The Last Two Weeks of Georges Rivac (7 page)

Trust Zia! The only possible awkwardness would be if Daisy discovered that it was Master Georges who had booked the room for the pretty Mrs Fanshawe; but they would not be staying long enough for that. Meanwhile they had successfully covered their tracks pending the next move. That must depend on what he heard from Suzi in Lille and perhaps on Paul Longwill.

On Monday morning there were two letters waiting for him at Thame Post Office. He sat down on a bench outside the Corn Market and opened the envelopes. One letter posted on Thursday contained the brochures. In the other, posted on Saturday, Suzi told him that Mr Appinger had called again the day before and left a present for him: the latest Intertatry calculator. And a
sergent de ville
had come to see him with an enquiry from British police who wanted to confirm his Lille address. If he was still in England they would like a statement from him, if in France a sworn affidavit. Apparently he had been a witness to a fatal accident in crossing to Dover. She had given his address at Thame Post Office and hoped she had done right. It always paid to be cooperative with the police.

However closely he examined the brochures, they appeared just as innocent and practical as when they had been handed over by Kren. Code breakers might of course discover some secret but he, as an experienced agent for the engines, could find nothing out of place or irrelevant. He could only assure Zia, herself incapable of judging, that the brochures were a straightforward commercial job.

He telephoned the White Hart and arranged to meet her in Alderton Wood, exactly describing the footpath she should take which for the last half mile was sheltered by hedge and covert from the observation of the curious. She would then see ahead of her the long grassy glade which divided the wood, and there she should enter the trees and wait. His caution was not due to any fear that she might be followed but to a mixture of motives, all of them sound: Daisy, village gossip and the continuing necessity to protect her.

He had still another reason for his choice of rendezvous—instinctive rather than formulated, like the business journeys when he returned to Lille with an agency quite different from that which he had vaguely contemplated when he started out. He wanted to show her the place, for of England she knew only London. He also wanted to see her there. A stream ran through the great wood, and in the depths of it, far from any footpath, ancient hawthorns curved over the water seeking light in the gap between forest trees. It was like a miniature green cloister with half the vaulted roof fallen away. The floor was sandy and always dry when the stream was low. Around the shadows were dotted clumps of purple Honesty which would be in flower under the snow sprays of the hawthorn.

Arriving well before Zia, Rivac found this sanctuary of youth much as he had left it except that the canopy of thorn was taller and barer at the bottom. Then he sat on an oak stump near the edge of the glade to watch the path by which she would come, ready to show himself and direct her if she was in doubt. On the other side of the glade, not far from the road to Thame, the persistent call of a jay broke the silence of the trees in the mild midday warmth. A sparrowhawk, swooping over the birds huddled under outlying bushes which dotted the grass on his side, probably accounted for the jay's alarm though he was surprised that it should fuss over attempted murder in, as it were, the next street. Rivac was momentarily back in his happy English boyhood and reproached himself for infidelity to sweet France. He smiled at the absurdity of that. The loves were one.

Zia gaily entered the wood, adding Hungary to his affection, and he led her to his treasured shelter. The Honesty was a bit of a disappointment, she herself being too subtle for such vivid purple. But there was the usual bonus. The shifting arrows of sunlight within the flowered darkness of the truncated vault sparkled now on the water, now on her.

‘So you don't think there's anything in it?' she asked.

‘No. But the somebody who knew Lukash must see for himself—if you can wait till we find him.'

She said she thought she could spend another week by pleading illness or something. She was evidently enjoying the role of Mrs Fanshawe and was full of laughter at the inane conversations in the bar of the White Hart.

‘And what else did your Suzi tell you? Is she selling the stock over the counter?'

‘She says she had to give my address to the police on Saturday. A nuisance, but it won't affect you. And that on Friday the visiting manager of Intertatry called again and left a present of their latest calculator for me.'

‘Does Intertatry manufacture calculators?'

‘No. At least they never have. This must be a prototype.'

‘Georges!'

‘What's the matter?'

‘Don't you see what the calculator may be?'

‘It multiplies. Suzi doesn't need it. But it may be a hint for me.'

‘Where did she put it?'

‘On my desk, she says.'

‘Bugging—isn't that what it's called in English?'

‘The telephone?'

‘No, no! A little device left anywhere. At home—well, ordinary people don't have to bother. But anyone who wants to discuss a subject which the Government should not hear is careful to do it out of doors.'

‘I don't see that it matters. They can listen to Suzi all day if they like. I have to.'

‘Think! That calculator was on your desk when Suzi gave your address to the police. You must leave here at once.'

‘But where to? I can't go back to Lille. I can't go anywhere. I can't spend my whole life in hiding because these people believe I know all the secrets of their blasted mutinous armies. I have to get advice from someone who knows what's what. I have to talk to Paul. I have to . . .'

‘Georges, you are excited!'

‘Of course I'm damned well excited.'

‘You must go underground for the moment.'

‘I
am
underground. What about you?'

‘They don't know of my existence yet. And even if you were followed from Thame you didn't go to the White Hart. I shall be all right for a day or two as Mrs Fanshawe. Now let's separate!'

‘Stay here for a while, Zia!'

She was very ready to stay. The combination of Georges and his private sanctuary, this exquisite, unchangeable refuge among flowers, delighted her. His explanation of why he wanted her to stay was disappointing.

‘If anyone followed me from Thame he must be on the other side of the glade. I know every yard of this place. I shall show myself crossing the open. Then he'll stay in that half of the wood and you can safely follow your path back to Alderton Abbas.'

‘Do you think you were tailed?'

‘No. But I did hear a jay call when she shouldn't. I used to do a bit of poaching once, you see.'

‘Georges, you amaze me! Very well, I'll do what I'm told. And telephone me this evening between seven and eight to let me know where you are. Then I'll join you.'

After leaving Zia, Georges was thoroughly ashamed of his nervousness and jumped to the other extreme, sceptical of all that appeared to be happening to him. It was possible that this calculator was transmitting all conversations in his Lille office, possible that his address at Poste Restante, Thame, had been discovered, but both were very unlikely. In any case the KGB—Czech or Russian or straight up from bloody hell—could not know that he had been brought up in the village of Alderton and had no way of guessing where he was actually to be found.

Under observation all the way from Thame? He was not looking behind him and he could have been—but only by a man on foot and after careful study of the map. And that was absurd. Wait a minute! Those chaps had had the Thame address since Saturday and time to organise. What had he been up to on Sunday? Lunch with Daisy. Got a lift from the village to Thame. Bus to Oxford and back. Then a taxi home from Thame bus station to Alderton.

Say, they watched the bus station, for it was a very small town and on Sunday there was not much else to watch but church and the main street. Say, they spotted the late Kren's agent taking the taxi. They need not follow it and risk giving themselves away; they had only to hire it for a short journey immediately it returned and get into conversation with the talkative driver. All this assumed that they were able to recognise Georges Rivac. Only Appinger, the bogus Intertatry manager, could do so. Then he must have flown over on Saturday, reported to his chiefs in London and collected some kind of local team. Team. A very nasty thought, that!

He considered whether or not to report to the police and ask for protection; but they were not likely to believe him, especially as he himself was far from convinced. Also there was no way of leaving Zia out of his story, and left out she had to be. If ever some connection between them were suspected, his eyewitness account of the accident to Rippmann would become even more dubious than it was. No, for the time being and until he was in touch with some department of Intelligence which recognised the name of Lukash, police must be avoided.

He was on his guard all the way back to Alderton, wishing that he was as small as when he had returned from minor criminalities as a boy. But hedge and ditch remained familiar enough and when he reached Daisy's garden gate he was quite certain that anyone who had tried to follow him was lost. The brochures now. There could be no doubt that Appinger and his team—if it existed—were sure that he had received and had not yet delivered some message of outstanding importance. It might be wise not to carry them on his person. In the narrow gap between Daisy's boundary hedge and hen house was a pile of broken bricks, gutters, wire and rusty paraffin cans. He took the brochures out of Suzi's envelope and pushed them into a length of pipe, then hid the pipe among the rubble.

Returning to the cottage and Daisy, he told her that he had received a letter which made it essential for him to go back to France that evening, and promised to visit her whenever he was in England which in future would be more often. That seemed quite possible. Whatever happened to his business, Lille could be unhealthy until such time as Kren's unclean spirits were convinced he was a worthless catch.

No taxi this time and no Thame! He took a short cut to the main road where he could pick up a bus to Oxford. The timetable showed him that he had twenty minutes to wait. This annoyed him and he started to fuss. There was no convenient cover from which he could see the bus approaching and he had to remain exposed on the roadside. His walk had been along lanes and could have been observed. He ought to have gone north and taken a train or hired a car at Bicester. Hadn't enough money on him anyway. He ought to have done anything but what he had. He wished some kind person would see him waiting and offer him a lift. Fortunately in another five minutes there was such a kind person, and he did.

Chapter Four

There was no call from Georges Rivac between seven and eight. Mrs Fanshawe was not yet alarmed. She was by now accustomed to the plunges of her excitable companion like those of a nervous thoroughbred. His rider could not always detect what he shied at and why the high-pitched neigh, but the plunges seemed as a rule to have reason. He might have decided that the White Hart was not as secure as they thought.

When on Tuesday morning there was still nothing, she decided to go and see this Daisy Taylor of his. For that she had to have a solid excuse within the normal pattern of the village, good enough to deceive Daisy who evidently was no fool. House-hunting at last provided it. Remembering that Georges had said that Daisy sometimes cooked for the inn, she told her host that she was attracted by the peace of Alderton and had found a house for sale which needed a lot doing to it. She understood that a housekeeper, who had lived there for years, had a cottage in the village. She would much like to meet her and ask a few questions.

‘Our Daisy! Yes, she'll tell you all about it if she takes to you. Now, I'll be going through Alderton this afternoon and I'll drop you there.'

Mrs Fanshawe thanked him warmly and added that she must really hire a car.

Daisy at once reminded her of the adored, bustling peasant grandmother she had known as a child. The information came pouring out.

‘You buy it, Mrs Fanshawe. It would like you, it would.'

‘Didn't it like the last people?' she asked.

‘Ar-r, they 'ad some surprises comin' out of the taps, but nowt our local builder couldn't put right for 'ee.'

Zia baited the hook, saying that they often had the same trouble in France, but all the same she preferred well water.

‘Gives 'ee the woollies to think of all them chemicals they puts in the mains,' Daisy agreed. ‘And may I ask where you comes from in France, Mrs Fanshawe?'

‘My family lives in Valenciennes—near Lille, you know.'

‘I suppose you didn't happen in with a business gentleman called Georges Rivac?'

‘No. But everyone has heard of his father.'

‘Well, if it ain't a small world! Would 'ee believe that 'is son was staying 'ere up to yesterday?'

It was not difficult to extract reminiscences of Georges's youth. She understood more fully the solid base which underlay the sensitively swaying little business man. Little? Why had she thought of him as little? He was slightly built and a bit hatchet-faced but well above average height.

She let Daisy talk herself out before starting to ask questions. Yes, Mr Georges had left soon after lunch. He had to return to Lille.

‘I could 'ave got him a lift into Thame, but 'e was always one for causing nobody no trouble and don't care whether 'e walks one mile or twenty. So 'e sets off to catch the bus to Oxford on the road.'

That was to be expected. Zia was sure that the one place Georges would not go was Thame.

‘And bless me if I don't 'ave the coppers askin' for 'im while I was just clearin' up me tea. Not that 'e's done nothing wrong. Just saw some poor man fall overboard and they wanted a statement from 'im. Only a German 'e was though they tells me they're just as good as the rest of us in these days. And did 'e 'ave a girl friend? they asks. Never was one for girl friends, I says, but what 'e may be up to in them foreign parts I don't know, I says. 'E didn't speak of a Miss Tessa Forder or some such name, they asks. Not to me, I says. Then they wants to know 'ow well I knows 'im. Since 'e was three, the lamb, I tells 'em and if you wants another opinion like them doctors do what can't find it in the book when you tell 'em what's wrong with you, you go and ask Mr Longwill at the Manor Farm, I says.'

‘And did they?'

‘They did, because 'e comes round to me last night with a bottle of cherry brandy though 'e give me one last Christmas and it was layin' it on a bit as 'e always does and “what's young Georges been up to?” 'e asks. Young Georges! I like that from 'im when there ain't more 'n a month or two between 'em! “Well, 'e may 'ave taken up with a 'Ungarian,” 'e says, “and if I'm any judge,” 'e says, “'e's been tellin' a packet of lies.”'

Zia was not much afraid of the line the police had taken. She agreed with Georges that there was no case for magistrates or coroner. But if Harbour Police were not satisfied with statements taken on the boat they could well be fishing for any connection between Georges Rivac and Teresa Fodor in case one was protecting the other.

‘Georges don't tell lies,' Daisy went on ‘not unless it's just kindness like, and if it was, I'd still buy a secondhand car from 'im as they say. As for 'Ungarians, 'e never did care where anybody came from. The farther the better, you might say. It wouldn't surprise me if 'e was to take up with a pair of Siamese twins, Mrs Fanshawe. 'E's not experienced like you and me.'

Zia came away more worried than ever. Georges had started off according to plan and it now seemed certain that he had been trapped or could not easily reach a telephone. This was far worse than her impulsive visit to Valenciennes. Then at least she was in touch with possible futures, friendly or hostile. Here she was utterly alone with a false name in a foreign land and unable to imagine even tomorrow's future. She was tormented by guilt for having seduced Georges into what was none of his business and rather less tormented by the memory of Rippmann—though in the absence of any moral support that too was becoming intolerable. On top of it all was the crushing load of responsibility to her uncle and his club.

It couldn't go on. This Paul Longwill had to be seen. Georges, casually mentioning their meeting, had found him in some way comic, but at least they were fond of each other and apparently loyal to boyhood friendship. She'd have to play it by ear, giving nothing away until she was sure what, if anything, he had to offer.

She prowled about the Manor Farm trying to make up her mind. She saw Paul Longwill arrive in a white Jaguar, immaculately dressed for what they called the City, so he was at home. The combination of farm and finance was unfamiliar to her. The lovely old house was obviously a
kastely
, too luxurious for a private farmer, too small for an old-time landowner. In her own country she would have guessed that it was one of the perquisites of an important government servant.

Where the footpath skirted the paddock she leaned on the white rails casting an expert eye over the bay mare—powerful quarters, good hack, could probably jump—and a grey gelding which looked very spruce in keeping with its surroundings and nothing more. Both came up to her, the mare a little distrustful, the gelding greedy and affectionate. She noticed a small coil of rusty wire rather too close to the rails; it was unlikely that wind could carry it into the paddock but it should not be there. As she bent down to throw it farther away she realised that there in her hand was her introduction. She swung herself over the rail, gentled the mare, made her lift the off fore, slipped the coil round it and was back on the footpath praying that nobody had seen her from a window.

Zia rang the bell of the front door. Mr Longwill himself appeared, now very much the country gentleman having had time to change into a yellow polo neck sweater and beautifully cut check trousers.

‘I am so sorry to bother you,' she said, ‘but I was passing the paddock and saw that your mare was in trouble. She has got one foot tangled up in a coil of wire.'

‘How very kind of you, Mrs . . . er . . .'

‘Fanshawe.'

‘Ah, yes! The general's wife staying at the White Hart. Not good enough for you, I'm afraid. But worthy people, worthy people! Now let's have a look at the mare!'

The mare was panicking—another strain on Zia's conscience—and it was obvious to her that Mr Longwill had no intention whatever of removing the wire. He looked helplessly round.

‘I fear my man has knocked off.'

‘Oh, I expect I can do it. My husband and I still keep up the cavalry traditions.'

‘You will be careful?'

‘I am always careful,' she replied, giving him her most dazzling smile.

It was not all that simple to bring the suspicious mare to her, but that done the removal of the wire was no problem. Paul Longwill immediately invited her to come in and have a drink, saying that two people would be there.

‘In fact I think I have just heard their car arrive. Lady Jane Thistleton-Thorner I expect you know, and Sir Humphrey Baylis is one of the sheriffs.'

A sheriff sounded sinister though she had a vague memory that sheriffs in England gave dinners and no longer caught Robin Hoods. As for Lady Jane, Zia could only hope that she had never mixed in army circles.

They seemed harmless enough, both of them in their late forties and courteous. Longwill introduced her as Mrs Fanshawe.

‘Her husband holds an important command in Germany. And here is his very
belle alliance
with France.'

Nobody asked about General Fanshawe. Knowing Longwill, they probably reckoned that he was a mere colonel and one couldn't be expected to know them all. But worse was to come.

‘Good Lord, I thought she was Zia Fodor!' Lady Jane exclaimed. ‘What an extraordinary likeness!'

‘Who is she?' Zia forced herself to ask.

‘She rides for Hungary. Won the President's Cup at Vienna. A certainty for the Olympics if those bloody communists would only buy her some decent horses.'

‘All you women look the same in a riding hat,' Paul Longwill said.

She did not dare meet his eyes and show her gratitude. An hour of acting dragged out, acting and calling up all her Magyar gaiety to help her. When Longwill's distinguished guests at last got up to go—the sheriff full of compliments to his host's champagne and the general's French wife—she herself followed.

‘I'll run you back, Mrs Fanshawe,' Longwill said.

He stopped well outside the village. His eyes were keen and severe, but the lines of the mouth could not quite keep up with them.

‘And now, Miss Fodor?'

‘It's a long story.'

‘He went back to Lille very suddenly without saying goodbye. Not like Georges at all. When did you last see him?'

‘On Monday morning. He had just had news from his office. We met in Alderton Wood. There was a place where he was sure we should not be seen. Under some bushes by a stream.'

‘I know it. A charming spot and his own. He must be very fond of you.'

‘Business not romance, Mr Longwill. He has no reason at all to be fond of me. But we must not be seen together and we have to meet. Often.'

‘The police?'

‘Partly. But it's more important than that.'

‘Anything to do with Bridge Holdings?'

‘I have a confession to make. I put on that wire myself.'

‘Oh, I guessed that when the old girl recognised you.'

‘Will she talk?'

‘She won't bother to look up the Army List; there's probably a Fanshawe of some sort anyway. She'll snort that you're just one of Paul's attractive women. Now, tell me why you had to see me.'

‘Do you know anything about the British Secret Service?'

‘No more than the revelations of newspapers—which are far too many if it's supposed to be secret.'

How much should she tell him? She dared not plunge and yet she had to convince. Secrets, secrets. It was intolerable to know so much. Nothing in her active life had trained her for this. Protection of the club, of Georges, of herself was balanced against the duty to pass on at least some dark shadow of the facts, omitting the detailed outline of reality.

‘Georges came over here with information—military information—which must be of value to somebody. I made him come. He was told that Bridge Holdings would understand, but they couldn't and would have nothing to do with us. Perhaps they thought we were
agents provocateurs
. Two men have been killed already, Mr Longwill—a Czech called Karel Kren and somebody nicknamed Lukash whom we don't know. And now I am worried about Georges.'

‘Then you must go to the police at once.'

‘But they wouldn't pay much attention to two foreigners with a story that doesn't hold together. They would wonder what our game was, like Herbert Spring. And Kren's death—it would take them a week to check and they'd only find that he was run over by a bus in Lille.'

‘At least I can get you a hearing, Miss—Mrs Fanshawe. Discreetly. Only last week I was dining with the Chief Constable.'

‘I don't think you should. You see, another man has died too.'

‘You mean—well, you and Georges were involved?'

‘We were witnesses. And we don't want to talk. Not yet.'

‘When will you talk?'

‘When you find the right person to listen.'

‘In my position I cannot afford to be compromised, Mrs Fanshawe.'

‘But you know so many people. You're in—what was it Georges said? Oh, yes—the corridors of power.'

Georges had actually said that Paul liked to think he was, but clearly she was on target.

‘Near them perhaps,' he answered complacently. ‘Whom do you want me to approach?'

‘I don't know. People who are interested in the military strength of the Warsaw Pact.'

‘The Ministry of Defence. But forgive me—they have professionals reporting on that sort of thing.'

‘I know. But sometimes an amateur, without wanting it at all, can give them more than they dream.'

Paul Longwill's manner changed completely. It was as if he had suddenly got her into perspective and appreciated her problem. He began to speak from experience without any of his tiresome affectations.

‘Security. I don't know anything much about it, but I can tell you what I have noticed. Where secrecy is vitally important, security is often overdone. Let's say I'm working on something that mustn't get out. Think of me at the centre of a circle and round the circumference I have placed my personal barbed wire—guards, diversions, prohibitions—to prevent a leak. Very effective. But suppose somebody like you or Georges wants to come in with valuable information? Way blocked. No thoroughfare. If security is to prevent anything going out, it must also prevent anyone coming in.'