‘I give you my word I will not and my answer will be based on a realistic appreciation of what I can usefully do.’

‘Not something my chiefs would accept.’

‘They don’t know me, you do. I am not giving them my word, Peter, this is personal between you and I.’

That led to another long silence and a stare between them that was locked and unfriendly, until Peter finally gave way. ‘Oh all right, but you’d better bloody well keep it, for if you break it I will get the blame for that and I give you my word that those I represent will help me to ensure you will suffer more.’

‘Meaning I’ll have to shut up shop in the arms trade?’

‘Meaning, old boy, you will never dare set foot on home soil again, for the moment you do you will be arrested and thrown into choky for a very long time.’

‘I assume I would get a trial.’

‘While I am certain you would earn a conviction. You’re a British subject breaking an official arms embargo.’

Cal looked at his watch. ‘It is about time for me to move, Peter. I have a schedule to keep.’

‘Which involves?’ Now it was Cal’s turn to be guarded, to husband information best kept secret, which clearly annoyed Peter. ‘I have to know and I have, after all, been fairly open with you.’

‘I radioed the ship from the Marconi office this morning, which is, I assume, where your embassy chaps picked me up?’

‘Another bit of brilliant Lanchester deduction. I guessed you’d have to radio the vessel to say the cargo was ready to load.’

‘It will anchor in the outer roads late this afternoon and I have to get the goods into the commercial port and alongside before certain customs people go off duty.’

‘Folk whom you’ve bribed?’ Cal nodded, as Peter hauled himself to his feet. ‘You’ll have to wait till I get changed.’

‘Why?’

‘I doubt my present attire is proper wear for what is proposed.’

‘You intend to come along?’

‘Cal, if you think I am going to let you out of my sight, you have another think coming. I am going to stick to you, in that vulgar expression the squaddies we led used to employ, like shit to a blanket. Now do me a favour and start to clean the place up so there is no trace of either of us ever being here.’

‘Is that necessary?’

‘Compulsory, old boy, standing orders now that one is back in harness.’

‘Did you not rent it?’

‘Got one of the embassy chaps to do that and it is paid for till the end of the week.’

Surprised as he was, Cal complied and that took time, wiping every surface and handle, shutters included after they had been shut and locked. Then there was the coffee pot, the knife Peter had used, gas knob, kitchen surfaces as well as the tabletop and the backs of the chairs.

Peter Lanchester came out of the tiny bedroom backwards, using his handkerchief to do the doorknob and edge, nodding appreciatively when he saw that Cal had used a bag he had found to take with them the remaining food and any rubbish.

He was dressed in dark-grey flannels and a blazer, everything else in a valise he was carrying. Last of all, after the front door had been wiped, was the key, cleaned and flicked under the door. Once at the entrance to the apartments Peter allowed Cal twenty paces before following him to where he had parked his car, a small, two-door, green Simca, in a road off the quayside.

CHAPTER THREE

The route out of La Rochelle avoided the main road that led eventually, as all roads in France do, to Paris. They drove instead through the south-eastern suburbs, an obviously working-class quarter, across a bridge, then on to a narrow pavé road that ran alongside the south side of the Canal du Marais-Poitevin, just wide enough for two cars to pass, tree-lined on one side and with a shallow inland storm ditch to prevent flooding from the adjoining open fields.

It was also, bar the odd shallow bend, as straight as a ruler and far from busy, cutting through a flat, featureless agricultural landscape dotted with windmills and the odd manoir-type farmhouse, with the waterway and the occasional barge using it to the northern side.

There was no attempt at haste; Cal kept the speed down, not because he feared any kind of police presence, but for the simple reason that it was unwise to do anything that might draw attention. Both side windows were open to let in a welcome breeze; with the sun now high in the sky, the day had become hot and a bit sticky, increasingly so as they left behind the cooling breeze from the sea. That also had the advantage of extracting Peter’s almost-constant cigarette smoke.

What conversation they exchanged consisted of general chat about the increasingly feverish situation in Central Europe, thanks to the rantings of Hitler, plus a shared if constrained fuming at how Mussolini had not only got away with his criminal invasion of Ethiopia and the even more iniquitous use of poison gas, but had then had that conquest recognised by the democratic nations in the hope that it would deter him from forming an alliance with Germany, the conclusion being it was a flawed policy.

That moved on to the projected outcome for the republicans in Spain and it was far from sanguine. They were steadily losing ground to their fascist-backed opponents while simultaneously trying to get out from the grip of the international communists and commissars Stalin had sent to help in their campaigns – emissaries who had proved to be, as friends, just as dangerous as the troops of General Franco.

Railing at the stupidity of that, as well as Bolshevism in general, and getting little response, Peter eventually noticed that his companion was uncomfortable discussing the failings of the communists; in fact Cal abruptly turned the conversation to what was happening socially and politically in London, and when he enquired as to why he was a bit touchy, Peter was told to mind his own business.

He was thus left in the dark about a subject his companion found too painful to talk about: both the loss he had suffered at the hands of the communists in Spain and the revenge he had taken for what was, in truth, a bereavement. Not a cold-blooded killer by nature, events had forced him into that mode and it was not a memory that, in either cause or effect, was in any way joyful.

A lorry coming in the opposite direction, one of a width that forced them to pull hard to the side and stop between two trees to let it pass, curtailed a rather strained exchange. Sitting with the engine idling, Cal quietly asked, his eyes firmly fixed on the rear-view mirror, if there was any reason Peter could think of as to why they might be followed.

‘None whatever, old chap, unless you have been careless.’

‘I try not to be, as you know, but then if you found me …’

‘The question is being posed because?’

‘We picked up a car just as we left the centre of the city. You must have noticed that Hispano-Suiza roadster that was parked by the roadside?’

‘Not terribly interested in cars, old boy.’

‘Well it pulled out immediately we had passed. Nothing unusual in that, except that it is still with us and the hood is up, which is hardly fitting when it’s so hot. Added to that, it has kept to the same speed as us ever since.’

‘Why is that strange?’

‘It’s a J12, capable of well over a ton.’

‘Not on this road, surely?’ Peter said.

‘Be great fun on this road,’ Cal insisted.

The passing lorry cut out the sunlight, easing past with about an inch to spare. With the road clear again Cal moved off, his eyes rarely off what was happening behind, the lorry being forced onto the side embankment and skirting the ditch to get past the wider Hispano-Suiza.

‘You think it’s the law?’ Peter asked.

‘Not in that kind of car, it costs a bloody fortune. Bugger stopped when we did, as if he didn’t want to get too close, and is now moving again, but not getting any nearer. If I was driving that kind of motor I would have been right up the arse of this little thing, flashing my bloody great headlights and leaning on the horn to get by.’