“Well,” said Hearne, “well, now.”
He felt he could do with a cigarette, or a drink. He rose and went to the window. The air was heavy with the smell of the fruit-trees after rain. But at least it was clean. He looked at the pile of Fascist literature on the floor: at least the air was clean.
There still remained one heap of books to be examined. They looked like copy-books. Hearne picked them up one by one, glancing quickly but methodically through their pages. Corlay’s writing was flamboyant, but in spite of the excesses of sweeps and curls the pen-marked pages were easy to read. Most of the note-books belonged to his university days. At first, he had been a prolific note-taker and underliner, but the lecture notes tailed off as his classes progressed. By the end of a year they were short and uninterested, and the margins were filled with the variations of the Bertrand Corlay signature.
But two note-books really attracted Hearne. The first was a desultory diary, or, rather, a series of condensed complaints. Corlay had been an unhappy young man: little, if anything, had pleased him. He hadn’t liked his school-teaching job—the pupils were uniformly stupid, his fellow-teachers were nincompoops. But when, he lost that job, then his scorn switched to the unfairness of a Government which preferred a Paris to a Rennes degree. There was a hint of “victimisation,” of persecution for his nationalist beliefs. And yet, when he came back to live on this Breton farm, it was strange that he seemed still unhappier. This time he railed at the stupidities of the Breton peasant, the banalities of country life with its mixture of coarseness and superstition. Occasionally there would be a page concentrated on the Corlay family. He went to some lengths to identify his ancestors: all of them seemed either very noble or very brave or very artistic, or all three. His last entry, dated the seventh of January, 1938, stated flatly: “It is intolerable that we should have been forced to live like animals. Once our name was famous, but now we must be content to eat and sleep our way to death. I will not be content.” That was the end of the diary.
It was nice that he could eat, anyway, Hearne thought grimly. That was more than some families were able to do.
He carried the second note-book over to the window. He felt he needed some more fresh air to help him finish this job. So Corlay would not be content...
The second book contained Corlay’s own writings. They amounted to exactly eleven pages—the sum total of his work from August 1937, when he had come to live on his mother’s farm, until January 1938. January 1938. The date haunted Hearne. Something pretty powerful had struck Corlay’s life in that month. January 1938. Hearne roused himself to look at the eleven pages of poems and epigrams. It was just as he feared: Corlay would probably have made a good farmer. His curse was his desire to live in the Ritz, to be a Breton without living in Brittany, to be the best poet explorer film-star orator artist statesman tennis-champion scientist of his time. He was mentally aged fourteen, except that that slandered most fourteen-year-olds.
The joke is on me, Hearne thought savagely, and went back to the books. Corlay’s possibilities were more than either he or Matthews had bargained for. He began to jam the books into the bookcase. Automatically he chose the heaviest volumes for the two lowest shelves, but the books he had tried to thrust into the second bottom shelf wouldn’t fit. They overlapped the edge by two inches. Hearne struck at them impatiently with his fist. The Myth of the Twentieth Century... The Myth of the... “Damn you all to hell,” he said, and gave a blow with the side of his wrist to their bold titles. His wrist hurt, but the books didn’t move. They couldn’t, for the shelf was not wide enough for their breadth: the shelf could only hold the smaller octavo-size books. Whoever heard of anyone making a bookcase with the small books on the second bottom shelf? And Corlay had taken some trouble about that. The back of that second bottom shelf had been blocked in to hold the smaller volumes securely. Blocked in... Hearne’s fingers lightly tapped the back of the shelf. It was of lighter wood, possibly a thin plywood. Between it and the real back of solid wood there must be a space. But how to get into that space was another question. Corlay must have been a cleverer carpenter that Hearne had imagined.
But he needn’t have credited Corlay with too much skill. As he pushed and shoved and pressed the false back with the palm of his hand, it suddenly slid along grooves in the two shelves which it had separated. The end of the plywood panel came out of the side of the bookcase and stuck there incongruously, quivering with the force of Hearne’s effort. It was as easy as that. He pushed the panel back into position, and looked at the side of the bookcase. Simple, but neat enough, he decided. An imitation join going up the whole length of the bookcase, like the stripe on a Guardsman’s trouser leg, had disguised Corlay’s subterfuge.
“Cunning chap I’m supposed to be,” Hearne said. Cunning: still another aspect of the simple Corlay, the misunderstood genius. Hearne grinned. “I really begin to think I’m a bit of a stinker,” he added. He pushed the panel sideways once more, slowly, carefully this time, so that the plywood board wouldn’t crack up. This secret compartment might have its uses. It had, as he found out when the panel was slipped aside to its full length. There, in front of his hand, lay two note-books and some sheets of paper fastened together with an elastic band. As he removed his discovery, he replaced his own notes in the neat recess. And before he closed the false shelf-back once more, he retrieved his revolver and map from the unlocked table drawer. They would be safer inside that bookcase, if any stray Germans had the inspiration to search for weapons. Then he stacked about twenty of the narrower volumes along that shelf. They would be a safeguard if the American got tired of vicarious passion in high places, and abandoned the over-complicated emotions of the novels for a walk, perhaps a talk, in this room. Hearne filled the other shelves, too, for good measure. The room looked neat once more; that should keep Albertine happy.
He carried the treasure-trove over to the table. Now he might find something really solid. He might as well admit his excitement.
First, he examined the papers. Two sheets were joined together with a rusted clip: one, a map of Northern Brittany with neat, red-ink numbers over certain villages and towns; the other, a typed list of names and street addresses, with red-ink numbers in the margin opposite each name. He would study this combination later; perhaps, and this was the likeliest guess, these were the names and districts of trusted Breton nationalists. Strange that Corlay should have taken so much trouble to hide them, for Breton nationalists hadn’t been proscribed, even if they weren’t exactly loved, by the French Government. Perhaps Corlay had been hiding the list from his mother: she certainly didn’t agree with any separatist ideas. She believed that the Bretons were the flower of the French Republic, and flowers wither when they are cut from their stalks.
Next came three sheets of paper, this time pinned together, listing dates and names of cafés. The dates ranged on a monthly average from January 1938 until the end of August 1939. These sheets were all typewritten, too, which meant that this stuff had been given to Corlay, for Corlay had no typewriter. Meeting places and meeting times: that was the best guess Hearne could make, but the information on these sheets would need more careful examination when he was less pressed for time. He slipped the rubber band round the papers, and placed them between the double sheet of worn blotting-paper which lay inside the table drawer. He closed the drawer thoughtfully, and abstractedly picked up the two note-books.
They were of a nobler brand than the copy-books which he had found in the wardrobe along with the books. They even had mock-leather covers. He had the sudden premonition that they belonged to Corlay’s period of unexpected prosperity. When he opened them, he saw he was right. One was a diary; its first entry was under the heading the eighteenth of January, 1938. The other contained Corlay’s poems, each neatly dated at the foot of its page. The first of these poems had been written on the twenty-fifth of January, 1938.
January 1938... January 1938...
“Well,” said Hearne, “what a peculiar thing
.” His sarcasm left a smile on his lips until he began to read the poems. They were highly emotional, increasingly passionate, but obviously sincere. Poor devil, he thought, she twisted him around all right, whoever she was. And then he came to twenty lines of verse written in October. They described Corlay’s love with great detail. I don’t know about the hips and breasts, but there’s no mistaking the eyes and hair, Hearne thought. He re-read the description of the hair—autumn leaves caught in the warmth of the late evening sun. He remembered his walk yesterday, on his way home from the village. “Damn,” he said aloud, “damn it all.” He was suddenly annoyed, almost angry. And then he laughed. “Fool!” he said to himself. Matthews, no doubt, would have put it more strongly. It only proved, anyway, that Corlay wasn’t a good poet.
Towards the end of the poems—there were fourteen in all—it was obvious that Corlay had achieved quite a lot. The last effusions were almost hysterical with joy. It embarrassed Hearne to read them. “All right,” he said irritably, “I get the idea. All right.” And then one line held his attention. “In the shadows of the dovecote, fortress of our love and of our secrets”...Dovecote. Could that be the place which Elise had meant when she had asked him to meet her? If so, then he hadn’t the excuse that he didn’t know what she was talking about. And he had been hanging on to that excuse. It had been going to preserve his detachment tonight when ten o’clock came, and he was securely and respectably in bed. But now it was entirely his own choice whether he met Elise at the dovecote or not. The choice was his own, and he didn’t want to make it. The girl was dangerous; and it wasn’t the belief that she was a Breton nationalist which made her seem dangerous, either. He wouldn’t go, he decided; he’d read that diary in bed.
And yet the line of poetry haunted him...“fortress of our love and of our secrets.”... What secrets? Secrets of love, secrets of Breton autonomy, what secrets? He paced the room, his head bent as if his eyes could read the riddle in the unevenness of the floor. Business before pleasure was one of Matthews’ original remarks. No, he wouldn’t go, he repeated, and thought of Matthews’ cold blue eyes. Business before pleasure. And then the idea came to him that he was thinking of Elise solely in terms of pleasure. Could it be possible that she might be part of his business, too?
It was almost time for supper. He placed the two note-books inside the table drawer and resumed his restless walking round the room, his hands in his pockets, his eyes still fixed on the lines of the scrubbed white floor. He was wasting time, he thought in sudden depression: he should be concentrating on railways and canals and roads. And yet as long as he didn’t understand Corlay he would feel in danger, and therefore be in danger. For there was something which worried him about Corlay, something indefinite as yet, something increased by today’s discoveries. He had thought the examination of these books and papers would have settled his mind. But it hadn’t. January 1938, he thought again...“of our love and of our secrets.” Secrets. Probably the word meant little: just a poet’s addition to perfect a metre or complete a line.
He halted at the window. He could always read some of the diary before ten o’clock. Then he could decide whether he was imagining possibilities, or whether he was just trying to find any old excuse to see her again. He turned from the window as he heard Myles’s footsteps crossing the store-room. It would depend on the diary, then, he determined, and faced the opening door.
“Pardon me. Am I disturbing you? I thought I heard voices, and that you had finished your work.”
“Voices? Oh, that was me. I’ve a bad habit of talking aloud.”
“You do?” The American looked both amused and relieved. “I knew a man from Texas once, who used to talk to himself. He used to be alone out on the range for long stretches at a time. That’s how he started the habit.”
Hearne said quickly, “How’s the reading?”
Not too good. I slept some of the time, I must say. My French can’t be as good as my French friends pretended. By the way, do you understand everything I say.?”
“Enough.”
“You speak quite good English. Your accent is your own, but you have the grammar all right.”
Hearne tried to smile calmly. “Oh, I had plenty of grammar at school. I even took a degree in English at Rennes University.”
Myles looked as if he believed that. There was no reason why he shouldn’t.
“And I had some English friends at the University,” Hearne went on glibly. “One in particular used to talk a lot to me in English. That was after I got to know him of course.
“Of course.” There was a reminiscent look in Myles’s eyes. “Last summer—” But Albertine entered, and the story of last summer ended before it was begun.
“Food!” said the American, and this time the look in his eyes was much more understandable. Albertine was actually smiling. Her nod was approving as she looked round the room and saw the neatly arranged books.
And then, downstairs, someone knocked.
“The front door,” said Albertine needlessly. The three of them looked at each other. “It must be Monsieur le Curé; he always uses the front door.”
Again there was that knocking. “Very powerful man, Monsieur le Curé,” Hearne observed, and saw a sudden fear on Albertine’s face.
“It doesn’t sound like him,” she said slowly, her cheeks paling.
Hearne took command. “Go downstairs slowly, call you are coming, and don’t be afraid. Give me that food.” To Myles he said, “Into bed with you.”
As he opened Madame Corlay’s door, he saw Albertine was indeed going slowly. He planked the food down on the table beside Madame Corlay, covering the spectacles heavily with the bowl of soup. There was a snap as the bowl tilted over its victim.
Madame Corlay’s amazement at their sudden entry gave way to partial understanding as Hearne put his fingers to his lips, pointed downstairs, and sat down in a chair at some distance. She tightened her lips as she heard Albertine’s voice, and then a man’s voice, firm and assured. He was speaking careful French, loudly, coldly, with that unmistakable authority. The white draperies were pulled roughly back into place, swayed, and then hung rigid in their heavy folds. Madame Corlay looked as if she were about to explode.
“The Boches,” she said.
“Gently, gently,” warned Hearne. He was listening to the footsteps on the stairs.
Albertine had come up with more speed than she had gone down. “They’ve come. To see if we have room. For soldiers.”
“I’ll see them,” said Hearne, and rose quickly.
But there was no need. A German officer stood in the doorway. Behind him was a soldier.
11
VISIT OF INSPECTION
“You are the owner of this property?”
The German’s voice was as coldly assured as his face. Under the exaggerated peak of his cap, the straight features pointed expressionlessly towards Hearne. His eyes and skin and hair were colourless: it was as if the uniform blotted them out. All you noticed was the regularity of the outlines of his face, the assertive confidence of his body.
Hearne shook his head wearily, and gestured towards Madame Corlay.
“You are the owner of this property?”
Madame Corlay, her eyes still dilated from the effect of the German’s salute, nodded abruptly.
“How many rooms do you have in this house?”
There was a silence.
“Six,” Albertine said.
“How many rooms?” the German repeated, his eyes fixed on Madame Corlay. She sat quite still, her hands clasped tightly on her stick. Her knuckles were white.
“How many?”
“My servant has told you.” Madame Corlay’s voice had tightened, but it was still under control. Hearne watched her not without admiration.
“Is this the only servant?” The German pointed towards Albertine.
“There is Henri, who works on the farm.”
“And this man?” The German indicated Hearne, slouching on his chair.
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“My”—there was the slightest hesitation, perhaps a catch in Madame Corlay’s breath—“son.” Her eyes met Hearne’s. He had stiffened involuntarily. She smiled gently, and he relaxed. She knew, he was thinking, she knew; or did she? If she had known, what had prevented her from saying “A man who pretends to be my son”?
The officer crossed over to the fire-place, and examined the view from the windows on that side of the room. “Quite good,” he said, as if to himself. Then he walked quickly over to the window which overlooked the farmyard, passing the bed with the white draperies gathered round it so innocently. Madame Corlay, Albertine, Hearne, were as motionless as the soldier at the door. The officer opened the window, and they could hear German voices in the yard. The voices suddenly were silenced, as the men saw the captain at the window. He beckoned once, sharply, silently, and turned back into the room. Behind him the breeze from the opened window fluttered the white curtains and the draperies on the bed.
Albertine hastened to close the window. “Madame is ill,” she said reprovingly. “She will catch pneumonia.”