"Hmmm . . ." Paul controlled the worst in himself. "Well?"
"We seem to have slipped our followers, at least for the time being. And no one's going to steal our baggage, that's for sure." Aske smiled at Elizabeth.
dummy3
"Why not?" asked Paul.
"Because it's parked behind a police car. Of which there are three in this vicinity. Perhaps they're expecting a smash-and-grab . . . Plain clothes, of course. But I can always smell a copper, they have an air of bored possession all of their own . . . But they'll serve to inhibit the opposition, if they do find the car."
Paul regarded him with distaste. "You still don't believe it could have been the French behind us?"
"More than ever, old boy." Aske cocked an ear at faint sounds coming from behind the other door. "If this stake-out is for us, then they already knew we were coming here, so there'd be no point in following us. Whereas those fellows who followed us so enthusiastically didn't know where—" this time it was the click of the door handle which cut him off finally.
The gaunt woman who had shown them into the ante-room reappeared, opened her mouth to address Paul, but then saw Aske.
"M'sieur—?" She looked from Aske to Paul.
"M'sieur is my . . ." Paul strangled on the admission ". . . my colleague."
From the frigidity of their own welcome Elizabeth had already decided that the gaunt woman was the sort of secretary who regarded all strangers as intruders on her employer's privacy, and Humphrey Aske's standard nervous dummy3
smile had no melting effect on her suspicious expression. But she held the door open for them nevertheless.
Elizabeth led the way, only to find herself in another ante-room, identically book-lined, but with a table and chairs. On the far side of the table, framed in another doorway, stood a small plump man, almost a miniature man, whose high bald head rose out of puffs of white hair above his ears.
"Professor Belperron—it's very good of you to give us your time," said Paul deferentially.
"Dr Mitchell?" The Professor glanced down at the card Paul had given to the secretary.
"Yes. And this is Miss Elizabeth Loftus, daughter of the late Commander Loftus VC . . . and . . . Mr Humphrey Aske, of London University."
The little man acknowledged them one by one. "Come this way, please."
The study was twice the size of the ante-rooms, and had twice as many books, together with all the paraphernalia of learning overflowing an immense desk on to the floor: papers and periodicals and books full of marking slips and box-files
—Father's desk, in the high days of his writing, had been not unlike this, though on a much smaller scale. Behind the desk there was a high-backed chair, and in front of it were three ordinary chairs like those in the second ante-room, set precisely in a semi-circle as though waiting for them.
The little man walked round the desk, stepped on something dummy3
which increased his height by several inches, and climbed into his chair. Although she couldn't see them, Elizabeth imagined his little legs swinging in mid-air.
He indicated the three chairs. "Please . . ."
They sat down.
"The King's College, Oxford." He put Paul's card on his blotter. "I knew the late Master."
"Sir Geoffrey Hobson?"
"It was during the war, in Normandy in 1944." The little man picked out one of several pairs of spectacles from a small tray on his desk. "He was in command of an armoured regiment."
He peered at Elizabeth through the spectacles, then selected another pair. "Tilly-le-Bocage was the place, and he was Colonel Hobson then." The second pair seemed to suit him better. "But it is Colonel Suchet in whom we arc interested now."
"Yes." Paul leaned forward. "Perhaps I should explain—"
"Please! The circumstances have been explained to me: there is a book almost completed, but now there is fresh material—
yes? And it is this material which has led you to Jean-Baptiste Suchet?"
"Yes." Paul sat back. "Or, to be more exact, our material concerns a party of British PoW escapers. Suchet interrogated them before they escaped, and he was still chasing them two months later, so it seems."
Aske stirred. "Which would make him either a superior dummy3
variety of policeman or an intelligence officer of some sort, we think."
"No." The Professor shook his head. "At least, not in the Abwehr or Gestapo sense . . . He was a gallant soldier—
indeed, he was an escaped prisoner himself, and a most daring one. Twice he escaped, once from Chel-ten-ham, but unsuccessfully—"
"Cheltenham?" Paul looked at Aske.
"He broke his parole, that means," murmured Aske. "French officer prisoners were always paroled." He gazed intently at the Professor. "And the second time?"
"From Portsmouth—"
"The hulks!" Aske nodded. "That's where they sent the bad boys . . . and the hulks were no joke. I'll bet he didn't love the British after that."
"That is true." The professor returned this intelligence with interest. "It was a terrible punishment—some might say inhumane."
"No worse than the souterrains in the French fortresses. In fact, better a ship on the Portsmouth mudflats than below ground at Bitche or Sarrelibre," said Aske coolly. "Some might say that, Professor."
Men! thought Elizabeth critically, as she felt the temperature drop: unless she came between these unlikely adversaries they would be into the ancient Anglo-French argument next, as to which nation was the more wicked.
dummy3
"If Colonel Suchet had a score to settle—" she tried to include both of them, and Paul too, in her silly question "—could that be why he wanted so badly to recapture them. Professor?"
"Ah ..." The Professor turned politely towards her "... no, Mademoiselle . . . That is to say, whatever Colonel Suchet may have felt personally, he was far too busy to pursue them for personal reasons. He had other duties, you see."
"What other duties?" asked Aske.
"You are a student of this period? An expert?" The little man studied Aske intently.
"A student," admitted Aske cautiously.
"Of naval history." For once Paul came to Aske's rescue.
"British naval history."
Professor Belperron almost smiled. "Then you will perhaps be acquainted with the name de la Rousselière?"
"No." Aske had guessed he was about to be put in his place, but had evidently decided to cut his losses quickly. "I've never heard of him."
"I'm surprised." Surprised and gratified. " Berthois de la Rousselière, chef de bataillon du corps de Génie—major, Royal Engineers, as Colonel Hobson would have translated it." The Professor cocked his head at Aske inquiringly, with false innocence. "Or perhaps Lieutenant Robert Hamilton?"
He smiled. "Captain Hamilton, as he became?"
"Naval history is Mr Aske's field, Professor," said Paul.
"Oh, but Robert Hamilton was a naval officer, Dr Mitchell,"
dummy3
said the Professor, his good humour thoroughly restored.
"He was a lieutenant in the Royal Navy of His Britannic Majesty King George III ... and then a captain in the Royal Navy of His Most Christian Majesty King Louis XVI—he was doubly a naval officer . . . But, to be fair, perhaps a little before . . . before your period, Mr Aske? And yours, Dr Mitchell?"
But neither of them were falling for anything this time, observed Elizabeth: each face bore the same expression of obsequious interest of students at the feet of the master, even if those little feet might be swinging in mid-air.
But that was not necessarily appropriate to the daughter of Commander Loftus VC, she decided: heroes' daughters could take narrower attitudes.
"He was a traitor, you mean?"