Assignment in Brittany by Helen MacInnes

ruined castle seemed silent and safe enough. On his first job he used to imagine an enemy behind every bush, but now he was past that stage. There weren’t enough Germans to surround and spy on every lonely little farm throughout occupied France. Danger would come only when suspicions were aroused. At present, he was just another peasant working in his field.
    By five o’clock he was no longer annoyed with Henri: he was worried. He carried the spade and the two other tools carefully down to the house. Albertine was working in the small vegetable and herb garden.
    “Henri?” he asked.
    Albertine was worried, too. “I’ll go and find him, the old fool,” she said slowly.
    Hearne thought about that. “No,” he said, “you stay here. You’ve plenty to do. I’ll go before it’s dark, if he isn’t back by that time.” The Germans might be patrolling after dark: then the fields, and not the road to the village, would be the safer place. And he couldn’t tell Albertine the kind of thing he wanted to know. He would have a better chance of finding, out just what had happened to Henri—not that he could help the old boy if he were in trouble. That would be a dangerous complication. But he had to know what was going on in the village, and to discover, if it were possible, whether the Germans intended to stay. Perhaps they weren’t even there now; perhaps Henri’s report that morning had been only a temporary alarm. He had to know.
    He walked quickly down to the village. It was strange to think how long the: path had seemed on that morning when he arrived. Now he was rested, and no longer hungry, and the way was quite short. Almost too short if the Germans were going to leave some men in the village.
    At the bridge on the road a young man sat on the low wall, staring at the shallow water beneath. He looked up as Hearne’s footsteps neared him.
    “Well,” he said,” so you’re back.” Light-haired, freckled, a nose which wasn’t quite straight, high cheek-bones, blue eyes, a twisted smile.
    Hearne said, “Yes,” and walked moodily on.
    The young man slid off the wall and hurried after him. He limped badly. So this was, Kerénor, Jean-Christophe Kerénor, the “foreign” schoolteacher from Lorient.
    “How’s the writing?” he asked with the same twisted smile.
    “I’m looking for Henri,” Hearne said briefly.
    “He’s at the hotel. He’s had a busy day.” There was only the inflexion of a Breton accent in the man’s speech, but the voice held the same mocking quality as the smile. Hearne said nothing. He turned into the market-place. On his left was the long, low hotel. And in front of it were two large cars. He saw the Nazi flags, the soldiers on guard, and halted involuntarily.
    “We have guests,” smiled Kerénor, watching Hearne from the corner of his eyes. “Not so very many, but seemingly important.” His arm swept to the large black-letter notices pasted along the blankness of the hotel wall.
    “Henri?” asked Hearne. Kerénor had said Henri was in the hotel. And it was obvious that the hotel was the chosen headquarters for the visiting Germans.
    “He’s all right. He’s in the bar.”
    There were other people in the market-place. Some grouped under the trees and talked. Others walked slowly, their heads bent. All looked subdued and anxious. The fact that other men were in the street decided Hearne. He was one of them—just another beaten Frenchman.
    He started towards the hotel. Kerénor limped along beside him. At first Hearne wondered; for Kerénor had obviously never liked Bertrand Corlay. And then he remembered. Kerénor lived here, lodging in the hotel which the other “foreigner”, Madame Perro, owned.
    The Nazis standing so proudly on guard didn’t even seem to glance at them. There were so few of them, Hearne thought; so few, and yet so sure of their own safety. And why not, if you knew planes were only fifteen minutes’ flying time away planes which could level this