Most Secret

by Nevil Shute

  Dottin said: “I will go down and warn them to be ready for him with the boat.” He left the room.

  Rhodes stared around him, seeing everything with a new clarity. There was a dead man at his feet, whose clothes he now was wearing. Simon was adjusting the scarf at his neck; his arm was throbbing painfully. He glanced down at the body. “What will you do with—that?” he asked.

  Simon said: “Bozallec is going to look after him. I think he will stuff him down a sewer, probably.”

  With every minute Rhodes could think more clearly. “I don’t like it,” he said uneasily. “These people here are running a most frightful risk for us. Everybody seems to be. If the Germans get to know of this they’ll all be in an awful jam.”

  Simon stood before him, face to face. “Rhodes, pay attention to me now,” he said earnestly. “It all depends on you. These people, they have taken a great risk for you; you must not let them down. If you are caught and found to be an Englishman the Germans will make a search, and they will find this body, and these people will be shot and all their wives and little children will be shot also. That is what the Germans do, in a case like this. That is what these men have risked, so that you may go free.”

  Rhodes drew a deep breath. “That passes the buck to me,” he said.

  Simon nodded. “How are you feeling now?”

  “I’m feeling pretty well all right.”

  “Can you walk straight and steadily now, stepping out like a German?”

  “I think I can. Tell me the way again.”

  Simon said: “It is barely three hundred yards. When you go out of this door turn to the right, that way, and go straight down the street, down-hill towards the harbour. Remember that you are a German, that you walk stiff and erect. You must not stop, you must look around you; you are a German sailor upon duty. When you come out on the quay you will see steps immediately ahead of you, down to the water. Walk straight to them and down into the boat that will be waiting there. Sit down in the stern exactly in the middle, and sit up very straight and motionless as they row you off.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Simon said: “If there is any trouble for you, we will make explosions as I said. Pay no attention to them; walk straight on. A German upon duty is like that.”

  The priest stepped forward from the background and spoke in French to Simon. Simon turned to Rhodes. “He wants to bless you,” he said quietly. “You must kneel down.” He took Rhodes by his arm and helped him down on to the floor.

  The scene stayed etched deep in Rhodes’s memory. The dingy little room, the murdered German on the floor by him stripped and squalid in his underclothes, the Bretons standing by with inclined heads, the low words of Latin passing over him. The priest followed with a few sentences in French that Rhodes did not understand. Then Simon helped him to his feet.

  Simon said in a low tone: “He said this. He asked that you should be taken safe to England through the dangers of the sea and the dangers of battle and the danger from the air, so that fire might come again, through you, against the Germans in France.”

  Rhodes turned to the father. “Fire will come again,” he said, “whether I get back or I don’t. In England there are other chaps like me. But if I get back safely to my country I shall remember what you people have done for us, all my life.”

  Simon translated; Father Augustine nodded, smiling gently at Rhodes. Then they led him out into the shop, now as neat and tidy as before. At the door into the street they paused and peered out through the lace curtain covering the half-window. “All is clear,” said Simon. “Turn to the right immediately you get out, and straight down to the quay. We shall meet in London.”

  Rhodes opened the door, and stepped out into the market-place. A fair number of civilians were passing, and there were a number of German soldiers strolling about, newcomers to the town. He turned to the right, and began to walk down the narrow, cobbled street towards the harbour.

  He went dizzily, desperately trying to control the movements of his limbs. Each step must be confident and firm—so. He must not look at the ground at his feet, but well ahead of him. He must hold himself straight—it was only three hundred yards. Only about two hundred and fifty now. Here was a raised kerb coming that he must step over without stumbling—that was a good one. Two hundred yards only, now. He was feeling sick. God, he must not be sick. He must walk straight, he must keep upright, he … must … not … be … sick.

  Simon and Bozallec followed down the lane behind him, about twenty yards behind. Now and again they saw him make a false step and sway a little; each time he pulled himself together and went on firmly. At half the distance Bozallec said: “He is doing well, that one. I did not think that he would do so well.”

  Simon said: “I think he will succeed.”

  They followed on behind, watching him as he went. There were eyes on him all down the narrow street, eyes that watched him from behind lace curtains, through the chinks of doors, from behind and from in front. Rhodes did not know it, but there were nearly fifty people watching each step that he made, praying for him each time he stumbled, cheered when he walked straight ahead down to the quay.

  Simon and Bozallec, following behind, watchful, saw a German officer turn from the quay ahead and enter the lane, walking up to meet Rhodes. Barely fifty yards separated them. Bozallec said quickly: “That officer is clever. He will see.”

  Simon drew a red bandana handkerchief from the trouser pocket of his blue serge trousers and flourished it before blowing his nose. Immediately from an alley by their side there was a sharp, cracking detonation. The officer ahead shot into a doorway, grasping the Luger at his belt. Another explosion followed a little way away, and then a third.

  Simon and Bozallec broke into a run, dashed forward past Rhodes stumbling forward in a dream, and checked themselves in confusion opposite the officer. They turned, looking backwards up the street. Bozallec said to the officer, panting and excited: “An explosion, Monsieur le Capitaine. Truly, that was a bomb.”

  Behind their backs, screening him from the German, Rhodes stumbled forward to the quay. “I know that, fool,” snarled the officer. “I know what a bomb sounds like. This is your treachery again; this town will pay for it.”

  Rhodes was clear; they turned and ran ahead of him again down to the quay. A fourth explosion sounded up the street. They came out on to the quay, and met a crowd of French and Germans flocking to the entrance of the alley. Simon turned and pointed up the lane. “Up there,” he shouted. “Somebody has let bombs off, up there. The officer wants help!”

  All eyes were on him; in the confusion Rhodes passed out of the lane on to the quay. The steps lay before him. He passed through the crowd unnoticed, walking steadily with a desperate concentration. He went straight down the steps. There was a boat waiting at the bottom with men ready at the oars.

  A hand steadied him as he got into the boat, as he sat down at the stern. “Sit stiff and upright—so,” a voice whispered. “That is the way they sit in boats, those swine.”

  They pushed off, and rowed out into the harbour to the black sardine-boat lying at the mooring.

  On the quay the tumult soon died down. Bozallec stood with Simon leaning on the rail, looking out over the harbour. One by one the fishing-boats were slipping their moorings, backing and turning, moving out into the bay towards the shepherding Raumboot. It was already evening.

  Bozallec said presently: “That is the one. That one going astern behind the tunnyman.” He looked round at the weather. “Rain to-night,” he said. “It will be easy for them to work out to the north. To-morrow morning he will be in Falmouth.”

  He turned to Simon with something like reverence. “What will you do, monsieur?”

  Simon stirred. “I shall go up to the hotel,” he said. “The Hôtel du Commerce. I want to sleep in a bed for to-night.”

  He was still in the fisherman’s clothes that they had all worn upon Geneviève. He had a few hundred francs in French money; he went up
to the market-place and bought himself a suit of clothes, a new shirt, and a collar and tie. He bought a very cheap fibre suitcase to put the other clothes in, and carrying that he walked along to the hotel.

  He spent the evening in the hotel, as he had spent so many other evenings of his life in France, sitting in the café reading a paper, smoking, drinking Pernod, and watching a couple at the next table play a game of draughts. The proprietor was not there that evening, and no one noticed him. He dined well, with as good a bottle of Burgundy as the house could produce, and went up early to his bed.

  He slept late, and it was after nine when he came down to the café in the morning. He called through the kitchen door for a cup of coffee and a brioche; the proprietor brought it to him himself. He stared at Simon when he saw him.

  “Monsieur has stayed with us before?” he enquired. “Your face is familiar.”

  Simon said: “I was here in February last, on business. You told me then about Father Zacharias, and the little boy, Jules.”

  “I remember,” said the innkeeper. “You were travelling in cement.”

  He left Simon to his coffee, but presently he came back again, carrying a big black book. He opened this and laid it on the table, with a pen and a bottle of ink. Monsieur did not register last night,” he said. “If he would be so good. Name, Christian name, occupation, and address.”

  Simon took the pen and put down “Simon Charles”. Then he glanced up at the innkeeper. “My occupation is that I am an officer in the British Army.” he said, “and my address is in London. Shall I put that down?”

  The man stared at him. “Charles Simon,” he breathed. “Are you crazy? I remember now—that was your name before.”

  “It is still my name. I have never had another.”

  “You do not understand. The Germans come each day to see this book.” He stared at the entry. “There are only three names above. I will take the page out, and three separate people can write the names again.”

  “What time do the Germans come?” asked Simon.

  “After déjeuner, always at the same time.”

  Simon got to his feet. “It will not matter to me if they see it then,” he said. “Do as you like about the book.”

  The man said: “Where are you going to? Stay here, indoors, and I will arrange something. There are people in Douarnenez who will help you, monsieur.”

  Simon said: “The people here are in trouble enough over me. I am going first to the presbytery.”

  He went out; the innkeeper followed him to the door and stood watching him as he went down the street. The morning was bright and sunny after the rain, the streets swept by a fresh, keen wind from the Atlantic. Half-way to the presbytery a man stopped him, asking for a light for his cigarette.

  Simon passed him a box of matches; the man stooped by him to shield the flame. “They got away,” he said. “One of the boats was missing when dawn came. The fleet has just come into harbour. The Germans are very angry about it.”

  He straightened up. A German sailor passed by them in the street going towards the harbour. The man lit another match and flipped it at him scornfully. The German scowled angrily at them. The man spat on the pavement at his feet, and gave the box of matches back to Simon.

  Simon said: “That is good news for Douarnenez, and for all France. One day the English will come back, and bring their fire again.” He smiled gently. “Charles Simon says so.”

  He went on down the main street past the great church to the small house beside it, and knocked at the door of the presbytery. It was opened to him by Father Augustine himself; when he saw who it was he pulled Simon inside quickly and shut the door. They stood together in the narrow passage.

  Simon said: “Father, all has gone as we had planned. By now my friend will be in England and in hospital in his own country. There is an officer at the British Admiralty who will be looking after him. His little friend, his fiancée, will be with him and he will be happy. All this is due to you, and I want to thank you for it.”

  The priest said: “We are all instruments of Almighty God. Give your thanks to Him.”

  Simon inclined his head.

  “And you, my son?”

  “My time is getting short. I want to cleanse my soul, father.”

  The priest said gently: “You could have escaped with your friend quite easily. Why did you not go with him?”

  There was a little pause. Then Simon said: “I am practically a Frenchman, father, though I have British nationality. But all my life I have thought of myself as English. I wanted to be English, as my father was. Now, for eight months, I have been an officer in the British Army. A proper British officer would not go away and leave these hostages. I do not want women and little girls of seven to be killed so that I may go free.”

  He left the presbytery half an hour later, and walked down to the harbour. All his life the sight of boats had fascinated him, the smell of tanned sails and salt water, the lap and shimmer of the waves. He spent an hour down at the waterside in peace, storing up memories. He walked out on the jetty, still black from the fire, and wondered what had happened to his own four-ton yacht at St. Malo. Then he went back into the Café de la République and drank a glass of Pernod.

  Presently he left the café and walked up the hill, towards the German headquarters.

  Under the great swastika flag he turned in at the door between the sentries, stiff and erect with rifles and steel helmets. There was a desk in the front room; behind it was an Unterfeldwebel of the German Army, and a private.

  “I have come about the thirty hostages,” Simon said in French. “You can let them go. I am a British officer, the only one who landed in Douarnenez.”

  12

  IT took Rhodes about three-quarters of an hour to tell me what he knew, and he was very weary by the time we had finished. Towards the end the nurse kept looking in every two or three minutes, mutely begging me to pack up and go. I made it as short as I could, and got to my feet.

  “You’d better rest now, Rhodes,” I said. I hesitated, and then said: “I shall be in touch with Dartmouth. Would you like to see Miss Wright?”

  He said: “She’s just had leave, sir. They wouldn’t let her come down here, would they?”

  I laughed. “I’ll certify it as a service journey. You’d like to see her, wouldn’t you?”

  He flushed. “I don’t know if you know. We got engaged—just before this show.”

  “She told me,” I said. I picked up my cap. “I’ll see about that, Rhodes. Come and see me in London when you’re on your feet again, and we’ll talk about what you are to do next.”

  I left the ward, and went back to the surgeon’s office. There I scribbled a message for him to get telephoned to Dartmouth, and left in a hurry for the station. I got the London train by the skin of my teeth, and sat all morning as it wandered on through Cornwall.

  The train drew into Newton Abbott station early in the afternoon; Leading Wren Wright was on the platform there to meet me. It was my fate to tell her things on Newton Abbott platform, in the clamour of the trucks and milk-cans, the hissing of steam heat from the carriages, and the bustle of the crowd. I got out quickly and went up to her.

  “Look, Miss Wright,” I said. “You got my message?”

  She stammered: “He—he’s all right, is he, sir?”

  I said: “He’s not a bit all right. He isn’t going to die, but he’s got a very nasty and neglected wound in his left shoulder. He’s in Falmouth Hospital, and he’d very much like to see you down there.”

  She said “Would I be able to get leave?”

  I had written a note in the train, and now I gave it to her. “Take this to the commander,” I said. “Give him my compliments and tell him that I’m sorry I haven’t been able to telephone him. I’ve asked if he can spare you for a week to be with Rhodes, in this letter. But it rests with him entirely, you know. I can’t give you leave.”

  She said ingenuously: “I’ll get it if you’ve said you want me t
o have it, sir. He thinks an awful lot of you. They all do.”

  “I’ve done nothing in this show,” I said. “Nothing but sit on my backside in an office and watch other people do the work.”

  There was a short pause. “Do you know what happened to Captain Simon and Lieutenant Boden, sir?” she asked.

  I said: “Simon got on shore all right”—I dropped my voice—“but he’s still over on the other side. Keep your mouth shut about that. I’m afraid it’s very nearly certain that Lieutenant Boden was killed.”

  She nodded; she had evidently expected that. “I was sure it must have been him,” she said. “He was the man with the Tommy-gun, when she was floating upside down?”

  “I think he was,” I said.

  She raised her head. “It was the best thing,” she said. “He’d never have settled down, after the war.”

  I did not agree with her. “People get over things.”

  She shook her head. “Not Boden. He was hurt too much.”

  It was not a matter one could argue, especially on Newton Abbot platform; besides which, she was more his age and knew Boden better than I did. Behind me a porter was shouting out for passengers to take their seats, and slamming doors as he passed down the train. I moved towards my compartment. “Look after yourself and see that doesn’t happen to Rhodes,” I said.

  She said: “It might be the other way about.”

  Down at the end of the train the guard blew his whistle, waving his green flag. I got into my compartment and leaned out of the window for a few last words to her. “Don’t worry about that,” I said. “He’ll never go to sea again—he never should have gone this time. Rhodes is a Special Branch officer’s—green stripe. He’ll be on shore for the remainder of the war.”

  She said: “He’ll hate that, sir.”

  The train began to move. I grinned at her. “I know he will,” I said. “But you won’t.”