The Invisible Victory

24

I sailed from Newhaven to Dieppe in an ordinary cross-Channel steamer, painted grey, blacked out and escorted by a destroyer. There were crates lashed to the decks, the only passengers a hundred or so Servicemen of all ranks, even a red-tabbed general. The journey proved less disturbing than my storm-tossed crossing towards Wuppertal. There were no submarines, no aeroplanes. I found the French blackout lacked the puritanical gloom of our own, where the narrowest chink brought an air-raid warden banging on the front door with that already most tiresome enquiry, 'Don't you know there's a war on?' A comfortable express took me to the Gare St Lazare. I arrived in Paris shortly after eight o'clock on the morning of Saturday, May 25, about the same time as Major-General Spears arrived on Churchill's instructions to put some heart into the French Government-and to convince them that the British Army was not following its traditional tactics in trouble and making a dash for the nearest blue water.

I took a taxi past the Madeleine to the British Embassy in rue du Faubourg St Honorй. I never forgot my first impression of Paris, the smell of coffee and Gitane cigarettes, the advertisements everywhere for Dubo…Dubon…Dubonnet and the lugubrious Nicolas wine man with his fistfuls of half a dozen splayed bottles, the noisy traffic and shrill-whistling policemen, the green buses with people hanging over the taffrail, the pavement cafйs with everyone reading their morning papers. The more important statues and doorways were sandbagged, as in London. There were a good many Army lorries. I noticed at once the sauntering, lost-looking groups on the pavements with suitcases and bundles, refugees which had been pouring into Paris all the past week from Belgium and north-eastern France.

An Embassy official with a retired soldierly air expected me, but could offer little help. 'I suppose you could try the NAAFI in the boulevard Magenta,' he suggested gloomily when I asked about a bed. 'What did you say you'd come to Paris for?'

'To collect a bit of mould.'

He looked lost. The war was becoming too complicated for him.

I decided to make straight for Elizabeth's billet. Another taxi took me between the green billows of chestnuts in the Champs-Elysйes towards the Arc de Triomphe. The professor's was one of the tall, grey, brown-shuttered confluent houses overlooking the sunken railway line near the Porte Maillot. As I went to ring the bell of the highly-varnished front door, Elizabeth herself stepped into the sunshine in her uniform.

'Darling! My God.' I had never before seen her disconcerted. 'But what are you doing in Paris? Were you just leaving?'

'On the contrary, I've just arrived.'

'From England? But everybody here is getting ready to fly for their lives.'

'Surely it can't be as bad as that?' I asked, though feeling abruptly uneasy.

'Haven't you seen this morning's paper?'

'I can't speak a great deal of French.'

'The Belgians are on the point of giving up. The whole French Government has been to Notre Dame to pray for Divine inspiration. That's a terribly bad sign, isn't it? Some people say the panzers will be parked in the Place de la Concorde in a couple of days. But of course Paris has been buzzing with rumours for weeks, the French High Command tells people absolutely nothing. I suppose they're far too ashamed of themselves.'

Remembering Sir Edward's charge, I asked, 'How about yourself? Are you getting out?'

'I can't, until I'm ordered to. It's such a lovely relief, not having to make decisions, isn't it? Where are you staying?'

'Nowhere. My arrangements seem a little disorganized.'

'Then you'd better sleep here.' I protested against such intrusion. 'The professor and madame won't mind a bit,' she assured me airily, being always light-hearted in the disposal of other people's hospitality. 'But what _are _you doing here, instead of growing mushrooms at Oxford?'

'It's rather complicated, but it's to do with an experimental drug which mustn't fall into the hands of the Germans.'

'How thrilling. Jim darling, you are dressed rather peculiarly, aren't you?'

I was wearing my Harris tweed jacket with grey flannels, carrying my flapping umbrella and a small suitcase. 'This is my usual holiday outfit.'

'Jim, you're a darling. I forgot to say how utterly wonderful it is to see you.' She came nearer and kissed me. For the first time she did not make her ceremonial pouting face.

Professor Piйry had left for work at the Franзois-Xavier Hospital, madame was out. I left my bag, explaining to Elizabeth that I must be at the Institut Duhamel before that Saturday noon. 'I'm walking across to my hospital in Neuilly, I'll put you on the right bus at the Porte Maillot,' Elizabeth told me. 'It's so much cheaper than a taxi, and almost as quick. Get off at the Jardin du Luxembourg. Dinner's at eight. I'll explain everything to the professor in French. If the air raid warning goes, you follow the arrows marked "Abri".' She had the calmly practical approach to the war of so many Englishwomen. It must have been a sizable national asset. As we walked in the warm morning along the rue Lascut she talked about her father and mother in England with the simple eagerness of a schoolgirl. 'Archie's still in England,' she told me. 'And he's a sergeant. Isn't that grand?'

The bus took me along the arcaded rue de Rivoli, with its tiny expensive shops still selling articles of supreme uselessness, past the sandbagged statue of Jeanne d'Arc, then across the Seine and the Ile de le Citй. The Institut Duhamel was a small square brick and stone building overlooking the Luxembourg gardens. I had an introduction to a Dr Champier, who had worked in the French Hospital in Soho and spoke good English. He sat at an untidy desk in a cubicle of a room, the tall window tight shut, hot and stuffy and smelling of French cigarettes. He was a short fat man with bushy black hair and a large moustache, in a blue suit with a lйgion d'Honneur rosette in the buttonhole. He wore an expression of worry which I hoped was habitual.

'Why are you so anxious to trace Lamartine?' he asked.

'I must apologize for not being at liberty to tell you.'

'But surely, among confrиres…?' He spread his pudgy hands.

'Times are abnormal, as you appreciate.'

Seeming to accept this, he folded his hands on his paunch. 'Whatever your reasons, I cannot help you much. Lamartine has left here. Between ourselves, he should never have been appointed. But there are political influences in this country which can put almost any man in almost any position.'

He produced a packet of Gitanes, which I refused. 'No, the battle didn't start at dawn on May 10, my friend.' He jerked his head in the direction of the front line. 'It's been in progress since the end of the last war. Never again should the Germans invade us, we said. That was logical. We had a million and a half dead, a third of our country devastated, and we were flat broke. But unfortunately it became "Never again" to war of any sort. Our nation has lost its soul. There're plenty of Frenchmen who wouldn't mind Hitler in the Elysйe Palace if it would save their own skins, take it from me.'

I made some reassuring remark that Hitler still had a long way to come. 'Has he, Mr Elgar? I hope you're right. A hundred kilometres isn't much when we haven't an Army equipped or trained to stand up to him. What can we expect? After a couple of decades of changing our government almost every weekend, of corruption and swindling, of every man out for himself whether he's boss or worker, of riots and indiscipline-remember the Stavisky affair?' He struck a pink-coloured match. 'Stavisky was that devious financier supposed to have committed suicide. Any medical man could tell from simply reading the newspapers that the police shot him. Dead men tell no tales against people in high places. So we had barricades in the streets. The Government did nothing but resign. No wonder now _les cartes se brouillent.'_

He blew out a cloud of pungent smoke.

'I'll tell you something. Lamartine has indiscreet contacts with the Croix de Feu. That's one of those parties like Action Franзaise. All admirers of _nos chers amis_ Hitler and Mussolini.'

'I know.'

Champier grunted. 'His home address is a top floor apartment in the avenue Pierre Premier de Serbie, by the Trocadero. But you'd be more likely to find him at No. 22-bis rue des Brouettes-Wheelbarrows Street,' he translated for me. 'That's off the boulevard de Clichy in Montmartre. It's where he has his mistress. She's very pretty. I saw her once when they were dining together at the Mere Catherine. Or perhaps he has gone on holiday to the Cote d'Azur,' he ended with a smile. 'You will understand that people have better things to do at this moment than look for errant bacteriologists.'

'Is he spying for the Germans?'

Champier considered this for some moments. 'I don't think so. But he might sell his secret knowledge of germ warfare for the conquerors' favours-if they arrive.'

He had extinguished my remaining doubts about the trouble and risk of my expedition.

'Should I not find Lamartine in a day or two, may I come back to you?'

'If I am here. There are rumours that Monsieur Reynaud and his Cabinet have already labels on their bags for Tours.' We stood up and shook hands. 'What is it that Lamartine has of yours?' Champier tried again. 'Some strains of botulism so deadly that the entire population of the world will be erased, Hitler included?'

I conceded, 'It's an antibacterial drug which is very experimental and may never work.'

'In that case, you would seem to be taking a lot of trouble to capture a mirage.'

I consulted a map over the nearest Mйtro entrance, and caught a train from Notre Dame des Champs station to Pigalle. It was noon, and everyone was coming out for lunch. Apart from the speckling of uniforms, it might have been a peacetime Saturday. I sat at the nearest cafй table and ordered a beer. I managed to achieve sketchy directions from the waiter to the rue des Brouettes. The man drinking Cinzano at the next table was reading an early edition of _L'Intransigeant. 'Les Allemands а Ypres',_ said the headline.

Twenty-two-bis was a seedy looking building, a small block of flats. Just inside the open front door, I spied through a hatch the traditional French concierge in her black bombazine. I had lost enthusiasm for my quest. I was hot and hungry, and I had no idea what Lamartine's mistress called herself. I said earnestly, 'Dr Lamartine?' and to my surprise she replied at once, _'Cinquiиme йtage,'_ holding up five fingers for my further edification.

I climbed a narrow stone stair amid tasty smells of cooking. The door was opened by a pretty, short woman in her early thirties, fair haired with a snub nose and big green eyes. She had a Japanese kimono loosely round her, she was untidy and unmade up, and startled to see me.

I asked for Dr Lamartine as best I could. She stared blankly, clearly careful to hint no connection with him to a stranger. I asked, _'Parlez vous anglais?'_ She shook her head. _Sprechen Sie Deutsch?'_

_'Ja, ja. Ich lerne Deutsch in der Schule.'_

'I am an English scientist from Oxford,' I explained in German. 'Dr Lamartine came to visit me earlier this month. My name is Mr Elgar.'

The dourness in her face disappeared. Lamartine had been talking about me. 'Yes, you went to watch a game-'

'Cricket,' I said in English.

'Henri very much enjoyed his stay.'

'Can I see him, please?'

Her glance wavered. 'He's not here.'

I said resolutely, 'May I come in?'

She had a moment's hesitation. 'All right.'

The flat was small, my mouth watered at the overpowering smell of simmering onions. The living-room was cramped and untidy, the table littered with newspapers and popular magazines, _Le Figaro, Le Temps, Match _and _Marie-Claire._ There were a good many books about in the bright yellow paper French covers. On the wall was a Picasso reproduction-then uncommon-in the corner a treadle-operated sewing machine, against the window a desk with a large typewriter surrounded by sheets of foolscap. I got the impression of an intelligent, independent woman. Of Lamartine there was no trace, not even a hat.

I explained that I had come from the Institut Duhamel, and had urgent business with Dr Lamartine connected with the scientific work we both followed. I wondered how much she knew of this. I suspected from my assessment of her intellect a lot.

'I haven't seen Henri for over a week, I've no idea where he is, none whatever.'

She looked as though telling the truth, though for all I knew he was listening behind the closed door of the bedroom. 'If he should come here, would you ask him to telephone me urgently?'

I wrote down Professor Piйry's address and number. She agreed readily, though I felt only to be rid of me.

'I shall be returning to England within a week or so.'

'To England? I hope that you'll be able to make it.'

'There are plenty of ports besides Calais,' I told her confidently. 'And the front will have to stabilize some time, won't it?'

She made a face as though tasting something disagreeable.

Discouraged by this call, I took the Mйtro in search of Lamartine's family nest in the avenue Pierre Premier de Serbie. It was a tall grey building with well painted black shutters, all folded back except for three pairs on the top floor. These turned out to be the rooms of his flat. After ringing and knocking without avail, I returned to seek the concierge. Madame Lamartine and the children had left for the Dordogne _а cause de la guerre,_ it appeared.

I had not got far after Florey's penicillin. And the Nazis seemed to be bearing down with their usual panache. Truly, he that the devil drives feels no lead at his heels.