Those in Peril

by Margaret Mayhew

  He could scarcely believe that he had been given this chance. ‘I’d be glad to, Harry. But are you sure I’m the right man? I’ve no Intelligence experience.’

  ‘Damn sure, or I shouldn’t have asked you. Actually, asked is the wrong word. You’ve already been seconded. It’s all fixed. You’ll find a first-class rail ticket on your desk when you get back. The night train leaves at seven this evening so you’ll just have time to pack some gear. We’ve requisitioned a house down there and there’ll be some staff already in place. I’ll fill you in on all the details.’

  ‘You knew I’d want to do it, in any case?’

  ‘Of course I did. By the way, there’s another little piece of luck that’s come our way. Some Frenchman has just turned up there in a small motor boat. He came over by himself, all the way from a place called Pont-Aven on the south coast of Brittany.’

  ‘It’s an artists’ colony – very picturesque.’

  ‘Well, this chap’s an artist. Quite well known, apparently. I’m afraid I’m clueless about the modern ones. Don’t care much for their stuff. We’ve checked him out, as far as we’re able, and there’s no reason to doubt he’s who he says he is.’

  ‘Did he say why he left France?’

  ‘Same reason as the Breton fishermen – didn’t fancy life under the Germans. Also, rather interestingly from our point of view, he offered his services. Said he wanted to do something to help. He didn’t know what, though, and he’s rather left that to us. It occurred to me that we might as well take up the offer. He’s on the old side – fifty-three – but I don’t think that’s necessarily a disadvantage. Rather the contrary. Nobody over there in France is going to wonder why he wasn’t called up. And, by all accounts, he’s an educated, intelligent chap. See what you think of him.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Louis Duval. You’ll find a file on him when you get there. And files on everything else we could think of.’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll get down to work straight away.’

  ‘Good show. As I said, Alan, there’s no time to lose.’

  The washing line was positioned out of sight on a piece of rough land below the garden. Barbara hung out towels and tablecloths and table napkins, the next peg gripped at the ready in her teeth. She left the sheets until last – folding them lengthways and pegging the open edges together in long loops to the line so that they caught the breeze and filled out like ships’ sails. When the war had started she had dug up the rest of the patch for a vegetable plot, except for the far end which she had left for a chicken run. The hens were a motley band, bought as chicks from local farms, but they laid well. One of the very few things that Esme seemed to enjoy doing – perhaps the only thing – was collecting the eggs. There was never an argument or a sulk about that. The child would go off with the basket and come back with the warm eggs carefully stowed in it and, for once, without a scowl on her face.

  When Barbara had finished hanging out the washing, she did some work in the vegetable patch. Unlike the hens who had been an unqualified success, the vegetables were hit and miss. Last year the potatoes and runner beans had been a hit. This year the early potato crop had got some sort of blight and half the bean plants had been eaten by slugs, but, on the other hand, the cabbages and the onions were looking healthy. She had sown three rows of spinach and it remained to be seen to which category they were going to belong.

  On her way back up the steps to the house, she noticed that the Frenchman had moved his easel and paints out into the garden. He was working at the end of the lawn with his back turned to her and she was able to slip past without disturbing him. For his sake, she hoped that Mrs Lamprey would not decide to take a stroll in the garden, or, worse, sit out there on the bench and practise her French. At mealtimes she had taken to trotting out phrases, in an accent not unlike Mr Churchill’s. ‘Il fait beau aujourd’hui, n’est-ce pas? Avez-vous dormé bien, monsieur? Est-ce que vous aimez la cuisine Anglaise?’ He always replied very politely, in slow, clear French. Yes, it was a beautiful day. Yes, thank you, he had slept very well. And, yes, he liked English cooking very much. This last Barbara seriously doubted.

  She went into the house. Rear Admiral Foster was reading his Times in the sitting room but there was no sign of Mrs Lamprey who was probably up in her room, perhaps sampling a glass or two of green ginger wine before lunch. Monsieur Duval was safe for the moment. But what must he think about his country surrendering to the Germans? About all the terrible news of the past few days? He had listened impassively to Mr Churchill’s speech on the wireless in the sitting room . . . the Nazi regime, with almost all Europe writhing and starving under its cruel heel . . . We do not yet know what will happen in France . . . the Battle of France is over . . . He had given no hint of his feelings. And if he had left any family there, he had never spoken of them – not even when grilled archly by Mrs Lamprey. ‘Êtes-vous marié, monsieur?’ ‘Oui et non, madame,’ he had replied enigmatically. Yes and no. And he had turned the conversation adroitly to other things. If the Navy had taken an interest in him on his arrival, it must have waned, as the lieutenant had not telephoned since. There had been a call for him from the bank in Dartmouth, but that was all.

  She was crossing the hall with a vase of fresh flowers to put in the sitting room when the doorbell rang.

  ‘Mrs Hillyard?’ He was a tall, rather severe-looking Royal Navy officer. ‘I believe you have a Monsieur Duval staying with you. I wonder if I might have a word with him?’

  Had they come to arrest him? To make trouble for him of some kind? She stalled, instinctively. ‘I’m afraid he’s busy at the moment.’

  ‘It’s quite important. I’m sure he won’t mind being interrupted.’

  There would be no prevarication with him, she could tell. She led him reluctantly out into the garden. ‘This gentleman would like to speak with you, Monsieur Duval.’

  The Frenchman turned from his easel, wiping a paintbrush on a piece of rag, and she saw his face light up. ‘Enfin,’ she heard him say. ‘At last.’

  At first sight, Alan Powell thought that the Frenchman would be a liability rather than an asset. He was too noticeable a figure. True, he was only of average height – not more than about five foot ten – middle-aged and rather overweight, but the features were strong, the face memorable, the voice deep and resonant, and the black hair, streaked with grey, was worn unusually long. And his clothes were anything but conventional – loose-fitting linen shirt and trousers, no tie, casual loafers. What was required, surely, was a man who could pass virtually unnoticed and unremarked. A pale negative of a man, not one nearly so positive. However, he let none of these misgivings show as he shook Duval’s hand and introduced himself. He addressed him in careful French, apologizing for any mistakes he might make.

  Louis Duval smiled. ‘You speak it well and it’s a great relief to me to be able to converse in my own language for a change. It’s tiring for me to find the right words in English. Lieutenant Commander, you said? Then you are from the Royal Navy. They promised that they would be in touch. I had almost given up hope.’

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt your work.’ He glanced at the easel and the painting in progress – not of the sea view, as he might have expected, but of the house and part of the garden. Bold slabs and blocks and daubs of colour with no fine detail at all. Not to his personal taste.

  ‘I have plenty of time.’

  He indicated the bench facing the view to the sea. ‘Could we sit down, perhaps?’ It was a lovely garden, he thought, looking round at the shrubs and ferns and the bed of roses. And a palm tree lent a sub-tropical feel to the place. A garden was something he had missed out on in London and in life. He offered a Players but the Frenchman produced his packet of Gauloises. When their cigarettes were lit, he said, casually, ‘I believe you have already talked with Lieutenant Reeves on your arrival.’

  ‘He still has my passport and my identity card.’

  ‘Actually, I do now. He passed them on to
me. I wonder if we could just go over what you have already told the lieutenant – just to make sure we’ve got it right.’ The slightly acrid smell of the Gauloise brought back his golden memories of France, and the language was returning more easily now; the odd mistake wouldn’t matter, so long as he made himself clear. ‘I’ve seen your boat Gannet. It must have been quite a trip all the way from Pont-Aven to here, on your own.’

  ‘Not quite on my own.’

  ‘Oh? I understood . . .’

  ‘I had a companion – a small black and white cat. A stray. It stowed away in France. Did you notice it hanging about the boat?’

  ‘Now I come to think of it there was one sitting out on the deck. Extraordinary. Amazing what cats will do.’

  ‘Perhaps it thought England was a safer place to be.’

  ‘I’m sure it did. Tell me, Monsieur Duval, are you an experienced sailor?’

  ‘Lieutenant Reeves asked me the same question. On the contrary, I have used the boat to potter round finding things to paint, that’s all. I stuck to the coastline.’

  ‘Then you are familiar with that part of the coast – around Pont-Aven, Lorient, Quimper? You know it well?’

  ‘Yes, you could say so.’

  ‘And how long have you lived in Pont-Aven?’

  ‘Nearly six years.’

  ‘So you are also familiar with the town and the countryside around?’

  ‘Yes. I have done a good many paintings in the region.’

  ‘And you’re acquainted with a number of people there?’

  ‘You could say that, yes . . . but I’m not a very sociable person.’

  ‘But you know important people in the town?’

  ‘Important to me. The manager of the bank, the owner of a very good bistro, the man who cuts my hair, the one who sells me paints, the woman who runs the boulangerie which bakes wonderful bread . . . people like that. Oh, and I do know the mayor. He bought one of my paintings once. He’s what you might call a fan of mine.’

  ‘And where do you live? Do you own property?’

  ‘No, I rent the top floor of a house. It makes an excellent studio.’

  ‘Who is the owner?’

  ‘A Mademoiselle Citron. Citron by name and sour as a lemon by nature. She lets out the other rooms below as well.’ Duval smiled. ‘She is not at all like Madame Hillyard.’

  ‘What did you tell your landlady before you left?’

  ‘That I was going south – so were many others, to get away from the Germans. I asked her to keep the studio until my return. I paid her six months’ rent in advance. I also left paintings there, and other things.’

  ‘So she has no idea that you planned to come to England?’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘You told no-one?’

  ‘Except my wife.’

  ‘Ah . . . your wife. She lives in Paris, I believe.’

  ‘Yes, in the rue de Monceau. But, as I told Lieutenant Reeves, we have been separated for many years. We live different lives. I pay her money every month through a bank and I visit sometimes, that is all.’

  ‘But nonetheless you told her you were coming to England. Why?’

  ‘I thought she should come too. The Germans were almost in Paris. I thought she should get out before they arrived. She refused. She has a business there – a boutique selling bags and scarves, that sort of thing. It does quite well and she’s not afraid of the Germans. She thinks they’ll be good customers. She’s probably right. Also, she doesn’t care for England.’

  ‘And you do?’

  ‘I spent a year here once. I like many things about it.’

  ‘But you prefer France?’

  A very Gallic shrug. ‘Of course. It’s my country. France is in bad trouble and I want to do what I can to help her. That’s why I came here. As I told Lieutenant Reeves.’

  One couldn’t fault him for that, Alan thought. His own love for his country was deep, immutable, unalterable. He’d die for England without a second’s hesitation, if it was required – had very nearly done so once. ‘But you didn’t say exactly how you want to help.’

  ‘Because I don’t know. I’m too old to fight as a soldier. I rather hoped you might be able to think of something else.’

  He gave himself a few moments to consider the next step, watching a bird with a speckled breast pecking about by some shrubs. A song thrush. He could remember seeing them in the gardens of the Royal Navy convalescent home, smashing open snail shells on stones. Leaving the debris scattered. Messy eaters. ‘Does your wife know that you’re in England – for certain? Have you written to her? Communicated with her?’

  ‘No. Not at all.’

  ‘So, for all she knows, you’re still in France? You changed your mind, after all?’

  ‘Yes. It’s possible.’

  ‘Would she believe that of you?’

  ‘That I changed my mind – decided to stay? Yes, I think so. She would think it sensible. Practical. I’m seldom so, but it’s possible.’

  ‘And Mademoiselle Citron, and everyone else that you are acquainted with in Pont-Aven – as far as they know, you have never left France? You went south to see if things were better there, that’s all?’

  ‘That’s so. The manager of my bank changed a few francs into sterling but he, too, believed I was going south for the time being.’

  ‘Do you have other family? Parents alive, sisters or brothers?’

  ‘I have a sister who lives in Tours but I haven’t seen her for years. She is married to a town hall official and he doesn’t approve of my way of life.’

  ‘What exactly is your way of life, Monsieur Duval?’

  Another shrug. ‘I’m an artist. I drink too much and smoke too much. I get up late. I go to bed late. I paint. What else is there to say?’

  Powell coughed. ‘Do you have a mistress?’

  He was given a dry look. ‘Like all self-respecting Frenchmen are believed to have by the English? No. Not in the terms you mean. Naturally, from time to time I sleep with women – one who has sat for me, perhaps, or one I have come across by chance who pleases me.’

  ‘But there is no-one who would expect to know your whereabouts . . . and everything that concerns you? Demand to know it?’

  ‘No-one. I much prefer it that way.’

  Powell thought for a moment. Harry had already pointed out the advantage of Duval’s age and background, and he saw now that there was another advantage too. He lived as he liked, did what he wanted, went where he pleased, answered to none. There was nobody – not even his wife – who had any claim on him, other than the maintenance paid monthly by a bank. Add to that the fact that he knew the area so well and that he went everywhere with his easel and paints, and it began to make sense. ‘You say, Monsieur Duval, that you want to help your country. Now that she has surrendered and signed an armistice with the Germans, that presents a bit of a problem for you. Her fate is sealed – for the time being. You have my deepest sympathy, of course.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  There had been a definite trace of irony in the response. ‘I assure you, though, that we, in this country, have no intention of giving up the fight. We shall go on to the end, whatever happens.’

  ‘So your Prime Minister declares.’

  ‘He means it. And you can help your country by helping us to fight on until we can liberate France and the rest of Europe from the Nazis.’

  ‘You will need the Americans’ support to do that, I think.’

  ‘Very possibly. But the Americans will need us also. We have to hold out.’

  ‘So . . . what can I do?’

  ‘I can’t give details at the moment, I’m afraid. All I can say is that it would involve you returning to France for a time – a few days, perhaps – and finding out certain things that we need to know. Would you be willing to do that?’

  ‘Return to France? My God, that’s asking a great deal! I went to a lot of effort to come here.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And now y
ou want me to turn round and go back again?’

  ‘Not immediately. But as soon as we can arrange it.’ Powell hesitated. ‘You would be putting yourself at considerable risk, of course. I can’t deny that.’

  The Frenchman seemed amused. ‘Yes, that does occur to me. But I’m curious to know how you propose that I should return. Not, I hope, in the Gannet? I should not want to repeat the experience.’

  ‘No. In a French fishing boat, as a matter of fact. Quite a number of your fellow countrymen have just turned up on this coast. Fishermen from Brittany. They’re not the only ones. Did you know that your General de Gaulle is in London?’

  ‘No, I had not heard but I am not surprised. He would never serve under Marshal Pétain. It’s good news that he has escaped.’

  ‘Even better for him than you think. Apparently, he has been tried and condemned to death in his absence by your government.’

  ‘Not my government, Lieutenant Commander. Not mine. They are not my choice.’

  ‘Quite. It’s rather an affair of honour, when it comes down to it, isn’t it? The honour of France.’

  ‘Of dishonour, rather. My country has been dishonoured, I am ashamed to say.’

  Silently, he agreed. ‘So, would you be prepared to go?’

  Louis Duval drew on his cigarette, apparently considering his answer. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Yes, I will go. After all, I offered to do something, so it might as well be that.’

  ‘Thank you, Monsieur Duval. There is a good deal of preparation still to be done, so in the meantime, we’d like you to stay on here, if you don’t mind. Carry on with your painting. I don’t, of course, have to ask you not to speak of this to anybody.’