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 went 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?’
He handed over his card. For all the major’s helpfulness, Duval noticed that he looked at it closely and carefully before he put it away in his pocket. ‘Did you perhaps fight in the last war, monsieur?’
‘Yes.’
‘Like myself. But on the opposite side, of course. Were you wounded?’
‘As a matter of fact, I was. They invalided me out.’
‘There we have it, then.’ Major Winter smiled. ‘Such an injury exempts you from obligatory labour. Very simple. More cognac?’
He accepted graciously. ‘I suppose you’ve been imposing all kinds of regulations since I was last here. I shall have to watch my step.’
‘As I said, unhappily some rules are necessary. There is a curfew, as no doubt you are aware. Rationing was here before we came, of course, and your French system of tickets works well, but we have been obliged to make it more stringent, I’m afraid.’ The major raised his glass. ‘The good things of life, like this excellent cognac, are in sadly short supply but otherwise, I hope, you will find things tolerable in the Occupied Zone. How was it in Toulouse? At least, there things are being run by your own government which must make it somewhat preferable. I’m a little surprised that you returned here.’
He said with a contempt that he saw no reason whatever to conceal, ‘I have no regard for Marshal Pétain and his cronies.’
‘Nor I, to tell the truth. It is hard to have respect for them. I found myself shocked by the easy surrender of France – I hope you will forgive me saying so. There has been dishonour . . . even shame.’
‘Believe me, I feel it myself.’
The major drained his glass. ‘I will obtain an Ausweis for you and your military exemption document. As soon as I have them, I will deliver them to you – perhaps even tomorrow, or the day after. Tell me, do you possess a car?’
‘An old Citroën.’
‘You will need a permit that authorizes you to drive a motor vehicle. I can arrange that for you and I might be able to get you a few gasoline coupons, though that may prove more difficult – I’ll see what I can do. After all, even in a war, artists should be given every assistance. The culture of France must be allowed to survive and thrive. It must not wither. That is of great importance. And now, I will collect my possessions and leave you to your apartment.’ He went into the bedroom and reappeared after a few minutes carrying a suitcase and his high-peaked cap with its impressive Nazi insignia. ‘Please keep the cognac, with my compliments and my apologies. On my way out, I shall give myself the pleasure of a word with Mademoiselle Citron.’
Major Winter was not the only Wehrmacht officer billeted in the building. On his way down the stairs the next morning, Duval encountered three more of them. Mademoiselle Citron was clearly making hay while the sun shone. He knocked on her door and was not surprised to find that, unlike the major, she was not in the least apologetic.
‘I was afraid to refuse, monsieur. The Germans act as they please, take what they want. What can one do?’
‘Not what you did, mademoiselle. We had a legal agreement, in case you have forgotten. The Germans are great respecters of the law, as no doubt you will have learned from Major Winter. You will oblige me by keeping strictly to it in future and not subletting my apartment to any more of them.’
‘So you will be remaining here now, monsieur?’
‘My plans are my business, mademoiselle. You have been paid and will continue to receive payment. There is no need for you to concern yourself with my affairs.’
He saw the naked animosity in her eyes, as well as the old-maid bitterness.
He breakfasted Chez Alphonse – weak coffee, coarse, grey bread, a smear of butter, a miserable little spoonful of jam. A mere sprinkling of local customers where, once upon a time, almost every table would have been taken. Alphonse was desolated – his face as long as a fiddle. ‘Things get worse and worse. The Boche have been bleeding us dry. They cram their suitcases and trunks with everything they can lay hands on to take back to Germany. Everything is scarce now – even fish because they will not give enough petrol to the boats. And there are almost no shellfish to be had, except those that the Germans confiscate for themselves. It’s a tragedy.’
‘Do they come in here to eat?’
‘Oh yes.’ Alphonse spread his hands. ‘I have to keep my best rations aside for them. They demand it. I hate the bastards but I can’t refuse to serve them or they would close me down. Or worse. There have been arrests, you know. One cannot be too careful.’
‘People are afraid?’
‘Naturally. You should have stayed in the south, monsieur. It must be better down there.’
He lit a cigarette. ‘Tell me, Alphonse. You hear and see what’s going on. You listen to what people say, watch how they behave, who is collaborating willingly with the Germans, for example.’
‘Ah, those I know . . .’ Alphonse reeled off names of those he considered suspect – among them, Mademoiselle Citron.
‘And our esteemed mayor?’
‘That’s different. You know how clever he is. He works with the Boche because he must, but he plays his own game, while seeming to obey all their little rules.’
He paid and strolled along the waterfront in the hot morning sunshine, smoking his cigarette. Most of the fishing boats were already out, but the Espérance was still moored at the far end of the quay. As he drew nearer, he could hear the sound of tools clanging loudly on metal. Jean-Luc, one of the Douarnenez crew, was up on deck, apparently mending a net. When he caught sight of him, he vanished below and presently Lieutenant Smythson appeared in his fisherman’s blouse, canvas trousers and sabots, his dyed hair uncombed for days, his chin unshaven, his hands filthy with grease. Really, Duval thought, amused, one would never ever take him for an officer in His Majesty’s Royal Navy. Smythson came close to where Duval was standing on the quayside, and filed away intently at a tube of metal while he spoke.
‘The fishing brethren seem to have swallowed the story about the engine OK but I’m not sure how long we can spin it out. It’s not so much the Germans we need to worry about but the French – the maritime gendarmes and the port authorities. Some of them have taken to the new order with gusto, apparently. And we haven’t got the papers and permits for the boat that we’re supposed to have. How long do you think you’ll need?’
‘At least until tomorrow. Perhaps longer.’ Duval briefly related his conversation with the German major. ‘I must wait until he brings those documents. This morning I’ll go and see the mayor. He’s a friend of mine. He could be a mine of information. Also, he may be able to get papers for the boat.’
Smythson nodded. ‘We’ll do our best to hang on.’ He blew on the tube. ‘We got rid of the fish before it went off completely. Flogged it cheap.’
Maurice Masseron was about his own age. A big man with a head of thick, grizzled hair, a loud laugh, many friends and relatively few enemies. He worked hard at being a popular mayor and all things to as many people as possible, but he was nobody’s fool and nobody’s tool. In his office, in pride of place on the wall behind the desk, there was the painting Duval had done some years ago of the ancient standing stones outside the town. ‘I’m glad I bought it from you then. I couldn’t afford you now.’ He clapped Duval’s shoulder. ‘Sit down, Louis, my old friend. Have a cigarette while they’re still to be had. And a glass of cognac.’ A bottle and glasses surfaced from the bottom desk drawer, good measures were poured, the glasses raised and clinked loudly, one against the other. ‘It’s good to see you again. I’d heard that you’d gone south to the Unoccupied Zone. I was surprised. Frankly, I never took you for a Pétainist.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Thank heavens for that! The old fool has just given us the gift of himself – did you hear his broadcast? Je fais à la France le don de ma personne. He has remained on French soil, he tells us, only so that he can preserve the government and the honour of France and save us from military rule. Our flag, he says, remains unstained. What a load of crap! He means that he can do deals with the Germans to shame us even more. But the Germans will use him and his cronies to do all their dirty work for them, wait and see – just like they’ll use the rest of us. They’ll take their revenge for Versailles, with interest. My God, we must pay them for the privilege of being occupied! Not all the soap in the world will ever wash the stain from the tricolore. Sit down, my dear friend, and tell me what I can do for you.’
He said without hesitation, the decision to confide in Masseron already made, ‘I didn’t go to the southern zone, Maurice. I went to England.’
The bushy eyebrows shot up. ‘To England? How did you manage that?’
‘In my boat, the Gannet.’
‘My God – in that little pisspot! You’re not kidding me?’
‘No. Not a pleasant voyage, I admit, but I arrived – in the end. And I’ve been there since France fell.’
‘But why come back? You must be mad, my friend.’
‘The English asked me if I could find out information for them and, like a cretin, I agreed. I came over on a Breton fishing boat that had fled to England. There are a lot of them over there.’
‘So I heard. Nobody can blame them.’ Masseron sipped his brandy and puffed at his cigarette, watching him closely. ‘Who did you come with?’
‘Three Bretons and a lieutenant of the Royal Navy.’
‘Not in his fine uniform, I trust?’
‘No. If you saw him, you’d take him for a Breton fisherman.’
‘That’s lucky for him. The English Navy stinks like rotting fish here at the moment. Have you heard the latest news?’
‘We were at sea for two days. What news?’
‘They’ve just destroyed most of our fleet at Mers-el-Kebir in Algeria. Sent their Royal Navy to do the deed while our ships were tied up in harbour. I imagine that Monsieur Churchill didn’t trust the Germans’ solemn, cross-their-heart promise not to make use of them.’
‘I shouldn’t have trusted them either.’
‘Nor I. Naturally, the Boche would have used our ships to attack England. They’re not stupid. But you can see why it wasn’t too popular here . . . a lot of French sailors died. Perfidious Albion up to her tricks again. So, you’d better warn your lieutenant. What information do the English want exactly?’
‘They need to know everything possible about the German Occupation regulations. They want samples of permits, exemptions, ration cards, papers of any kind that must be carried in order to comply.’
‘For what purpose?’
‘So they can forge them and send their agents to France without them being picked up the minute they set foot in the country. They want to find out everything they can about the German plans for an invasion of England, about the Wehrmacht troop movements, about Kriegsmarine and Luftwaffe activity, about the morale of the French population, about who might help against the Boche and who will not. And they need to know it fast.’
Masseron whistled. ‘Not much! And you have come to me. I’m very flattered.’
‘You can be trusted, Maurice. I know that.’
‘Fortunately for you, you are right, or I might be telephoning the Gestapo at this very moment. But this is a very dangerous game for us two old men to play – you realize that?’
‘Yes, I realize it.’
‘The Boche are not plodding morons. I have already found that out in dealing with them. To their face I treat them with great respect. It’s only when they turn their backs that I spit on them.’
‘But you’ll help?’
‘Naturally. Some shreds of honour must be salvaged.’ Masseron unlocked a drawer in his desk, took out an old newspaper photo and waved it. ‘This is the man I pin my hopes to: General Charles de Gaulle. But I pin them in private. It’s safer that way.’ He replaced the photo and relocked the drawer.
Duval said, ‘I’ve had one piece of good luck. A German major who has been occupying my apartment – without my consent, I might add – has promised to supply me with an Ausweis and also military exemption papers.’
The eyebrows went up again. ‘How did you manage that trick?’
‘He is an admirer of my work. He felt guilty at using my apartment. And, naturally, he believes them to be for my use alone.’
‘What is his name?’
‘Major Winter.’
‘I have come across him. A decent enough fellow. I think you may rely on him to produce the goods. So, what other things can I get for you?’
‘Anything you can. Copies of work permits. Travel authorizations. Ration cards. Lists of regulations.’
‘You have no idea of the tidal wave of decrees and dictates coming from the Militärbefehlshaber and the Kommandantur but I will do my best.’
‘I have to work fast. How much time will it take?’
The mayor shrugged. ‘Impossible to say. I’ll move as speedily as I can, but I shall have to be careful. Come here again at the same time tomorrow and you’ll see what I’ve come up with.’
‘There is another thing. The sardine boat I came on, the Espérance, is tied up in port here at the moment, pretending to have engine trouble while she waits to take me back to England. She came originally from Douarnenez but she has no up-to-date papers, no authorized crew list, no fishing permit, no customs clearance . . . nothing that can be shown if she is inspected.’
‘You may safely leave that to me. One would think this place was Brest by the way our port Administrator likes to throw his weight around but Georges Tarreau owes me a favour or two. Give me the names of the crew – true or false, whichever you are using – and I’ll do the rest. There must be an official list and they will each need a document to show that they are an inscrit maritime – I told you, it’s endless. You say the English want information on German troop movements, but that’s more difficult. Their security is generally tight. All I can say is that there are only three hundred or so Wehrmacht soldiers garrisoned in Pont-Aven and the surrounding district. Obviously, their main interest lies elsewhere in far more important ports – Brest, Lorient, St Nazaire, La Rochelle . . . There are rumours of big submarine pens being built at all those places and much naval activity – but they are only rumours. As to plans to invade England, I have also heard stories of converted barges assembled all along the coast of Normandy, and of the cafés being full of German soldiers bragging about how easy it will be to cross La Manche. But they are just stories – somebody had heard it from someone who had heard it from someone else . . . You know the sort of thing. There is no proof.’
Duval nodded. ‘But it’s all of interest. It gives a picture. Major Winter told me that civilian rations have been cut.’
‘Inevitably. The Germans have to feed themselves here in France and the war must still be fought against England. Also, they are fond of looting. What victor is not?’
‘What about morale, Maurice? Have they lost all courage, all pride, all hope?’
‘Hard to say. Some have. Some have not. Those who follow the old Marshal will doubtless delude themselves from here until eternity that the honour of France has been saved and that our defeat was all the fault of the socialists. The rest of us must come to terms with the situation, each in our own way.’ Masseron shrugged. ‘Here in Pont-Aven, the few men who remain are mostly too aged or feeble to do anything other than they are told by the Boche, or else they are very young and reckless – like my son – which bodes ill for them. As for the women, they range from the whores who are making good extra money to the demoiselles who will not raise their eyes to a German’s face. In between, I think there are still a few who could perhaps help you.’
Duval passed a list of names across the desk. ‘Alphonse spoke of these. The first column is those who he thinks can be trusted. The second, those he believes can’t.’
Masseron ran his eye quickly down the sheet of paper. ‘Very few in the first category, I see. And he has missed several in the second. But, yes, I agree with him in general. Of course, what you have to remember though, my dear Louis, is that where there are families involved, the Germans will take full advantage. That makes a difference. Who would be willing to risk sacrificing his family in order to help the English, if it came to such a choice? For myself, I’m thankful that my wife and I can barely stand the sight of each other.’
Duval smiled. It was a slight exaggeration, of course, but it was common knowledge that the Masserons had had a combatant relationship for years. Insults and recriminations were the stuff of their existence. He said, ‘How is Anne-Marie?’
‘The same as usual. She drives me crazy. And my son drives me even more so. Luc is one of the reckless young fools that I spoke of. He amuses himself taunting the Germans – writing rude things over their posters, tearing down flags, that sort of thing. I have warned him against it many times but at sixteen one believes one can get away with anything.’ The mayor studied the list, fingering his chin. ‘Robert Comby, Paul Leblond, Jacques Thomine . . . if they were approached, I think they could make themselves useful. There is another name I would add: Jean-Claude Vauclin. Have you come across him ever?’
‘No.’
‘He was a commercial traveller in lace before he got some lung disease. Now he mends and sells bicycles for a living. But he will still have contacts all across Brittany and he went everywhere. Shops, homes, offices, farms . . . Also he thinks General de Gaulle is our saviour and that Hitler is Satan. He has a wife, Marthe, but no children. I would put him at the top of the list. I have not seen him for some time, myself, but he is the kind whose beliefs never change.’ Masseron got out his pen. ‘This is where to find him.’
‘Thank you, my friend.’
‘So, what will you do next?’
‘Go to see Vauclin and the others, if I can. After that I will return to my apartment and wait patiently for the major to turn up.’
Masseron handed back the list. ‘Beware of Mademoiselle Citron. She belongs well and truly in the second category. Just the type of woman to settle old scores by shopping people to the Gestapo with any trumped-up story.’
‘I hope you’re not suggesting that I sleep with her, just to be on the safe side?’
‘I don’t know of any man in Pont-Aven who has yet had the stomach to do that. Seriously, though, Louis, take care. These are early days. The Germans are not yet completely organized and there is some disorder in their control, but it won’t be so for much longer. Then nothing and nobody will be safe.’
He found Jean-Claude Vauclin at home in his small cottage high up on the hillside – a younger man than he had expected, perhaps not more than thirty-eight. Young to have a disease that clearly threatened his life. He was sitting outside his front door in the sunshine, working away at an old bike upturned onto its saddle and flanked by a veritable scrap heap of old spare parts: wheels, chains, handlebars, mudguards, brakes . . . all piled high in a rusting heap. As Duval approached, Vauclin glanced up. His thin face had the yellow-grey look of chronic ill health, and every breath that he took sounded a painful effort. ‘I have no more bikes for sale, monsieur, if that’s what you’ve come for. It’s impossible to find them these days.’
‘I’m not after a bike. Maurice Masseron sent me.’
‘What for? Unless you are looking for a bike or have one that needs mending, I can do nothing for you.’
Duval indicated another chair close by. ‘May I sit down for a moment, nonetheless?’
‘If you wish. Forgive me if I carry on working. I’m very busy. Also, it’s tiring for me to speak much.’
‘I’m sorry. Let me do the talking, then. My name is Louis Duval. I am an artist and I have lived in Pont-Aven for several years.’
Vauclin looked up again. ‘I know. The mayor has one of your paintings in his office. The one of the standing stones.’
‘That’s so.’ Duval shaded his eyes to study the view of the river better as it raced and tumbled down towards the town. He had painted it many times, but not from this precise vantage point. ‘He tells me that you admire General de Gaulle.’
‘Certainly. He will be the saviour of France. The Free French forces will return one day to liberate us, you may depend on that.’
‘The English may have to lend a hand, perhaps.’
‘Of course. They stand alone now against the Nazis. We will need their help. And their island as a vantage point.’
‘Still, they have sunk our fleet . . . Not so good, eh?’
‘It was necessary. The General himself will agree, I’m sure. If not, our warships would have been commandeered and used by the Germans. They could not be trusted to keep their word.’
‘Does your wife feel the same?’
‘Certainly. Marthe thinks like I do. In every way.’
‘So we must help the English – if only to help us. Would you be willing to do that?’
‘I wish I could, but I’m a sick man, as you see. Quite useless.’
Duval turned his head away from the view. He looked at Vauclin. ‘On the contrary, my friend, I think you could be very useful indeed. You were a commercial traveller, isn’t that so? You know people all over Brittany. People that you could ask to keep their eyes and ears open and report what they learn about the activities of the Germans.’
Vauclin said, ‘Some of them might be willing – some not. It would be very risky.’
‘You could perhaps find out?’
He shook his head. ‘You don’t understand, monsieur. It would be impossible for me to travel any more – my health is too bad. I can barely walk up the stairs. My spirit is willing, but my flesh is too weak.’
Duval nodded. ‘I understand, my friend. And I am sorry to have troubled you.’ He stood up. ‘Well, I shan’t keep you from your work any longer.’
‘A moment, monsieur.’ Vauclin looked up at him. ‘As I said, I myself could not go, but my wife, Marthe, could. I still have a great many lace samples, all kept safe in boxes. It would be easy for her to pass herself off as a traveller. She could call on the people I used to visit, find out everything she can and see who would be brave enough to help.’
‘She would do that?’
‘Of course. I told you. She and I think the same. We are as one.’
‘And you would be willing for her to go – to take the risk?’
‘That will be her decision. She has gone to the market but when she learns that you were here she will want to know why and when I tell her – as I must because we never hide anything from each other – I don’t believe that anything will stop her. She could take the horse and cart and follow my old route.’ Vauclin smiled. ‘Perhaps you have come to the right place, after all.’
The Wren put her head round the door. ‘Lieutenant Reeves is here to see you, sir.’
Powell said, ‘Thank you. Send him in.’
The lieutenant came straight to the point. ‘I thought you’d like to know, sir, that the Admiralty orders we received have been followed to the letter. We’ve impounded every French vessel that has taken refuge in the port and their crews have been put ashore.’
‘We can’t be very popular with them at the moment.’
‘Not exactly,’ Reeves agreed. ‘But it’s left us with some rather handy boats. Several very useful tugs and, even better, a couple of brand new MTBs. They were actually built over here at Hythe for the French Navy. The Free French naval chaps have their covetous eyes on them, unfortunately, and so have our Coastal Forces. I just wondered if you might like to declare an interest, as it were.’
‘I appreciate the thought, Lieutenant. Thank you.’
Lieutenant Reeves’s brief from London, Powell knew, had been to make himself as helpful as possible to the organization – to smooth paths, provide ways and means, to solve problems. They were to operate independently from de Gaulle’s Deuxième Bureau, while maintaining a cordial relationship so that their French personnel could be pinched, if necessary. The prospect of getting his hands on two high-speed surface vessels that could cross the Channel overnight was certainly appealing, even if it upset the cordiality somewhat. Sardine fishing boats, and the like, had their advantages but there were also big snags, the main one being that they were desperately slow. Another drawback, to his way of thinking, was the use of Breton fishing crews. Their courage was not in question, but their discipline was. They could do as they pleased with impunity – get drunk, fall asleep, go off when they felt like it – and since they didn’t officially come under naval control, there wasn’t much that could be done about it.
The lieutenant said, ‘How’s Duval shaping up, sir?’
‘Early days. We’ll have to wait and see.’
‘I was rather impressed by him actually, sir. The old boy at Mrs Hillyard’s place has been keeping a close watch on him, by the way.’
‘What old boy?’
‘I must have forgotten to mention him. Rear Admiral Foster. He’s out to grass officially but he worked with Naval Intelligence in his day. We’ve sent one or two odds and sods to stay at the Bellevue who just turned up out of the blue – same sort as Duval. People we’re not too sure of and want to keep an eye on while we find out more about them. Poles, Czechs, Belgians . . . all the ragtag and bobtail.’
He frowned. ‘Doesn’t Mrs Hillyard mind your sending those sort of people to her?’
‘They’re just lodgers to her. We don’t tell her anything else and we do ask her very nicely. Our tame rear admiral gives them the once-over, watches them, listens to them, takes a peek in their rooms, that sort of thing. He’s a very quiet, retiring sort of chap but he doesn’t miss a trick, I can tell you. Warned us off one of the Poles – quite rightly.’
Powell thought of his pointless search of the room which, presumably, would already have been thoroughly gone over. ‘I see. And what does he make of Louis Duval?’
‘He thinks he’s all right.’
He said grimly, ‘That’s a comfort.’
The lieutenant grinned. ‘Actually, we have a file on Mrs Hillyard, too. Did a spot of checking up just to make sure that she was in the clear. Can’t be too careful these days. Would you like to see it, sir?’
‘Will you give Fifi her supper, Esme? There’s some fish in that saucepan ready for her.’
Big sigh. ‘I’ve just gone and got the eggs.’
‘Well, now you can do this for me, please. I’m rather busy at the moment and she’s waiting very patiently to be fed.’
Another big sigh. ‘Oh, all right.’
Barbara watched the child out of the corner of her eye as she plonked the cooked fish into the tin dish and banged it down for the cat. ‘You could give her a brush when she’s finished, if you like. It would do her coat good.’
‘I don’t want to. She’s still got that horrid place on her neck.’
‘It’s getting much better. It’ll be gone soon.’
‘I still don’t want to.’ Esme hauled herself up on a kitchen stool and sat slouched over and kicking her heels against the legs. Kick, kick. Kick, kick. ‘When’s Mum going to come and get me?’
The same question was asked repeatedly and Barbara always gave the same answer. ‘As soon as she’s sure it’s safe.’
‘The others went back when their mum came for them.’
‘Well, it really would have been better if they’d stayed. The Germans have started to drop bombs over here. They could easily bomb London.’
Kick, kick. ‘I wouldn’t care if they did.’
‘Don’t be so silly, of course you would. Your mother doesn’t want you to be in danger, and nor would your father.’
‘Dad doesn’t know anything about it – he’s away at sea all the time.’
‘That doesn’t mean he wouldn’t want you to be somewhere safe. Why don’t you write him a letter? Tell him all your news?’
‘I haven’t got any. And there’s not much point writing if he’s at sea, is there?’
‘Yes, there is. My brother is in the Navy and I write to him all the time. The letters always reach them eventually.’
‘Dad’s probably forgotten all about me.’
‘He’d never do that, Esme.’
‘Well, Mum has, hasn’t she?’
‘No, of course she hasn’t.’
At supper Mrs Lamprey lamented the absence of Monsieur Duval.
‘Such an interesting man. Will he be back soon, do you think, Mrs Hillyard?’
It was a day for being asked questions she couldn’t answer. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know.’
‘He’s in London, you say?’
‘Yes, that’s what he told me. Some liaison work – for the Free French forces there.’
‘It must have been dreadful for them to have to abandon their country. The French did their best, don’t you think, Rear Admiral?’
As always, the rear admiral agreed with her politely. If he ever held different views – and Barbara suspected that he quite often did – they were never expressed. Miss Tindall, as a relative newcomer, knew her place and rarely offered opinions.
Later on, Barbara went upstairs to Monsieur Duval’s room to check once again that everything was in order – clean towels ready for him, clean sheets on the bed, the furniture dust-free. She had aired the room daily but there was still a smell of oil paints and, very faintly too, the smell of the cigarettes he smoked. Not that she minded either of those things. There was an open packet of Gauloises, lying crumpled on the bedside table, and she picked it up and breathed in the foreignness of the tobacco. Then, for a while, she stood at the window, looking at the sea and at the sun going down, thinking of the Frenchman.
After visiting Vauclin, Duval had gone in search of the other three men named by Maurice Masseron. Paul Leblond, a shoemender, and Jacques Thomine, a greengrocer, proved very willing to help. The third, Robert Comby, had also been willing but he had wanted to know how much he would be paid. ‘Nothing whatever, my friend,’ Duval had told him, striking him from the list. Those who demanded payment were, in his view, those who could never be trusted. In the morning, he returned to the mairie, as arranged, and Masseron gave him copies of all the permits and papers that he had been able to lay his hands on.
He went straight from the mairie to his studio to wait for Major Winter. To occupy himself he did a pencil sketch, from memory, of the garden at Bellevue – the shrubs and the ferns and the roses, the palm tree and the wrought-iron bench. He added the figure of Madame Hillyard, putting her at one end of the seat with a flower basket on her lap. He spent some time trying to recapture her just as she had appeared to him that day – seated on the edge, head half-turned away, as though poised for flight. He was putting the finishing touches to the sketch when, at last, the major knocked at the door.
‘I am pleased to say that I have been able to obtain an Ausweis for you, monsieur, as well as the military exemption papers and the driving permit. All is in order now and there should be no difficulty for you travelling in France in future. So far, I have had no success with the gasoline coupons but I will continue to try.’
‘I am obliged.’
‘And here is your identity card as well, safely returned.’
When it came to returning things, the Wehrmacht were a definite improvement on the Royal Navy. Duval said pleasantly, far more pleasantly than at their last meeting, ‘A glass of your cognac, Major?’
The offer was accepted, the glasses raised politely to good health. The major noticed the sketch on the table and picked it up. ‘Where is this?’
He shrugged. It had been careless to leave it there. ‘Nowhere particular. I imagined it.’
‘Strange . . . if it were not for the palm tree, it might almost be England.’
‘You think so?’
‘Oh yes. I know England rather well. My maternal grandmother was English and I spent several summer holidays in Kent as a child.’
Duval said drily, ‘Perhaps you plan to spend more time there soon?’
The major smiled. ‘Who knows? It would certainly be very pleasant to see the countryside again. My grandmother had a beautiful garden – and with a seat exactly the same. That is why it reminded me of England. Have you also been there?’
‘I did some painting in Cornwall years ago – it’s very similar to Brittany.’
‘So I understand. I have never been in that part of the country myself – always the south-east.’ The major was still studying the sketch. ‘And the charming lady – does she also exist only in your imagination?’
‘No, she is real.’
‘She also looks English – the clothes, the hair, the flat basket made for carrying flowers. My grandmother had such a basket to gather roses.’
He saw no point in denying it. ‘Yes, she’s English. Someone I met once. For some reason, I was remembering her.’
‘I have always admired the English – not just because of my grandmother. It is a great pity that we must now fight them. In that respect it is fortunate that my grandmother is dead. It would have grieved her very much.’
‘And does your admiration also extend to the French?’
‘Of course, I admire a great deal about your country – your culture, your ancient history, your beautiful language, your cuisine . . .’
‘But not our politicians. Or our soldiers.’
‘Some of them, it has to be said, are a disappointment. It’s difficult to have respect.’
‘You’re not the only one to feel so, Major.’ Duval removed the sketch from the table. ‘I am grateful to you for your help. If there is any one of my paintings that you would like to have, please take it.’ What he would never have sold, he was prepared to give. The major must be cultivated as much as possible.
‘That’s extremely generous of you. I should be delighted to possess such a treasure.’
He indicated the canvases stacked against the walls. ‘Choose whichever you prefer.’ While the German went through them, he smoked a cigarette and drank the cognac, taking a surreptitious glance at his watch. There was less than half an hour before the curfew. All the fishing boats would have returned to port at sunset. The Espérance, if she were still there, could not sail until the morning, but he should be on board before and ready to go with her at first light. At last, the major reached a decision.
‘This I should like very much – if I may be permitted?’
It was one of his own favourites – a small landscape of the Aven river with two thatched-roof cottages in the background. He would be very sorry to part with it. Especially to the enemy.
‘But of course.’
‘I thank you. I shall have it framed and on my next leave I shall take it to my home in Dresden to hang on the wall in a place of honour.’ The major finished his cognac. ‘Well, I hope to have the pleasure of meeting with you again. Will you be remaining in Pont-Aven for a while now?’
‘I’m not sure. I am always in search of interesting subjects to paint and the hunt can take me anywhere at any time. I act on impulse.’
‘I understand. And now that your papers are in order, there should be no problem for you. Please let me know if there is anything else that I can do for you.’
‘There is just one thing, Major. If I am away, I should be obliged if you would see to it that Mademoiselle Citron does not billet any of your people in my apartment.’
‘Have no fear. I assure you that she will not.’
When the major had left, he looked at the sketch once again before he tore it into small pieces.
He waited another ten minutes before leaving. The documents were stowed away in his pockets, a newspaper that he had bought earlier tucked under his arm. The fishing boats were in, the light fading fast and the quayside deserted except for a Wehrmacht soldier who addressed him in clumsy French. ‘A pleasant evening, sir.’ He nodded curtly and walked on. The Espérance was still there, tied up at the far end. He lit a cigarette and stood around for a while smoking until the German had moved off in the other direction. Then he went aboard. Lieutenant Smythson was triumphant. The port Administrator had been more than helpful. He had provided them with a quantity of blank crew and customs clearance forms, already stamped and signed, which they could fill in and retain for future use. ‘How did you get on, sir?’
‘Not so bad.’ He felt very tired. The lieutenant had the boundless energy and enthusiasm of youth – something that he had lost long ago.
‘It’s a good thing you came back now, sir. I couldn’t have waited any longer. Our three chaps were drinking themselves silly in the bistros and talking their heads off, and everyone was wondering why the engine wasn’t fixed yet and wanting to help. Then some bossy little port gendarme turned up here earlier, asking to see our papers – damn lucky we had them by then. Nasty piece of work. I told him that we were leaving first thing in the morning. By the way, one of our crew’s decided to stay here. Daniel says he wants to go off and see his girlfriend.’ Smythson raised his eyebrows comically. ‘He says he misses her too much.’
He changed into his Breton fisherman’s clothes and lay down on a bunk. They’d drunk all the Algerian wine – waiting around for him, they explained apologetically – and there was nothing to eat but the tinned meat and biscuits. Not that he cared. He smoked another cigarette, thinking about what he’d achieved. Not such a lot, perhaps, but it was a start. And he thought he could see the way forward.
At dawn the Espérance sailed for England.
‘Lieutenant Reeves left this for you, sir.’ The Wren laid the file on the edge of his desk. ‘He said you’d requested it.’
‘Thank you.’ Powell waited until she had left the room before drawing the buff-coloured folder towards him and opening it. There was only one sheet of paper inside – the information it contained very basic, but all of interest to him. Barbara Ann Sutcliffe had been born in Croydon on 12April 1906. Her parents were British – her father an accountant by profession. Both parents were now deceased. She had attended Croydon High School and left at sixteen to take a domestic science course at a college in Eastbourne. Afterwards she had worked as a receptionist at the Grand Hotel, Eastbourne. In 1928she had married Noel Hillyard, a dentist with a practice in Eastbourne. He had died of an aneurysm in 1931.In 1932she had sold their home there and bought the property, Bellevue, in Kingswear which she ran as a lodging house. Her brother, Frederick John Sutcliffe, had been born in 1915. He had joined the Royal Navy four years before the outbreak of war and was now serving as a lieutenant on a destroyer. There was nothing whatever in Barbara Hillyard’s past to indicate any connection or sympathy with the Nazi party in Germany – he would have been astonished if there had been. And she was a widow.