Death Has Deep Roots

by Michael Gilbert

  “Pearlyman Passage.”

  “That’s it. Well, I parked on a low wall and got my back against a buttress and started to think about life.”

  “How long would this have been after you’d left the café?”

  “If you said a quarter of an hour you wouldn’t be far off it. Well, I was sitting there, quite quietly, minding my own business, when I heard a window go up and someone called out, softly, but plain enough to hear.”

  She paused and Mr. Rumbold, aware of a slight dryness in the throat, asked, “Could you make out what was said?”

  “Oh, yes,” said the girl. “It was clear enough. It was a name – ‘Benny’ – just like that, in a whisper, ‘Benny.’ I couldn’t say I’d recognise the voice, not even to say whether it was a man or a woman, because when a person’s whispering it’s not easy to tell. But I heard the name of the person they were calling all right. There was no mistaking that – Benny.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Your name is Robert Chaunter Ammon, you are a major in the Royal Engineers.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Your work during the war brought you in touch with Major Thoseby.”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, I knew him before the war. I also worked with him during almost the whole of the war – 1940 to 1944 to be precise.”

  “That was in his French Resistance work.”

  “Yes, I was in L.F.O.5.”

  “That was the official tide of the Office of Liaison with the French forces.”

  “That is so. We used to run all the co-operation with the Resistance in France, supply arms and materials, drop agents in – and get them out again – sometimes.”

  “Major Thoseby was one of your agents.”

  “Yes. He was one of the first who went in. One of the best, too. He was in charge of the Basse Loire district from the beginning of 1941 to March, 1942. Early in 1942 he was picked up.”

  “Picked up?”

  “By the Germans, yes. Luckily his cover story was so solid by that time that he got away with it. He produced two cousins, an aunt and his prewar employer to vouch for him. All quite genuine, by the way. It wasn’t a nice thing to happen, though. We got him out soon after that for a rest and a bit of a technical refresher course in explosives. He went back in at the end of 1942 and was there for the whole of 1943 and down to D-Day in 1944.”

  “He was in France for the whole of that time?”

  “Well, he went over to Switzerland once or twice. He never came back to England.”

  “During that eighteen months – I refer to Major Thoseby’s second spell in Occupied France – French Resistance work was on the increase?”

  “Yes. Toward the end, in the months before D-Day very much so.”

  “How was it organised in Major Thoseby’s area?”

  “Well, the actual command was French all the way up, from the leader of the individual Maquis up to the area commandants and then up to General Koenig himself. Our English agents were technically only advisers. They often attained a position of considerable influence. Particularly if they were lucky enough to last for some time.”

  “I take it that a man in Major Thoseby’s position would move round as freely as conditions permitted, amongst the various French Maquisards. He would be personally known to most of them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you in England have any record of the French members of the organisation?”

  “Oh, yes. That was one of the chief jobs of the liaison branch I was in. We kept records of everyone who was taking an active part.”

  “Was the prisoner’s name in your records?”

  “Yes, we knew about Miss Lamartine.”

  “Miss Lamartine was a member of the French Resistance and worked in Major Thoseby’s district?”

  “Yes.”

  “From your knowledge of the work would you have said that they would have met frequently?”

  “Oh, yes. Major Thoseby often spoke about—”

  “I am afraid,” said Mr. Summers, timing his interruption to a nicety, “that you must not answer the question in that way. You must speak only of your own personal knowledge, not of what was said to you. However, the next witness will be dealing with the point, so I will not press it. Will you now pass on to the events of September twenty-sixth, 1943. I take it that you were kept informed of what happened?”

  “Yes. An official report from Major Thoseby reached me within three or four days.”

  [Some argument is omitted as to whether the report was admissible. The judge ruled that it was admissible.]

  “Will you give us the gist of it?”

  “Yes. It told us that Père Chaise’s farm near Langeais had been raided on the evening of September twenty-sixth. That Père Chaise and two other men had been taken and had been shot. That it was feared that Lieutenant Wells had been taken. That Mademoiselle Lamartine, arriving later at the farm, had also been picked up and was being held. That all necessary countermeasures were being put in hand, known localities changed, codes altered, and so on.”

  “When did you next hear from the prisoner?”

  “Some months after D-Day. It would have been the end of March or the beginning of April, 1945.”

  “Were you surprised to hear from her?”

  “Yes – very.”

  “Why was that?”

  “I was always surprised to hear again from anyone who had been in the hands of the Gestapo.”

  “I see,” said Mr. Summers. It was not the answer he had expected but he was too old a hand to look put out. “As a result of the message you received did you try to get in touch with Major Thoseby?”

  “Yes. I did what I could. It wasn’t easy because he was already in Germany.”

  “However, you did your best to put the prisoner in touch with Major Thoseby?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many times did you hear from the prisoner?”

  “I didn’t keep a record. Half a dozen times at least between March, 1945 and 1946.”

  “Did this surprise you? I mean the persistence with which the prisoner communicated with you?”

  “Well—certainly I—it’s a very difficult question to answer yes or no.”

  “Nor,” said the judge suddenly, “is there any reason you should do so. The idea that you must answer a question by yes or no is a relic of a system of advocacy now happily outdated. There are a number of questions which it is clearly impossible to answer by yes or no. You are quite entitled to give your answer, provided it is an honest answer, in any way you like.”

  “Thank you,” said Major Ammon, looking a trifle overcome by this judicial broadside. “Well, first, I wasn’t at all surprised that Miss Lamartine got hold of me. Anybody who knew anything about the system knew that I was Major Thoseby s official ‘contact’ in England. If you mean was I surprised that she wanted to get hold of Major Thoseby, the answer is that the first time or two it seemed quite natural. He had been her superior officer, her boss – in fact if not in name – and he would be the person to whom she would naturally turn for help – particularly as in 1945 the British Army were in a position to do a great deal to help their friends in France – they controlled a lot of transport and a lot of supplies. I don’t imply anything improper. It was right that they should help their friends. Later it did seem a little odd. Major Thoseby was in Germany during the whole of 1946. He was on the War Crimes Commission. I gave Miss Lamartine several addresses at which she could write to him. It began to strike me that if he didn’t answer her letters – or didn’t do what Miss Lamartine wanted him to do – then he must have his own reasons.”

  “You use the words ‘do what Miss Lamartine wanted him to do.’ Had you any idea what this was?”

  “No idea at all.”

  “You were acting simply as an intermediary?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Very well, Major Ammon. One last thing. From your own knowledge of the Resistance organisation can you say whether age
nts in your employment were always trained in certain personal methods of defence and attack?”

  “Yes. Whenever possible they were so trained.”

  “I will be more specific. The nature of the blow which killed Major Thoseby has been described to you.” Mr. Summer repeated the description which he had given in his opening address. “Would it be your opinion that such a blow had been given by a person trained in Resistance work?”

  “There’s no certainty about it. It might very well have been.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Resistance workers were trained to use any weapon that came to hand – or even to manufacture them out of ordinary household implements – a sharpened knitting needle run through a thick cigarette holder, or a bicycle spoke held in a rubber bicycle pedal or household ammonia in a scent squirt – that sort of thing. It wasn’t safe to carry weapons recognisable as weapons. Then again the blow, being left-handed and upward, is certainly significant. Amateurs were always taught to use a knife in this way.”

  “Perhaps you could explain very shortly why.”

  “Yes. The blow delivered in this way, from in front, goes in under the ribs, and the swing of the arm naturally takes it up into the region of the heart. If you hold a knife point downward—” Major Ammon demonstrated—“and strike at a person in front of you the blade usually turns on the ribs.”

  Your agents were all instructed in these regrettable but necessary arts in case they had to kill Germans?”

  “Yes,” said Major Ammon. “Or themselves.”

  He said this casually, but many people in court suddenly found themselves looking back at an unknown and rather frightening landscape. A place where it might be necessary – where it might be most necessary and desirable – to be able to kill yourself quickly.

  Mr. Summers resumed his seat well aware that this last answer might have done more for him than the whole of the rest of the examination.

  “Major Ammon,” said Macrea. “You knew the deceased very well?”

  “Yes. I think I did.”

  “If I have your answer correctly, this was not only a wartime acquaintance. It started before the war?”

  “As a matter of fact, I was at school with him.”

  “And kept up with him afterward?”

  “In the way that two busy men do.”

  “Quite so. And afterward you worked very closely together over the French Resistance work. You spoke of yourself as his ‘official contact’?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Might I suggest that you knew him about as well as one man ever does know another?”

  “Yes. I suppose that is so.”

  “Major Ammon, was Major Thoseby the type of man likely to indulge in an illicit union with a woman, to have – and later to refuse to acknowledge – an illegitimate child?”

  “I—”

  “Really, your lordship,” said Mr. Summers. “I must object to the witness being asked to express what is purely a matter of opinion.”

  “Why not?” said Macrea. “It’s a thing all men do have opinions about – where their men friends are concerned.”

  “I think,” said the judge, “in view of the motive which you have yourself suggested, Mr. Summers, it is a question which the witness can properly be asked. I think, however, he would equally be within his rights if he refused to answer it.”

  “As your lordship pleases,” said Mr. Summers.

  “Well, Major Ammon?”

  “I don’t mind answering the question,” said Major Ammon. “The answer is, No. Major Thoseby was not, to my mind, that sort of man.”

  “You agree that men usually do know about other men, whether or not they are the type who is likely to – to have an affair of the sort suggested.”

  “In nine cases out of ten, yes.”

  “And Major Thoseby was not that type?”

  “No.”

  “Now in connection with the numerous attempts – half a dozen I think you said – that the prisoner made to get in touch with Major Thoseby through you. You do not know if she was successful or not? You gave her his latest address and that was all?”

  That is so.”

  “Suppose then – I just put it to you – that the prisoner was not actually interested in contacting Major Thoseby himself, but was trying to contact someone else through him. And suppose that on each occasion Major Thoseby made suggestions to the prisoner as to how she could best do this – a line she might follow, a contact who might be useful to her – you can see what I mean?”

  “Yes.”

  Then when each suggested line petered out, she would naturally write to you again to put her in touch with Major Thoseby again.”

  “It is possible.”

  There was nothing in her communications with you which was inconsistent with such an explanation?”

  “I agree.”

  Mr. Summers did not re-examine.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Your name is Marcel Lode? You have the rank of Commissaire de Ville?”

  “Yes.”

  “During the war you were patron of the Maquis in the district of Angers? You were acquainted with the deceased and worked with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you acquainted also with the prisoner?”

  “Yes, but to a lesser degree. She was not one of the workers with whom I had much contact. She came to me once or twice with messages.”

  “But you knew the deceased well.”

  “Major Thoseby? Yes. Very well indeed. I worked at hand-to-hand with him for many months in all the affairs of the Maquis.”

  “He was attached to your section?”

  ‘To mine and to many others. He was chief adviser to all of us in the districts of Maine-et-Loire, of Indre-et-Loire and of Loir-et-Cher. The whole of the Basse Loire area.”

  “The farm which we have heard of – Père Chaise’s farm – was in this area?”

  “Certainly. It was near Langeais, in the Bois de Langeais – a few kilometres north of the river.”

  “That would not be in your own particular district?”

  “No. It was in that of Tours. You must not imagine, though, that we were strictly – what is the word I want? – sectionalised. I would often visit Langeais, and Chinon – for the exchange of ideas – also, sometimes, for a change of air when that became necessary.”

  “So you can tell us, from first-hand knowledge, of the conditions at Langeais, and at this farm.”

  “Yes, I can. I think perhaps we were not very clever about Père Chaise’s farm. I say so in retrospect. There were in every district certain households that were known to be safe. Certain householders in whom we had reliance. I think that in Père Chaise we had too much reliance. I do not mean that he betrayed us consciously. He would certainly never have done that. But he was a jovial, talkative man. A boaster. He had what we call the ‘Gascon’ temperament. Very soon I think the Germans knew that he harbored Resistance workers in his house in the woods.”

  “But they did nothing about it?”

  “For a time, no. To catch one or two less important members of the Resistance – that was not their object. Soon, however, their patience was rewarded. A bigger prize offered. A British agent, Lieutenant Wells, arrived in the district. Even then they waited. It was no doubt in their minds that Major Thoseby or one of the other leaders might contact Lieutenant Wells at this farm.”

  “But they did not do so.”

  “Fortunately – fortunately for him, I mean – Major Thoseby was at that time in Switzerland. By the time he got back the Germans had tired of waiting and had raided the farm.”

  “When was that?”

  “On September twenty-sixth, 1943.”

  “Were you in Langeais at the time?”

  “No. When the raid took place I was at Amboise, that is the other side of Tours. I came quickly to Langeais to see if I could be of assistance. After such a raid there was always a lot of clearing up to do – of countermeasures to be
taken.”

  “I quite understand. Was it your impression that Lieutenant Wells had been taken by the Gestapo, or that he had been killed in the raid?”

  “It would have been very unlike the Gestapo to have killed him at once. They would require him for questioning.”

  “Was there any first – hand evidence that Lieutenant Wells was taken?”

  “None. Such raids were almost always carried out at dusk or just before dawn. They were very quickly and efficiently conducted. Any prisoners were taken away separately, in closed cars. It was part of the German policy that no one should know who had been taken.”

  “It was known, though, that the prisoner, Miss Lamartine, was taken on this occasion?”

  “Yes. The Germans had left a guard hidden in and around the farm. The people who were sent to warn Mademoiselle Lamartine – she was away on an errand – missed her and she walked into the trap. Our people, however, actually saw her taken, though they were just too late to stop her.”

  “How soon did Major Thoseby learn of this?”

  “Two days afterward. In fact, I spoke to him of it myself.”

  “What were his reactions?”

  For the first time in his evidence Commissaire Lode paused before answering. “Major Thoseby was not a man who showed his emotions easily. Indeed, from a man in his position you would not expect it.”

  “You did not notice any reaction?”

  “I did not say that. I said that he did not show his feelings easily. I, who knew him well, realised that he was shaken.”

  “Thank you,” said Mr. Summers. “May we turn now to the time following the Liberation and the expulsion of the Germans from France. Did you see the prisoner again?”

  “Not at once. The Germans, when they left, had taken a number of their special prisoners with them. I believe that the prisoner was taken.”

  “Yes. Well, no doubt she will tell us about that herself. I am afraid you must confine yourself to your own observation. When did you see the prisoner again?”

  “In November or December of that year. I remembered her, of course. I was, I think, a little surprised to see her alive. I did what I could to help her, but I had at that time no official position. It was a very hard winter.”