The train compartment was full. Powell sat in a corner seat with Lieutenant Smythson opposite. A large country woman next to him, her elbow in his side, was taking up far more than her fair share of space. She had a wicker basket on her broad lap, covered with a cloth, and from time to time she lifted the cloth to take out something to eat – a hunk of bread, a piece of strong-smelling cheese, a wrinkled sausage which she bit into with a guillotine chop of her front teeth, before returning it beneath its covering. Her jaws worked away, masticating in a slow sideways movement like a cow. He closed his eyes. He was hungry enough to envy the woman her snacks and wished he and Smythson had had the sense to steal some food as well from the cottage.
His plan seemed the only sensible one, in the circumstances. Go to Pont-Aven. Find out what had happened to Duval and why he had wanted to be picked up. He knew the names of the people in Duval’s network – their real names as well as those used for cover. One of them would surely have news of him. What then? Get back to England somehow. If he could find Duval and the radio transmitter he could send a message to London to arrange for a pickup. And if not? Head for the Pyrenees and Spain and go back that way. Get back he must. There was a job to do. Harry, with good reason, would be furious that he’d got himself into this situation. He was angry with himself. He should never have gone ashore, never have left the gunboat without a clear signal from Duval on the beach. Presently, lulled by the rocking of the train, he fell asleep.
He was woken by a German railway policeman in a grey and black uniform, demanding to see all papers. The Frenchwoman beside him heaved her bulk around to extract hers from a pocket, jabbing him hard in the ribs. The German passed from one passenger to the next, examining each document carefully. There was some irregularity with the woman’s identity card: all was not exactly in order and the official was not pleased. He pointed to the card, haranguing her in bad French. The woman shrugged and answered in the Breton patois. It was clear that neither understood each other and, in the end, the German gave up and thrust the card back at her. When Powell offered his for inspection, the man barely glanced at it, or at Smythson’s either; he was still muttering angrily to himself, throwing the woman threatening glances over his shoulder. She took no notice; she was attacking the sausage again, taking another gigantic bite and chewing away placidly.
‘Are you Mrs Hillyard?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Well, I’m Esme’s mum. And I’ve come to get her.’
Her hair was dyed blonde with a row of snail-shaped curls carefully arranged across her forehead beneath the brim of a red felt hat. The smart costume was red, too, and so were her high-heeled, peep-toe shoes, and her Rexine handbag.
Barbara said, ‘Please come in.’ She showed the woman into the sitting room and shut the door against Mrs Lamprey’s cocked ear. Esme’s mother looked round first at the room, and then at her.
‘It’s not like I thought it’d be. Didn’t know she was in such a posh place. Where is she, anyway?’
‘She’s upstairs in her room, reading.’
‘You can tell her to come down, then, and be quick about it. I’ve got someone waiting in a car outside.’
‘Someone?’
‘My fiancé. He’s a Canadian. We’re going to be married, soon as I’ve got the divorce from Esme’s dad. Steve’s arranging for us to go to Canada – to get away from the war. So, I’ve come to fetch her.’
‘Would you sit down for a moment?’
‘What for? We haven’t got time. Steve’s got to get back.’
‘There are some things we ought to discuss.’
‘What things? Oh, you mean money? I thought they paid you for looking after her.’
‘No, I didn’t mean money,’ she said coldly. ‘I meant Esme.’
‘What about her? She’s not ill, is she? Is something wrong with her?’
‘No, she’s very well, as a matter of fact. She’s settled down here now but it took her quite a time. It will be a bit of an uprooting for her . . . to be taken away so suddenly, and so far.’
‘Oh, she’ll love Canada. She’s lucky. Steve’s going to fix it all for us.’
‘Yes, I’m sure he is. Does her father know?’
‘Vic? God knows where he is. I can’t very well get hold of him at sea, can I?’
She said stubbornly, ‘But I think he has a legal right to know what’s happening to his daughter – about her being taken out of the country.’
‘He won’t care . . . he’s always away. Off on some bloody ship.’
‘Not always. He came here to see Esme when he was last on leave. And he writes to her regularly. I think he’ll care quite a lot.’
Her eyes narrowed under the hat brim. ‘Vic’s got no say. I’ve always looked after Esme. It was me got her sent away, safe from the bombing and everything. And, if you don’t mind, it’s nothing to do with you, neither. So p’raps you’ll kindly go and tell her to come downstairs right now. This minute.’
She went upstairs to find Esme who was lying on her bed, reading a book. Tom, the ginger kitten, was curled up beside her. It was a picture of peaceful contentment.
‘Your mother’s here, Esme. She’s come to see you.’
The child sat up with a start. ‘Mum! Come here?’
‘That’s right. She’s waiting for you in the sitting room.’
Esme ran down the stairs and Barbara followed more slowly to give them time alone together. Well, that’s that, she thought. I can’t do much about it and maybe it is the best thing for her in the end. Canada will be safe, well away from the war, and a wonderful opportunity for a better life than she’s likely to have in England. She went into the sitting room expecting to find Esme all smiles, in her mother’s arms; instead, she was standing at a distance, head bent, digging at the carpet with the toe of her shoe. Her mother gave a shrug.
‘She’s grown, I’ll say that, Mrs Hillyard. Still got that sulky way with her, though, hasn’t she? She gets that from her dad, not me. Gets her looks from that side of the family, too – more’s the pity. I’ve just told her what I said to you – about going to Canada. You’d think she’d be thrilled about it, wouldn’t you? Lots of kids’d give their eye teeth to go. And just look at her.’
‘I expect she needs a little time to get used to the idea.’
‘Well, we haven’t got any. Steve’s waiting, like I said, and he’s not a patient man. Soon as her bag’s packed, we’ll be off.’
Esme lifted her head. ‘Can I bring Tom?’
‘Tom? Who’s he?’
‘My kitten.’
‘A kitten? Don’t be stupid. You can’t take a kitten to Canada. They won’t let you.’
Esme’s chin went up. ‘Then I’m not coming.’
Her mother folded her arms. ‘You can’t take the kitten, and that’s that. I dare say we might let you get one over there. I can’t promise. I’ll have to ask Steve about it.’
‘I don’t want another one. I want Tom.’
‘Well, you can’t have him. Go and get your things together. We’re leaving.’
Esme didn’t move. She was staring at the carpet again, working the toe of her sandal deep into the pile.
‘I’m not coming without Tom. I don’t want to go to Canada, anyway.’
‘You’re an ungrateful little so-and-so, aren’t you? You can’t stay here. Mrs Hillyard doesn’t want you round her neck for ever.’
Barbara said firmly, ‘Esme’s very welcome to stay as long as she likes.’
Esme gave her a grateful look. ‘Anyway, Dad says he’ll come and get me, soon as the war’s over.’
‘Does he, indeed? How’s he think he’s going to look after you, I’d like to know?’
‘He says we’ll manage somehow.’
‘Well, I’m not having that. You’re my daughter and you’ll come with me.’ Esme’s mother grabbed hold of the child’s arm. ‘You go upstairs right now and get your things.’
Esme jerked herself free and backed away toward
s the door. ‘I’m not coming with you, Mum. I won’t. I’m staying here with Mrs Hillyard till Dad fetches me. We’ll manage without you – just like he said.’ She ran out of the room. They could hear her pounding up the stairs.
Her mother drew a long, indignant breath. ‘Well . . . of all the cheek! It’s Vic’s fault. He’s been setting her against me, that’s what. Saying all kinds of lies, I’ve no doubt.’ A car horn hooted outside – harsh and impatient. She snatched up the smart red handbag. ‘I’ve got to go. If that’s the way they both want it, it’s fine by me. Esme always was a bloody pain. She won’t be much loss, I have to say. You can tell her father from me – if he ever comes back – that, as far as I’m concerned, he’s welcome to her.’
The front door slammed and there was the sound of a car driving away fast.
Barbara went upstairs to Esme’s bedroom and opened the door quietly. She was sitting on her bed, holding Tom in her arms, her face buried in his ginger fur.
‘Your mother’s gone, Esme. Are you all right?’
A muffled answer. ‘Yes.’
‘Are you sure . . . about not going with her? Quite sure?’
‘Yes.’ She looked up, her face very white. ‘You don’t mind if I stay, do you? Till Dad comes for me?’
She went and sat on the bed beside her and put her arm round the child and the kitten. ‘Of course I don’t mind. You can stay here for as long as you like. You and Tom.’
She held them both against her as Esme started to cry.
‘Is there any news of Monsieur Duval, Mrs Hillyard? He’s been away much longer than usual.’
‘I’m afraid not, Mrs Lamprey.’
‘Oh. I just thought he might have been keeping in touch with you.’
‘No, he hasn’t.’ She removed Mrs Lamprey’s plate and the vegetable dish. ‘Will you have some pudding?’
‘What is it today?’
‘Sultana roll. And custard.’
‘Just a teeny helping. I really mustn’t overdo it.’
She had learned long ago, in Mrs Lamprey’s case, to ignore such pleas. She moved on to the rear admiral’s table and he looked up at her as she took his plate away. There was sympathy in his eyes, and understanding. ‘Will you have the sultana roll, Rear Admiral?’
‘Certainly, my dear. It’s one of my favourites.’
Miss Tindall smiled cheerfully at her. ‘They said on the wireless that it’s going to rain later. I expect you could do with it for the garden.’
‘Yes, it has been rather dry lately. Pudding for you, Miss Tindall?’
‘Please. Not too much though, if you don’t mind.’
Sixteen
There were stops and starts on the journey to Pont-Aven, changes of train, delays and another inspection of papers – this time by a French gendarme who was, ironically, far more thorough than the German railway official. The man took so much time over the stolen identity card that Powell feared the worst. If he had to answer any questions, he knew, the game would be up. His accent might pass muster with a German who spoke bad French, but never with a Frenchman.
Smythson took him down to the port and he could see at once why, as an artist, Duval would have found the place so appealing. Buildings, boats, shapes, shadows, colours, water, light . . . all spoke of what he had seen of Duval’s work. The primitive-seeming execution – the dabs and daubs and distortions like that of a child, and yet not childish at all – had surely found its inspiration here.
Smythson pointed out the shuttered windows of Duval’s studio on the top floor of a house close to the quayside. As he did so, a German officer emerged from the building and walked away down the street. A major, Powell noted. An older man with the stiffly erect carriage of a past age. Major Winter, perhaps? The cultured one who had so admired Duval’s paintings and had supplied the Ausweis and the gasoline coupons and the Courvoisier cognac. For a moment, he debated the possibility of simply going to the door and asking for Duval, and then dismissed it. The landlady, Mademoiselle Citron, was not to be trusted – Duval had stated this clearly in his report. The next question was whether they dared to approach any of the contacts, or whether they, and Duval, had all been compromised.
They walked on beside the river Aven in the direction of the town centre. Smythson paused at a café in the rue du port. ‘We could get something to eat in here, sir. And see if we can find out anything at the same time.’
‘Did Duval come here?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know, sir. But it’s near his studio so there’s a good chance they might know him.’
The café was called Chez Alphonse. The white-washed walls had faded prints of modern French paintings and there was a very French aroma of garlic and wine and tobacco. It was also rather cold. They sat at a corner table, away from the other customers who were intent on their food, conveying it to their mouths, tearing at bread, drinking wine.
The patron, presumably Alphonse himself, was a small, dark man with a white apron lashed to his hips. He moved fast and furiously among the tables and with the resigned look on his face of one who invariably expected the worst. When he came to their table, a napkin hooked over one arm, Powell let Smythson do the talking. There was a choice between fish soup or pig’s liver. Alphonse, personally – if asked – would recommend the soup. It was not the same as in the old days when one knew exactly where the pig had come from, whereas he could vouch for the fish having been caught by the Pont-Aven fleet only that morning. And he could offer some passable bread. Naturally, they would understand the impossibility of giving his customers anything like they were accustomed to. The shelves were bare, the cellar almost empty . . . but, it so happened, he had a few bottles of ordinaire that one could drink without feeling disgraced.
He went away, returning shortly with a carafe of wine. While it was being poured Smythson enquired casually after Louis Duval. The patron paused, holding the carafe aloft.
‘Monsieur Duval? You know him?’
‘Yes, indeed. An old friend of ours. We hope to see him while we’re in Pont-Aven.’
‘Alas, you will be disappointed. He has been arrested. The Gestapo. They came to his studio and took him away. A very sad affair.’
‘But what for?’
Alphonse shrugged his shoulders. ‘Who knows? They don’t need to give reasons. They arrive at the door, they make an arrest, and that’s that. In my opinion, it was Mademoiselle Citron who was responsible – the logeuse, you know. She had a grudge against him. A woman scorned – you understand? They are the worst of all – the most dangerous.’
‘Do you know where he has been taken?’
‘No. As I say, they take somebody and nobody knows why or where or what will happen to them. It’s horrible. But what can we do?’ He poured more wine. ‘He was one of my best customers, too.’
He went off to another table. Smythson said, ‘Not very good news, sir.’
‘Very bad. There’s nothing we can do for him, but we need to find out why he wanted to be picked up.’
‘Maybe he knew the Gestapo were onto him?’
‘Or he might have had some important information. Something he wanted to bring back himself.’
‘We could see if one of his contacts knows anything?’
Powell frowned. ‘It’s risky – for them, as well as us – but we’ll have to try. You’d better do it, I think. I suggest you start with the bicycle-repair man – Jean-Claude Vauclin. Make the excuse that you’re looking for a bike to buy and take it from there.’
‘What about you, sir? Will you be all right?’
He said coolly, ‘I’m not entirely incapable of looking after myself.’
‘Of course not, sir.’
‘I’ll make myself as inconspicuous as possible. Buy a newspaper, sit in a bar and drink. Smoke Gauloises. We’ll rendezvous back here.’
‘Right, sir.’
The wine was certainly no disgrace and the fish soup excellent. They ate quickly, paid and got up to go. If anyone had been watching them, Powe
ll thought, their suspicions might have been aroused at the speed with which they had finished their meal compared with true Frenchmen. Alphonse, running after them, enquired anxiously whether it had all been to their satisfaction. As they went out of the door, two Wehrmacht sergeants came into the café, one of them pushing Powell roughly aside. The patron, he noticed, gave them his full attention, escorting them with a flourish to a good table. Who could blame him? The man had a living to make.
Lieutenant Smythson went off in search of Jean-Claude Vauclin and Powell walked around the town, pausing to buy some French cigarettes and a newspaper. He sat on a convenient bench and looked at the paper with some interest. It was little more than a propaganda tool for the Third Reich. All their recent triumphs were trumpeted across its pages – the siege of Tobruk, the fall of Belgrade, the British retreat in Greece. It made depressing reading. He folded it under his arm and walked on, finding himself outside the hôtel de ville. The conversation he had had with Duval on his return from his first mission came back to him. The mayor, Maurice Masseron, Duval had told him, had been extraordinarily helpful. He was not one of the network but, evidently, Duval had trusted him enough to confide in him completely.
On an impulse which he knew was probably foolhardy, he walked into the building and, summoning up his most convincing French accent, asked to see the mayor. His business was very urgent, he told the hard-faced woman at the reception, and private. What was his name? He gave the first French name that came into his head – Renault. The mayor was an old friend of his from past years. A very old friend. She stared at him, he thought, with deep scepticism and went away. For all he knew, she could be phoning the French police or even the Gestapo, but he waited, looking as unconcerned as he could. After some time she returned. The mayor would see him – only God knew why was implicit in her tone and expression.
He was shown up an impressive flight of marble stairs and into the mayoral office, the woman holding the door open for him. The man who rose from behind the desk was broad-built with a mass of thick, greying hair. He held out his hand.
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