Those in Peril (14 page)

‘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?'