Assignment in Brittany

by Helen Macinnes

  “I’ve still a question. How did these three men get into the town hall? Its entrance was heavily guarded.”

  “As part of this German co-operation plan, a meeting had been planned for late that afternoon. If you hadn’t been arrested, you would no doubt have had to speak at it. We were all told to attend, and in accordance with our private plan we all went. The place was crowded. No Boches were present. Elise was there, and she had got Picrel to speak along with her. He’s trying to save the remnants of his business and to get his son out of the road gang. He didn’t know what he was doing. Elise had persuaded him it was the only sane and sensible thing. The trouble with Picrel is that he has got accustomed to having more than his share of the village wealth and power; and he’s hanging on to what he has. He’s willing to be persuaded of anything which will let him hang on. It was a lively meeting. Then our Committee crowded round Elise and questioned her on the way out. The three men who had been chosen hung behind, and hid. Under that table on the platform covered by the draped flags. They just lay there and waited all through the night until the church bells began. That was their signal. I am sorry we had to arrange it so that it looked as if you had killed the German, but we must safeguard the village. You understand?”

  “The village has done more than enough for me,” Hearne said quietly. “How did they get into the cellar?”

  “You want to know everything, don’t you?” Kerénor looked at him warily.

  “As someone who would like to perfect his own technique.”

  Kerénor’s suspicion ended as quickly as it had begun. “It was simple. There might have been the noise of a movement from upstairs. The guard came to the foot of the staircase. Silence. He came up the staircase with a torch and the gun. Then he turned to go back downstairs. The door in the corridor, through which you escaped, opened. Our man came forward. In the old days he was the best smuggler in the district. Bare feet make no noise. Neither do large hands wrapped tightly round a German’s throat.”

  “But what if there had been a second sentry?”

  “One of the other men came into the corridor. German hat, German coat. Enough to pass in the dim cellar light (we are so backward here, no modern conveniences!), enough to pass for a moment. That was all we needed. From then on he was to improvise, while the third man guarded the corridor with his knife. That was why we chose three men.”

  Hearne’s look of admiration stopped Kerénor.

  “That’s nothing to what we can do,” he said modestly. “After this war is over, the tales we shall have to tell will make strange listening. Nothing that art can invent is so wildly improbable as what happens in real life. Art and fiction are only imitations. Life is truth, and stranger than either of them.”

  Hearne nodded. “So I’ve found,” he said. “There’s one last thing. There was an explosion.”

  Kerénor said, “Yes, there was, wasn’t there?” His eyes were mocking, and Hearne knew he would be told no more than he had guessed already. But, looking at Kerénor’s triumph, he knew his guess had been near the truth.

  “Here is your information,” Hearne said. “I can give it to you as far as I can remember it, but the full proof is in my room in the farm. Who can go to get it?”

  “Anne is out. I am out, too—for I never went near the Corlay place, and if I went to go now it would seem strange. There’s only Monsieur le Curé left.”

  “Will he?”

  “If he can act without being told the facts.”

  Hearne said, “My head is dull today.”

  “Take these caves, for instance. Monsieur le Curé told Guézennec about them. At the same time he suggests it would be a good place for anyone to be safe from the Germans. Then he says no more, except to tell me about the history of the caves, and he doesn’t come to see you. Again, he doesn’t notice that the clothes belonging to his young assistant—at present in hospital somewhere in Germany—were borrowed. But the vestry where they were stored was left open all yesterday afternoon. Again, in a few minutes I shall go back up into the church, and from the church I shall take the private way to his house. When I return I shall carry a basket of books, with food underneath for Anne and you. This afternoon when I see Monsieur le Curé we shall talk of other things, but not of a depleted larder.”

  “Here are the facts: I shall let you suggest them to Monsieur le Curé.” Hearne’s voice was beginning to tire. His head was beginning to throb again. He felt hot. Quickly he told Kerénor about the bookcase in his room. Two note-books, two sets of papers clipped together, a map, a French service revolver, a silencer, a pocket-knife, an envelope. Kerénor listened intelligently. At the mention of the gun he shook his head slowly.

  “The arsenal will need some careful suggesting,” he said, and rose slowly to his feet. “I think I’ll see Monsieur le Curé right away. I’d like that list of names...before I keep an appointment.”

  There was something in his voice which aroused Hearne.

  “What appointment?”

  Kerénor was dusting the seat of his trousers. He seemed interested in the weave of the material. “After the meeting yesterday Elise spoke to me. It’s most unfortunate that Picrel turned out to be such a bad orator. There was only one thing Corlay and I had in common—the ability to talk.”

  “She asked you?”

  “Sideways...nothing definite. For the sake of Brittany and the chance of a really worth-while career. If I feel the call I am to let her know, and we can meet. Added bait, of course... the lovely Elise and a moonlight meeting. The first she’s ever given me... such an honour, such promises of delight. Three days ago even, I should have been struck dumb by an invitation like that.” His mouth twisted bitterly as he laughed at himself. “But three days ago is three days ago.” He looked at Hearne. “Damn you,” he said abruptly. “Why did you have to be right?”

  He limped towards the passage.

  “I’ll bring the food,” he called back to Anne.

  “And the clothes,” she said quietly. She looked towards Hearne. “You want the clothes, don’t you?”

  He nodded. “Most of all,” he said. There was something else he had meant to ask...what was it?... But he was too tired: he gave up the effort.

  Kerénor’s limping footsteps had dulled into an echo. Once he had the clothes, Hearne thought, he would make his plans and start the journey. Meanwhile it was pleasant to forget; to watch Anne’s quiet movements about the room; to feel her bandage his arm and smooth the sheet over his shoulders; to close his eyes and listen to the distant water-music.

  26

  “WHITE IN THE MOON THE LONG ROAD LIES”

  Perhaps Hearne had slept enough, or perhaps it was just that his mind wouldn’t rest. During the night he woke five times in all, and each time Anne came forward out of the dark corner where she rested. She was beside him again when his broken sleep ended at last. Her heavy round gold watch, which she had fastened by its brooch to the blanket when he had started worrying about the time, told him it was almost six o’clock.

  “Six o’clock when?” he asked her, as she carried in a basin of water.

  “Six o’clock in the morning. Kerénor should soon be here.” She gave him water to drink, and bathed him gently.

  “What day is today?”

  “Wednesday, I think.” She smiled. “I lose count too, you see.” He looked at her pale cheeks and tired eyes.

  “I owe you a lot,” he said. “If I hadn’t had someone to nurse me so carefully as you have done, I should still be only half recovered. I feel I could get up today. And then tomorrow—”

  “You mustn’t hurry too much.”

  “Not too much, but I must hurry.”

  She felt his brow and his pulse. “You are much better.” Her bright smile made him feel better still.

  “How did you learn all this?” he asked, pointing to the bandage she was cutting from a piece of linen.

  “Because of Kerénor. He was going to start a kind of clinic for the schoolchildren, but the people a
gainst it were too many for us. He wanted me to help him. He was teaching me astronomy, and his fee was that I should learn first-aid.”

  “Astronomy!” said Hearne in amazement. “In heaven’s name, why?”

  “I wanted to learn,” Anne said simply.

  Looking at her calm face, he knew she spoke the truth. There was nothing behind her words. She had just wanted to learn. “You certainly learned how to nurse.”

  Anne smiled. “Oh, I’ve nursed animals: they are much more difficult to take care of than people.” She finished changing his bandages, gently wiping his face clean of its black grease. “Now you do look better,” she said. “You are healing nicely.”

  Hearne’s spirits rose. “When will the clothes come?” he said.

  “Today. And your map and your papers too, I should think.” She saw the relief in his eyes. She gathered up the basin and the towel and bandages quickly, and hurried towards the other room.

  Now what had he done? he wondered. Then the excitement of the plans already half forming drove all other thoughts from his mind.

  * * *

  It was nine o’clock, however, before they heard Kerénor’s footsteps and saw the round circle of light from his torch coming towards them.

  He settled the basket clumsily on the floor beside Hearne and said, with a pretence of light-heartedness, “Food, what there is of it. Clothes, rustic but useful. Map, holding miraculously together. Clasp-knife. Gun, very much loaded and complete with a peculiar object. What is it, by the way?”

  “Something to take the noise out of shooting. A silencer.”

  “Careful kind of fellow, aren’t you?” And then Kerénor dropped the amused tone as he picked up a neatly folded handkerchief, and handed it in silence to Hearne. The small bundle had weight. Hearne looked at Kerénor in surprise.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “From Madame Corlay,” Kerénor said shortly, and bent over the basket again.

  Hearne unwrapped the handkerchief. Inside its folds was a silver watch of an old design, with fine engraving on its cover. Within the tracery of the pattern were the words “To Bertrand Corlay on his twenty-first anniversary, the twenty-ninth of January, 1868.” Hearne opened the watch in silence. The thin Roman numerals were delicately painted on the yellow face: the slender hands still moved on their dutiful way. He closed the cover gently, placed the watch carefully under his pillow.

  “Would you give Madame Corlay my—well, please tell her that some day I shall thank her properly. Now I can only—” He stopped short. He was thinking, that watch was one of Madame Corlay’s few treasures. He was thinking, That watch had seen three invasions of France by the Germans. Anne was watching him. He shook his head, as if he did not know what to say.

  Kerénor nodded. “I’ll tell her you felt you couldn’t find words adequate enough to appreciate her kindness.” Hearne looked up quickly at the Breton, but he wasn’t laughing. For once he was being quite simple and direct.

  Anne said, “Just tell her what he did say. She’d like that better.”

  Kerénor looked amused now. “I was just trying to help,” he said. He looked at Anne teasingly. “Why do women think all other women like what they like? Men, at least, know better than that. Now for the last things in this basket. Here’s an envelope, bulky; and sheets of paper with excessively neat scratchings.” He was watching Hearne’s face. “Will that do?”

  Hearne, his hand reaching eagerly for the envelope and sheets of paper, nodded. He looked through them quickly, but carefully. It was all there, everything he had noted and copied. He took a deep breath. God, he was feeling better every minute. He looked up to see Anne watching him again, this time with that little smile on her lips.

  “All right now?” she asked, trying to keep her voice disinterested. “I’ll give you something to eat, and then you can try to dress.”

  Hearne nodded his answer, and patted the paper lying under his hand. Then suddenly he asked Kerénor, “Where are Corlay’s original lists, and his diaries?”

  Kerénor, limping back and forward restlessly across the cave, forced a twisted smile. “Under study. I thought the Committee should know just what they had to fight.”

  “You’ve seen them yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  Hearne, watching the white face, the gaunt cheek-bones, said nothing. He thought, Masochist is the word. He’s made himself read every word of Corlay’s diary and poems, and they are eating into him.

  “Well?” demanded Kerénor truculently, as if he had guessed Hearne’s thoughts.

  “Well?” said Hearne.

  Kerénor halted. He controlled his voice with difficulty. “In a France ruled by Frenchmen, Elise would be given a trial and shot. It is the only France I recognise! Because of the Germans, we cannot give her the trial she would otherwise have had. But we can complete the rest.” He paused. “I shall accept her invitation when it comes. I shall bring her here.”

  Anne’s face had whitened. “Jean,” she said, “remember that if she comes here, she cannot go back.”

  “No, she cannot go back. That will be definite, Anne. You needn’t fear. For once I am not letting arguments and hair-splittings prevent me from acting in time. This time I shan’t reason away my anger. One learns.”

  There was a silence.

  Anne hesitated. At last she said, “I don’t trust her. She’ll be the one who will do the shooting. You’ll be in danger.” She was looking at Hearne, her eyes wide; Kerénor noticed the look.

  “Charming,” he murmured half seriously, half ironically, and silenced her effectively. “Now eat,” he said to Hearne. “And I’ll get you into these clothes. What were your original plans to escape?” Except for the nervous tension of his constant pacing, he had buried his own emotions deeply enough. But he was scarcely listening to Hearne, and the Englishman was glad of that. For then the omissions in the plan he was sketching wouldn’t be so noticeable. After his own practical experience of the Gestapo’s persuasive powers, he wasn’t going to burden his friends with much knowledge. He touched briefly on the boatman who had brought him back from Mont Saint-Michel, and who would take a message so that his friends in Britain would know he was coming. All Hearne wanted was to reach Dinan, and give that message to the boatman. All his plans depended on that. Then he realised Anne’s occupation with the food which she was dividing into two portions was only a pretence.

  “You’ve kept too little for yourself,” Hearne said, to interrupt her thoughts.

  “I can’t eat any more,” she answered. “If you want to get dressed before Jean leaves, you ought to finish your breakfast quickly.” He wondered whatever had given him the first impression that she was a simple creature. Perhaps it was her gentleness and her direct honesty which had made him think she was easy to estimate.

  “You’re a determined woman, aren’t you?” he asked.

  She laughed, wrinkling her nose. Anyway, she seemed to have forgotten to worry about his plans for escape.

  But when Kerénor had gone, and Hearne paused to rest after his first attempt to walk round the cave, she suddenly sat down beside him, and said, “Wouldn’t it be better if someone could go to Dinan in advance, and see that boatman, and give him your message to take to your friends to send to Britain?”

  “You like your questions long,” he said, and then as she laughed, “Why do you always wear your hair so tightly braided, Anne?”

  The two pink spots were coming back into her cheeks, but she wasn’t to be dissuaded.

  “I mean,” she said slowly, “if someone could go in advance to Dinan, while you were still getting stronger here, then the message would sail back with that boatman to the Bay of Mont Saint-Michel, and he could send it to your friend, and it would go to Britain, and then you could get away from here with all the preparations made, and you wouldn’t have to wait at Dinan for all these things to happen before you could reach the coast.”

  “Breathing helps,” Hearne said. Anne laughed in spite of herse
lf.

  “But wouldn’t it be better?” she insisted.

  “No doubt. But after Sunday’s excitement every man in this village will have to keep close to Saint-Déodat for a while, and appear to be leading a normal life.”

  Anne said slowly, “I suppose so. But it would have been such a good idea. It would have made everything quicker and safer for you. You could go straight to the coast without going near Dinan yourself.”

  “I’ll manage well enough, once I’m feeling all right again. Come on, Anne, give me a hand round this room.”

  She smiled. “You looked like a newly born calf at first.”

  “I’ll be less like one this time. Just you see.”

  When he sat down to rest again, she said, “That must have been a nice old man who brought you back in his boat.”

  He had been thinking of something else, and looked at her blankly.

  She explained, “When you came back from taking Monsieur Myles to the coast; when you wore such funny old clothes all smelling of fish.”

  Hearne smiled. “Yes, he was a nice old boy.”

  “Can he be trusted, really trusted?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why don’t you tell us his name? When you are gone there may be others from this village who want to get to the coast. He could help them too, couldn’t he?”

  “Yes, I suppose he could.”

  “Perhaps someone may be desperate and need help. Perhaps Kerénor or one of the others...” Her voice trailed off.

  It seemed, thought Hearne, as if he had now three different jobs to worry over. There was his real job, information. It came first: it had to. Then linked with that there was the safety of the men like Duclos and Pléhec who were working with him and the other agents. And thirdly, there was the beginning of secret resistance in the villages: he had to help Saint-Déodat, even apart from what he owed it himself. He thought of L’Etoile d’Or and of Jules, who would have taken the place of big Louis. Jules was to be trusted, but the Golden Star itself might be dangerous: too much had happened there. He couldn’t send anyone there when he was unwilling to try it himself. The only really definite source of help was the boatman to whom Etienne had led him, the boatman who sailed from the canalised river on the Bay of Mont Saint-Michel along the coast and up the River Rance to Dinan. The boatman knew nothing about the activities on the Mont Saint-Michel: all he knew was that the boy Etienne and he were serving in the same cause. So Pléhec and Duclos and all their plans would not be in danger if he were to tell Anne the boatman’s name. That was the main thing, that Pléhec and Duclos should be safe to go on with their work.