Those in Peril

by Margaret Mayhew

  He saw by her face that she was quickly calculating a nice sum. Then she caught his cynical expression and shrugged. ‘That will not be necessary, monsieur. But please put it further down the hall out of the way.’

  The road up to Jean-Claude Vauclin’s cottage was too steep for him to ride the bike, but he took it because it provided a good excuse to go there. On the route, he passed old men sitting on benches, staring vacantly into space, a boy kicking stones aimlessly along a dusty gutter, a woman walking with her head bowed, her eyes fixed on the ground. He could sense the hopelessness and resignation.

  As before, Vauclin was outside his front door, working in the sun, his breathing painfully laboured. ‘Some business for me, monsieur?’

  Duval wiped the sweat from his forehead after the long climb. ‘Since you ask, these damn brakes are useless. Can you fix them before I break my neck?’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  He waited while Vauclin checked the bike over, smoked a cigarette and enjoyed the view of the river again. One day, when the war was over, he would like to paint it from this particular spot.

  ‘I can fix the brakes for you, also the bad steering, but it will take time.’

  ‘I’ll wait.’

  ‘Then perhaps you would like to talk to Marthe? About that matter we discussed. She has been wondering when you would come back.’

  ‘She still agrees?’

  ‘Agrees? She insists, monsieur. She is only waiting for you to tell her exactly what you want her to do. You’ll find her indoors.’

  Vauclin’s wife was in the kitchen, attending to a cooking pot on the stove. It reminded him of another woman in another kitchen in another country – except that this was a small, dark, grubby hole, smelling strongly of garlic, and the woman was also small and dark and far from beautiful. She had brown skin, weathered by the sun, and eyes like sloes, set deep in her face. He smiled at her – as he smiled at all women, except the likes of Mademoiselle Citron.

  ‘Madame Vauclin, I am Louis Duval.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Jean-Claude has spoken to me of you.’

  ‘And you know why I am here? What I ask of you?’

  ‘You want me to take the lace samples and to visit all Jean-Claude’s old customers. You want me to find out who would be willing to spy on the Germans. Who would keep their eyes and ears open and report what they learn.’

  He nodded. ‘Exactly so. It’s dangerous work, you understand? If they are Pétainists they might report you.’

  The sloe eyes gleamed. ‘I know. But I can very easily tell a Pétainist from one who is not.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘For one thing, they look like wet chickens.’

  He laughed. Vauclin had known what he was about. ‘But you must not use your own name. You are not Madame Vauclin. Make up another one, and come from another place. And the people that you recruit must then be known by other names that you also make up. You must never speak of them by their real names and they must never know the names of any of the others. Then nobody can give the rest away. You understand?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  He produced the typewritten list that the lieutenant commander had given him. ‘These are the things that the English particularly need to know. Read it, memorize it and then burn it. Everything must be committed to memory: this list, all the names, everything. Nothing must ever be written down for the Germans to find.’

  ‘I understand.’ She glanced at the list. ‘Some of these things are strange . . . why this one, for example?’

  ‘You do not need to know reasons, madame. You must not know them. Nor must any of the other people you recruit. They supply the information that is requested, that’s all.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘How soon can you leave?’

  ‘Whenever you wish. The horse and cart are ready. So are the samples. So am I.’

  He smiled. ‘You’re a brave woman, Madame Vauclin. I salute you.’

  ‘I shall take no stupid risks, monsieur, and I shall do exactly as you say. You may depend upon it.’

  ‘How long will you be gone?’

  ‘Perhaps two weeks. Perhaps more.’

  ‘I have to return to England within a month. It’s been arranged.’

  ‘Then I shall be back before then.’

  He watched her give the pot another stir. The cooking smell was delicious – something simmering slowly and succulently. ‘What are you preparing, madame?’

  ‘Pig’s cheek, some vegetables . . . the pig was reared in our orchard. Will you stay to share it with us?’

  He would have liked to – to remind himself what good French country cooking was like. ‘Unhappily, I have to leave, madame. But, thank you.’

  He went out into the sunlight again; it was blinding after the dimness of the kitchen. Vauclin had fixed the bike. He spun the wheel with a greasy hand. ‘See, it runs straight now, monsieur. And the brakes both work. Left and right. Be careful, though, they may be a little fierce at first. Apply them gently.’

  He coasted down the steep hillside, dabbing cautiously at the brakes. They worked almost too well. Next he called on Paul Leblond, the shoemender he had visited before. As with Madame Vauclin, his return had been eagerly awaited and, again, he showed the list. The shoemender knew others, he said, who would be well placed to help: a cousin who was a telephone engineer in Quimper, an old friend who was a clerk in a shipping office in Brest, a brother-in-law who worked in the port at Lorient. Duval repeated the same stipulation: all must use cover names, none must know the identity of the others, nothing must be written down.

  From the shoemender, he stopped for some lunch at a bistro before he went on to Jacques Thomine. While Madame Thomine served the customers in the shop, the greengrocer frequently journeyed to outlying farms, buying produce direct.

  ‘One must search far and wide for good stuff these days, monsieur, and I can observe the activities of the German troops as I pass. And, since you were here last, I have found four more men who want to help.’

  Duval bicycled back to his apartment. There was still something left in Major Winter’s bottle of cognac and he poured himself a stiff measure, lit a cigarette and got out his old and well-worn map of Brittany. He unfolded it and spread it out on the table. So far, so good. But now he must decide what to do next. Who else to approach? Where to go? First of all to Rennes, he thought. The place where he had been born and which happened to be close to the north coast where the Germans were so busy. He had relatives there – an aged aunt, sister of his late father, and a cousin or two – and there might be others still living there whom he had known in his youth. It was a good place to go. Then Paris. Other friends from other years – people he knew well and trusted. Gerard Klein who owned the gallery that sold his paintings, first and foremost. He would see Simone, of course, but he knew her too well to imagine that he could trust her.

  He would take the train to Rennes and then go on to Paris. No problem there, or none that he could see – not with the papers so kindly provided by Major Winter. But perhaps before he did all that, he should take a quick little painting tour south – down the coast to Lorient where U-boat pens were rumoured to be being constructed – and see what he could see. For that he would have to go by bike. It would be very slow and he wondered, from the way it felt already, whether his bad leg was up to it.

  He folded up the map, poured another cognac – to the last drop – and sat down in his chair. One month was not enough to do all that needed to be done. Two would not have been sufficient. Nor three. As Lieutenant Commander Powell had pointed out, it was going to take a long time to build up a safe and solid network of agents, even in this small corner of France. It could not easily be hurried.

  There was a knock on the door. Mademoiselle Citron, he thought, irritated. She wants me to move the bike again. Or perhaps to tell me that she has raised the rent. He went to the door and opened it, prepared to argue. But it was not Mademoiselle Citron; it was a young German Wehrmacht officer – bl
ond-haired, blue-eyed, very smart in his well-pressed uniform, with shiny buttons and belt and boots. A perfect specimen of Hitler’s ideal youth, saluting him with a snapping click of his heels.

  ‘You are Monsieur Duval?’

  ‘Yes. What do you want?’

  ‘I am Oberleutnant Peltz. Major Winter asked me to present this to you when you returned, sir.’ A brown envelope was proffered. ‘With his compliments.’ The French was as stiffly correct as the speaker.

  ‘Thank you.’ Duval took it. ‘Where is the major?’

  ‘He has gone on leave, home to Germany. He entrusted the envelope to me.’

  His painting of the river and the two thatched-roof cottages would be hanging on the wall of an apartment in Dresden. He regretted the loss of it, and even more the absence of its new owner.

  ‘When will he return?’

  ‘Within two weeks. While he is away, he has instructed me to offer you any assistance you may require. Those were his orders.’

  He might as well make use of them. ‘Do you know where I can get some cognac – Courvoisier, if possible? And some good wine? I’ve run out of both.’

  ‘I will find some for you, sir.’

  ‘Cigarettes, too.’

  ‘Which brand do you prefer?’

  ‘Gauloise.’

  ‘It should not be a problem.’

  He said curiously, ‘As a matter of interest, how did you know I had come back?’

  ‘I am billeted here, sir. I asked Mademoiselle Citron to advise me as soon as you had returned.’ The oberleutnant smiled silkily. ‘She tells us everything.’

  He closed the door and opened the envelope. Inside was a ration book of gasoline tickets in his name.

  Lieutenant Commander Powell telephoned one evening.

  ‘I’ve managed to get an afternoon off the day after tomorrow, Mrs Hillyard, and I’ve borrowed a dinghy. I wondered if you’d like to come out on that sailing trip we talked about?’

  ‘I’d need to be back for when Esme finishes school.’

  ‘I’ll make certain that you are. We wouldn’t go very far. Just up the river and back.’

  ‘In that case . . . yes, I’d like to. Thank you.’

  He arrived by car the next day, dressed in civilian clothes – well-worn trousers and an open-necked shirt that made him look younger and less daunting than his naval uniform. The car was a private car and something rather special, judging by the look of it.

  ‘We’re still lucky with the weather,’ he said. ‘And there’s enough wind. I was afraid it might go and rain.’

  ‘Will these shoes be all right?’

  He looked down at the old tennis shoes with a hole in one toe that she had found at the back of a cupboard. ‘Perfectly.’

  The sailing dinghy was moored down at the Kingswear quayside. He jumped on board first and offered his hand to help her step across. She sat where he showed her, in the centre of the boat, and watched while he dealt expertly with ropes and the sail. They headed upstream, threading a neat path between the naval warships at anchor out on the river. She realized that he must know the river inside out from his days as a cadet at the College.

  They tacked up to Dittisham and a little further beyond, through the glorious and peaceful Devon countryside. On the way back, she took a turn at the tiller.

  ‘Am I doing all right?’ she asked him.

  ‘Very well indeed. Absolutely first class.’

  They were back at the quayside in plenty of time, as he had promised. Driving up the hill, he said, ‘Thank you for coming out today. I hope you enjoyed it.’

  ‘Very much. It was kind of you to spare the time, Lieutenant Commander.’

  ‘My name’s Alan, by the way.’

  ‘Mine is Barbara.’

  He smiled at her. ‘Actually, I already knew that.’

  He changed back into his uniform before putting in some more time at his desk. A Wren brought him the usual cup of stewed tea and a plain biscuit, but he left both untouched. Instead he smoked a cigarette. On the whole, he thought the trip had been a success. She had genuinely seemed to enjoy it and he had done his level best to ensure that the sailing was as smooth and pleasant as possible – not that she had seemed at all nervous. And when he had casually raised the possibility of another outing some time, she had made no objection. Of course, she had no idea how he felt about her.

  His phone rang and he picked up the receiver.

  ‘Harry here, Alan. They’re bombing London.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Came over a few minutes ago – a whole lot of Heinkels. More than two hundred of the damned things. They went for the docks, naturally. Huge fires – a complete bloody shambles.’

  ‘Christ . . .’

  ‘We weren’t prepared, of course. Should have seen it coming. You know what this means, Alan. The buggers are going to invade. This is just the beginning.’

  The Wren came in with some letters for him to sign; he waved her away. ‘Where does this leave us, Harry? What next?’

  ‘We press on regardless. It’s even more vital to get as much information as we can. We want another agent landed on the Normandy coast as fast as you can arrange it. We’ve got a Free French chappie who knows it like the back of his hand. I’m sending him down first thing tomorrow.’

  He pulled a pad of paper towards him. ‘Give me the details, Harry, and I’ll get onto it straight away.’

  His old Citroën was still in the shed, covered in a rich layer of dust and birds’ droppings. He wiped it all away as best he could, put back the rotor arm and tried starting her up. Like a tricky woman, she refused point-blank the first three or four goes and then, finally, succumbed fretfully. He coaxed her along until she began to run smoothly and then drove to the nearest garage for gasoline. The owner, who knew him, raised his eyebrows at the tickets but said nothing. Black market or collaboration with the Germans, it was probably all the same to the man, so long as his business kept going. Outside Pont-Aven, Duval took the winding coastal road for Lorient. The town was only thirty kilometres or so away and he drove unhurriedly, stopping to get out where the road passed closer to the sea to make some quick sketches while he kept a watch for any German naval vessels. It was while he was doing this that a German military lorry came by. He heard the brakes squeal, footsteps thud onto the tarmac, but went on with his sketching without turning his head. Presently he felt the muzzle of a gun prod his back and heard the guttural German-French.

  ‘Turn yourself slowly, please.’

  He did so. A Wehrmacht officer was holding the gun in question, pointed directly at his chest, and, behind him, a semicircle of helmeted soldiers, all armed with sub-machine guns, also aimed at him.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  He showed his book. ‘I am sketching, as you can see.’

  ‘Sketching?’

  ‘Drawing. With pencil,’ he held it up. ‘I am an artist.’

  ‘This is a joke?’

  ‘No. Not a joke. First I sketch a scene, and later perhaps I paint it. That is the way I work.’

  ‘Your identity card, please.’

  He groped in his jacket pocket and handed it over and then felt again in another pocket for his cigarettes and lighter. The movement caused the soldiers to lunge forward, brandishing their guns. He produced the packet of Gauloises, shook one out from the open end and lit it.

  ‘Why are you not at work?’

  He said mildly, ‘I’ve told you, I am an artist – as it states on my card. I am at work. I also have papers that exempt me from any compulsory manual labour.’ He groped once again in his pocket. ‘You will see that I was wounded in the Great War and invalided out.’

  The exemption papers were closely examined. Thank God, he thought, for the good major.

  ‘Why are you not in Pont-Aven where you live?’

  He lifted his hands. ‘I am always looking for new scenes to paint and I thought I would drive along the coast as far as Lorient where I have some friends. It’s a ple
asant drive with interesting views.’ He added casually, ‘Major Winter who is stationed at Pont-Aven is also a good friend of mine. Perhaps you know him?’

  The officer stared at him. ‘It is strictly for-bidden to use this road.’

  ‘I was not aware of that. There is no notice.’

  ‘How is it that you have a car? And gasoline for such things?’

  ‘The car is mine. I have owned it for many years. As for the gasoline, Major Winter was kind enough to let me have a few coupons. In the interest of art, you understand. He is something of a connoisseur. Without wishing to boast, I am quite a well-known artist in France.’ It was the truth, if not the whole truth. He waited, smoking the Gauloise, while they searched the car, wrenching open the small valise he had left on the seat, poking and prodding with the guns. His trusty old camera was brought forth as though it had been a ticking bomb.

  ‘Why have you this?’

  ‘I use it for my work. Sometimes, instead of making a sketch, I take a photograph – to remember the details of the scene.’ Once again this was perfectly true, though, in this case, he had been planning and hoping to photograph more than just scenery.

  ‘Cameras are forbidden.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘I must keep it.’ The papers were returned to him brusquely. ‘You must go back.’

  ‘My friends at Lorient are expecting me.’

  ‘If you wish to travel to Lorient you must take the inland road. Not this one.’

  ‘But the scenery is not so good for me.’

  ‘I repeat. This road is forbidden. You must go back immediately.’

  He shrugged and got into the car. They let him go, watching him as he turned and drove back along the way he had come. As he glanced in the rear-view mirror, they were still standing there and still watching, the officer cradling his treasured camera.

  He took the inland road instead, arriving in Lorient in the early evening. His story had spoken freely of friends there. More accurately, there was a friend. It was many months since he had visited and he rather wondered what he would find at the apartment in the Rue Lazare Carnot, or if indeed anyone at all would be there. But Violette answered the door to him – a little thinner, but otherwise unchanged. Still with the long dark hair wound into a knot on the top of her head, the milk-white skin, the Mona Lisa smile.