“Suit yourself.” They came into the village and a patch of light from a busy cafe. “You know something? You two do look kind of funny, outdoors without hats. If anybody asks, you better say you’ve been playing tennis.”
They walked on through the village to the station and found there was a stopping train to Rouen in a quarter of an hour. And yes, monsieur would find a train on to Paris tonight, pas de probleme.
“It would take us longer to find petrol – if there is any – and walk back to the car. And if we are being chased, I’d rather they didn’t catch us out there on the road, alone.”
Corinna seemed about to suggest something, paused, and changed her mind: “Forget the automobile; I’ll tell them where they can find it.” And since she was the daughter of Reynard Sherring, they wouldn’t raise a peep, although they’d certainly raise the bill. Ranklin bought one first-class ticket for Rouen, where Corinna’s maid and luggage were, and two for Paris.
Then she went off to find the ladies’ lavatory: “I was planning for that at the Chateau, too. Now, on a French railroad station. Lord, the things I seem to be doing for your Empire.”
O’Gilroy gave Ranklin a puzzled look. “Are we in so much of a rush now? Ye really think they’re chasing after?”
“We can still wreck the mission if we don’t get the code to Paris tonight – now we’ve got the real code. It was something Gunther said to me in our private chat: that the War House wouldn’t trust the code if it had vanished, from their point of view, for a few hours. Perhaps the War House doesn’t know about the mix-up, but the French’ll have the other two parcels by now and they’ll damn well know. D’you think they’ll trust it if the third copy doesn’t arrive until sometime tomorrow? So they’ll politely ask the War House to make up a new code please, and with two years’ work down the drain the War House will have words with the Bureau, and what the Commander says to us ….”
O’Gilroy shrugged. “’Twasn’t our mix-up. How’d they blame us?”
“Did you leave your brains in your overcoat? And your Army experience?”
“Sorry, Captain. I was forgetting.”
Corinna came back saying: “Don’t ask,” which deeply shocked Ranklin, who wouldn’t have dreamed of asking.
“Are you returning to Paris tomorrow?” Ranklin asked, trying to restore some tone to the conversation.
“That’s right. Are you going home or staying on in Paris for more spying?”
“Really,” Ranklin protested. “Would an agent announce he’s a British Army officer? And I hope we’ve got real agents who wouldn’t get into the mess we did at the Chateau.”
“Oh, I don’t know: I thought it was pretty resourceful, forcing a duel. Just the thing I’d expect spies to do.”
“Once and for all.”
But then O’Gilroy, who’d been thinking and not listening, said: “If ye don’t fancy the train, I could mebbe steal a car and go all the way.”
“O’Gilroy,” Ranklin said with a glare, “has a rather individual sense of humour. And property.”
Nettled, O’Gilroy sighed: “Ah, to hear the English sorrowing about others’ property is like the tiger saying sorry to the goat. Afterwards.”
“I’m glad you boys are maintaining a united front,” Corinna said, now thoroughly unconvinced by Ranklin. “But if it doesn’t offend your professional propriety, we’ll be legalistic and take the train. And speaking of tigers and goats, would either of you have a goat to spare?”
Ranklin puzzled, then realised: “D’you mean you’ve had no dinner?”
“Thanks to getting mad at you and your code.”
Ranklin tried to recall if they’d passed an open food shop (they certainly hadn’t passed a hat shop), but O’Gilroy just turned out his pockets. He came up with a bar of chocolate, some boiled sweets and what looked like two of the General’s tea biscuits.
“Trust an old campaigner,” Corinna said, pouncing. “May I?”
The train dramatised its arrival with a complete symphony of hoots, squeals, rattles and clanks, then sat steaming like a blown horse. It had only three carriages and barely more passengers; nobody was taking day trips to Dieppe’s beaches yet, and boat passengers had their own expresses. They climbed into one of the corridorless first-class compartments, and Corinna plonked her travelling bag on the seat beside her. “Since it seems to be the fashion, does anybody mind if I take off my hat?”
The train gave a preliminary shudder, then the door swung open and Sergeant Clement swarmed in, holding the big military revolver.
He slammed the door and sat in the corner beside it, holding the pistol two-handed on his knees. At the other end of the long seat, O’Gilroy was so rigid that he swayed all in one piece as the train ambled away; his face shone with hatred.
Trying to defuse him, Ranklin said quickly: “I suppose you didn’t think to bring my hat, did you? No? One just doesn’t realise – ”
“I think you have the code-book, Madame,” Clement said to Corinna. “Please to give it to me.”
Corinna glanced at Ranklin for guidance. He seemed faintly exasperated. “For heaven’s sake, man, that’s all over. Why didn’t you run when you had the chance – and the car? You still can: I’m not going to report anything until we reach Paris. Nobody around here would believe us.”
“Please, the code-book.”
Ranklin sighed and nodded to Corinna. She took the still tape-bound book from her bag and tossed it on the seat beside Clement. He took another, the Y code, Ranklin remembered, from his pocket and compared them, then looked suspicious.
“These are not the same. I think you have another.”
Ranklin reached – carefully, because the revolver was watching him – into his own pocket and threw across the third book.
“This also is not the same!” Clement was baffled and by now trebly suspicious. So was Corinna, but she was keeping quiet about it. “You will tell,” Clement demanded, “which is the right code.”
“And you’ll believe me?” Ranklin asked. “What happens next, anyway?”
It was a question Corinna wasn’t sure she wanted answered, and certainly wouldn’t have asked.
“We get out at the next village.”
Ranklin nodded, glancing at O’Gilroy. The staging of the “accident” would start from there. “But why,” he said, “are you still fooling about with these codes? You’d far better spend the time running.”
O’Gilroy’s face twisted into a sour smile. “Running takes money, Captain. And ye’d be surprised how much, oncest others know how bad ye need their help.”
“Free Trade in action,” Corinna murmured.
Of course: with Gunther in no state to help, getting hold of the code was Clement’s one hope of escape. A quick sale of that (or, more sensibly, a copy of it) before it was known to be discredited …
“It won’t be any use,” Ranklin said. “Unless I deliver that code, it’ll be changed. Worthless.”
Clement smiled faintly. “And do you think your government, and also the government in Paris, they will say in the newspapers they have lost a code and must change it?”
No, Ranklin hadn’t believed that, just hoped Clement might.
“But,” Corinna said, “when we’re found dead, they’ll sure as hell print my name. And theirs besides. Captain Ranklin of the British Army, travelling to Paris on official business. Somebody could read that and have time to connect it with the code coming on the market. Because if you think you’re going to go into an embassy and roll out with a hatful of gold five minutes later, you know nothing about getting money out of government officials.”
And at last a twitch of doubt showed on Clement’s bony face. Because in all his years of soldiering, he must have learnt a lot about getting money out of officials: delayed back pay, quibbles over deductions and allotments and dates of promotion. That was one war every soldier had fought.
“But you’re in luck, my friend,” Corinna went on. “You want money, we want our lives. Let’s deal.” She plunged her hand, both hands, into her bag and French banknotes fluttered out like big moths. Ranklin could see they were big denominations, and Clement could recognise them even quicker.