Those in Peril

by Margaret Mayhew

  He thought of the icy seas off Nova Scotia, of the November weather in the North Atlantic, of the rest of the convoy steaming on relentlessly because to slow or divert or to stop would almost certainly mean going to the bottom too. ‘Yes, of course that may have happened.’

  She stared at him, the hope dying. ‘But you don’t really think so, do you, Alan?’

  He said heavily, ‘To be honest, it doesn’t sound much like it. The area was thoroughly searched afterwards and no survivors were reported. None. It would be wrong of me to give you false hope, Barbara, but there is always a chance. Always. So, please don’t give up yet.’ He could see, with deep pity, how hard she was struggling for self-control. ‘You’ll be sent an official communication from the Admiralty, of course, but I thought it might help if someone came in person.’

  ‘Thank you, Alan. It was very thoughtful of you. Very kind. You know, I always felt it would happen. I just knew it. Oh, Freddie . . . my poor, poor Freddie.’ Tears were running down her cheeks now and she started to sob.

  He moved forward to put his arms gently around her and she buried her face against his chest.

  Twelve

  To save the precious gasoline as well as to be less conspicuous, Louis Duval took the train down to Lorient. It would have been pleasant to stay chez Violette but he resisted the temptation, not out of deference to the absent Daniel languishing in his POW camp, but out of regard for Violette. It was safer, for her sake, to avoid going near her apartment, just as it was safer for Ernest Boitard’s family if he kept away from their home. He booked into a cheap hotel near the port, run-down and flea-ridden enough to discourage any Germans.

  He had contacted Boitard by telephone from Pont-Aven the previous evening, using their pre-arranged message, and made his way to the café where they were to meet at six o’clock. It was a café like a thousand others in France – which was why Duval had chosen it. The gilt lettering on the glass windows read: Joseph. Vins. Tabacs. The c in the last word had worn away. Inside, there were the usual marble-topped tables, red leather benches with brass rails, mirrored walls, zinc bar, coffee machine bubbling away, and the smell of rough wine mingling with a thick haze of even rougher tobacco. The obese patron, Joseph, presided at the bar, dispensing apéritifs to the town’s tradesmen with his bear-like hands.

  There was no cognac and having no faith in the drinkability of the ordinaire, Duval ordered a Cinzano, sat down at one of the tables in the corner and lit a cigarette. One or two glances came his way, but for the most part he seemed to be ignored. At the next table two elderly men, smoking blackened pipes, were absorbed in a game of dominoes. He opened the newspaper he had bought earlier and began to read.

  It was half past six before Ernest Boitard came into the café and went up to the bar. Even at a distance, Duval could tell how ragged his nerves were and see how difficult he was finding it to appear natural. The man drew attention with his edgy manner. Perhaps it had not been so wise to press him into service? The electrician came over carrying a glass of calvados and sat at the same table, but obliquely across from Duval. ‘Do you have a light, monsieur?’

  ‘Certainly.’ Duval leaned forward and lit the cigarette, observing that the hand holding it was shaking. He turned a page of his newspaper. ‘What news is there?’

  ‘It’s been very hard . . . I’m watched all the time.’

  ‘Nonetheless, what have you seen?’

  Boitard leaned closer, fiddling with the ashtray. He spoke rapidly and so low that Duval could scarcely hear him. ‘There will be fifteen pens at least – perhaps more. There are many German engineers, technicians and gangs of labourers from their Todt Organization, as well as French conscripts, like myself. Also some French volunteers, I regret to say. The concrete roofs will be flat and very thick – as much as five metres or maybe even more – the pens in a long row, like stables, and connecting by channels to the harbour. I believe there are also to be workshops and fuels stores, a dry dock, a slipway for beaching U-boats . . . all the necessary facilities and all under the same massive concrete bunker. That is my understanding.’

  ‘What defences?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Boitard gulped at his drink. ‘As I say, it’s difficult. It would be very dangerous to stray far from my work.’

  Duval turned another page of the newspaper. ‘As time goes on, it may become easier.’

  ‘I can tell you that there is one thing that will not become easier – destroying the bunkers. Once they are built it may prove impossible. The time to act is now.’ He was resentful, as well as fearful. ‘You should pass on that information to your friends in England. It’s the best I can provide. Don’t ask me to do more.’

  He drained the rest of his drink and left. Duval stayed, reading his newspaper. After a while, someone else came to sit at his table – a small, dark man with a moustache not at all unlike the Führer’s, a near-empty glass in one hand, an unlit cigarette in the other.

  ‘You have a light, please, monsieur?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Smoke curled upwards between them. ‘I have been watching you with interest.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘That man who was here – I recognized him.’

  ‘Which man?’

  ‘The one who came to sit at your table and speak with you.’

  ‘He came to ask for a light – as you have just done.’

  ‘It takes only a few words to do that; he said many more. I don’t know his name but I have seen him before. He is an electrician who works for the Germans at Keroman. He was conscripted – like myself.’

  Duval shrugged. ‘He may well be . . . it’s nothing to me.’

  ‘He was very nervous when he came in here. Very anxious. I could tell that. Then I see him talk with you, very low, and I ask myself what he is saying and why he is so nervous, and who you are, monsieur? What are you doing here?’

  ‘As you can see, I am having an apéritif, smoking a cigarette and reading my newspaper, I hope, in peace.’

  ‘You are not a regular and I’m not the only one in this room who has been watching you. There are several of us who meet here and talk about how we could resist the Boche. What we could do against them for France. We plot and we plan and we think about little else. It helps to make things bearable.’

  Duval put down his newspaper. ‘Another glass, monsieur?’

  ‘Willingly.’

  He went to the bar and bought a calvados for the man and another Cinzano. He raised his glass. ‘Santé. You haven’t told me your name.’

  ‘You don’t need to know it, nor do I need to know yours. Let’s just say that it’s Léon.’

  ‘Very well, Léon. What do you do when you are made to work for the Germans?’

  ‘I’m a plumber. I have my own business. Two other men are employed by me. We are all working on the U-boat bunker at Keroman – the same as your friend.’

  ‘He’s not my friend.’

  ‘No . . . I could tell that. And he’s very afraid.’ The man smiled, showing tobacco-stained teeth. ‘I, on the other hand, am not afraid at all.’

  The next day he went on by train to Rennes. The encounter with Léon had been a piece of good fortune. Plumbers, it had been explained to him, were in an excellent position to move about and observe. Any excuse would do – mysterious blockages, the urgent need to check water flow and levels, locating leaks, fetching vital tools. A man in overalls, crawling about with a wrench in his hand and tapping pipes assiduously, went everywhere unremarked.

  He watched the countryside through the train windows, thinking how much parts of Brittany resembled the south-west of England. Breakfast, he gauged, would be over at Bellevue. The rear admiral would have barricaded himself in the sitting room behind The Times newspaper. Mademoiselle Tindall would have gone to her room to write one of her many letters, while Mrs Lamprey would be looking for a victim to trap into witnessing her re-enact some little scene. Even the postman did not always manage to escape a solil
oquy on the doorstep. He had been the victim, himself, a number of times. A snatch of Ibsen, or Chekhov, or Wilde and, once, most painful of all, the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet with Mrs Lamprey perched precariously on a chair with her chiffon scarf draped round her head and speaking the lines of a fifteen-year-old girl, passionately in love – to him.

  My bounty is as boundless as the sea,

  My love as deep; the more I give to thee,

  The more I have, for both are infinite.

  He had applauded enthusiastically, of course, and helped her down from the chair. Not even Mrs Lamprey could quite spoil the beauty of the feelings expressed by the English words. His feelings for Barbara Hillyard. So deep, so true, and, to him, so miraculous.

  Aunt Pauline gave him her customarily tart welcome. ‘It takes another war for you to come and visit this often, Louis. I suppose I should be grateful to the Germans.’

  He kissed her cheek, inhaling camphor. ‘My dear aunt, I should find it hard to thank them for a single thing.’

  ‘True enough. Would you like some tea? I always take some at this time. It’s excellent for the nerves. The English have always understood that.’

  ‘A cognac cures mine far more effectively.’

  ‘Too much of that is bad for the liver, whereas tea is good for it.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I should prefer a cognac.’

  ‘Very well. Ring the bell for Jeanne. And put that cigarette away, Louis. You know perfectly well that I won’t tolerate you smoking in here. By the way, Jeanne has some information to give you.’

  The servant had, apparently, been paying regular visits to the railway station pretending to be waiting for trains, or for someone to arrive. Nobody, it seemed, took account of a little old woman clothed all in black, any more than they noticed a plumber with his tools. She had watched the German troops coming and going, seen what sort they were, how many, where they had come from and where they were going. She gave him all these details that she had kept safe in her head. And, because nobody had noticed her, she had been able to stand very close and listen to their chatter.

  ‘You understand German, mademoiselle?’

  ‘Oh yes, I was brought up in Alsace.’

  ‘And what were they saying?’

  ‘All sorts of things – the things that men talk of together. What a good time they had in Paris. How easy some of the French women were – they despise them for it, you know.’

  ‘That seems unfair.’

  She shrugged. ‘Men are like that, isn’t that so, monsieur? They take but they scorn.’

  His aunt snorted. ‘How would you know, Jeanne? Get on with it. What else did these fools talk about?’

  ‘How good the French cooking is. And our wine.’

  He said, ‘Did they speak of England?’

  She wriggled her bony shoulders. ‘They prefer to stay in France. They say they can bomb the English without having to go where the women are as cold as the weather. And they can sink all the English ships with their undersea boats. They say that, in the end, Monsieur Churchill will have to make a deal with their Führer.’

  ‘The sailors you noticed – can you tell me more about them?’

  ‘They were from the undersea boats.’

  ‘How could you tell?’

  ‘I have learned to recognize what they wear – the special badges and clothes. Also, they are different men.’

  ‘In what way?’

  She moved her shoulders again. ‘Fearless, I think. Superior to most of the rest.’

  ‘Did they talk about their boats? Where exactly they would be joining them? The names of their captains? Things like that.’

  ‘No, they were more careful than the others. The train was going direct to Brest, that’s all I can tell you.’

  He thanked her and she left the room as silently as she had entered it. It was no wonder, he thought, that she could eavesdrop unobserved. Even so, it was not without risk.

  ‘Tell her to be careful, Aunt Pauline. Her years will be no protection if the Germans should ever suspect her.’

  ‘I’ve already told her so. At her age, she says, what does it matter? I think she’s right. You should be careful though, Louis. You’re playing with fire. And you still have a life ahead.’

  ‘I hope so because I have found a woman to share it.’

  ‘Welcome news. Who is she?’

  ‘An Englishwoman.’

  ‘That’s a great surprise. I should never have imagined you with one. The English have no passion. Is she beautiful? She must be.’

  ‘She’s much more than that.’

  ‘Well, Simone was never good for you. I hope this one will be.’

  ‘I hope that I’m good for her.’

  ‘You will be, Louis. I should like to meet her – one day. When this unpleasant war is over you must bring her to visit.’

  As he left, he bowed and kissed her hand in homage. He knew it would please her.

  Cousin André was waiting for him, by arrangement, in a café similar to the one in Lorient. The furnishings were almost exactly the same, but the patron at the zinc bar was thin instead of fat, and, by some miracle, could offer a reasonable cognac. He took it over to André’s table. Since they were cousins with every reason to meet there was no need for the subterfuge of Lorient, and the table was out of earshot of the other customers. This time he listened, not to an account of the comings and goings of German soldiers, sailors and airmen but of the growing number of Frenchmen who wanted somehow to resist them. André could count fifty or more he knew who were willing to risk their lives, he assured Duval, his face alight with his communist zeal.

  ‘They are ready to do anything – anything to make things difficult for these fascist pigs.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Blow up bridges. Derail trains. Sabotage work in armament factories. Assassinate, if necessary.’

  It was a rather different matter, Duval thought, from the stealthy gathering of information, the gradual piecing together of vital facts. He said, ‘The Germans will certainly retaliate – you realize that? They’ll doubtless execute innocent French civilians to discourage such things.’

  ‘There’s always a price for freedom.’

  That was true enough; he could not deny it. But André’s form of resistance, commendable though it might be, did not march comfortably with the activities of a secret network such as he was trying to establish. In fact, there was a real possibility that his people would sabotage not only bridges and trains and factories, but imperil the vital work of undercover agents. To become involved with his cousin and his friends would be a big mistake, he decided. Let them go their way and he would go his.

  Before he left Rennes, he called on the legal firm who had dealt with the family affairs for many years. The lawyer he remembered had retired and his place had been taken by his son. First, he dictated a new will. A legacy, as before, to Simone to ensure her financial security; certain of his paintings to Gerard Klein at the gallery in Paris in recognition of his debt to him. The rest of the paintings he left to Barbara Hillyard of Kingswear, England, together with the residue of his estate. When the will had been typed, he signed it before a clerk and typist.

  The lawyer offered a cigarette. ‘You know England well?’

  ‘Not well, no. Do you?’

  ‘I studied at Cambridge for a year. It was a very happy time for me. They are in a very bad situation at the moment, of course. One must hope that, unlike us, they don’t fail.’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’

  ‘If they go under, the war is over.’

  Duval looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. ‘Unfortunately, yes.’

  ‘One wishes one could do something.’

  He lowered his gaze. ‘It’s possible that you can.’

  There was a subtle change in Paris. Duval sensed it as soon as he walked out of the railway station. Silent streets, silent people, the darkness of winter descending on the city like a widow’s veil. And with the darkness, fear. It was
there in the hurried steps, the averted faces, the hunched shoulders, and whenever the crunch of heavy hobnail boots signalled the passing of a German patrol. Ordinary life had ceased. Gone away. In its place was emptiness.

  He made his way to the rue de Monceau. Madame Bertrand came out like a jack-in-the-box before he could reach the stairway to the apartment. She planted herself adroitly between him and the first step.

  ‘It would not be wise for you to go up, monsieur.’

  He looked down into her inscrutable old face. It was not the only time that she had given him tactful advice. ‘Madame Duval is entertaining?’

  She nodded. ‘A German officer. SS.’

  ‘I see. Thank you for the warning.’

  ‘High-ranking.’

  ‘Yes, he would be.’

  ‘He’s not the first one.’ The concierge turned her head away suddenly and spat on the ground. ‘And that’s what I think of it.’

  He said smoothly, ‘Tell me, how is Monsieur Bertrand these days?’

  ‘A little better, though he still complains.’

  ‘Please give him my regards.’

  She called after his departing back. ‘It would be safer not to visit again, monsieur.’

  Gerard Klein’s wife, Celeste, and the five children were at the apartment and he embraced them all fondly, starting with Celeste and working his way down to the youngest child of six years old. They seemed much as ever, smiling and laughing and making jokes – the close, happy family that he had sometimes, secretly, envied. They made him sit down to eat with them – a Jewish meal of salted fish and shredded cabbage and potato dumplings which he pretended to like.

  Afterwards Gerard took him off to the book-lined den that had been the scene of so many other amicable meetings. Duval opened his valise. ‘I’ve brought you three more paintings for the gallery. That was the reason for my visit.’

  ‘Excellent! I sold the last one at the gallery yesterday. I thought it would be the end of them, from what you said last time.’

  He smiled. ‘I must help to keep you in business, my dear friend. All those mouths to feed.’ They sat down to drink and talk. Almost like old times, Duval thought, but not quite.