Two

 

In London the newspapers indicated fighting was continuing and that the situation in France was serious. But there was no suggestion of an imminent catastrophe. People were still going about their business normally, their faces grave as they studied the headlines. But they were far from disturbed because only a few were aware of the proportions of the disaster.

Slamming the door of his Whitehall office behind him, Pullinger tossed his hat at the coat stand, missed and watched it fall to the floor. He made no attempt to pick it up, knowing that Almira Hannah would be in within seconds. When she appeared she picked up the hat without comment and hung it on the appropriate peg.

‘Anything happening?’ Pullinger asked.

‘Only if you call the Germans wiping the floor with the BEF anything.’

He studied her. She was a very attractive woman in a crisp blouse and skirt. She always looked cool and was never panicked into rushing anything. He wondered if he should ask her to marry him. They had been enjoying weekends together for months and it was about time he made her an honest woman. After all it was wartime and wartime was when you did that sort of thing.

‘We seem to be getting them out by sea,’ he commented.

‘Without their guns.’

‘Unfortunately.’

‘There’s one other thing. A message from Woodyatt. He seems to have found our man.’

Pullinger sat down, lit a cigarette and looked up. ‘Where?’

‘Where we thought. In Metz. But he’s gone to Paris and Woodyatt’s after him. It’s just a “stand-by” message. It came from headquarters.’

‘Better send him one back then.’

‘I’ve also turned up someone who knew Redmond. As recently as 1936. He was a near neighbour in Dresden – a Jew who fled to England and started up a small business in Gateshead. Part of that scheme to build factories and let them at peppercorn rents. The idea originally was simply to help depressed areas but it’s coming in very useful now. Some of them are doing very well, and in view of the fact that the BEF’s coming back without its weapons, perhaps we’re going to be glad of people like him. His name’s Joachim Ketscher. Calls himself John Kess. He says he’ll be glad to help us.’

Pullinger sat very still for a moment, his face expressionless then he came to life abruptly.

‘Instruct Woodyatt to bring Redmond home at once.’

 

Because they had left Dreuil in a hurry, Dominique needed to do some essential shopping. But the street outside kept filling up with men from the broken regiments to the East. They appeared in ones and twos and small groups, gritty dust in the lines on their faces, dirty and unshaven and for the most part without rifles. They were hungry and begging for food; some were even trying to bully the nearby bars to give them wine. Some of them had removed their boots to show their blisters and among them were some wounded men who sat on the edge of the pavement, feet in the gutter, complaining bitterly that their officers had deserted them. One of them had had his sleeve slit open to allow his arm to be bandaged.

Dominique insisted on removing the filthy rags. Underneath was a dreadful gash.

‘Shell splinter,’ the wounded soldier said.

Sending Woodyatt to the nearest pharmacy, Dominique began to recruit the women who had appeared from neighbouring houses and apartments. Hot water arrived and sheets were torn up. Nobody questioned Dominique’s right to order them about. She knew what to do and they did what she told them without question. Eventually, someone contacted the police and soon afterwards lorries appeared and the men were collected and driven away. Dominique watched them go with tears in her eyes.

She decided to put off her shopping until the afternoon and they ate a light snack of ham, salad, bread and wine; then, in a determined, no-nonsense fashion, she collected her things for her shopping expedition. Afraid Montrouge might slip away in their absence, Woodyatt decided not to accompany her.

As the old man dozed in a chair, Woodyatt sat opposite him, studying him. Could this really be the infamous George Surtees Redmond? Was it possible? So far he’d given nothing away and Woodyatt had been unable to detect any of the things Darby had warned him about. Several times he had seemed to be on the point of disclosing something from his past but on every occasion he had recovered himself and Woodyatt had faced a blank wall again.

In the end, it was Woodyatt who dozed off in the heat and when he woke the old man was wide awake and staring at him over the top of a newspaper.

‘You are not much of a guard, young man,’ he said with a grim smile. ‘I could have plunged a carving knife into your heart while you slept.’

‘It wouldn’t have been a very good idea,’ Woodyatt said. ‘Dominique’s the sort of busybody who would have reported it at once.’

‘I suppose you’re right. But she’s a very attractive young woman, don’t you think? Are you interested in her?’

‘No.’

‘Frenchwomen make much better wives than those stuffy Englishwomen with their dogs and their pearls.’

‘You knew a few?’

‘One or two.’

‘You also know a lot about Redmond.’

‘A book came out in Germany at the time of his defection. It sold very well. The Germans liked to read things that proved what they had already decided – that England was decadent.’

‘Your Germans weren’t exactly models of purity themselves.’

The old man shrugged. ‘I suppose it was that East Prussian landscape. It made them a bit odd. Unbelievably flat and cold. Tatty towns teeming with Poles and Jews. Bored garrisons. The women became restless and the officers were ripe for mischief.’ Montrouge’s eye had a wary glint in it. ‘Berlin and Potsdam were very different, of course. There was a hothouse atmosphere in Berlin and hints about unsavoury practices in the group round the Kaiser. The entire cavalry was supposed to be riddled with it – even the horses. Important men were accused of pederasty.’

Montrouge smiled disconcertingly. ‘It all came out in a magazine article. There was a feeling that pacifists with strange morals were running the country’s affairs and it was high time to get rid of them. The military commandant of Berlin, a general at court, and the colonel of the Garde de Corps were dismissed from the service. There was even a big court case because one of them was stupid enough to bring a libel action. He lost it and the Kaiser used it as an excuse to purge the military of what he called “moral impurities”. It was quite farcical. You could see men shrinking before your very eyes. Especially when rankers were brought in to give evidence. Wilhelm replaced one man with another who dropped dead while dancing Swan Lake dressed in tights and tutu at a house party he was attending.’

‘Were you there?’

‘Half the Kaiser’s entourage was there. Wilhelm was terrified. He bolted so suddenly his train caused disruption on the railways for days.’

‘Why are you telling me all this?’

‘So you’ll know I was there. You seem to need convincing.’ Was the old man inviting him to believe he was Redmond or exactly the opposite? Woodyatt offered his cigarette case. Montrouge accepted graciously and Woodyatt couldn’t help feeling a touch of admiration for the way he remained so cool.

‘Wilhelm should have put a stop to it long before he did,’ Montrouge went on. ‘But he was insecure. Always unsure of himself, in spite of all that bombast. He was always imagining plots against him. So much so, people thought he suffered from hallucinations. He was known as William the Witless.’

‘Didn’t Redmond ever wonder why he’d bothered to change sides?’

Montrouge was silent for a while, as though staring back into the past and not much liking what he saw. ‘Perhaps he did wonder,’ he agreed. ‘Perhaps he did. It was a very disturbed period. It was perfect for diplomacy or for the operations of an astute Intelligence Service. The British could have detached Germany’s allies. But they were abysmal. They preferred to behave like gentlemen and look the other way.’

The old man seemed unable to stop talking. Was it because he had spent too many years containing his opinions or was it in the way of a diversion to head off dangerous questions?

‘Your opinion of the British in 1914 seems to agree with Redmond’s. What about their allies? The Russians, for instance.’

‘In those days everybody thought them mere sheep.’

‘What about the French? Do you dislike them, too?’

Montrouge gestured. ‘Look about you. What is there to make anyone like them?’

‘Is there anybody you believe in?’

‘I believe in myself,’ Montrouge snapped.

Woodyatt decided he hadn’t a scrap of charity in him anywhere. ‘I met Gerrit,’ he said abruptly, trying the name for size. ‘Field Marshal Gerrit.’

Montrouge’s interest was caught at once. ‘Is he still alive?’

‘Very much so. Did you know him?’

‘Of him.’

‘Ever meet him?’

‘Once or twice. I was a translator at a Franco-British staff conference. Nice man.’

‘He knew you well.’

‘I wouldn’t have thought he’d have noticed me – an unknown translator.’

‘I mean, when you were Redmond.’

‘I never was Redmond.’ The words were snapped out irritably. Woodyatt paused. ‘I also saw Varah,’ he said quietly.

The old man’s head jerked up. ‘Sir Horace Varah?’

‘You knew him, too? Were you in Burma?’

‘I never met him,’ Montrouge said coldly. ‘I knew of his part in the affair, of course. A stupid man. It all appeared in the French and German papers of the period. It caused as much fuss as the Dreyfus affair.’ Woodyatt felt that at last he had the old bastard uncomfortable and wriggling.

‘I also talked to Witkins,’ he said.

Montrouge eyed him warily. ‘Witkins? Who’s he?’

‘Medical officer. The man who caught Redmond in flagrante.’

Montrouge raised his eyebrows. ‘Was he? And the other man? Nicolson?’

‘You knew Nicolson, too?’

‘I never met any of them. I supposed all these people to be dead now.’

‘You’re not dead,’ Woodyatt countered.

‘No. I suppose they must have been about my age.’

‘Witkins is a brigadier now.’

‘He talked about the case to you?’

‘Quite a lot.’

‘I’m surprised any of them remember.’

‘You remember. Witkins knew all the facts. And not just the facts – the appearance, the habits, of Redmond.’

‘After all these years?’

Just as the interrogation seemed to be going well it was interrupted by the click of the door. As Dominique appeared, Woodyatt could almost feel the relief in the old man’s manner. He pulled himself out of the chair at once and, taking her parcels, laid them on the table, taking a long time to arrange them carefully.

‘Did you get everything you wanted?’

She nodded. She had also bought a newspaper which indicated the French were now hoping to organise a continuous front from the Somme to the Vosges.

‘Continuous front?’ Montrouge’s lip curled. ‘Do they think they can fight this war as they did in 1916?’

He picked up the newspaper. ‘The United States Ambassador,’ he observed, ‘claims they’ve taken General Giraud prisoner.’ He shrugged. ‘They always take Giraud prisoner. They did last time. Nothing changes.’

Woodyatt suggested they eat out and Montrouge smiled his approval.

‘There is a good restaurant on the corner,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I can recommend their veal in sherry. I don’t often get out to eat these days. I’m a prisoner up here, you see.’

They took their aperitifs at a little bar along the road, sitting on the pavement in the heat of the evening. Paris was still not panicking, though a lot of people had left. But spring had come like a green mist in the trees, and the public gardens were full of primroses, primulas and violets. Women wore bright dresses and chic hats. People were drinking champagne as if they felt there wouldn’t be many more opportunities, and all the bars and cafés seemed to have music. Outside one of them, Woodyatt ran into a Blenheim pilot and his observer who had been shot down and had slipped into Paris to try to find where their squadron had moved to. They weren’t talking, just staring into the middle distance and gnawing match-sticks. The pilot told Woodyatt that Blenheims were flying coffins and that his squadron had lost twenty-four complete crews since the fighting had started.

He had somehow acquired a London Evening News and when he left he handed it to Woodyatt. From it, England seemed strangely normal and at peace. The British troops in the North were now being pushed up to the coast and it looked as though they were about to face another difficult period of Anglo-French relations. The chief bone of contention was Churchill’s unwillingness to send more RAF fighters to France to save a situation that seemed to be already lost. The ill feeling had grown sharper as the BEF had begun to escape. The French had always been contemptuous of the British army. In Britain, people had been led to believe the BEF was a separate force and the British commander-in-chief a power in his own right. The French were only too well aware it was only a small portion of the whole and that the British commander didn’t even answer directly to the French leader.

The newspaper seemed to have little to offer beyond cricket scores and scandals, but it was a relief to read something other than French cynicism. The French papers had been claiming bitterly for days that they had been let down. But while they were claiming the British were saying ‘England first’, they were only too obviously echoing them with ‘La France d’abord’. Calais appeared to be lost and the corridor between the northern and southern armies was now a hundred miles wide. With the best will in the world, Woodyatt couldn’t see anyone plugging that gap.

The waiter was hovering nearby and Dominique settled for a sweet vermouth; Woodyatt for a whisky and water. He turned to Montrouge.

‘I’ll have a brandy,’ he said.

It seemed a strange drink to start a meal, but then the old man touched the waiter’s arm. ‘With Perrier water,’ he said. He looked at Woodyatt almost as if teasing him. ‘Brandy and soda. C’est bon pour les intestines.’

The talk around them concerned the new Prime Minister. Reynaud was being derided for wanting to continue the war, and the King of the Belgians was considered pro-Hitler. ‘It’s his German blood,’ a woman at a nearby table commented loudly.

‘Perhaps he thinks France will quit, too,’ her partner said. ‘Well, won’t we?’

The question brought silence. There were now two and a half million Belgian refugees and soldiers in France, and nobody knew how reliable they were. But a tremendous fight was being put up near Dunkirk, with the British and French navies working wonders. Woodyatt guessed his brother would be there and he listened for the answer.

It came slowly, doubtfully. ‘We will if we feel we must. That’s French democracy.’

The comment left Woodyatt in no mood to be friendly with either of his companions and it was Montrouge who kept the talk stuttering along.

‘I hear the government’s leaving Paris and going to Tours,’ he said. He seemed to be enjoying the alarm and confusion around him. ‘I shall go south.’

‘What will you do for money?’ Dominique asked.

‘I shall be all right. I have money in Switzerland. I also have money in France. Come to that, in England, too.’

‘Under what name?’ Woodyatt asked sarcastically.

‘That’s my business.’

‘And why England?’

The old man looked at him calmly. ‘In case you’ve not noticed, England is cut off from Europe by the Channel. I saw how things were shaping. I saw it long before the politicians grasped it.’

‘Perhaps in Germany you were well-placed to see what was coming,’ Woodyatt suggested.

‘Indeed.’ Montrouge’s smile was confident. ‘It could be said to have been an advantage.’

The restaurant owner’s wife, who had a son with the French army, was red-eyed with weeping and the woman at the next table was now talking of storing tinned meat, rusks and bottled fruit.

‘Good God,’ her companion said, ‘you don’t think there’s going to be a siege?’

When they returned to the flat, Montrouge announced he was going to bed. ‘I always retire early,’ he said and disappeared without saying goodnight. But they could hear him moving about in his room for a long time afterwards and Woodyatt wondered what the hell he was up to.

There were a few minutes silence. Alone together, Woodyatt and the girl were both uncomfortable.

‘I don’t think he’s the man you say he is,’ Dominique said.

‘Then why are you prepared to help me get him out of France?’

‘He needs help,’ she snapped. It seemed to worry her. ‘Must we go?’ she asked.

‘Unless you want to be here to welcome the Germans.’

‘He’ll never go.’

‘He might when he sees there’s no alternative.’

‘What will they do to him in England? Won’t he be punished?’

‘The police don’t close their files on murders. If he is Redmond and Redmond is von Rothügel – and I intend to find out – then he could have been involved with the loss of thousands of lives in the last war. British and French.’

‘But you have no proof.’

‘I’m hoping he’ll provide it.’

‘He’s always been kind to me.’

‘Nothing more? Your aunt: she left him, didn’t she? Have you ever wondered why? He claims it was incompatibility. What did she say?’

‘She said there were others in his life.’

‘What do you think she meant?’

‘Other women, I suppose.’

‘Did he ever make a pass at you.’

‘Don’t be silly. He’s an old man.’

‘You’re a beautiful woman.’ She blushed as he spoke. ‘If he made passes at other women, did you never wonder why he didn’t try it on with you?’

‘No.’

‘Did it never occur to you that the “others” your aunt referred to weren’t women?’

‘What else would they be?’

‘Men. Young men.’