by John Harris
‘On the contrary. He brought me home.’
Pullinger’s face changed again. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Bit ironic, isn’t it? I didn’t save his life when the Coniston disappeared. He saved mine.’ Woodyatt tried to explain. ‘He was on the destroyer. I know he was. So he must have been brought ashore in Falmouth. He had a suitcase with him – judging by the way he hung on to it, I reckon he has it still. It’s full of papers. As a newspaperman I wouldn’t mind poking inside it myself. I bet there’s plenty there to set people thinking for weeks ahead, to say nothing of a few names that might startle them. He gave me the identity of your Mr X, by the way.’
Pullinger’s eyes lit up. ‘He did? Who?’
‘He lives in Cheltenham and his name begins with “L”.’
‘Limboury,’ Pullinger said immediately. ‘It can only be Limboury. Sir George Limboury. Known to the juniors as “Cheltenham Charlie”. I always thought he was a bit of a shit. Well, that’s a help. We’ll ask him a few sharp questions. What else did you get out of him?’
‘A few things. The Germans are working on pilotless aircraft and rockets, and have been doing for years. They’re well advanced.’
‘We knew that. When do they start operating?’
‘They don’t. After what’s just happened, they’ll be feeling they won’t need them. They’ll be expecting us to chuck our hand in.’
‘Well, for your information, we’re not going to. What about him? We need to talk to him.’
‘Yes, you do. He had a lot of interesting little titbits you’ll be interested in. He said you’d need to watch Singapore.’
‘Singapore’s as safe as houses.’
‘He didn’t seem to think so. So you’d better get on with finding him. He’ll have a lot to tell you. And there are people who are very eager to get their hands on him.’
‘Nazis?’
‘They were unpleasant enough to be Nazis.’
‘Right.’ Pullinger became brisk and energetic. He almost rubbed his hands in his eagerness to get on. ‘Where is he?’
Woodyatt smiled. ‘God knows. That’s up to you. I know he’s here, so you’d better start looking for him.’
Pullinger gave him a look of sheer hatred. ‘You mean you didn’t hang on to him?’
‘I was rather preoccupied at the time. Isn’t he on the list of survivors? He ought to be.’
Pullinger hurriedly began to thumb his way through a bundle of papers in his hand. ‘There’s no bloody name here,’ he said eventually, ‘that could conceivably be his. What did he call himself?’
‘Well, it wasn’t Redmond and it certainly wouldn’t be von Rothügel. Is there a Montrouge?’
Pullinger furiously turned sheets of paper. ‘Nobody of that name.’
‘He must be around somewhere. The survivors were all gathered together to be cleaned, fed and clothed.’
Pullinger’s face reddened. ‘I understand one or two of them were allowed to slip away,’ he admitted.
Woodyatt gave a bark of laughter. It hurt but he enjoyed it. ‘I bet they were,’ he said. ‘And he was among them. I think you’ve lost him, so you’d better start making enquiries. And while you’re at it, you’d better also look for a girl called Sardier. Dominique Sardier. Age twenty-six. French. Address in Dreuil, Picardy. Chestnut hair. Good-looking.’
‘Who’s she? Some bit of fluff you picked up en route.’
‘She’s his niece by marriage,’ Woodyatt snapped. ‘His only relation. She led me to him and she was with me all the way to Bordeaux and on to the ship. Is she on that list of yours?’
The name was there.
‘Then find her,’ Woodyatt said savagely.
‘I’ll find her,’ Pullinger was suddenly in a hurry as he thought he scented his quarry. ‘I expect they whipped all the French nationals to London. That’s where the Free French have set up headquarters. They’re checking all their people for us. A lot of people arrived from Dunkirk, and there may be a few among them who’re working for the Germans. It was a splendid opportunity to get their agents into England.’
‘She’s not a bloody agent!’
‘All right! All right! But they have to do their job. There are some who don’t want to stay in England, some who’re better sent home. We’re making sure they go.’
‘I’ll hold you responsible if she’s lost,’ Woodyatt said furiously. ‘You’ve got to find her.’
‘Why?’
‘She found him for you, damn it!’ Woodyatt emphasised the words as though Pullinger were stupid. ‘Hasn’t it occurred to you yet she’s one of the few people besides me who can pick your bloody Redmond out of a crowd?’
Woodyatt’s mother arrived almost as Pullinger vanished. She was tremendously excited.
‘I’ve found her!’ she said at once. ‘She’s at some sort of centre for the French in London. I spoke to her on the telephone. It wasn’t easy because, of course, after Dunkirk the whole of the South of England’s full of people trying to make contact with each other.’
Woodyatt gestured impatiently. ‘How was she?’
‘She seemed very angry.’
‘I’ll bet she was. What did she say?’
‘All she wanted to know was how you were. It seemed important.’
‘Find her, please. Get her away from London. Take her home.’
She leaned over to kiss him. ‘It sounds most romantic.’
‘Being chased across France by the Germans wasn’t romantic, Mother.’
Mrs Woodyatt remained interested. ‘Did you rescue her?’
‘Sort of. Just look after her until I can get out of this bloody place. Buy her some decent clothes. She’ll need them. She’s lost everything and I expect they’ve stuffed her into some bloody awful old cast-offs that make her look dreadful. And she doesn’t really look like that at all.’
‘You sound very impressed with her.’
‘She stood up to being shot at and bombed. To say nothing of being tortured for information. That’s always impressive.’
His mother’s face set. ‘I’ll do what I can for her. I’ll get them to put her on the overnight train. I’ll tell them I’m her aunt.’
Woodyatt was expecting Pullinger to reappear but it was his mother who returned first. She looked serious.
‘She won’t come,’ she said.
‘Why not?’
‘She said she had things to do. But she also said she’d never forget you. Never. That sounds nice.’
It also sounded ominous. ‘What else?’
‘She said she had to see someone to safety. Because of a promise.’
‘Did she say who?’
‘We had quite a long conversation, and we were able to understand each other quite well. But she wouldn’t tell me.’
‘Is she coming here then?’
‘She said that after she’d finished what she had to do she didn’t know what would happen. I think she wants to go back to France.’
‘What!’ Woodyatt tried to sit up but the pain threw him back on the pillows. Into his mind came the conversation he had had with Dominique at the Darbys’. He knew what she intended. It was the sort of headlong thing she would do, and he suddenly realised why she was so willing to accept Montrouge, whoever, whatever he was. They were two of a kind. Despite everything, despite all she’d said, despite all her support, she had probably never really been convinced of the old man’s guilt.
He lay back on the pillows as his mother left, his mind on Dominique. The thought of her almost choked him. He knew he would never see her again and he missed her, even the foolish little stiffnesses that had been melting more and more with every day.
He was still brooding on what his mother had said when the nurse bustled in.
‘Letter for you,’ she said. Hand-delivered. Small boy on a bike. Said he’d been given ten shillings to see it arrived.’
The letter was properly addressed to ‘Captain James Woodyatt’ at the hospital. The absence of a postmark and the
use of the boy on the bicycle made him wonder if it were from Dominique. He was just about to open it when Pullinger appeared and instead he stuffed it under the pillow.
Pullinger announced proudly that he had found Dominique.
‘You needn’t worry,’ Woodyatt said coolly. ‘My mother got there before you.’
Pullinger looked faintly indignant, as though someone had been beavering away at his job behind his back.
‘Oh, well,’ he said. ‘Never mind, I suppose we’d better concentrate on finding your bloody Redmond now.’
‘Not my Redmond,’ Woodyatt reminded him sharply. ‘But yours.’
Pullinger gestured angrily. He had made some progress. Unable to identify the old man from the list of the Coniston’s survivors, he had tried a new angle and asked for all their ages. From that, he had discovered that an old man who had refused to give his name had been taken to the Cottage Hospital suffering from exhaustion. Probing further, he had learned that although this character had seemed on the point of death, during the night he had managed to get out of bed and, finding clothes belonging to another patient, had collected his suitcase and left.
Woodyatt gave a yell of laughter. ‘By God,’ he said, ‘it certainly sounds like him. All the time I was with him, he feigned exhaustion and the weakness of old age. But it was all put on. There was nothing weak about the way he yanked me out of the sea. The bugger was as brisk as a kipper. He was saving his energy for now. Where is he?’
Pullinger gave him a bitter look. ‘He’s vanished,’ he said. ‘We’ve asked at all the obvious places. YMCA. Missions to Seamen. Salvation Army. Church Army. Everywhere we can think of.’
Not for the first time, Woodyatt felt a sneaking regard for the old man.
‘Is he Redmond?’ Pullinger asked.
‘I’m almost sure.’
‘Proof?’
‘There isn’t any. There’s no proof at all that it’s him.’
‘But you think it is?’
Woodyatt remembered Brigadier Witkins who had refused to be jockeyed into an agreement or a denial. It seemed the most honourable course to follow his lead. All that had happened, everything that had been said, could easily be explained by some simpler twist. After all, Montrouge was sufficient of a mystery man to have been mixed up in all sorts of shifty things. None had ever been explained and now it seemed they never would be.
‘I don’t know,’ he said.
‘You must have an opinion.’
‘Yes. I have.’
‘Right. Let’s have it.’
‘He could be. On the other hand, he might not be.’
‘You call that a bloody opinion?’
‘It’s the best I can offer. That suitcase of his could hold a million delights for you, I’m sure. But you haven’t got it, have you? And the delights it contains might have nothing to do with our friend Redmond.’
‘Of course they have.’
‘Have they? Or do they concern a Frenchman involved in shady deals, smuggling, drugs, theft, blackmail. You don’t know and neither do I. He’s probably just a petty swindler wanted by the police.’
For the first time it occurred to Woodyatt that Montrouge really might have been no more than a clever crook. He even began to suspect he’d been out-manoeuvred all along the line by a more cunning man. Instead of Woodyatt getting Montrouge to safety, Montrouge had got himself to safety and had used Woodyatt to provide the means. Woodyatt’s arrival in Paris had been fortuitous because Montrouge had already been trying to find a train out. Having been offered a surer means of escape, after a period of resistance to make Woodyatt more keen, he had snatched at it. He had doubtless spent the journey making plans for another escape when he arrived in England. Even the late Zamerski’s interest in him could be explained. He could have been someone Montrouge had swindled; someone on the shady side of the law; someone anxious to rub Montrouge out because of some treachery or high-priced financial deal.
Perhaps the old bastard had been using Woodyatt all along! Perhaps he had even used Dominique? Perhaps he had not been her uncle at all, but had listened as carefully to her as he had to Woodyatt, and then seen in her an unquestioning faithful helper.
‘It would explain his desire for anonymity just as well as the treachery theory,’ Woodyatt pointed out to the baffled Pullinger. ‘Perhaps at this moment, he has plans to lift the crown jewels or raise a mortgage on Buckingham Palace. There are always suckers.’
‘Don’t be a bloody fool! It’s proof we need, not half-baked theories.’
‘Right. Find the suitcase and if it doesn’t contain loot or bearer bonds, or something like that, I’ll think again.’
Pullinger’s face was pink with rage and Woodyatt was feeling weary, now, from the pain of his injuries and in his heart of hearts he didn’t really believe his new line. ‘Montrouge did like brandy and soda,’ he offered. ‘And he had a British revolver circa 1904. And he was a dead shot with it and wasn’t afraid to use it. It’s only a hunch but everything about him made me feel he was Redmond.’
For Pullinger’s benefit he went on to describe the arguments and the conversations he had had with the old man: including the things Montrouge had told him about the base on the Baltic coast, about the Jews.
Pullinger’s face changed. ‘You can’t kill off a whole race,’ he insisted.
‘That’s what I said. He said the Nazis could.’
‘What about Darby? Did he meet your Montrouge?’
‘Yes, he met him.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He said he wasn’t Redmond.’
‘For Christ’s sake–!’
‘But he’d been drinking a lot for a long time and he wasn’t very certain of a lot of things.’
‘He knew Redmond,’ Pullinger snorted. ‘Personally.’
‘He didn’t recognise him.’
Pullinger tugged at his lip, angry and disappointed.
‘On the other hand, his wife thought differently.’
‘I met her once. Went off the rails, I heard. Drank a bit.’
‘She was still drinking a bit,’ agreed Woodyatt.
‘Not sure she was good for Darby.’
‘She was a damn sight better for him than a lot of people who claimed to be his friends. And she thought our man was Redmond.’
‘How would she know?’
‘It seems she knew him better than Darby. She once set out her stall to marry him. She was once in love with him. She followed him everywhere. She knew Redmond well.’
‘It’s a long time ago.’
‘Women don’t forget. People in love don’t forget.’ I will never forget, Woodyatt thought.
Pullinger drew a deep breath. ‘Where are they now? Perhaps we can test their memories.’
‘You’ll have a job. Darby’s dead. I saw him buried. His wife’s probably dead, too. I thought I saw her on the Coniston.’
Pullinger studied the list of survivors. He shook his head and lifted a face to Woodyatt that suddenly looked defeated. ‘Well,’ he growled, ‘Wherever the old bugger is we haven’t got him and he’s free to do the dirty on us again if he wants.’
‘He won’t want to do the dirty. Not on anybody.’
‘How do you know?’
Woodyatt was certain. It was the one thing he’d been certain about for a long time.
‘For one thing,’ he pointed out, ‘he’s too old. I reckon he’s fit enough but he no longer moves fast enough. For another, I don’t think he has the wish to. He’s had it. He’s finished.’
Pullinger was doubtful. ‘He could contact a German agent over here,’ he said. ‘They have them. They reckon one was responsible for the sinking of the Royal Oak at Scapa Flow last year.’
‘He won’t contact any German agent,’ Woodyatt pointed out. ‘They were too keen to remove him from the scene.’ He described the attempts Zamerski and his friends had made. ‘He doesn’t want the Germans,’ he said. ‘Not any more. But he also doesn’t want you.’
‘Wh
y not? Conscience, do you think?’
‘Not a bit of it. I don’t think he’d know what a conscience was if he met one on the stairs. Every word he spoke seemed to indicate he had no regrets for what he’d done. And there’s no proof.’
‘We’ll get that when we find him. We’ll check all the old people’s homes, hostels, the YMCA–’
Woodyatt shook his head. ‘Save your breath. He won’t be in any of them. He’s cleverer than that. He must be to have done what he’s done, to live the life he’s lived for so long in so many places. You’d have to check every hotel and boarding house in the country, and even you haven’t the resources for that. You’re too late. He went and went fast. He was on his way the minute he arrived in England and nothing was going to stop him. Not even good manners and a thank you for the help he received.’
Pullinger was frowning, angry and humiliated. With good reason, Woodyatt decided. After all his careful planning, he had been made to look as big a fool as his father had forty years before.
‘Where would he go?’ he demanded.
‘America?’ Woodyatt offered. ‘If what he’s got in that suitcase is what I suspect it is, they might well be interested in it. They’re going to have to face the Germans, too, before long and they’d probably be glad to pay for what he’s got.’
‘I want him,’ Pullinger snapped. ‘Not the Americans. We’ll watch the ports.’
‘They have an embassy,’ Woodyatt pointed out gently. ‘And they’re neutrals. They’d find a means of smuggling him out. In any case, it might not be America. He might have gone to Ireland. He’s probably calling himself O’Reilly now. Or even Redmond again. Isn’t Redmond an Irish name? You’ll never find him.’
‘I’m sure we will.’
‘No.’ Woodyatt smiled. ‘He has someone with him whom I suspect will be equal to anything you can produce.’
‘We have some pretty bright people.’
‘But none with the same sense of purpose.’
‘Who is he?’ Pullinger asked.
‘It’s not a he. It’s a she. It’s Dominique Sardier.’
‘Is she a bloody turncoat too?’
‘No!’ Woodyatt countered. ‘She’s not. But she claims he’s her uncle and she feels she must see he’s safe.’