NINE

MARANS

The Simca stood in wind-blown isolation on the Quai des Fusiliers Marins. Duncan leant on a time-worn bollard, watching an old lady in black, her head bent against the Atlantic wind, trudging, a Gaz cylinder behind her. She scarcely noticed the Englishman as she plodded homewards.

The small corner café by the bridge looked promising and he entered to a blast of warm, Gitane-filled air. Heads bobbed in all directions to look at the foreigner as he ordered a cup of coffee in only passable French. He took a seat by two men who were enjoying a mid-afternoon glass of wine.

As he waited for his coffee, he tried to eavesdrop but they spoke too quickly and with a strong accent. They were typical Bretons: heavy pullovers, denims and boots; parched, stubbled cheeks and watery blue eyes. The café was busy with people having something better to do than work. The inevitable football table was in use but the T.V. screen stared down blankly.

There was a lull in the conversation at the next table. He eased his way into their afternoon by commenting in halting French on the view from the bridge. This led to a partly understood description of the town. The men had been fishermen but now ran a stall in Les Halles. They had given up the sea because of the French Government, who were regarded as Parisien bastards.

Gently Duncan steered the conversation. “There’s a bit of a traffic problem,” he commented. The two men understood his French and looked at each other, signifying that they’d said the same thing themselves. Yes, it was the main road from Bordeaux to Nantes—some lorries even went right through to England.

“Do any locals deliver to England?”

“Jean Louis Bechaud,” one of the men said after a pause.

“Oh yes!” Duncan commented. “Would I have seen one of his lorries near Vannes in Brittany? A red Volvo, with a white Trailer.” It was a shot in the dark.

“Probably. That would be the quickest route from here to Roscoff, to the Plymouth ferry.”

“I’ll order drinks and we’ll toast the Common Market,” Duncan promised. He was delighted. He had been worried that he might lose the lorry, when tailing it through Nantes but now he knew that the most likely route was the one which he had selected from the map.

“Marans seems a funny place to run an international business,” Duncan laughed.

“Yes, apparently the Company moved here from La Rochelle to cut down the driving time to the Channel. I don’t know why,” the man shrugged. It was a small point but could be interesting. Duncan thought that he knew why. After a little inconsequential chatter and a couple of toasts, Duncan waved his farewell. He decided to inspect the hauliers’ premises. They were unremarkable. Three lorries stood in the forecourt and to the rear was a large shed with its door closed. To the side was an expensive modern house, typical of the region, with a tile-hung roof and eyebrow windows. The yard overlooked an endless expanse of marshes. They were bleak, uninviting but ideal cover for a bit of spying tomorrow.

He asked himself how he could find out if Bouchin would be driving the lorry. It was a problem which had to be resolved quickly. He knew the lorry was booked on the ferry. It was the identity of the driver which was important. It was a depressing problem but Marans in January had never warmed a cheering thought in living memory. He put his foot down and headed for La Rochelle. He hoped it was as good as its reputation.