Most Secret (43 page)

Dottin bent over him. “Cognac,” he said quietly in French. “Just a little, with water, in a glass.”

He felt better after that. An old man, whom he did not know, poured him a bowl of soup from a great pot that stood upon the hearth; Simon crouched down beside his chair and fed it to him with a spoon. “There is still an hour to go,” he said. “Stay quiet here, and rest.”

Rhodes drowsed a little, hot and tired. From time to time he opened his eyes; nothing was changed. He could see through the open door of the back room into the shop; it appeared to be a small general shop, with a few groceries, vegetables, and households goods upon the shelves. The old man was pottering about behind the counter.

Presently there were more people in the back room, and in the shop. There was a priest, Rhodes said, in a black soutane, as well as Simon and the doctor and the old fisherman who had brought him there. The doctor and the priest came into the back room and stood behind the door, screened from the shop.
Simon and Bozallec stood smoking in the shop, chatting to the old man behind the counter.

In a few minutes the bell at the shop door jangled, and the door opened and closed. A man came forward to the counter. He was a German petty officer in uniform; over his jumper he wore a short pea jacket, with a blue muffler round bis throat. There was an automatic pistol in a holster at his belt. He moved forward, and said something to the man behind the counter. From the back room Rhodes watched, tense and suddenly awake.

The old man stooped beneath the counter. “It is a special favour,” he said in Breton French. “I would not do this for every one. One hundred and fifty francs.” And furtively he showed a duck, plucked and dressed and ready for the oven.

The German said: “It is too much,” and leaned across the counter to pinch the breast. Rhodes saw Bozallec lift his right arm quickly and strike it down into the middle of the German’s back. There was a thumping, rending sound and the man spun round, fumbling at his holster. Then they were all on him and bore him down on to the floor. There was one stifled cry, and then nothing but the heavy breathing of men struggling upon the ground. And presently that ceased, and Simon and Bozallec got up, dusting their clothes. The German lay motionless upon the floor, face down, his scarf bound tightly round his face. It was only then Rhodes saw the handle of the knife.

The old man said: “Quickly. Into the back room, before he bleeds.”

They carried the body in and laid it down at Rhodes’s feet; be saw the old man with a bucket and swab cleaning the floor of the shop. Then the door was shut, and they began to strip the pea jacket and uniform from the German.

Simon said: “Come on, lad. Up you get, and get your things off.”

Presently Rhodes had German trousers on and German boots; the jumper, roughly wiped, was ready for him. Dottin, the doctor, opened his little case, filled his hypodermic carefully against the light, and gave him the injection. He wiped the puncture with a pad of wool. “So,” he said in heavily accented English. “Now you will be able to walk well.”

They wiped his face over with a cold wet towel, several times, and wiped his hands and his ears. Then, very carefully and gently, they inserted his wounded arm into the jumper, and
arranged the light blue, striped collar on his shoulders. And then they helped him into the pea jacket.

Dottin said: “I will go down and warn them to be ready for him with the boat.” He left the room.

Rhodes stared around him, seeing everything with a new clarity. There was a dead man at his feet, whose clothes he now was wearing. Simon was adjusting the scarf at his neck; his arm was throbbing painfully. He glanced down at the body. “What will you do with—that?” he asked.

Simon said: “Bozallec is going to look after him. I think he will stuff him down a sewer, probably.”

With every minute Rhodes could think more clearly. “I don’t like it,” he said uneasily. “These people here are running a most frightful risk for us. Everybody seems to be. If the Germans get to know of this they’ll all be in an awful jam.”

Simon stood before him, face to face. “Rhodes, pay attention to me now,” he said earnestly. “It all depends on you. These people, they have taken a great risk for you; you must not let them down. If you are caught and found to be an Englishman the Germans will make a search, and they will find this body, and these people will be shot and all their wives and little children will be shot also. That is what the Germans do, in a case like this. That is what these men have risked, so that you may go free.”

Rhodes drew a deep breath. “That passes the buck to me,” he said.

Simon nodded. “How are you feeling now?”

“I’m feeling pretty well all right.”

“Can you walk straight and steadily now, stepping out like a German?”

“I think I can. Tell me the way again.”

Simon said: “It is barely three hundred yards. When you go out of this door turn to the right,
that
way, and go straight down the street, down-hill towards the harbour. Remember that you are a German, that you walk stiff and erect. You must not stop, you must look around you; you are a German sailor upon duty. When you come out on the quay you will see steps immediately ahead of you, down to the water. Walk straight to them and down into the boat that will be waiting there. Sit down in the stern exactly in the middle, and sit up very straight and motionless as they row you off.”

“Very good, sir.”

Simon said: “If there is any trouble for you, we will make
explosions as I said. Pay no attention to them; walk straight on. A German upon duty is like that.”

The priest stepped forward from the background and spoke in French to Simon. Simon turned to Rhodes. “He wants to bless you,” he said quietly. “You must kneel down.” He took Rhodes by his arm and helped him down on to the floor.

The scene stayed etched deep in Rhodes’s memory. The dingy little room, the murdered German on the floor by him stripped and squalid in his underclothes, the Bretons standing by with inclined heads, the low words of Latin passing over him. The priest followed with a few sentences in French that Rhodes did not understand. Then Simon helped him to his feet.

Simon said in a low tone: “He said this. He asked that you should be taken safe to England through the dangers of the sea and the dangers of battle and the danger from the air, so that fire might come again, through you, against the Germans in France.”

Rhodes turned to the father. “Fire will come again,” he said, “whether I get back or I don’t. In England there are other chaps like me. But if I get back safely to my country I shall remember what you people have done for us, all my life.”

Simon translated; Father Augustine nodded, smiling gently at Rhodes. Then they led him out into the shop, now as neat and tidy as before. At the door into the street they paused and peered out through the lace curtain covering the half-window. “All is clear,” said Simon. “Turn to the right immediately you get out, and straight down to the quay. We shall meet in London.”

Rhodes opened the door, and stepped out into the market-place. A fair number of civilians were passing, and there were a number of German soldiers strolling about, newcomers to the town. He turned to the right, and began to walk down the narrow, cobbled street towards the harbour.

He went dizzily, desperately trying to control the movements of his limbs. Each step must be confident and firm—so. He must not look at the ground at his feet, but well ahead of him. He must hold himself straight—it was only three hundred yards. Only about two hundred and fifty now. Here was a raised kerb coming that he must step over without stumbling—that was a good one. Two hundred yards only, now. He was feeling sick. God, he must not be sick. He must walk straight, he must keep upright, he … must … not … be … sick.

Simon and Bozallec followed down the lane behind him, about
twenty yards behind. Now and again they saw him make a false step and sway a little; each time he pulled himself together and went on firmly. At half the distance Bozallec said: “He is doing well, that one. I did not think that he would do so well.”

Simon said: “I think he will succeed.”

They followed on behind, watching him as he went. There were eyes on him all down the narrow street, eyes that watched him from behind lace curtains, through the chinks of doors, from behind and from in front. Rhodes did not know it, but there were nearly fifty people watching each step that he made, praying for him each time he stumbled, cheered when he walked straight ahead down to the quay.

Simon and Bozallec, following behind, watchful, saw a German officer turn from the quay ahead and enter the lane, walking up to meet Rhodes. Barely fifty yards separated them. Bozallec said quickly: “That officer is clever. He will see.”

Simon drew a red bandana handkerchief from the trouser pocket of his blue serge trousers and flourished it before blowing his nose. Immediately from an alley by their side there was a sharp, cracking detonation. The officer ahead shot into a doorway, grasping the Luger at his belt. Another explosion followed a little way away, and then a third.

Simon and Bozallec broke into a run, dashed forward past Rhodes stumbling forward in a dream, and checked themselves in confusion opposite the officer. They turned, looking backwards up the street. Bozallec said to the officer, panting and excited: “An explosion,
Monsieur le Capitaine
. Truly, that was a bomb.”

Behind their backs, screening him from the German, Rhodes stumbled forward to the quay. “I know that, fool,” snarled the officer. “I know what a bomb sounds like. This is your treachery again; this town will pay for it.”

Rhodes was clear; they turned and ran ahead of him again down to the quay. A fourth explosion sounded up the street. They came out on to the quay, and met a crowd of French and Germans flocking to the entrance of the alley. Simon turned and pointed up the lane. “Up there,” he shouted. “Somebody has let bombs off, up there. The officer wants help!”

All eyes were on him; in the confusion Rhodes passed out of the lane on to the quay. The steps lay before him. He passed through the crowd unnoticed, walking steadily with a desperate concentration. He went straight down the steps. There was a boat waiting at the bottom with men ready at the oars.

A hand steadied him as he got into the boat, as he sat down at the stern. “Sit stiff and upright—so,” a voice whispered. “That is the way they sit in boats, those swine.”

They pushed off, and rowed out into the harbour to the black sardine-boat lying at the mooring.

On the quay the tumult soon died down. Bozallec stood with Simon leaning on the rail, looking out over the harbour. One by one the fishing-boats were slipping their moorings, backing and turning, moving out into the bay towards the shepherding
Raumboot
. It was already evening.

Bozallec said presently: “That is the one. That one going astern behind the tunnyman.” He looked round at the weather. “Rain to-night,” he said. “It will be easy for them to work out to the north. To-morrow morning he will be in Falmouth.”

He turned to Simon with something like reverence. “What will you do, monsieur?”

Simon stirred. “I shall go up to the hotel,” he said. “The Hôtel du Commerce. I want to sleep in a bed for to-night.”

He was still in the fisherman’s clothes that they had all worn upon
Geneviève
. He had a few hundred francs in French money; he went up to the market-place and bought himself a suit of clothes, a new shirt, and a collar and tie. He bought a very cheap fibre suitcase to put the other clothes in, and carrying that he walked along to the hotel.

He spent the evening in the hotel, as he had spent so many other evenings of his life in France, sitting in the café reading a paper, smoking, drinking Pernod, and watching a couple at the next table play a game of draughts. The proprietor was not there that evening, and no one noticed him. He dined well, with as good a bottle of Burgundy as the house could produce, and went up early to his bed.

He slept late, and it was after nine when he came down to the café in the morning. He called through the kitchen door for a cup of coffee and a
brioche;
the proprietor brought it to him himself. He stared at Simon when he saw him.

“Monsieur has stayed with us before?” he enquired. “Your face is familiar.”

Simon said: “I was here in February last, on business. You told me then about Father Zacharias, and the little boy, Jules.”

“I remember,” said the innkeeper. “You were travelling in cement.”

He left Simon to his coffee, but presently he came back again,
carrying a big black book. He opened this and laid it on the table, with a pen and a bottle of ink. Monsieur did not register last night,” he said. “If he would be so good. Name, Christian name, occupation, and address.”

Simon took the pen and put down “Simon Charles”. Then he glanced up at the innkeeper. “My occupation is that I am an officer in the British Army.” he said, “and my address is in London. Shall I put that down?”

The man stared at him. “Charles Simon,” he breathed. “Are you crazy? I remember now—that was your name before.”

“It is still my name. I have never had another.”

“You do not understand. The Germans come each day to see this book.” He stared at the entry. “There are only three names above. I will take the page out, and three separate people can write the names again.”

“What time do the Germans come?” asked Simon.

“After
déjeuner
, always at the same time.”

Simon got to his feet. “It will not matter to me if they see it then,” he said. “Do as you like about the book.”

The man said: “Where are you going to? Stay here, indoors, and I will arrange something. There are people in Douarnenez who will help you, monsieur.”

Simon said: “The people here are in trouble enough over me. I am going first to the presbytery.”

He went out; the innkeeper followed him to the door and stood watching him as he went down the street. The morning was bright and sunny after the rain, the streets swept by a fresh, keen wind from the Atlantic. Half-way to the presbytery a man stopped him, asking for a light for his cigarette.