“Keep them where they are! I was just about to waste a bullet on each of you, but now I think you will be more interesting as prisoners than as corpses. Will you tell me why you are here, or do you prefer to wait until I signal for the guards?”
“Don’t be a bloody fool, Deichgräber. Do you want Ehrlich and Lisa to laugh behind your back?” Hearne spoke as if he had the rank of general, at least.
“What has Ehrlich to do with this?” Deichgräber was angry, but he still kept the smile which was not a smile in place.
“Ask him.”
“I shall. Turn round, and start walking back. Any suspicious move and—”
“You will apologise handsomely for this,” Hearne warned indignantly. “Why don’t you summon the guards now, so that we can end this farce quickly? It would be simple enough. A couple of shots—”
“If you are as innocent as you pretend, there will be no need to summon the guard. If you aren’t, they’ll hear the couple of shots when they strike your bodies.”
Hearne shrugged his shoulders. “By this time the men I am after will have heard us and escaped. Fool,” he said venomously.
Deichgräber ignored that. He pointed to Etienne.
“And who’s this supposed to be?”
“He’s my informant. You could do with one yourself, couldn’t you?” The savage sneer, the authoritative tone, had some effect, but not enough. “Wait until the major hears about it,” Hearne went on. “The new broom sweeps clean, too clean. I hope you’ll enjoy your new command after this.” That was a double-edged barb. Deichgräber as visitor to Mont Saint-Michel had not even the privilege of being a new broom.
“We’ll get back to the Abbey,” he said, but the calculated smile had vanished.
Hearne stood very still. He seemed to be listening intently, his eyes fixed anxiously on the stony promontory behind the German’s back. “I thought I heard them,” Hearne said, as if to himself. His voice was a mixture of anger and savage disappointment. “Our voices must have carried. They’ll get away.”
“Just where are these mysterious people?” The voice was contemptuous, but Deichgräber still watched Hearne, still pointed the revolver.
“At that small chapel on the promontory. You saw it, didn’t you? But let’s get back to the others. Perhaps it won’t be too late even then, to catch these men. Come on, Pierre”—he spoke to the boy beside him, who was standing motionless, his eyes on the ground—“we may get some results if we hurry.”
Etienne had flashed a glance at Hearne at the mention of the false name. With his hands still held high, he slipped his right foot casually into one shoe. Deichgräber hadn’t noticed anything strange about that. Hearne drew a deep breath.
“Well have to hurry,” he said to the German, holding his attention by the urgency of his voice and eyes. Etienne was fumbling for the second shoe; and when his foot couldn’t find it, he knelt quite naturally to pick it up, his eyes still on the German, his free hand still in the air. He straightened slowly, both hands in the air now; he looked as if he were very bored.
Etienne’s leg moved so quickly that even Hearne was surprised. His right foot struck the German sharply on the wrist, with a savage side-kick which sent the arm high and the revolver flying. It fell somewhere in the rocks behind Deichgräber, as the shoe from Etienne’s left hand caught him across the mouth and silenced the shout from his opened lips. Hearne closed in, and the German warded off his blow with a kick from a heavy boot. The kick was sufficient to throw Hearne sharply against a low rock, and the jagged edge caught him beneath the knees like a knife: he lost his balance, falling backwards on the hard sand with a thud which smashed all the wind out of him. He lay still for a moment, his eyes closed. The German must have thought he was knocked out, for he turned and struck at Etienne. The boy slipped from his reach, twisted and turned, and ran back towards St. Aubert’s Well. He looked easy to catch. The German, not even pausing to shout, was on his heels. Etienne side-stepped, was missed by inches, started running out from the shore as if he had lost his head. The watching Hearne, picking himself up dizzily from the sand, smothered a shout in his throat into a hoarse croak of warning. Again Etienne side-stepped. But this time his arm was raised. Hearne saw the gleam of a knife as the boy’s arm struck at the German’s neck, saw Deichgräber plunge heavily forward. He landed on one knee, his hands on the sand before him. And then the knee and hands disappeared. Deichgräber struggled, tried to shout, but the struggles became a spasm and the shout was only a whisper. The sand sucked more deeply; the grip was firm.
Hearne sat down on the rock. “God in Heaven,” he was saying to himself. “God in Heaven.”
Etienne came running lightly back, Etienne whose feet hadn’t paused for a moment even when he had stabbed. He was searching for his shoes, picking them up carefully. He was waiting for Hearne. “Come,” he said, “we’ve little time now.”
Hearne hesitated and looked towards the lump in the dark sands. Only twenty feet away...the strangled shout had given way to a moan, and then there was nothing to hear. Etienne must have read his thoughts. He said to Hearne, “He will soon be under: he struggled too much. It was either him or us and our friends.”
“Yes,” said Hearne, “it was either him or all of us.” But he didn’t look back as they walked on in silence. Not even when they had reached the promontory did he look round. He was thinking, Deichgräber must have gone right back down the stone staircase without waiting at the spring; he must have followed the path directly on to the shore while we were still coming down that cleft in the rock. He must have guessed that if anyone was escaping, they would make for the sand. And then he had explored it as far west as this promontory; he must have been on his way back when he saw us coming. Probably he was going to explore the east part of the north shore then. He was thorough all right. And he was ambitious. Too ambitious. If he hadn’t thought he could torture more information out of us as prisoners, he would have shot us dead on sight. But that was one way of dying which they didn’t teach him in a Death-and-Glory academy.
Hearne followed Etienne automatically. Even when searchlights suddenly blazed over the north-shore sands, even when one of them swept round to the west while they both stretched flat on the mainland shore, Hearne was apathetic. Emotionally, he had reached saturation point. He just lay patiently, and waited until the gleam of light was switched away.
“They can’t risk it for long,” Etienne whispered consolingly.
Hearne nodded. “They are worried about him,” he suggested. “He’s overdue. Search-parties out now, probably.”
“They’ll find nothing. Les lises...” The boy shrugged his shoulders.
Les lises. Water-holes... So that explained the quickness of Deichgräber’s end. Hearne remembered Pléhec’s vivid description of them one evening during his last visit to the Mont. Water-holes, they were: water-holes covered with a deceptive layer of sand. Just another of Mont Saint-Michel’s little surprises, Pléhec had said. Spécialité de la maison, Pléhec had added, and they had all laughed.
“No,” Hearne said. “They’ll find nothing.”
“And by the time the light is good enough to search properly, the tide will be in.” The boy’s voice was unemotional. He was neither triumphant nor fearful. He noticed Hearne’s curious stare.
“My father was killed. That was in the war, and that was what one could expect. War is war. But two weeks ago my brother was shot. Shot for something which he didn’t do, didn’t even know about. He and another, just chosen blindly, just pushed against a wall and shot in cold blood.” He paused, his voice still unemotional. “Merdre, alors!” he said suddenly, and buried his face in his arms.
At last Hearne said, “I’m all right again,” and the boy rose silently to lead him over the salt-meadows. Clouds had blown up. A wind ruffled the trees lining the bank of the small canalized river, which Etienne now followed.
“I go this way, my friend,” Hearne whispered as they halted near a road. He swept his arm
to the south and the west.
Etienne smiled. “Soon the tide will come in. This river will be flooded and the boats will leave from Pontorson. Pléhec said you might as well sail.”
“To where?”
“Past Saint-Malo. Anywhere up the River Rance towards Dinan, if that suits you.”
Hearne was smiling now, too. “Can I sleep on that boat?” he asked.
Etienne was politely amused.
“Sleep, and rest these blasted legs?”
Etienne was still amused, but he nodded reassuringly “After we get there,” he added cautiously.
“We shall,” Hearne said with unusual confidence.
And they did.
21
THE AWAKENING OF SAINT-DÉODAT
Another dawn was breaking when Hearne came back to Saint-Déodat. This time, he did not walk through the village. This time, he did not trouble to count the Picrels, the Guérins, or the Trouins. In these grey-stone houses now slept grey-uniformed men. Yesterday had been the day of their coming. Yesterday had been the day for Nazi flags and, no doubt, a Nazi band playing in the market-place. Hearne wondered if they had had the insolence to play Breton songs. Yet that had happened in other places. Anyway, the Picrels, the Guérins, the Trouins must have laid themselves down to sleeplessness with bitter thoughts last night. Grim as were his own at this moment, Hearne wondered just how he would feel if the names had been Jones, Brown, Robinson. Maniacal, he decided: without either exaggeration, or heroics, quite simply maniacal. He looked down the hill at the dim shapes of the quiet houses round the towering church, and he remembered the third tree in the seventh row in the Corlay orchard. There would be many third trees in these farms in this hill and valley, and in all the other hills and valleys of Brittany. “No zo Bretoned, tud kaled,” Henri had said:
Hearne found himself quietly whistling the refrain of Bro Goz Ma Zadou, a Breton national song, as he crossed the stone yard of the Corlay farm. The kitchen door was closed but unlocked. Henri was kneeling beside Albertine, helping her place the first log of the new day on the glowing embers in the hearth. They turned round as Hearne entered. They waited until the last line of the song was completed, and then they came forward together, came forward almost quickly.
“You’re home,” said Albertine. Her voice, was roughly kind. Old Henri grinned through the gaps in his gums. He said nothing, but reached up with his thin, corded hand to pat Hearne awkwardly on the shoulder.
“He’s ice-cold,” Albertine said. “Henri, get that fire going. Do you want him to starve?”
Henri obeyed with unaccustomed willingness.
“What’s happened to your clothes? Where did you get that hat?” Albertine looked at it unbelievingly. “It smells of fish.”
“All of me does,” Hearne said. He felt pleased by their welcome—pleased and yet worried. Had Madame Corlay talked more than he had expected? He watched Albertine as she bustled about the kitchen. She asked so many questions on top of one another, not even waiting for his answers, that he was spared the agony of conversation. Where were his own clothes, was that nice young American safe, how were his feet and the trousers which Albertine had sewn to fit him, had they seen any Boches, were they caught in that rain, why didn’t he get home yesterday? That last question was the key. They had begun to get alarmed. This sudden friendliness was chiefly due to relief. And she still called him Bertrand quite naturally: so if Madame Corlay had told, she still hadn’t told everything. Hearne ate and watched the simple face under its white-starched cap, looking anxiously to see if he enjoyed the food, if it were enough. He judged from the quantity she had placed before him that she had included her own share, and perhaps even Henri’s. Hearne ate the amount he was usually given, and refused the rest, saying that that was all he could eat. By the sudden light in Henri’s eye he knew his guess about the food had been right. He gave the old man a grin, and Albertine a hearty clip round the waist, as he rose and walked over to the fire.
Her severe face relaxed. “You’ll spoil my apron,” she said, but colour had flooded into the patch of red veins on her cheeks. Henri and Hearne both laughed.
“God,” he said, “it’s good to be home,” and stood with his back to the fire.
Old Henri nodded. His fingers were tapping out the rhythm of Bro Goz Ma Zadou on the wooden table. The sound drew Albertine’s attention.
“Henri!” she said sharply. “Your work. Jean and Marie will be almost finished.” The old man rose and moved slowly to the door leading into the byre. He gave Hearne a side-look and unmistakable wink. Hearne grinned: in every language it meant the same...anything for a quiet life.
“What is it?” asked Albertine, sensing the conspiracy.
“Good to be back,” repeated Hearne cheerfully. He heard light footsteps coming down the staircase into the hall. Yes, it was good to be back.
The door opened and Anne came in. She had dressed completely, to the last button of the tight-bodiced dress, to the last smooth braid round her head. For a moment, watching the simplicity of her smile, the honesty of her eyes, Hearne wished he really were Corlay. It would be something to have a look like that for one’s own.
She said, “I knew it was you. I was listening and I heard you whistle. I knew you had come back.”
There was the same directness in her speech that had greeted him the first time they had met. Then, she had told him she couldn’t marry him. Now, she looked as if she would marry him tomorrow. It wasn’t, he thought, as he watched the neat wave of plaited hair, it wasn’t that women were fickle. They were completely loyal: either to themselves, like Elise, or to others, like Anne. But when they made their illogical leaps and still managed to balance themselves neatly in reverse, it wasn’t because they had changed. They were still the same: it was only the outside influences which had changed, and by some strange alchemy made them feel like saying “Yes” when they had once said “No.” Madame Corlay had only to say “He has changed”; he had only to prove it; and above all he had only to show his distrust of Elise. That was all—and Anne’s doubts and fears had vanished. The icicles had melted. In some curious way, which he couldn’t manage to analyse, he felt pleased. But it would have made things easier if she had still distrusted him; now he would have warmth and affection to deal with. Thank heaven that Anne was Anne, that complications could be kept as simple as possible. He looked at her. She was unique, in a certain sense. She was shy without affectation and awkwardness: she was innocent without being ignorant, modest without being stupid. He almost laughed at that—modest... It had been a long time since he had thought of that word.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Anne was disturbed, as if she feared she wasn’t pleasing him.
“It’s nice to relax,” he said. It was true: for the last ten minutes he hadn’t even thought of a bloody Nazi.
Albertine said, “Get those clothes off, and I’ll wash them. They are smelling up the whole kitchen,” and then to Anne, who was listening with a smile, “Did you wake Madame when you rushed down here?”
Anne shook her head, and the colour came into her cheeks. Not, decided Hearne, because she might have wakened Madame, but because the rushing had been so obvious. He looked down at his clothes. After the second hour on that boat he must have lost his sense of smell.
Anyway, relaxing was over for the day. Albertine was in charge.
His room had been scoured and polished; otherwise it was untouched. The bookcase still held its secrets. The books were in the same order, even to that upside-down volume which he had left to test any curious fingers.
It seemed strange not to have the American next door to his room. In the short time he had been there he had become a part of this house. Strange not to hear the limping step, or the deep voice talking its own variation of French. As Hearne washed and changed the disreputable blue shirt and corduroy trousers for something cleaner but less comfortable, he wondered how van Cortlandt was liking Matthews. Van Cortlandt...why had he called himself Myles? Probably
some psychological impulse when he was forced into the danger of giving his real name, some impulse rooted in that story he had promised to tell later. Here I am, Myles from home, he would think. Well, that made two stories Hearne owed himself when he got back to Britain. When... Myles’s—no, van Cortlandt’s; and Sam’s. That would be a fair do, that would. And they would make it a night, lad. His attempt at Yorkshire was more than the razor could bear. He sighed, and patiently washed the streaming blood off his chin. By the time the flow had become an ooze, and the last slow drop had hardened into a clot, he had next week’s plans fixed, with the help of his map. A week was all he could depend on now. Elise was due back from her trip to “Paris” on the twentieth of July. Ten days, she had said. That gave him just seven days more of this kind of thing. He might even have to work in daylight to get all the information he wanted. For when these seven days were over, he might find little time free for himself and his work. Then he would simply have to seize any chance he could: for with Elise’s unexpected demands there would be an end to systematic observation.
When he went downstairs, Anne was alone in the kitchen.
“Albertine’s gone to Mass,” she began, and then she was looking at his chin.
“What about you?” His voice was half teasing.
“I wanted to see you alone. Look, I must get you something for that cut.” She didn’t wait for an answer, but ran lightly, into the store-room. She brought back a bottle of colourless liquid.
“Please don’t trouble,” Hearne said, but inside he felt rather pleased at her solicitude. She dabbed the liquid lightly over the cut. She was so absorbed in everything she did, he thought, as he watched her eyes fixed so intently on his chin. The cut stung into life again, and he grinned as he saw the look of dismay on Anne’s face when the blood trickled over his chin once more.
He jammed a handkerchief hard against it, saying, “Thank you. That will cure it, I’m sure,” and wondering if Adam’s rib had been better left in place. But it was difficult to feel irritated with Anne: not when she was still trying to look dismayed, when she was trying so hard to keep from laughing.
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