Gavin Lyall - Spy’s Honour

“Ah, M’sieu, est qu’il y a un telephone?” But, naturellement, all telephones were for official use. However, at the hotel which one could not see because the train was in the way …

“Wait here,” he told O’Gilroy, and galloped off down the slippery cobblestones.

The walk back, when he came out of the hotel, was much shorter because the train was no longer in the way.

“And the Colonel isn’t even in his office this afternoon. What the devil the Bureau’s playing at …”

O’Gilroy took it calmly. “Would it have to be the Bureau at all? It wouldn’t need a genius to find out the Colonel’s name.”

“So you think we’ve been spotted?” The thought was both exciting and sinister. “But we have to pretend we don’t know that. And as real couriers we’d want to get to Paris quickly, but safely. But if we were real couriers we’d be pretending to be tourists, so …” And standing between the scurry of replenishing the steamer and the busy cafes of the quayside, he began to feel the loneliness of his new trade.

“It’s a mite fancy for me too, Captain,” O’Gilroy said dryly. “We’d best remember if it’s them, they’ll play the next card.”

“But we’re cut off from Spiers: have they diverted us from him, or are we diverting them from him?”

“You did not go to Paris, then?” The low, slow Gunther Arnold growl, now wrapped in a flapping grey-green cloak that made him look like a fat Christmas tree. Ranklin couldn’t imagine how he had got so close unnoticed.

“Some silly mix-up made us miss the train,” he said.

“Then we must have another drink! And your friend also. I have a hotel – it is not the Ritz, but – yes?”

Ranklin tried not to stare at him. Gunther was, presumably, the first spy he had met. Apart from himself, of course, and other members of the Bureau whom he couldn’t think of as real spies. But Gunther would hardly have been born into a Fine Old Spy Family, would he?

“That’s very kind,” he said pleasantly. “But we’ll have to find out about the next train, then telegraph to Paris to make sure our luggage …”

“M’sieu?” This time it was a tall man in grey chauffeur’s uniform, a small gold coronet embroidered on his breast and an unfamiliar badge on his cap. He bowed very slightly. “The General le Comte de St Col presents his compliments and wishes to know if he may be of assistance. He wishes your visit to France to be without problems.”

“How thoughtful of him.” Ranklin looked around for the General, feeling but resisting the attraction of a fellow soldier – even a General – in-problem times.

“The General is in the automobile.” It was parked a few yards away, a large white landaulette being gazed at by small and apparently rainproof schoolboys.

“And a very nice automobile to be waiting in,” O’Gilroy murmured, and Ranklin looked at him sharply. He had resisted the temptation, so O’Gilroy could, too. Their task was to stay in Gunther’s clutches but when he looked, the man had faded away again. Trust any general to pop up at the wrong time and mess things up, he thought angrily, then found himself following O’Gilroy towards the car.

The General, obviously well past retirement age, leant forward from the shadowed back seat, gloved hands resting on a walking stick. He had a thin face but puffy red cheeks, a long thinned-out white moustache and damp blue eyes. He shook hands as Ranklin was forced to explain a version of their problem.

“Sergeant Clement will telegraph to St-Lazare for the accommodation of your baggage. It would be an error to take the next trains, they stop everywhere to Rouen. But my house is on the route to there and is at your disposal after such a crossing. Perhaps you would wish to bathe, to take a small repas – and then Sergeant Clement will convey you to a comfortable express from Rouen. There is no problem.”

It wasn’t an order, not quite, and Ranklin was about to refuse politely when O’Gilroy simply climbed into the car. Ranklin now had the choice of getting loudly angry or getting in also. He got in, but he also got quietly very angry as well.

As he’d expected, the house wasn’t exactly on the direct road to Rouen, and nor was it a house but a chateau. Not a grand one – it got its size from the height of its witch’s-hat turrets rather than its width – but perfectly sited atop a small hill with a steep lawn down to the road in front and now-leafless forests marching up on either flank. Only as they chugged up the drive which curled round to the back could he see that the lawn needed scything, the creeper on the walls should be cut back and the drainpipes in the courtyard where they arrived were dribbling rustily down the stonework. It was nice to know that it wasn’t only the English landed class that had been ravaged by death duties and the agricultural slump.

A manservant in worn but well-kept livery whisked away their bags – Ranklin should have foreseen that – and the General led the way inside. After a few paces, he halted and Took Off His Hat in a gesture that made Ranklin do the same and glare at O’Gilroy to copy.

“Gentlemen,” the General said, “His Most Christian Majesty King Philippe of the French.”

The portrait, hung to dominate the hallway, was of a middle-aged man with a long, full-lipped face and square fringe beard, wearing ducal robes. It was a recent picture but done in the style of the old court painters, with a stylised background showing, in defiance of geography, the Palace of Versailles on one side and Orleans cathedral on the other. Ranklin’s memory fixed on that clue: the current pretender to the throne had taken the title of Duc d’Orleans, not his father’s one of Comte de Paris.

Please God, don’t let O’Gilroy say one word, but let me say the right ones.

“We are most honoured to be received in the house of a truly loyal soldier of France,” he intoned hopefully. A sideways glance showed it had been well received.

An older and stouter servant took their hats and coats, and they followed the General into a drawing room overlooking the terrace and the unmown lawn sloping down to the road. Itching with anger at O’Gilroy, Ranklin took in only a vague impression of the room: strongly masculine and military – a small brass cannon as a paperweight – the walls hung with African trophies, group photographs and decorative but useless maps. If there was, or had been, a comtesse, she had had no influence on this room.

“Would you care for some refreshment?” the General offered, as the stout servant came in with a tray. “Of coffee, tea, or some wine?”

Ranklin was about to choose tea, then recalled his mistrust of the French version and took coffee. O’Gilroy, he was relieved to see, did the same. The General sat down with a glass of lemon tea and the servant – the butler, Ranklin assumed – arranged a Moroccan shawl around his shoulders.

For want of anything better to say, Ranklin harked back to the portrait in the hallway. “Are you acquainted with the Duc d’Orleans, sir?”

“His Majesty is gracious enough to correspond with me. I have not been fortunate enough to wait upon him.”

O’Gilroy was looking baffled. Let him stew, Ranklin’s anger said.

“Do you know if he plans any further travels, sir?” And as the General’s thin eyebrows closed at this impertinence, Ranklin added quickly: “I thought his book on Spitzbergen was quite excellent. Most informative.” And for all he knew, it might have been, along with being a daft place to write a book about.

The General was mollified. “I understand he plans no further travels. He knows his destiny lies in Europe at this time.”

There was something, but not quite everything, unreal about talking of France accepting a king once more. Ranklin went along with it, partly to explore the General, but just as much to bewilder O’Gilroy. “I am reassured that His Majesty’s leadership will be available in these dark times.”