Assignment in Brittany (36 page)

“And just where would he learn your handwriting?” Sharkface asked caustically.

“Only one place possible. The poem proves that. I had it written down in my diary. I was working over the last couplet. He has copied it down the old way.” Hearne quoted the lines:

“Your tresses fair, like the sun’s gold at setting,

Bring me sweet shelter, languorous forgetting.

I was changing that to:

Your golden hair, like the sun’s rich setting,

Brings me sweet peace and deep forgetting.

But he couldn’t guess that...” The injured poet threw the sheet of paper contemptuously on the table.

The Germans exchanged amused glances. Good, thought Hearne: the more of a fool they think me, the more chance I have.

“And just where would this man find this interesting diary?” Sharkface prided himself, it seemed, on heavy sarcasm.

“I don’t know... The last time I saw it was before Dunkirk. I lost everything there.”

“Do I understand you mean to say—” began Sharkface with bogus politeness.

“I mean what I say,” cut in Hearne angrily. “Enough of this foolishness. We are obviously in danger.”

Sharkface turned a dull red. He leaned forward, opening his mouth to shout.

“One moment.” It was the captain. “Who is the man Lassare?”

“There was a man of that name in my unit,” Hearne guessed wildly. It did well enough to fill the gap at the moment. But only for the moment.

“We shall find that out,” Captain Holz said, and settled calmly back in his chair. Sharkface made a note on the pad in front of him.

“In my opinion, all form of oral investigation is useless.” It was Razorpuss again. He was a man of one idea, it seemed. Hearne could make a good guess at that idea, too, looking at the tight eyes and spade-cut mouth, the sleek hair, sloping brow, and high, thin nose.

“There’s still one thing, gentlemen,” Elise said slowly—but her voice had lost something of its confidence. Gentlemen... Hearne smothered his smile before it reached his lips. He looked reproachfully at Elise, in as good an imitation of a hurt
dog as he could manage. She moved quickly over to the door which led into the bar.

“Hans!” she called, and there was the sound of footsteps. Several footsteps. So that was it, so that was it. Hearne felt a surge of excitement as his fears over this last test gave way to relief. So that was it! The real Corlay knew Hans, the false Corlay didn’t. At least, that was what Elise believed.

Three men followed each other through the narrow door, and stood there in a group. All wore ordinary lounge suits. All looked at Hearne with the same blank look. He let recognition come into his eyes as they fell on the dark young man who had been Deichgräber’s dinner companion in Pléhec’s restaurant, who had walked on the ramparts of Mont Saint-Michel with Elise.

“Well, Hans,” he said, “and so you’ve got back from Paris. Had a nice trip?” His voice was acid. He glanced at Elise. There was veiled jealousy in that look. And then he turned on Hans.

“You wouldn’t know, would you, my dear Hans, about a letter supposed to have been written by me?” His tone was vitriol itself.

The attack took the Nazi by surprise. Then his face reddened with anger and he came quickly forward into the room. Elise was sitting quite still on the edge of the desk.

The underlying suggestion had not been lost on Captain Holz. He rose abruptly to his feet, marked distaste in every movement. “Enough!” he said in German, and he did not add “gentlemen.” “Enough! This is developing into a servants’ brawl.”

There was a cold silence. The others hadn’t liked that: Elise least of all.

Holz spoke again. “Have your men, Captain Ehrlich, been detailed to search the farm?”

Ehrlich answered, “They have not yet returned with their report, Captain Holz.”

Holz nodded thoughtfully. “We must find this Lassarre. What was that postmark?”

“Bordeaux.” Elise’s voice was toneless. She didn’t look at Hearne. He was thinking. Bordeaux was a big place. At least, he had some kind of breathing space until Lassarre was found. Even allowing for the Gestapo’s loving care, there was still that breathing space. As long as there was no wall behind your back and no firing squad facing you, there was still a chance. It wasn’t hopeless yet.

The men had risen.

“Elise,” Hearne said in desperation. “Elise. What has happened to you?” But he was damned if he was going to fall on his knees and plead with her as the emotional Corlay probably would have done.

Her eyes wavered, and then she walked to the window. She had made her decision.

“Take him away now,” she said. So she was clever enough to know that she had lost his loyalty. Whether he was found guilty or innocent, she couldn’t command his blind obedience after this. “At once,” she added over her shoulder, as if she were ordering a table to be cleared of soiled dishes. Her profile against the light from the window was as perfect as she probably hoped.

Razorpuss motioned with the fingers he had examined so thoroughly. The two men beside Ehrlich advanced, grasped Hearne by each arm, and propelled him towards the screen and the restaurant door. Behind them came the man with the razor-face. He had drawn his revolver. They were taking no chances,
it seemed. Hearne relaxed, and walked easily. He wasn’t going to give them the slightest excuse.

In this way they left the hotel.

There were silent groups of people in the square. The news must have travelled fast. Under one tree Kerénor was standing, and with him was a girl whose soft, fair hair gleamed in the sunlight striking through the thin branches. They stopped talking as Hearne was marched past. He didn’t look at them. But he knew they were still watching him as he was led into the group of buildings on the opposite side of the market-place to the hotel. As he ascended the steps of the little town hall a Nazi flag swung confidently overhead.

Inside, there was a large, desolate room with a few rows of cane chairs facing an empty platform. The table on the platform had been decorated. At one end there was the tricolour, at the other the arms of Brittany—the black cross and ermine fringe on silver—and in the middle, separating and dominating in ironical symbolism, was a giant swastika. There was a doorway beside the platform. This was where he was to be taken.

The doorway led to a dark, narrow corridor, and in turn the corridor led to a flight of wooden stairs, circling down into the basement of the building. The stairs ended in the largest room of them all. It was the central cellar, and the darkest. Round its flanks were small, box-like storerooms. The only light streamed through their opened doors, from their small windows set almost at roof level.

Hearne stumbled over a pile of papers in the darkness of the central room, and was encouraged by a kick to keep his footing. It seemed as if the smaller rooms had all been cleared out. There wasn’t even a stick of furniture in them now. But
the floor of the central room was littered with piles of books and ledgers and papers. As his eyes grew accustomed to the half-shadows he could also see the dark shape of a table and two benches. More papers were stacked on the table. The archives of Saint-Déodat were in process of examination, it would seem.

They had halted him at the entrance to one of the small rooms. The smell of dampness and stale air hung round him. After the warmth of the sun in the market-place, the chill of the basement struck at his bones. He shivered in spite of himself. So this was to be his lodging. The ground certainly looked cold enough. Two kicks confirmed his guess. He picked himself slowly up from the middle of the floor. There was no hurry: there were plenty more where those had come from. He turned to face the three men standing at the doorway of the small cellar. Behind him the small, high window half lighted the room. Outside there was sunlight. He heard the clear voices of children, raised in the excitement of some game.

The man with the tight eyes and spade-cut mouth nodded. the heavy oak door was closed. It shut with a deep thud, almost blotting out the hard voice.

“Now,” the man was saying, “now we might get the truth.”

No use in backing away, thought Hearne: it would only be worse if they were to get him up against the stone wall. He stood in the middle of the floor and watched the three men advancing.

When Hearne regained consciousness, the half-light from the small, high window had faded. It was almost dark in the improvised cell. He lay for some minutes on the stone floor. When he tried to raise himself it was too unpleasant. He gave up; and lay as he had fallen. He didn’t even think. He felt better after the second spasm of vomiting.

At the end of half an hour or so he tried again. This time he managed to stagger to the wall. Why should he try to stand, anyway, he suddenly thought, and let himself fall and slide to the ground. Why should he even sit? He wanted to laugh at himself for his subconscious attempt to assert the natural dignity of man. There wasn’t much natural dignity left after three men had kicked the daylight out of you. He lay on the floor, watching the fading light. He felt the crusts of blood on his face with his left hand, and he thought of Anne. He remembered her dismay when the razor-cut had opened afresh... He began a smile, but his jaw wouldn’t let him finish it.

Well, his face wasn’t too bad. Not too bad, considering. It wouldn’t look exactly pretty, but at least it still felt recognisable in parts. His left hand went slowly over the rest of his body. Right collar-bone gone. Well, he could have got that in a Rugger scrum any day. Probably something wrong with a rib, too. He felt the sore spot gently...yes, probably a rib. The rest was bruises, and probably a kidney afloat. If ever he reached middle age, he’d find out. He could feel the differences in the consistency of his flesh even under his clothes. Legs were all right, though. Bruised and scraped, but no bones broken. And they were the most important for him. Without his legs he could never reach the coast.

He lay and looked at the window. The bars were hardly needed. It was at least ten feet from the ground, built into a smooth stone wall. No footholds, no reach. And not a piece of furniture in the room to climb on. From somewhere in the large
central cellar outside he heard a movement. He felt his muscles tighten, and sickness once more strike his stomach.

But no one came in.

He relaxed again, and wiped the cold sweat from his brow. They weren’t coming back yet. Not yet.

He licked his dry lips and moved his throbbing jaw on to the coldness of the floor.

The trouble with him was that he didn’t enjoy triumphing over pain. The trouble with him was that he wasn’t a natural hero. He hadn’t given Razorpuss any satisfaction so far, in the way of information, but after the first ten minutes he had grunted and groaned enough. He grimaced as much as his face would let him, at the thought of that last yelp they had wrung out of him. Not very pretty, he decided: not the way you like to think of yourself behaving. Indian braves did it better. At the stake they laughed and mocked. The worse the torture, the louder they laughed. But they didn’t keep silent either, he added as an after-thought: no, they didn’t keep silent. Well, he could try laughing, too. Perhaps if he used up all the air in his lungs that way, he wouldn’t have any left to talk with.

When he was kicked awake, it was quite dark. The full moon’s light shunned the cellar. But they had brought out-size electric torches as well as rubber clubs. Ehrlich was there, too, and the man with the shark’s mouth. This time Hearne didn’t try to fight back. He let himself pass out as quickly as he could. As after-dinner entertainment, it must have been disappointing.

When he revived there was light again from the window, the cold grey light of a morning still being born.

There was a lot of blood on the floor.

After lying staring at it for some minutes, he realised it must be his own blood. His right arm was more useless than ever, but his left could still move. Slowly this time; but still move. He held it painfully up in front of his half-closed eyes, and moved its fingers one by one. And then the wrist, and then the elbow. Yes, the left arm was still all right, and so was the left shoulder. Back was bruised, thighs probably blue and purple by their feeling, leg bones still unbroken. Slowly he made his inventory, slowly took comfort. It might be worse. He didn’t let himself think long that it
would
be worse. No good thinking about that. He lay and tried to will his strength back into his bones and muscles. No good, either, in just lying still. He had been wrong yesterday when he thought he would just lie on the floor. That way, he wouldn’t ever get out of here until he was walked to a firing squad.

He raised himself on his left elbow, and rested. Then slowly on to his knees, and rested. Then, by holding on to the wall, he was on his feet. After a pause he felt his way along the wall. It was a slow job, but, just as he had hoped, his body obeyed his mind. He could move. He could stand upright—almost. He would walk round the four walls of the room before he would let himself sit down.

“You are not the only one,” he said to himself. “At this moment, in Europe, you are not the only man forcing himself to walk round a cell. Not by a long chalk. So drop all your self-pity. You are lucky compared to some.”

As he almost reached the window there was a slight sound above his head. A sound almost like a crack. And there was a small white ball on the floor behind him. He glanced up at
the window. In one of its small panes there was the smallest puncture. Catapult-shot, he judged, and turned uncertainly to retrace his steps. This time he didn’t hold on to the wall with his arm. When at last he reached the little wad of paper wrapped round the pellet, he didn’t know whether he was more pleased at feeling it hidden in his hand, or at having walked by himself without any wall to prop him up. He lay on the floor, his back to the door, and unwrapped the scrap of paper.

“One more day. Courage.”

That was all it said. One more day. One more day.

God, he suddenly thought, at least I’ve got friends: at least I’m not alone.