The skilled player memorizes and uses the classic sequences of the games of masters.
Tuesday, October 15th
Bordeaux occupies a special semantic importance in the minds of all Frenchmen (as Munich does to Britons). In 1871, in 1914 and in 1940 Bordeaux was the city to which the French Government fled, yelling ‘Stand firm!’ over their shoulder. Each large hotel knew the influx of folding chairs and filing cabinets, typewriters and armed sentries. As I drove past them I remembered June 1940; Bordeaux was the halfway house between Verdun and Vichy.
I pressed the accelerator; at this stage of the game, speed had acquired an importance. I moved the Mercedes Benz 220 SE through the gear box. The steering was sensitive at high speeds and the hydraulic damper on it made the controls quietly accurate. Most of the traffic was slow stuff setting out from Bordeaux and after half an hour the road was mine. I kept the speedometer at 150 kph for long stretches and told myself over and over it wasn’t a morning wasted.
I passed the Casino on Hendaye-plage and eased down the Boulevard de la Mer as unobtrusively as I knew how. I bumped up the kerb and parked in the exact position I had been before. Vulkan’s Cadillac Eldorado was in the same position too. There was no sign of movement anywhere even at 10.40 A.M. I pushed open the front door. From the kitchen there was the noise of a kettle being filled. I went up to my room. The ‘Do not disturb’ notice was still on the door-knob. I turned the key and pushed the door gently open, standing a little behind the door-frame. I went through everything they taught me at Guildford but there was no need – Vulkan was still miles away. I poured myself a stiff whisky from a bottle in my case. I set the alarm mechanism on my wristwatch for dinner time and went to bed. There was nothing more I could do for the time being. It was just a matter of letting matters simmer. When something came to the boil I would hear the rising steam.