Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #19. Arthur Conan Doyle
because he laughed out loud as he continued:
“You’re a long way from home. What brings you to Nantes?”
“Herr Major, one of our crew was badly hurt in an accident at sea. We brought him to Nantes and left him with a doctor. Now we have come to take him home.”
His eyes narrowed as he pondered our circumstance. Then he ordered his man to lower his weapon. “We in the National Socialist High Command,” he said, as he reverted to French and his demeanor moderated from menacing to merely pompous, “are acutely aware of the injustices inflicted on the Breton peoples by the archaic feudal covenant still enforced by the local seigneurs and condoned, nay, encouraged by the elitist central government.”
He paused to gauge the effect his pontificating had on us, and then he looked at Yann as though expecting a response, which was clearly dangerous.
“Alas, mein Herr,” I interjected, “we are fishermen, and although we work long, hard hours, we are mostly self-employed; so we are not really affected by the same struggles as farm workers.”
“Well,” he continued. “You will find that the German occupying forces, ably supported by your loyal Vichy government, will improve the lot of both the land workers and the fishermen of Brittany. Tell me, is your friend able to walk? If not, perhaps I can arrange a vehicle to bring him down to the quay.”
“P-please,” I stammered, alarmed for a moment that he might be sincere, “don’t trouble yourself. I’m sure we’ll manage just fine.” I paused, grasping for subterfuge. “I believe the doctor has a car,” I added hastily.
“Very well,” he said, pulling a notebook and pen from his pocket and scribbling something down. “Here, take this; this will serve as a safe-conduct through the town. That is my name at the top. Don’t hesitate to try to find me if you encounter difficulties.”
“Thank you, Herr Major,” I said, incredulously, as I stared down at this unanticipated bounty. Yann, who apparently realized that the scales were tipping slightly in our direction, nudged me in the ribs:
“Ask him about the Kenavo,” he said, ever the practical seaman.
“And our boat, Herr Major?” I asked. “My captain wishes to know if we can leave it here safely while we pick up our shipmate.”
“Bien sûr!” he replied, taking back our precious pass and adjoining a hasty postscript. He handed it back with a flourish. “This gives you three days, my Breton compatriot. That should be more than enough time.” With that, he clicked his heels, threw his right arm in the air and rendered the obligatory: “Heil Hitler!” Then the two men clambered back onto their machine and disappeared back between the same two buildings.
Yann shook his head in disbelief. “Did he say what I thought he said?”
“He did,” I affirmed. “According to him, the only reason the Nazis came to Brittany is to help the Breton peasants overthrow their French oppressors. But whatever—as long as we have this pass, we can come and go as we please.”
Yann nodded, then stepped forward with a satisfied smirk and spat on the ground where the German Major had stood just moments before.
We battened down and lashed a tarpaulin over the Kenavo and ventured into the town. This once proud capital of Brittany had been in German hands for just two weeks, and disbelief and even shame were palpable on the faces of the people as they hurried through the streets with heads down and eyes averted.
We found our doctor’s house—a three-level Victorian with roof turret and brick façade—just as the shadows of early evening began stretching into twilight. And when we tapped lightly on the heavy oak door, a woman’s voice, more suspicious than nervous, called from within: “Who are you and what do you want?”
“We are Breton fishermen, and we’re here in search of a shipmate. We were told that Doctor Bertrand might be able to help us.”
“Just a minute,” came the response, and we heard footsteps, retreating—fading. Moments later, different steps—heavier, slower—returned, and then a man’s voice called out from behind the door:
“This friend of yours, does he have a name?”
The moment I responded, the door cracked open and a balding, middle-aged man with a heavy moustache peered out into the gloom. “What makes you think your friend is here?” he asked, as his eyes darted nervously up and down the street.
“We were given this address by one of his army comrades,” I explained. “This is his father, and I am Padrig Le Bras, an old shipmate and friend. We are here to bring him home. Your patient will vouch for us.”
With that the doctor relaxed, and he opened the door wider and stepped aside: “Come in quickly, both of you. The curfew goes into effect soon, and they arrest people who venture on the street at night.”
He ushered us into his surgical waiting room. “Please, gentlemen, sit. It must have been a difficult journey.” He turned then to Yann: “Did you come by train, Mr. Le Corr?”
“Mr. Le Corr speaks very little French,” I interjected. “Do you speak Breton?”
The doctor shook his head apologetically. “No, I’m afraid not. But this is unfortunate; I have bad news, and I would rather disclose it personally.”
My heart sank. “Oh God! No. He’s not dead?”
“Your friend has been through hell these last few weeks,” he replied. “But, no. He’s not dead. But—and I’m very sorry to have to tell you this—last week we had to amputate his left leg at the knee. It couldn’t be avoided; gangrene was setting in.”
I glanced at my companion, but he had not followed the conversation. But when I translated the appalling news, his head slowly sank into his hands and he turned away in despair.
Doctor Bertrand continued: “Your friend is hidden upstairs under the mansard. Come, I will show you the way.”
I tried to put my arm around Yann’s shoulders, but he shook it off roughly as we followed the doctor up the main stairs to a landing overlooking the foyer. He pointed to a huge ornamental washstand that stood against the wall.
“If you lift that to one side,” he said, “you will find a detachable panel which conceals a stairway to the attic. The stairs will take you to your son.” He pulled a watch from his vest pocket and snapped open the top. “You may go up and see him now. But be careful. He will probably be asleep, and he keeps a service revolver under his pillow. If you startle him he may try to shoot you.”
As soon as we removed the panel, Yann called up to his son in Breton and followed his voice up the stairs. The doctor and I lingered on the landing to give them a few moments alone. There was a short, uncomfortable silence, and then we both began speaking simultaneously. The doctor held up his hands: “I’m sorry,” he said. “What were you going to say?”
“Do you think he is fit to travel?” I repeated.
“That’s a difficult question to answer,” he replied. “In a perfect world, of course, I’d have to say no—especially not on a tiny fishing boat. But under these circumstances, I don’t think we have much of a choice. There will never be a better opportunity to return him to his home and family.”
I agreed with that assessment—we had a pass to get us through the town; the boat was ready to sail, and I knew that Yann would never leave without his son. So we began discussing any difficulties we might encounter. And while we stood there on the landing, a tall woman, her iron-gray hair swept back into a chignon, ascended the stairs with a tray of bandages. She and the doctor exchanged smiles and he placed his arm around her shoulders when she stepped onto the landing:
“This is Nicole—my wife, my nurse, and my right hand. She has been taking care of your friend, and I see it’s time to change his dressings.”
We exchanged greetings, and then she slipped into the narrow stair well. The