Assignment in Brittany (43 page)

Kerénor moved hesitatingly.

“If you don’t,” Hearne said, “we’re all lost. You, and I, and Anne, and all of us. Go on!”

Kerénor disappeared into the shadows of the trees. Thank God he had enough sense left to move quickly, Hearne thought. He waited for five minutes, his back to a tree whose branches
shaded him. He was probably as big a fool as Kerénor, with his noble offer to take the blame and the punishment. As if, thought Hearne, one victim would satisfy vengeance for the death of one German: ten for one was nearer it. Yet he himself was probably as big a fool. It would be easy to walk away through the night and leave Saint-Déodat with hell to pay: it would be easy, if you could think that way. But you’d have to be one of the new super-race to be able to do it.

The five minutes were up. The wood was silent. Hearne moved quickly from the shadow of the tree. He bent over the German and lifted the gun still gripped in the stiffening hand. It was the usual ugly, hole-tearing Lüger. He twisted the Nazi’s arm and aimed the revolver at the neat puncture ringed with a dark, wet stain on the Nazi tunic. This time the report seemed like a crack of thunder in the quiet woods. Its echo hit the fields. Hearne only paused to note that the Lüger had lived up to its reputation, and then he was running swiftly, silently, along the path which Kerénor had taken. He could see the fields once again. In the half-shadows of the clouded moon they seemed empty. Kerénor must have got away. Thank God for that, anyhow.

But at the edge of the wood Kerénor was waiting. He gave one of his old smiles as he saw Hearne, and then he was half running, half hobbling, by his side. Behind them, on the other side of the wood, the alarm had sounded in the camp. Hearne made for the first tree in the field. At least, they were free of the wood. It would soon be surrounded. But once they were far enough away from it, it would be a help to them. There was plenty of searching to be done there. They hurried through the night, black peace in front of them, danger behind them. Kerénor’s numbness had given way to grim fatalism. He was keeping up the pace he had set himself, pausing, halting, running, crouching as Hearne did, across the sloping, curving fields with their scattered trees and rambling hedges.

At last they had circled round the village and climbed the steep fields on its west side. Below them was Saint-Déodat, and Guézennec’s house lying at the end of a row of black shadows.

“Waste no time. Get indoors and stay there,” Hearne said between the heavy breaths which tore his lungs.

Kerénor nodded. He was breathing with difficulty, too: drops of sweat clung to his eyebrows.

“Au revoir.”

“Au revoir.”

There was a fumbling handclasp, and then Kerénor was following the path down towards the road.

Hearne climbed higher on the hill. The clouds were piling up, hiding the quarter moon. When he turned to watch Kerénor he couldn’t see him, but he knew the Frenchman was making his way along the backs of the buildings to reach the house of Guézennec. Hearne listened. There was no sound from the roadway or from that row of houses. Kerénor must be safe.

He looked towards the meadows beyond the church. After the first alarm the Germans had been quiet enough. First, they would encircle the wood, for the sentries in the camp would identify it as the place from where the sound of a shot had come. And then they’d have to start searching carefully, working inwards from the edge of the trees. If they did it as throughly as he expected, then they would probably now be finding the bodies. There would be something of a scandal, too. The men who found Elise would have something to talk about
for the next few weeks. Hearne’s lips tightened. Well, she had earned it, and there was a kind of poetic justice in the fact that the body she had loved so much had earned it for her. He was beginning to believe that Kerénor had still clung to the futile hope that, in some way, she might be innocent, that she had been misled by Corlay. Kerénor had held to his wishful thinking, until tonight. And then there had been no doubt left.

Hearne paused as he reached the crest of the hill, and looked back at Saint-Déodat. It was a group of vague black shadows clustering under the proud towers of the church. This was the way it had been when he first crossed this hill four weeks ago. Then he had believed it incapable of change. It still looked the same, but the changes were there, as deep and powerful as they were invisible.

The clouds had spread into a dull grey coating over the sky, and the first fine needle-spray of rain stung his cheeks.

He left Saint-Déodat and crossed over the hill.

28

FISHERMEN’S REST

The greater part of the town of Dinan stands securely within its walls, high on the edge of an escarpment above the gorge of the River Rance. But outside the walls, down at the water’s level where the boats trading from the coast come to anchor at the small wharves, there are old houses beside the Gothic bridge, and expensive restaurants placed to catch the superb view. Marguerite’s café did not belong to that class. It was one of the smallest and oldest houses, whose front room served as an informal club for the men who worked on the boats.

So the barge-woman had said, pointing to the quay. It wasn’t far: just across the cobbled wharf. There were one or two men loitering there already, waiting either to load or to unload some boat. If he hurried now he wouldn’t be noticed in this light. The men, he saw, wore old army jackets to shield them from the rawness of the cold drawn. This added to his confidence. He chose his moment, stepped quickly on to the wet paving-stones
from the barge, and moved boldly towards Marguerite’s house.

The barge, too old and too decrepit to have been commandeered by the Nazis, rested quietly and innocently at its mooring-place. Already it had forgotten it had carried him four miles down the River Rance to the Dinan quay. The woman who had helped him to cross the river was still standing on the deck of the barge, waiting for the restaurant-keepers to come down to buy her small stock of produce. For the smart restaurants now had their clientele of German officers, and the vegetables and butter had to be fresh every day for them. Hearne turned as he reached the narrow little house which the barge-owner had pointed out, and looked back. The woman moved as if to let him know she had seen him. He pulled his cap farther down on his head. But neither of them waved. He wished she had taken the few francs Kerénor had given him; heaven knew she needed it, working that old tub by herself, with her husband dead and three children to feed. Her husband had been killed, she had said simply. In the war, Hearne had guessed, for when she saw his stained tunic and battered cap she had given him shelter at once. Another barge was slipping into its place beside the woman’s. It would have helped him too, she had said, as if to explain why he mustn’t pay her. The barge-owners were now so accustomed to picking up stray men wandering near the locks on the canal that they kept a watch for them. It seemed as if many of the escaping men struck naturally towards the Rance, knowing that its waters would lead them to Dinan, and then from there by wooded river-banks to the coast.

Over the door of the house were slanting, fading letters, but they still spelled
Marguerite.
Hearne turned down his jacket collar, wiped his face with his sleeve, and pulled the door
quickly shut behind him. The square room was small and dimly lighted. It smelled of stale tobacco smoke and vinegar. Two men were sleeping slumped across one of the half-dozen small tables which had been jammed into the available floor space. A bar faced the door. Behind it were empty shelves, a fly-spotted mirror, a vase of large yellow paper daisies. On its left there was another door. On its right, a staircase.

One of the men half raised his head from his arms, his eyes scarcely open, and then slumped back across the table. The other still choked and snored alternately.

The door beside the bar opened, and a woman stood there. This must be rising time for her: she was still fastening her dress. Her black hair was plaited into two thin pigtails falling over each shoulder. She fastened the last button, twisted the meagre plaits of hair into a knot behind her head, and jammed them into place with the large hair-pins which she had been holding in her lips. That let her talk, anyhow.

“No food for an hour,” she announced. “You can sleep at one of the tables.” She pointed a square hand to the two men.

Hearne made his way past the crowding tables and stood in front of her. She was a short, broad-shouldered woman, almost as square in shape as her brother. She had his blue eyes, too, and the black hair without any greyness showing, although she must have been fifty at least. She even had the same laugh-wrinkles round her eyes and mouth, grooved deeply into the coarse, tanned skin. She waited for him to speak, her hands on the place where her hips might once have been.

“Marguerite?” Hearne asked.

She nodded, watching him closely. She couldn’t quite place him, but she would certainly know him again.

“Le Trapu told me to come to his sister if I needed a place to rest.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“Sailed with him two weeks ago from the Bay of Mont Saint-Michel.”

“He’s not here.”

“I know. But he will be here tonight.”

Her eyes flickered towards the table with the two sleeping men.

“Did you come here for breakfast?”

Hearne shook his head.

She nodded over her shoulder, and he followed her through the door into the small room, which was a mixture of kitchen, bedroom, and sitting-room. It was surprisingly clean and neat, but the faint smell of vinegar still persisted.

Hearne sat down on the wooden bench at the side of the fire-place. He looked at his filthy boots, the stained corduroy trousers.

“Are you waiting for him to arrive?”

Hearne shook his head again. “Not exactly. Tonight I must travel again, and I wondered if I could stay here.”

“This isn’t a hotel.”

“Your brother said—”

“Him!” she snorted. “The trouble he gives me!” But her voice was less annoyed than her words.

“He said you could beat trouble any day,” Hearne said with a smile.

“That man!” The tone was amiably contemptuous. “He’s a sailor, and as stupid as they are made. He wouldn’t know trouble if he was to meet it.”

“He’s a very good sailor.”

“Him!” Her sisterly admiration was amusing enough, Hearne thought, but he hadn’t come here to be amused. He said, suddenly serious, “I sent a message to Le Trapu. It should have reached him here yesterday morning before he sailed.”

“You did?” The voice was non-committal, but the clever eyes were watching him curiously.

“Yes. And I wondered if the message reached him.”

“My God, how should I know? He never tells me anything.” She turned abruptly and began to fuss with a coffeepot.

“Perhaps you know if the girl bringing the message arrived safely?”

“A girl? What are you worrying about that for? You look to me as if the only thing you should worry about is the Boche. You’re as bad as—”

“Him,” Hearne finished quickly. “But
did
this girl arrive? And has she gone?”

“You’re all the same, you men. A girl’s a girl. There’s a dozen of them hanging round here every day. Can’t get the place cleared of them. How should I know what girl?”

“She should have arrived in the early morning.” Hearne’s voice was worried. Anne hadn’t got here; he was almost sure of that now.

“They often do.”

“She has fair hair...blue-grey eyes...a short nose with freckles: seven freckles.” He stopped short in embarrassment. God, he thought, such abject foolishness. What had happened to him? Blithering here like an idiot to this old pot, who wasn’t even bothering to listen to him.

She finished cutting the small loaf of bread and dropped the slices into a shallow basket. “Sounds as if that might be the
same girl,” she said casually, but there was a gleam of laughter in her wrinkled eyes.

Hearne sat quite still. He felt hollow inside. Some day, he thought, as he looked towards the solemn Marguerite, some day someone who needs sleep and food and information is not going to appreciate your sense of humour. Some day someone will— He restrained himself, and played her game. At least, Anne was safe so far.

“Here’s all the money I have,” he said with excessive calm. “Will it buy me something to eat, and a place to rest until the night comes? And while I eat, would you tell me what you know?”

Marguerite looked at the money thrown on the table, and then looked at his white face. The calmness of his voice stung her into remorse.

“I don’t need your money,” she mumbled. “You’ll need it yourself before you reach the coast.” And then she grew angry. “What’s her name, you who come into my house and ask me questions and try to make me tell you things I’ll tell no one?”

“Anne,” said Hearne, and he was smiling now. “Anne.” “And what is yours?”

“She didn’t know my real name.”

Marguerite had recovered her humour. “That’s what she told me. Strange thing, I told her, to go gallivanting over the countryside for a man whose name she didn’t even know.” But her voice was kindly, and her eyes laughed at Hearne’s expression. “Cheer up,” she said, “I don’t blame you for getting angry with me. You don’t know my little ways. Take your money before I change my mind! And here’s something to eat. You need it, I’m thinking.”

“How did you know I was going to the coast?” Hearne rose stiffly and went over to the table.

“Well, she’s gone there.”

“She’s
gone?”

“Yes. Where did you think she was? Hiding under the bed?”

Hearne looked at her bleakly. “Please tell me,” he said, “just what happened when she came here. Was she all right, why did she leave so quickly, where did she go? Did she see your brother?”

Marguerite relented and forgot her little ways. “I just had to know whether you were the man she told me about. I didn’t want to give the right information to the wrong man. You’ve got to be careful these days. Now here’s what happened...” She cut him a thin slice of sour cheese and poured some brown liquid into his cup; then she began the story—it was long, but neatly told.