The Last Two Weeks of Georges Rivac by Geoffrey Household Page A

wavy hair turning grey over the temples. Already used to judging English types in a country bar, she decided that he was neither farmer nor farmhand nor one of the bolder spirits out of fast cars who were inclined to approach her and offer a drink. He could be police; he could be worse. But neither were likely as yet to have spotted the connection between Mrs Fanshawe and Georges Rivac.
    With his back to the bar he asked in a low voice where he could speak to her. His accent was markedly foreign, probably Latin. She led him out to a garden table between wallflowers and tulips where they could be seen from bar and kitchen windows but not overheard.
    â€˜I come with a message from a man you know.’
    â€˜Oh, thank God!’
    â€˜Wait! No thank God. Not for him. He asked me to tell you that you are quite safe. They know nothing of you.’
    â€˜Who is they?’
    â€˜Those who have him, Mrs Fanshawe. I don’t like it here. We can be seen from the road.’
    A difficult problem. She could hardly ask a stranger up to her bedroom without arousing curiosity nor could they talk in RESIDENTS ONLY where every word could be heard through the hatch. When she hesitated he said:
    â€˜I came to sell you a motorcycle, Mrs Fanshawe. You answered my advertisement. It is in the garage. I did not want to leave it outside. My name is Diego Irata, at your service.’
    Evidently a quick-witted and experienced operator. The garage was empty. Mr Irata ran the engine of his Triumph as if showing it off.
    â€˜Mrs Fanshawe, I do not ask what you are. I take a risk for you and hope you will take one for me. I will tell you frankly about myself. I am a Spaniard and a communist, the servant of an Englishman very distinguished. He too is a member of the Party, secretly, for many years. He is not one of their policía . He is bigger than that, an intelligencer. But they were in a hurry and desperate and could find no one else, I think, with the facilities. He had to obey.
    â€˜And why are you, Diego Irata, a traitor, you will ask. I will explain. At last I can go home, if I can get there.’
    She could see that Irata was prepared to go on justifying himself indefinitely and firmly switched the conversation to Georges, putting on the manner of a professional interrogator—or as much of it as she could remember—friendly but with a hint of powers in reserve. Irata freely accepted that she had a right to question, but his answers only led to growing despair. No reason to thank God was right.
    Georges was held in the house of a Mr Fyster-Holmes, apparently an imposing specimen of the governing class who had retired early from the Foreign Office and was now in his early fifties. Irata did not know the name of the prisoner nor his importance. The house was on the right bank of the Thames up river from Moulsford, with its garden running down to a patch of marsh in which was a small muddy creek and a landing stage. It was approached from the main road by a lane and partly hidden by a belt of trees. Georges was to be embarked on a motor cruiser that very night and taken down to the estuary for transhipment. Irata himself was to go with him.
    â€˜That is why I am here, Mrs Fanshawe. I shall be taken to the east and never allowed to return home. Not to go home to Spain when now at last I can? That I do not accept!’
    Zia ordered him to accompany her at once to the police. Whatever the cost to her family and herself, it seemed the only hope. Irata refused, saying she must go by herself.
    â€˜But it will be useless. I tell you this man has served his country abroad with distinction. Think! You say you are told by his Spanish servant that he is a spy and always has been. They will laugh at you. Then perhaps you tell them who is the prisoner and what interest you have. That is more serious. They may take you to higher authority who will give you a nice cup of tea and start enquiries. And while you are waiting and