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.’

CHAPTER FOUR

A period of silence followed while both mulled over the significance of that discovery, not least in the fact of how they had come to the attention of what was in essence a private army. Cal knew the name well, Peter Lanchester only vaguely from the not-very-comprehensive reports in the British press, but he was well aware of the fact that France, in this fractious decade, was no different to his home country when it came to political disruption.