouge shook his head wearily. ‘Oh, young man,’ he said heavily. ‘Have you no idea how much you bore me?’
It seemed so unfeigned, such a natural reaction from an old man at the end of his tether, that it immediately started Woodyatt doubting again. God, he thought, what if I’ve subjected the poor old bugger to all this humiliation and he isn’t Redmond after all?
But then he remembered the car outside. Why was it there if this weren’t Redmond? It seemed unbelievable that they were still being followed after all the disasters that had happened, that their pursuers had never been fooled and had picked up their track despite the disasters they had all faced. He thrust
his doubts behind him. ‘You’d not have got further than the end of the road,’ he said. ‘Were you thinking of pinching the car?’ He watched as Dominique pushed the old man towards the bed. ‘You made sure you had your case.’
‘It contains my papers. One day I may write my memoirs.’
‘They ought to be interesting.’
A ghost of the old man’s smile appeared and Woodyatt became aware of a growing but grudging admiration for him.
He was a devious old bastard but he knew where he was going and he never seemed at a loss.
‘I have plenty of stories to tell,’ Montrouge said. ‘What did you tell my niece when you first met her? That I was a French agent. For once, young man, you were right. I was posing as a French newspaper correspondent. There was nothing unusual in it. Half the London Times correspondents worked for British Intelligence.’
To Woodyatt this was just another new story that had surfaced. The old devil made them up as he went along. And they were all – every last one of them – too glib. He leaned forward, his eyes hot and angry. ‘You ever heard of Mark Twain?’ he asked.
‘Of course.’
‘He once said something about a liar. He called him “experienced, industrious, ambitious and often quite picturesque”. I think it fits you.’
‘That’s your privilege.’ The old man’s expression changed and suddenly he seemed sly and calculating. ‘There is something I can tell you, however. Have you ever heard of a German sympathiser in the top echelon of the British civil service?’
The words startled Woodyatt and he immediately decided they had been tossed at him to make him sit up and take notice. ‘What about him?’
The old man smiled. ‘I see you have. A Mr X he’s known as.’
‘Are you making a deal with me?’
‘I seem to have no alternative. I need to get to England.’
‘I’ve been trying to persuade you of that ever since I met you. What about Mr X? Do you know his name?’
‘I saw letters addressed to him. His name begins with an “L”. That’s all I saw.’
‘Where did you see these letters?’
‘In the briefcase of a man called von Schalk. He was a friend.’
‘And this is how you treat your friends? By going through their secret papers.’
‘Do you want the name or not?’ The words came out in an angry bark.
Woodyatt ignored the show of anger. ‘We hear that Hitler intends to use our Mr X in any peace talks that occur,’ he said.
The old man stared at him with glittering eyes. ‘I would have thought the British were too stupid to ask for peace talks.’
‘This “X”. Tell me more.’
‘He lives in Cheltenham.’
‘Is that all?’
‘It’s all I know. If they can’t work out from that who he is, they’re slower than I thought.’
‘All right. I have another question. Have you heard about rocket propulsion?’
‘Of course I have.’ The old man’s head moved. ‘They’re obviously not as slow in England as I thought.’
‘Flying bombs? Pilotless propellerless aeroplanes? We want to confirm they’re a possibility.’
‘Of course they’re a possibility.’
‘Tell me about them.’
‘Argus Motorenwerke are behind them. The first jet propulsion was patented as early as 1907. Everybody was at it in the Thirties, with the Germans ahead on points.’
Woodyatt was listening carefully. ‘A man called Schmidt developed a thing called the Schmidt duct,’ Montrouge went on. ‘It was a pulse jet. I expect your experts know as much about that as the Germans. Argus Motorenwerke produced their own Argus duct. It was then suggested that these ducts should be used to propel a flying torpedo. Just before the war started they were invited to submit proposals for a missile with a range of three hundred and fifty miles.’
‘Are they going to use them?’
‘If there aren’t any peace talks.’
‘I want provenance. Proof that this is genuine.’
‘I knew Hermann Oberth, who developed the fuel. He lived only twenty kilometres from me. I also knew General Dornberger. He’s been working on the project since 1932. I knew him when he was just an artillery officer with a technical background. He used to discuss his ideas with me.’
Dominique hadn’t moved. Her eyes were fixed on the old man.
‘What about the base for all this activity?’ Woodyatt asked. ‘There is no base. Just a few huts. It could grow bigger, though.’
‘Where?’
‘The Baltic coast. Pomerania. Near Rostock. Mecklenberg. Somewhere there. Try Peenemunde.’
‘Never heard of it. Will Hitler invade Britain now he’s got France?’
‘He hasn’t a navy.’
‘He’s got an air force.’
‘You can’t take over a country with aeroplanes.’ It was a blunt professional opinion. ‘I think he’d prefer it if Britain just capitulated. He admires the British Empire. He’s a dreadful snob. He’d love to be invited to Buckingham Palace for tea.’ The old man’s sense of humour showed no signs of diminishing. ‘But since Britain seems to have no intention of throwing in the sponge, he’ll go into the Mediterranean instead.’
‘The Mediterranean is Mussolini’s sphere of influence.’
‘He doesn’t give a damn for Mussolini! This army they’ll be rebuilding in England won’t be needed to stop an invasion, but it will be needed in North Africa. He’ll strike at Britain’s friends. And being honourable, the British will be stupid enough to rush to their help. You should warn them, young man, to look to themselves. No more Polands. No more Norways.’
There was a long silence as Woodyatt digested what he’d been told. Montrouge seemed at last to have decided to come clean.
‘What else?’
‘He’ll go into Russia.’
‘Russia’s his ally.’
The old man smiled. ‘You really are naïve.’
‘Surely he’s read of Napoleon’s disaster in 1812.’
‘He considers himself cleverer than Napoleon. You’ll also need to look further east than Russia.’
‘There’s nothing further east than Russia. Only Japan.’
The old man’s eyebrows lifted. ‘The Japanese are already servicing the German sea-raiders.’
‘You’ll be telling me next that Singapore’s in danger.’
‘That’s exactly what I am telling you.’
‘Why are you telling me these things? And who’s this Zamerski type who’s so interested in us? The type who’s probably sitting in the car outside.’
Montrouge hesitated. ‘A man I knew,’ he said.
‘What is he?’
‘He’s a German agent. He does their dirty work.’
‘Gestapo? In France?’
‘The Germans are in France. Now! The Gestapo will be here, too, before long.’
‘And why is Zamerski after you?’
‘A variety of reasons.’
‘Tell me one.’
‘The Jews.’
‘What about the Jews?’
The old man paused. ‘He’s going to get rid of the Jews,’ he said.
‘Which Jews?’
‘All Jews.’
‘You can’t get rid of a whole race.’
‘Hitler can.’
‘You can’t get rid of millions of people.’
‘They can. They will.’
‘How, for God’s sake?’
‘Concentration camps. They have them already. I can give you names. Goebbels says they’re just political reformatories. Don’t you believe it. They’ll become destruction camps. With experts who know how to use them. And there’s always starvation. You’ve only to lock someone away and forget them and they disappear.’
‘You’re making it up.’
‘You’ll find I’m not. Jews. Communists. Catholics. Even Nazis who don’t conform. I hope you haven’t any Jewish relatives in Germany.’
Woodya
tt stared unbelievingly at the old man. ‘Is that why Redmond got out of Germany?’
‘They had evidence against him.’
Woodyatt found himself grudgingly admiring again. You’re a shrewd old bastard, he thought.
‘And you?’ he asked.
‘I was rather busy at the time.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Getting my wife out of Germany. She was part-Jewish. I didn’t love her or anything like that. Nor she me. But she had looked after me. I owed her something.’
There was an aching silence, and Woodyatt caught Dominique’s puzzled expression. It was the very first indication they’d had that this old man in front of them had any feelings whatsoever. In the quietness, Dominique spoke.
‘Were there any others you got out?’
‘A few. Wealthy ones. What other kind ever escape?’
‘How many did you save?’
‘Not many. Three families. Twenty-two people.’
‘Where are they now?’
‘One family reached New York, I believe. One went to South Africa. One’s in London.’ The replies were flat and unemotional, as if they concerned something Montrouge preferred to forget.
‘Was there anyone else involved?’
‘One or two. One’s dead. They shot him. Another’s in a concentration camp.
‘And the men who’ve been following you?’ Woodyatt asked. ‘All through France…’
Montrouge drew a deep breath like a sigh. ‘Zamerski’s men. They’ve been looking for me for two years.’
Three
They locked Montrouge’s door as they left. Their own door was left ajar.
‘Did you believe him?’ Dominique asked in a small shocked voice.
‘Some of the time.’
‘About the Jews? Catholics? People who disagreed? The people he saved?’
‘We have only his word for them.’
‘He wouldn’t lie about a thing like that.’
Woodyatt could almost feel the disapproval oozing out of her. She was determined to believe Montrouge had helped the Jews to escape. It was as if it were the sign of redemption she had been seeking all along.
Neither of them spoke as they climbed back into bed. Woodyatt was silent for a long time, his mind weary with thinking, then he turned to her, looking for comfort. But she remained silent and, when he touched her, she made no response and lay as stiff and unyielding as a corpse. He kissed her cheek but she didn’t even turn her head.