A Bitter Field

CHAPTER THREE

The route out of La Rochelle avoided the main road that led eventually, as all roads in France do, to Paris. They drove instead through the south-eastern suburbs, an obviously working-class quarter, across a bridge, then on to a narrow pave road that ran alongside the south side of the Canal du Marais-Poitevin, just wide enough for two cars to pass, tree-lined on one side and with a shallow inland storm ditch to prevent flooding from the adjoining open fields.

It was also, bar the odd shallow bend, as straight as a ruler and far from busy, cutting through a flat, featureless agricultural landscape dotted with windmills and the odd manoir — type farmhouse, with the waterway and the occasional barge using it to the northern side.

There was no attempt at haste; Cal kept the speed down, not because he feared any kind of police presence, but for the simple reason that it was unwise to do anything that might draw attention. Both side windows were open to let in a welcome breeze; with the sun now high in the sky, the day had become hot and a bit sticky, increasingly so as they left behind the cooling breeze from the sea. That also had the advantage of extracting Peter’s almost-constant cigarette smoke.

What conversation they exchanged consisted of general chat about the increasingly feverish situation in Central Europe, thanks to the rantings of Hitler, plus a shared if constrained fuming at how Mussolini had not only got away with his criminal invasion of Ethiopia and the even more iniquitous use of poison gas, but had then had that conquest recognised by the democratic nations in the hope that it would deter him from forming an alliance with Germany, the conclusion being it was a flawed policy.

That moved on to the projected outcome for the republicans in Spain and it was far from sanguine. They were steadily losing ground to their fascist-backed opponents while simultaneously trying to get out from the grip of the international communists and commissars Stalin had sent to help in their campaigns — emissaries who had proved to be, as friends, just as dangerous as the troops of General Franco.

Railing at the stupidity of that, as well as Bolshevism in general, and getting little response, Peter eventually noticed that his companion was uncomfortable discussing the failings of the communists; in fact Cal abruptly turned the conversation to what was happening socially and politically in London, and when he enquired as to why he was a bit touchy, Peter was told to mind his own business.

He was thus left in the dark about a subject his companion found too painful to talk about: both the loss he had suffered at the hands of the communists in Spain and the revenge he had taken for what was, in truth, a bereavement. Not a cold-blooded killer by nature, events had forced him into that mode and it was not a memory that, in either cause or effect, was in any way joyful.

A lorry coming in the opposite direction, one of a width that forced them to pull hard to the side and stop between two trees to let it pass, curtailed a rather strained exchange. Sitting with the engine idling, Cal quietly asked, his eyes firmly fixed on the rear-view mirror, if there was any reason Peter could think of as to why they might be followed.

‘None whatever, old chap, unless you have been careless.’

‘I try not to be, as you know, but then if you found me…’

‘The question is being posed because?’

‘We picked up a car just as we left the centre of the city. You must have noticed that Hispano-Suiza roadster that was parked by the roadside?’

‘Not terribly interested in cars, old boy.’

‘Well it pulled out immediately we had passed. Nothing unusual in that, except that it is still with us and the hood is up, which is hardly fitting when it’s so hot. Added to that, it has kept to the same speed as us ever since.’

‘Why is that strange?’

‘It’s a J12, capable of well over a ton.’

‘Not on this road, surely?’ Peter said.

‘Be great fun on this road,’ Cal insisted.

The passing lorry cut out the sunlight, easing past with about an inch to spare. With the road clear again Cal moved off, his eyes rarely off what was happening behind, the lorry being forced onto the side embankment and skirting the ditch to get past the wider Hispano-Suiza.

‘You think it’s the law?’ Peter asked.

‘Not in that kind of car, it costs a bloody fortune. Bugger stopped when we did, as if he didn’t want to get too close, and is now moving again, but not getting any nearer. If I was driving that kind of motor I would have been right up the arse of this little thing, flashing my bloody great headlights and leaning on the horn to get by.’

‘You sound just like Toad of Toad Hall, old chap,’ Peter responded calmly, before adding, ‘I take it that it might be worth a few precautions.’

‘Look under your seat, Peter; attached to the bottom there’s an oilskin pouch with a Mauser inside.’

‘I’m not sure that’s very wise,’ Peter replied. ‘If I am fingered here I will be in the soup regardless, without firing off a weapon on foreign turf.’

‘Just do as I ask, Peter, there’s a good chap. You came along because you elected to do so, not because you were invited.’

‘Fair enough,’ came the reply, after a moment’s consideration.

The gun was fetched out and one of the two detached full magazines inspected, before being rammed home and the weapon cocked, though with the safety on. Cal kept to the same pace as before, there being no point in increasing speed; this Simca could not outrun any kind of roadster, never mind one of the best on the market.

The careful speed was maintained until they passed, on their right, a ramshackle manoir so run-down it was shorn of windows, fronted by a clutter of delapidated farm buildings with a couple of canvas-topped lorries parked outside, which seemed to be a workshop for farm equipment, judging by the amount of rusting metal and tractor attachments scattered about.

Cal sounded a tattoo on his horn, before swinging on to a narrow bridge with a low stone parapet that led to the north side of the canal, followed by a glance upstream to check the barge containing his cargo was still moored where he had last seen it. Now hidden by the line of trees that enclosed the canal on both sides he increased his speed, jamming his foot to the floor; if it gave him a pleasing sensation of haste, it was, he knew, useless by comparison to that of the car behind.

The road ahead split again and he screeched round the right-hand bend, gunning through the gears to another junction and swinging left onto an equally narrow, long and straight road that led north away from the canal — not that he expected to fool anyone and get away.

He had only one aim: to see if it was indeed a tail, or if he was being overcautious; that was answered within minutes when those big twin headlights abreast the low-slung black body appeared once more in the rear-view mirror. Cal immediately killed his speed, noting that the tail slowed as well. They were definitely being followed, but by whom?

What he had said to Peter had to be true: it was unlikely to be official, and not just for the value of a car that cost as much as a Rolls-Royce. If it was the French equivalent of MI5, seeking to enforce their national embargo on weapons destined for Spain, they would have been much more professional and thus harder to spot.

Such people knew their job and they would not be daft enough to assign one very obvious tail — and to find out what? The only thing could be the location of the weapons with a view to seizing them, which meant they had to be as aware of his intentions as his passenger.

‘Where is my cargo, Peter?’

‘Not a clue, old chap.’

‘Take a guess,’ Cal responded with obvious impatience.

A sideways look showed Peter smiling. ‘The last place I had it pegged for certain was at the railhead in Marans.’

‘From which you deduced what?’

‘Seemed an obvious place to transfer to the road, old boy, given it runs all the way to a major port on the Bay of Biscay and the trains running into said port are risky when it comes to being searched — which could be bad news if your manifest and papers don’t pass muster. All it would take is the opening of one case to establish you are not shipping tractor parts.’

‘Not a barge?’

‘No,’ Peter admitted ruefully when he realised what he was being told. ‘You fooled me on that one.’

‘La Rochelle was no more than presumption, then?’

‘I flatter myself when I admit the answer to that is yes. With you involved and Spain the destination it had to be a Biscay port and Nantes and Bordeaux are too big, while Rochefort, the only other alternative, is an active naval base and too risky.’

‘Will you stop being so damn smug and deduce what would happen if the French knew as much as you?’

‘I have no indication that they did.’

‘That’s not what I asked, but if they had they would not need to chase us around the countryside, would they?’

The answer came with a languor that riled Cal. ‘You refer, of course, to the Johnny who I assume is still following us.’

‘You know, Peter, sometimes your sangfroid can be a pain in the arse. Now do me a favour and use your not-inconsiderable brain. I am reasoning that whoever is following can’t be official. Discuss.’

‘It is sometimes very pleasant, old boy, to get under your skin.’

‘But?’

Peter’s chin hit his chest as he ran over things in his mind.

‘If the Frogs knew as much as I did, and with vastly superior resources, they would know exactly where your weapons are and could pick you up when they liked, whatever mode of transport you used. In fact, they might have done so already to ensure they did not miss you, unless of course, they are waiting to find out who is either helping you or who in the port has taken your filthy Spanish lucre.’

‘In which case they would not allow themselves to be spotted?’

‘You would have no idea they were even watching.’

‘My thinking too, which leads me to the same conclusion as before. Whoever is on our tail cannot be either the local plod or the Deuxieme Bureau.’

‘Then who?’

‘Ask me another,’ Cal replied, before falling silent for a few seconds. ‘We need to stop and see if we can flush them out. There’s a small town ahead called Dompierre-sur-Mer.’

‘Rather a shortage of the mer, old chap, wouldn’t you say?’ Peter responded, still in that laconic way, looking around the crop-filled fields to either side of what had once probably been ancient marshland reclaimed from the sea. ‘But we lack an alternative, given there’s nowhere to hide around here that I can spot.’

‘In this case the best place to hide is in the open.’ Cal nodded ahead to the first building at the edge of what was a far from substantial settlement, then looked at his watch. ‘Time I bought you that meal you were so keen on.’

‘I doubt this hamlet we are approaching has the kind of treat I had in mind.’

‘Which was?’

‘The Connaught or the Savoy,’ Peter ventured, ‘perhaps with the freedom of the wine list.’

‘I fear you’ll have to settle for peasant fare, old chum, and the vin du pays, so, find somewhere to conceal that gun and prepare to reprise your “Englishman abroad” act.’

Dompierre was typical of thousands of small French towns, a rundown and desolate sort of place that had not been on the coast for centuries, with no industry, living off the produce extracted from the surrounding fields, and a few buildings, none of any size and mainly looking in need of repair, the whole clustered round the local church. It had the air of so many places in rural France — somewhere time had passed by or never even discovered.

Yet it was a working hamlet, it still contained a few of the necessary small shops in a central square dominated by the ubiquitous war memorial to the dead of the Guerre Mondiale: a butcher, a baker, both just closing for the two hours of lunch, a still-open newsagent which was also a tabac, as well as a small brasserie with outside seating under a sun-bleached awning advising the benefits of Ricard pastis.

Cal parked the Simca near the brasserie but in the shade, attracting a few curious glances from those still about. The reaction to the two-seater Hispano-Suiza J12, as it glided in seconds after, low and sleek, the engine purring, actually made the locals stop and stare; it was a rich man’s motor in a place were such things were rarely to be seen.

Parked well away from the Simca in full sunlight, hood still up, engine off, it just sat there for what seemed an age. By the time the passenger got out, Cal and Peter were sitting under the awning, awaiting the beers they had ordered.

He was tall, exuded even at a distance an air of arrogance, and looked to be in his early twenties, broad-shouldered with blond curls, in a double-breasted light-grey suit of a good cut, somewhat crumpled from having been sat in a hot car, that over an open-necked big-collared shirt.

He stood by the open door looking around like a tourist, at the church, the Calvary cross of the war memorial and the now-shuttered shops, though it was obvious that his sweeping looks were taking in the two men he had followed.

Then his lips moved and whatever he said brought out the driver, a shorter fellow, who looked even younger with his brown cowlick hair, dressed in a leather blouson over a dark-blue shirt; he also made a point of not looking in their direction as he fetched out a beret to cover his head.

‘Cal, I have no idea who these two clowns are, but they are rank amateurs.’

Peter imparted that soft opinion as the owner of the brasserie placed the two draught beers on their table, looking up longingly just after he did so towards the Hispano-Suiza, which had Cal engaging him in a conversation of the kind people indulge in who love cars — the beauty of the lines, the size of the engine, which was a V12, and the potential speed such a vehicle could achieve, the conclusion that not only was the fellow driving it a lucky man, he was, along with his passenger, also a complete stranger.

Then he asked for some food and, with Peter’s assent, agreed to a couple of omelettes and a side salad.

‘I have never understood this obsession with motor vehicles,’ Peter said, when the owner had gone; he had some French, but nothing like the fluency of Cal Jardine. ‘But I take it we have fixed these fellows as not being local.’

Cal nodded and sipped his beer while keeping an eye on the two youngsters, the shorter of whom looked like a teenager, now conversing in a way that indicated they were trying to decide what to do. The conclusion had the tall one in the crumpled suit heading for the bijouterie-tabac, which had a sign outside to indicate it had a telephone, both men watching till he disappeared inside.

‘I doubt he’s gone for a paper,’ Cal said.

‘Calling for instructions, perhaps?’ Peter essayed. ‘You’d best fill me in on how close your cargo is.’

‘Did I say it was close?’

Peter looked at his watch, trying and failing to hide his impatience, which actually pleased his companion; it was equally enjoyable to get under his skin.

‘Lunchtime now, your barge has to be in the port, I suspect, during the hours of darkness, as will your freighter. But you have to allow time to get them alongside, more for loading so the vessel can sail at first light, and barges are slower than the lorries I thought you were using. How am I doing?’

‘So far so good.’

‘And can I add you are going to have to fully trust me anyway, much more now that we seem to have come across a slight impediment to that smooth transfer you earlier anticipated?’

‘That set of buildings just by that bridge we crossed.’

‘When you tooted the horn in that rather curious manner?’ Cal nodded and did so again when Peter identified that as a warning to get ready to move.

‘Who’s waiting?’

‘French sympathisers and a couple of Spaniards who will take the cargo on and land it.’

‘Not communists, I hope.’

‘Not a chance, they are Basques and they don’t like Madrid, whoever is in charge.’

‘Why the lorries?’

‘I had them as backup, just in case anything went wrong getting down the canal.’

Peter allowed himself a grim smile. ‘So it’s not a careful plan designed to go like clockwork?’

‘Take my word for it, Peter, should you ever indulge in the business of running guns, it never can be.’

‘Advice I shall cherish. Is there an alternative to moving them now?’

‘Not an easy one, given I’ve already sent a message to the freighter to enter port.’

‘Here comes our chum,’ Peter hissed.

Without being too obvious, they both observed the well-built suit returning to the car with his swaggering gait. If unable to hear what he said, it was a barked instruction that got both driver and passenger back in their seats, the engine firing with a bit of a roar through the twin exhausts, before it slipped out of the square heading inland.

Oil, vinegar and a basket of bread arriving allowed Cal to ask about the roads around the town and where they led, the conclusion, after much waving of hands, that there was any number of ways by which anyone could go anywhere, back to La Rochelle or inland to Niort on the route nationale. More importantly, he established that one of them would take the roadster back to that bridge without having to come back through the town.

‘So what’s the plan, Cal?’ asked Peter when the owner had gone.

‘Wait a mo,’ he replied, standing up and walking towards the tabac.

In an exaggerated fashion, Peter stretched out his legs and lifted his beer to his lips, calling loudly after Cal, ‘Do get a move on, old chap, this gun of yours is going to ruin the cut of my blazer. Oh, and fetch me some gaspers, will you, British if they have any.’

‘You’ll be lucky.’

Peter did sit up when his omelette came and he ordered two more beers before tucking into that and the bread. His plate was clean by the time Cal returned, his face set hard.

‘Something tells me the news isn’t good.’

‘No.’

‘Am I to assume whoever runs that shop overheard something?’

‘No, I bribed her to ask the telephone operator what number our suit just called. Told her to say he had left his wallet.’

Peter clicked his fingers. ‘As easy as that?’

‘Look around you, Peter. When do you think was the last time anyone in Dompierre saw a hundred-dollar note?’

‘I doubt anyone in this dump would recognise American currency of any denomination.’

‘They do, this was a country awash with rich Yanks until the Wall Street Crash. Anyway, our madame of a shopkeeper did and that’s all that matters.’

‘Which, I assume, you flashed under her nose.’

‘I just asked her if she knew anywhere close by where I could change one and waited for the reaction, which was pleasingly negative.’

It had been a pantomime of regrets, but Cal had seen avarice in the old woman’s eyes at the sight of the high-denomination foreign note, one that became more valuable with each passing day in a country with a falling exchange rate; it was probably equivalent to half a year’s profits in her petit magasin.

If his explanation of what he wanted had sounded false to the point of being risible in his ears, even in his perfect French, that La Patrie was in danger from foreign spies and he was offering a reward to thwart them, it had been enough to persuade her, once the note was in her hand, to call the operator with the required excuse. Having got the number, he then made a second call, pretending to be the fellow returned for his wallet, asking to be put through to allay any concerns.

What he heard from the other end set Cal Jardine’s mind racing; if you live on the edge of danger or discovery all the time it is easy to become paranoid, but it is also necessary to exclude nothing from your thinking, especially the very worst possibility, like that on which he was reflecting now as he began to pick on his salad and munch on his barely warm omelette.

‘So what did you find out?’

‘Our blond-haired chum phoned the La Rochelle headquarters of the Jeunesses Patriotes.’