Five
‘I’m sorry to disturb you again, Mrs Hillyard.’ Uncertain that she remembered him, he added, ‘I’m Lieutenant Commander Powell.’
‘Yes, of course. You came to see Monsieur Duval. He’s not here, I’m afraid.’
‘I realize that. He’s in London, giving the Free French chaps a hand. Actually, he’s asked me to call by to collect some papers from his room that he needs.’
She stared at him. ‘I’m sorry but I don’t think I could let you in there without his permission.’ She was the antithesis of most people’s perception of a dragon-like landlady, and seemed absurdly young for the job, but she was standing her ground.
‘No, I quite understand. But it is rather urgent. And very important. A question of national security, in fact.’
She ran her fingers through her hair, frowning. He could see her weighing up his Royal Navy credentials – his rank, the uniform, the reassuring gold braid, the medal – against her quite proper protection of her lodger’s privacy. In the end, the Royal Navy won – just.
‘Well . . . in that case, I suppose it would be all right.’
‘Thank you.’
He stepped into the hall. There was a savoury smell of something frying – a homely, comforting sort of smell that he hadn’t experienced since his childhood when he used to sneak into the kitchen at home to chatter to Cook, who’d let him dip fingers into pudding and cake mixes and scrape out bowls. His life, since those far-off and almost forgotten days, had been spent in places where the cooking was done elsewhere, out of sight: in school and college kitchens, in galleys on ships, hidden behind swing doors in clubs and restaurants.
She was moving away from him towards another door. ‘Would you excuse me a moment? I think the onions are burning. You turn left at the top of the stairs and the room’s at the end of the corridor on the right.’
He made his way upstairs. The onions were a piece of luck or else she might have shown him to the room herself and waited while he pretended to look for some imaginary papers. As a matter of fact, he had no idea what he was looking for. Anything, he supposed, that might cast doubt on Louis Duval. Anything that gave the faintest suspicion that he could not be trusted – that whatever information he brought back from France might not be accurate, might, on the contrary, be deliberately misleading. His boat, the Gannet, had been thoroughly searched already. These were days when nothing could be taken for granted, not with so much at stake.
The file on Louis Charles Duval was thin: no more than a couple of sheets of paper. Born in Rennes in 1887. Studied art in Paris. Married to Simone Eloise Petit in 1909. No children of the marriage. Served as an officer in the French army from 1914to 1916when he had been wounded and invalided out. There was a brief summary of the nomadic years afterwards spent painting in other countries, including England. His address in Pont-Aven was given, his wife’s in Paris. No known Nazi sympathies or communist associations. One of General de Gaulle’s Free French coterie in London had known him reasonably well in Paris and vouched for him in both those respects. Duval was not thought to have any interest in politics or axes to grind. He was a painter tout court. He drank a good deal, he womanized somewhat, he lived a bohemian style of life . . . but there was nothing surprising or reprehensible in that. A man was entitled to live as he pleased, especially a man on his own. To be honest, Powell rather envied him. Service life, he was well aware, had its constraints and limitations.
The room had been left remarkably neat and tidy. Artists, he had always imagined, would be most unlikely to be anything of the kind. The easel with its part-worked canvas stood near the window and there was an aroma of oil paints and French tobacco. The ashtray, he noted, was clean, the furniture dusted, the carpet swept – Mrs Hillyard, it seemed, looked after her lodgers well. He shut the door behind him and began a thorough search through the chest of drawers, the wardrobe, the suitcase, the bed and in any possible hiding place, careful to replace everything exactly as before. He found nothing that gave any real clues to the man – no photographs, no letters, no diary, no papers, no personal mementoes of any kind. If Louis Duval possessed such things then he had left them all behind in France.
Before he left the room, Alan paused by the canvas on the easel, studying it for a moment. It was the same painting that he had seen Duval working on in the garden. Now that he looked at it again, and more closely, the apparently slapdash brushstrokes and daubed colours began to make more sense. The style might not be to his taste, but he realized that the execution was masterful.
Downstairs, he knocked at the kitchen door and opened it. Mrs Hillyard was busy at the stove.
‘Did you find what you needed, Lieutenant Commander?’
‘No luck, I’m afraid. The papers must have got mislaid. Easy enough to happen in the circumstances. I’m sorry about the onions. I hope they weren’t beyond saving.’
‘No, I got there just in time. I shouldn’t have left them.’
‘Whatever you’re making smells awfully good.’
‘It’s only cottage pie.’
It might be only that, he thought, but he’d be willing to bet that it was superior to most of the cottage pies he’d eaten over the past years.
She had taken a saucepan off the back of the stove and moved across to the sink to drain it through a colander. Over her shoulder she said, ‘Would you mind very much just giving the mince a bit of a stir while I mash these potatoes?’
He picked up the spoon lying beside the stove and prodded gingerly at the contents – mince and onions, simmering away in gravy. He stirred on more boldly, rather enjoying the novelty, and was sorry when she finished with the potatoes and took over. ‘Well, I mustn’t keep you any longer.’
‘Thank you for the help.’
‘It was a pleasure,’ he said truthfully. It had been a perfectly sound and sensible idea to search Duval’s room while he was away and, of course, he had wanted to do the job himself to be quite sure that nothing of significance was missed. But, even so, he knew that he had also, subconsciously, wanted to see her again. And, now that he had done so, he found himself even more attracted by her. It was an absurdly romantic notion but he felt that he had been looking for this woman all his life.
A small black cat with four white paws had appeared from nowhere and was rubbing itself against her ankles. ‘It’s a French cat,’ she said, bending down to stroke it. ‘It came with Monsieur Duval on his boat. I’m looking after it for him.’
He remembered about the stowaway. ‘That’s very kind of you.’
‘Oh, it’s no trouble. She’s sweet.’
‘And intelligent. She knew when to get out.’
‘Like Monsieur Duval.’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘I wonder if they were right to come here, though. It could be us next, couldn’t it? Being invaded and occupied by the Germans. There’s not much to stop them, is there?’
He said firmly, ‘They’ll find us rather different to deal with.’
She accompanied him to the front door. He paused, delaying his departure, looking at her a moment longer. ‘Well, thank you again, Mrs Hillyard. We appreciate your co-operation.’
She said, ‘When do you think Monsieur Duval will be back?’
‘Difficult to say . . . perhaps only a few days, perhaps longer. Is there a problem about keeping his room?’
‘Goodness, no. None at all.’
‘Well, I’ll let you know if I get any definite information about his return.’
Back at his desk, he pulled himself together. He was a middle-aged, confirmed bachelor. Any fanciful thoughts he might entertain about Mrs Hillyard, a married woman, were ridiculous, not to say dishonourable.
The phone rang. Harry’s voice sounded in his ear. ‘Any news, Alan?’
‘They should be there now, with luck.’
‘Let me know as soon as you have anything.’
A Wren brought in a cup of tea and left it on his desk. He drank some and then lit a cigarette and w
ent over to the chart on the trestle table. The Channel looked alarmingly narrow in places. There’s not much to stop them, is there? She had a point. The Germans could take their pick and launch an invasion force from anywhere along the whole northern coast of France. With defensive military resources still meagre from the shambles of Dunkirk, it would be impossible to cover every potential landing beach on the English side. Reliable and up-to-date intelligence was more than important; it was crucial. He traced a finger thoughtfully from the port of Cherbourg all the way round the peninsula of Brittany down to Pont-Aven. The Espérance should be there now. Within a few days – perhaps no more than three or four at the most, if all went according to plan – she could be back. There was nothing to be done but wait. And pray.
At sundown they approached the mouth of the Aven estuary, joining the fishing boats returning with the day’s catch – some of them with sails hoisted. Duval stayed below out of sight, enduring the heat, the petrol fumes and the stink of dead fish. Lieutenant Smythson and the three Bretons were strangers to the port, but he had mixed with too many Pont-Aven men – sketching and painting them, chatting to them in bistros, passing them in the street – to risk being seen and recognized on board the Espérance. He delayed changing into his own clothes since they had no idea what kind of reception might await them. It was very possible that the Germans might be making inspections and come on board. The letters and numbers on the port bow of the Espérance identified her as from Douarnenez, which matched with their story, but what other permits and papers would be required and expected of them?
He could hear the three Bretons up on deck calling out to crews on other boats as they converged on the harbour. The lieutenant was sensibly keeping his mouth shut. Smythson came below. ‘Well, we’ve learned something. The Germans are rationing petrol to fishing boats – some of this lot have used theirs up, that’s why they’re under sail. We’ve spread the word that we’ve got engine trouble and are putting in for the night to do some repairs.’
‘What about them searching the boats?’
‘Apparently, they pick on them at random as they come back to port. It’s landlubber Wehrmacht soldiers – not Kriegsmarine – so they probably don’t know one end of a boat from the other, but if they take it into their heads to search us, we’re going to have a hell of a job explaining our forty-gallon barrels of extra fuel. So, the plan is this. We’re going to hang back and wait till they’ve boarded one of the other boats, then go in fast and tie up as far away from them as possible. Us four will nip ashore and go and sit in one of the bistros on the quayside and see what happens. That’ll be your chance to get ashore too, sir. Curfew starts at nine o’clock, by the way.’
Duval changed into his own clothes – the loose-fitting jacket, shirt and trousers and, thank God, comfortable shoes instead of wooden sabots. The engine speed had slackened and the Espérance was trundling along, the seawater slapping gently against her sides. If it came to it, he reasoned, he could explain his presence on board by spinning some story about painting a seascape, but there was no story that he could think of to account satisfactorily for the presence of all the extra fuel. The boat surged forward in a spurt of speed and then slowed down again until she came alongside the quay. He could hear the slither and thud of ropes on deck and, after a while, Lieutenant Smythson called down to him quietly. ‘Well, that all went OK. The Germans have boarded a boat right up the other end of the quay. We’re going ashore now, sir. There are a couple of other soldiers standing around a bit further along but they aren’t taking much notice. They’re not asking for papers, or anything.’
‘Good luck, Lieutenant.’
‘Good luck to you too, sir.’
He waited another minute or so and then slipped ashore and strolled along the quayside. The two Wehrmacht soldiers in their grey-green uniforms lay directly in his path but they were more interested in a young girl walking by and barely glanced at him. He let himself quietly into the apartment building. As he started up the stairs, he heard Mademoiselle Citron’s door open behind him.
‘Monsieur Duval! You’re back! I did not expect . . .’
He turned and saw the consternation in her face. ‘Is something the matter, mademoiselle?’
‘I had no idea that you would be returning – so soon.’
‘Nor I. But I grew rather tired of Toulouse and so here I am. In fact, I am rather tired altogether – the journey was not a good one. I bid you goodnight, mademoiselle, if you will excuse me.’
He continued up the stairs. She called something after him but he ignored her. He unlocked the door to his apartment and opened it. The lights were on and someone was sitting in his easy chair, making himself very much at home, drink in one hand, cigarette in the other, his highly polished, booted feet propped up on a stool while he listened to one of Duval’s favourite records. An officer of the German Wehrmacht.
For a moment they stared at each other, then the German swung his feet off the stool and stood up. An older man, an Iron Cross adorning his uniform, his manner courteous – one of the old school and just the type to appeal to Mademoiselle Citron. He said in halting, German-accented French, ‘May I be of assistance, monsieur?’
‘I hope so. This happens to be my apartment.’ There was no need to feign anger; he felt it.
The German looked taken aback. ‘I’m sorry – there has been some mistake. A confusion . . . Mademoiselle Citron has let it to us. It was understood that the former tenant had departed in a hurry and was not expected to return.’
‘She misled you. I paid her six months’ rent in advance to keep the rooms for me.’
The officer frowned. ‘Then she is being paid double.’
‘Evidently. She’s a very shrewd businesswoman.’ He glanced round the studio. So far as he could see it was exactly as he had left it. ‘I hope there has been no damage.’
‘Nothing has been harmed, I assure you. It has only been myself here and I have been most careful. Permit me to introduce myself. My name is Major Winter. You must be Louis Duval, of course. I have seen your signature on your paintings here. I have studied them with great interest and I should like to say how much I admire your work. It’s excellent. Most remarkable.’
He shrugged. ‘Is that my cognac you’re drinking?’
‘Not at all. It’s my own.’ The major held up the bottle of Courvoisier. ‘Will you join me?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Just a small one. Please. Before I leave. It’s not every day that one is fortunate enough to meet an artist of your great talent. I used to paint myself once, but unhappily I was never good enough to be more than an amateur. A big regret to me. And, of course, Pont-Aven has been an inspiration for French painters for many years, isn’t that so? Gauguin, Moret, Bernard, Chamaillard, Sérusier, Seguin . . . I have learned of all these. I have made some study of their work. Art is a passion of mine. I am fortunate enough to possess a small landscape by Ernst Ludwig Kirchner that I acquired before the war. I was reminded of his style when I saw your work – rather the same use of bold and simple form and strong colour. And I am reminded of Kandinsky whom I also admire greatly.’
Things were going better than he could possibly have imagined and he knew that he must make the most of it. He grudgingly accepted the glass of brandy pressed eagerly into his hand. He accepted a cigarette, too, and a light offered with a flourish from a silver lighter, and sat down with the air of one according a big favour. His record of the Mendelssohn violin concerto was still playing quietly on the gramophone turntable. The music of a Jewish composer played by a Jewish violinist and conducted by a Jew. An ironic choice for a Nazi. ‘I have just come from Toulouse. Your people are making life impossible. I was kept hanging around for six hours because, apparently, I didn’t have the right papers to cross into what you call the Occupied Zone. In the end, I had to bribe a guard to let me through.’
‘Regrettably, some sort of control is necessary. You must appreciate that.’
‘I
have an identity card. It has my photograph, my name, my date of birth, my profession, my physical appearance . . . everything about me. What more can possibly be needed?’
‘To be properly in order you must carry other papers – an Ausweis is required to cross the demarcation line between the two zones. Will you wish to return to the Unoccupied Zone?’
‘Certainly. My work takes me everywhere. It knows no borders or boundaries.’
‘Naturally. I understand this. You could obtain this pass at the Kommandantur here, but it may take you some time. There are always long queues. If you wish, I could get one for you almost immediately. I have some influence.’
He nodded curtly. ‘I should be obliged.’
‘You are not of military age, I think, or you would also need proof of exemption from conscription so that you are not taken for an escaped prisoner of war or a deserter. Or papers to show that you have been officially demobilized. But I would strongly advise that you obtain a document to declare that you are excused from any forced labour scheme.’ The major paused and added, ‘I am afraid that painting is unlikely to be considered a reserved occupation.’
‘How do I come by such a thing?’
‘I could obtain this also for you, if you wish. I shall need your identity card for the information required. May I see it, please?’
Those in Peril Page 9