by Mike Ripley
I had not imagined the smell of open drains.
Our car was stopped at a drop-down barrier operated by two dissolute, unshaven figures in police uniforms covered by long military overcoats, possibly surplus stock from the first war several sizes too big for them, their hems thick and heavy with dried mud.
Neither looked to have the inclination or energy to unhook their rifles from their shoulders, and seemed bored with their lot in life, even as they shuffled towards the window Erik had rolled down and through which he was offering a sheaf of documents. Only when the lead guard leaned in to take them and bothered to raise his eyes did he recognize the two uniforms occupying the back seat.
From there on, things moved with commendable promptitude, as one of my old house masters would have said. A telephone call provoked the appearance of a senior camp official; clearly senior, as he was vastly overweight and his uniform was relatively mud-free.
We were asked – not told – to leave our car on the road and to report to the administration office, a white wooden building similar to the chicken huts of the barracks but with windows, a chimney and a wooden boardwalk from road to door over the mud.
On that short walk over that bouncing boardwalk, I felt as if a thousand eyes were fixed on me, or rather on the uniform I was wearing, but I followed Robert’s lead, careful not to let any emotion – and certainly not sympathy – show.
Inside the office we were greeted by what I assumed was the duty officer, a swarthy individual in a uniform I did not recognize, although a wine connoisseur could probably have identified the stains down the front of the tunic. I felt no compunction at all in following Robert’s example and disdainfully refusing to return the handshake offered by our odious host. I was, after all, only acting in character.
After glancing at the paperwork Robert had thrust at him, our Vichy gaoler issued orders to his minions to fetch the prisoner, then settled himself primly behind his desk.
‘So, mon colonel, what is so special about this Jew? We have many Jews here now. This camp was designed for illegal immigrants – Spanish Republicans, communists and renegades from the International Brigade – but now we have an equal number of Jews and more arriving every day. May I ask why this particular Jew?’
‘Because he is a person of interest to the Reich,’ growled Robert. ‘That is all you need to know, and I am not a colonel; my rank is Sturmbannführer.’
Our host asked no more questions after that, taking a concentrated interest in the few scraps of paper on his desk to while away the uncomfortable silence. Robert, imperiously, turned to me and said in German: ‘Obersturmführer, put your cap on straight.’
I snapped to attention once I remembered that was the rank – lower than his, of course – Robert had assigned to me, and straightened my hat, pulling the visor low over my eyes. It was something we had discussed in the car. Hopefully the shock of seeing the SS uniforms would prevent Lunel from recognizing me, at least initially, but it was wise to hide as much of my face as possible and, as he was a Jew and I was a Nazi, I had perfectly good reasons not to look him in the eyes. I could only imagine how I would feel to suddenly discover that the dashingly handsome Pimpernel Smith figure who had offered hope and freedom had turned into the hated enemy.
‘I thought he was going to have a heart attack,’ Robert said in English once we were in the car.
‘So did I,’ said Nathan Lunel.
He and I were in the back seat, Robert riding next to our driver Erik. I think Nathan had recognized me within a few moments of being pushed into the administration office, made to remove his wool cap and confirm his name and prisoner number to the Vichy official. Fortunately, the sight of two men in those black Satanic uniforms froze his nerve-endings and his vocal chords, so that his voice was little more than a croak as he acknowledged his name and was signed over into Sturmbannführer Ringer’s custody; a ceremony which for me conjured up the image of a transaction at a slave sale on the docks of Savannah.
‘How did you manage to get me transferred here?’ he asked, even while we were still within the camp confines, motoring on the long straight road lined with telephone poles and wire.
‘I told you I had friends in low places,’ I said, and saw Robert shake his head, even as he was lighting one of his cheroots which I was sure had been dipped in tar during their manufacture. ‘The rest was a game of bluff, and I’ve always been rather good at that.’
From the front of the car came a snort of mild derision and a cloud of acrid smoke. Perhaps Robert had a point, as I realized that the inside rim of my SS cap, which I had taken off and rested on my knees, was stained and damp with sweat.
Of the three of us, Nathan Lunel seemed to have recovered his wits the quickest.
‘Where do we go from here?’
‘To Pau, to collect your wife.’
His face blossomed, and he seemed to grow back into the clothes which had fitted him before prison.
‘Astrid? You got her out?’
‘I said I would, and with the help of some brave Frenchmen – and women – she is now safe in your apartment in Pau, gossiping with Madame Henneuse, who has kept the place immaculate. It was a clever move to sign the apartment over to her. Who else knew about it?’
Lunel shrank back into the upholstery of the seat. ‘Magnus Asher did,’ he said bitterly. ‘He knew everything. The man is an evil spider with a large web.’
‘Then Pau will not be safe. We will move on quickly.’
‘Into Spain?’
‘It is a hard road and will not be easy for Astrid in her condition.’
Lunel allowed himself a smile.
‘Do not worry about my wife. She is a strong woman and her condition is just one more reason for us moving quickly.’
‘I have a better reason,’ said Robert, jabbing a finger at the car’s windscreen. Then he rolled down his window and stuck out his head, looking to the sky.
Only then did I hear the sound of a low-flying airplane engine, and I quickly followed Robert’s example, lowering my window and leaning out into the car’s slipstream.
Almost directly above us was a Fieseler Storch, a ‘stork’, although they always reminded me more of a mayfly: the small, single-engine spotter plane beloved of the German military. I could clearly see the black cross with white border on the fuselage and the swastika on the tailfin.
Beside me, Nathan Lunel had shrunk in his seat and was trying to squeeze himself into the footwell behind the driver’s seat. ‘Are we under attack?’
‘No, don’t worry,’ I tried to reassure him, ‘the plane is unarmed.’
Indeed, it had already flown over us, following the road to Gurs.
Robert threw his cigar out of the window and turned in his seat, his face like granite. ‘We have less time than we thought,’ he said.
‘What does he mean?’ Lunel asked, his voice cracking.
‘That plane was acting as a forward observer for the army,’ said Robert. ‘The German army has activated Case Anton. The Wehrmacht is invading Vichy France.’
‘Which means in turn,’ I said, ‘that the Allies are in the process of invading North Africa. There could be something of a run on the banks there unless we can stop it.’
NINETEEN
The Scar Outlives the Wound
The Dorchester Hotel, London. 20 May 1970
A woman screamed. It was a shrill falsetto of a scream; a scream of surprise rather than pain, and undoubtedly female in origin. In the general confusion of jostling bodies and turning heads it was some moments before the vocalist was identified as Sophia Longfox, and a good minute before her father, the Earl of Pontisbright, managed to shoulder his way through the crowd to comfort her. By the time Hal reached his daughter, the concerned guests who had gathered around her had relaxed somewhat, having assured themselves that she was not herself physically injured.
Sophia confirmed this by pointing frantically towards the door of the hotel – the raising of her statuesque arm resulting in a ti
nkling of jewellery – and directing the onlookers, as her son Edward later recalled (quietly) ‘like an insane traffic policeman’.
‘What is it? What’s out there?’ demanded Hal Fitton, placing firm hands on Sophia’s shoulders.
His daughter gulped air before answering, the revellers crowding round her, hanging on her every word and dramatic pause.
‘A body … There’s a body lying on the ground … I popped out for some fresh air and almost fell over it … There’s a knife sticking out of him … I think I’ve got blood on my shoes …’
‘Stabbed? Somebody’s been stabbed? Look to one of the foreigners!’
‘Johnny, really!’ scolded Lady Carados. ‘How can you say such a thing?’
‘Stands to reason,’ bridled her husband. ‘There’s German, French, Spanish, even Americans here tonight: who knows who they are? Everyone else is family, or friends of family, and none of us would think of spoiling a party with a surprise homicide.’
‘Actually, that sounds just the sort of stunt Albert would pull,’ observed Jolyon Livingstone, who had attached himself to Lord and Lady Carados as the party had drifted out of the dining room, ‘if half the stories of his undergraduate pranks at Cambridge are to be believed.’
‘Seventy’s too old for pranks and tomfoolery,’ said Johnny Carados gruffly, ‘and everyone says he became much more serious after the war. Can’t see him putting on a show with a fake corpse. Damn bad taste at a birthday party, if you ask me.’
A minor earthquake in the form of Magersfontein Lugg pushed his way through them, a biblical parting of the water performed by a dinner suit stuffed with rocks.
‘There ain’t no corpse, fake or otherwise, leastwise not yet. A nasty flesh wound in the back and a crack on the ’ead as ’e fell over and hit the steps. He’ll live.’
Lugg was already beyond them, the crowd deciding that avoiding his oncoming momentum was the better part of valour.
‘Who?’ cried Dr Livingstone at the expanse of Lugg’s broad back. ‘Who’s been stabbed?’
‘The German gentleman, Baron von Ringer, only the flamin’ guest of honour after ’is nibs, that is,’ grumbled the big man without turning his head.
‘See!’ Johnny Carados pounced. ‘I told you it was foreigners!’
‘There’s nothing you can do, Albert, so stay out of it,’ said Amanda. ‘Charles has everything under control.’
‘But I need to be sure Robert is all right,’ said Mr Campion, removing his spectacles and polishing them furiously with his handkerchief.
‘The ambulance men are taking good care of him,’ said Luke. ‘Once they’ve got him settled in hospital, I’ll have the Yard send a man to sit with him.’
‘In case somebody tries again?’
‘Perdita, don’t be so melodramatic.’
‘It’s her job, darling,’ said Mr Campion quietly, ‘but Charles is right to consider all eventualities, that’s his. Personally, I don’t think there will be any further incidents of being stabbed in the back, except perhaps on grounds of party politics.’
‘How do you know he was stabbed in the back?’ Luke pounced.
‘A shot in the dark, my dear Clouseau, as they say in the pictures. I have no gory details, but here comes Lugg. He’s sure to have.’
Mr Lugg eased his Titanic bulk through the bobbing surf of concerned and panicky guests with serene calm, and docked himself firmly next to the Campions, leaning forward so that his report could be heard in private.
‘Well this is a shindig they won’t forget in a hurry. Mind you, half of them think it’s part of the after-dinner cabaret.’
Mr Campion fixed the big man with his best owlish stare. ‘Thank you for that quite superfluous observation, Lugg. Have you got anything remotely useful to tell us?’
‘Only what you’ve probably surmised yerself by now,’ said Lugg, doing his best to look offended. ‘That it was an inside job.’
He turned imperiously on Charles Luke and waved a sausage of a finger over his shoulder, indicating the murmuring crowd behind him. ‘Got your Warrant Card with you, Charlie? I reckon you should make a start questioning this lot.’
‘Don’t you – of all people – tell me how to do my job,’ said Luke severely. ‘You’re sure it wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment thing? Well-to-do hotel guest wearing a dinner jacket steps outside for a cigar, some passing young hooligan on a motorbike thinks he can wave a flick-knife around and relieve him of his wallet, then things turn nasty. It happens, you know, and not just in Soho.’
Lugg wrinkled his nose and pursed his lips, savouring his moment. ‘You didn’t get a close look at the knife, did you? I did. It was the same knife that went missing this very evening, during dinner. Why do you think we haven’t cut the cake yet?’
Luke narrowed his eyes and bit his lip. ‘I’ll make sure no one leaves. Albert, I may need you if any of your guests turn ugly.’
‘My dear Charles, most of them are naturally ugly, but it’s only skin deep. I’m sure they will behave.’
As Luke pressed his way towards the door, reassuring and calming the guests as he went, Amanda reached for her husband’s hand.
‘Albert, what happened to Robert – it’s not got anything to do with those war stories you’ve been telling all night, is it?’
Campion automatically took her hand in his and patted it reassuringly. ‘I’m sorry, darling, but I’m afraid it probably has.’
TWENTY
Menu Pèlerin
Pau and the Pyrenees. November 1942
Astrid Lunel screamed, then burst into tears and began to swing both clenched fists when she saw her husband for the first time in more than three months. It was a reaction I had not anticipated and for a moment thought I must still be wearing my SS uniform.
But for once I was not to blame, nor even the target. Indeed, I might not have been in the room with them. My presence was blissfully ignored as the pregnant wife berated the hapless husband, not just with her fists but with a stream of invective which would have made a docker blush, even a Marseilles docker.
Since we had been buzzed by the spotter plane, Nathan Lunel had spent most of the journey from Gurs hunched, half on the seat, half in the footwell of the Mercedes. Uncharitably he reminded me of a large, hapless gun dog, the sort that is a bad traveller and simply cannot get comfortable enough in a car to fall asleep. I also felt guilty that my nose detected a doggy aroma coming off his soiled clothing.
Only when we reached Pau did he sit up straight in his seat and risk looking out of the window. Even then, he flinched when a pedestrian looked directly at the car and positively squirmed when we saw a gendarme.
At Le Postillon we left him in the car under the protection of Erik while Robert and I hurried inside and up to his room to change back into more civilized clothing.
‘Did you notice the staff glaring at these uniforms when you picked up your key?’ I asked him as I struggled to de-boot myself.
‘I am a German in France, I am used to being stared at,’ he said, pulling on his suit trousers.
‘You don’t think the news …?’
‘I doubt it. We would have seen more people on the street and more police, but I will not know for sure until I contact my superiors.’ He barked out a laugh at a private thought. ‘Or I could wait until the evening news on the BBC and find out what my own army is doing.’
Then as he began to tie his shoelaces, he became more serious.
‘I may be recalled to Marseilles as soon as I report to the local office, so it is perhaps best if we say goodbye here. I realize that from now on, your journey will take you on one of the well-trodden escape routes which you should not reveal to an enemy, so it is best if I do not know the details. Is there anything I can provide to help you on your way?’
‘Petrol,’ I said as I continued to change back into Didier Ducret. ‘I will need more petrol, enough for two hundred kilometres.’
Robert smiled as he tied a blue silk tie.
‘Which mea
ns you will be driving no more than one hundred kilometres, unless you intend to take your car up mountains where there are no roads. Still, it is always good practice to spread disinformation about one’s plans.’
‘You will, though, forgive a freshman spy for trying, won’t you?’
‘Freshman?’
‘Well, undergraduate then, trying to impress his professors.’
‘You give me too much credit and yourself too little,’ Robert said, easing himself into his jacket. ‘Tell me where you left the car and I will have Erik make sure it has fuel. I’ll leave you to escort Lunel to his apartment and his wife and to do what has to be done with his ledger of bank accounts. I trust you to do that, Albert, because you know what is at stake.’
Robert fastened the middle button of his suit jacket and examined the results of his rapid costume change in the full-length mirror on the room’s oak wardrobe.
‘I will try and justify your confidence,’ I said, hopping on one foot as I struggled with my own clothing.
‘Then I will wish you good luck and say goodbye in the hope that we will meet in more convivial times.’ Robert clicked his heels together, gave me a curt bow and held out his right hand.
‘You have my thanks,’ I said, ‘and my warmest wishes. Please do take care of yourself. This stupid war can be quite dangerous at times, and you must promise to survive so that we can continue our friendship in peacetime. But please forgive me if I do not shake your hand, as it is absolutely forbidden – by all the laws of etiquette, form and good manners – for an Englishman to shake hands when he is not wearing trousers.’
Nathan Lunel took the battering and the abuse being dished out in equal proportions by his wife with great stoicism and only the occasional grunt of pain. A younger man might well have let his wife continue to exorcize her pent-up emotions until she had exhausted herself, but Lunel was of an older generation and calmed the storm as quickly as he could by pinning his wife’s arms to her side and talking slowly and patiently to her. Eventually he took her head in his hands and brought her forehead to his lips in a chaste but loving gesture, for he was of the generation which frowned on displays of emotion in front of strangers; in this case, me.