“Would he be able to stay there?”
“I doubt it. They’ve very few beds and surely it would be too dangerous. The most we could do is patch him up and bring him back here.”
Gallagher said, “You’re taking a hell of a risk helping us like this, George.”
“I’d say we all are,” Hamilton told him dryly.
“It’s vitally important that Colonel Kelso stay out of the hands of the enemy,” Helen began.
Hamilton shook his head. “I don’t want to know, Helen, so don’t try to tell me, and I don’t want the nuns to be involved either. As far as Sister Maria Teresa is concerned, our friend must be a local man who’s had a suitable accident. It would help if we had an identity card for him, just in case.”
Helen turned on Gallagher. “Can you do anything? You managed a card for that Spanish Communist last year when he escaped from the working party at those tunnels they’ve been constructing in St. Peter.”
Gallagher went to the old eighteenth-century pine desk in the corner of the kitchen, pulled out the front drawer, then reached inside and produced a small box drawer of the kind people had once used to hide valuables. There were several blank identity cards in there, signed and stamped with the Nazi eagle.
“Where on earth did you get those?” Hamilton asked in astonishment.
“An Irishman I know, barman in one of the town hotels, has a German boyfriend, if you follow me. A clerk at the Feldkommandatur. I did him a big favor last year. He gave me these in exchange. I’ll fill in Kelso’s details and we’ll give him a good Jersey name. How about Le Marquand?” He took out pen and ink and sat at the kitchen table. “Henry Ralph Le Marquand. Residence?”
He looked up at Helen. “Home Farm, de Ville Place,” she said.
“Fair enough. Ill go and get the color of his eyes, hair and so on while you phone Pine Trees.” He paused at the door. “Ill enter his occupation as fisherman. That way we can say it was a boating accident. And one more thing, George.”
“What’s that?” Hamilton asked as he lifted the phone.
“I’m going with you. We’ll take him up in the van. No arguments. We must all hang together, or all hang separately.” He smiled wryly and went out.
Pine Trees was an ugly house, obviously late Victorian in origin. At some time, the walls had been faced in cement which had cracked in many places, here and there, large pieces having flaked away altogether. Gallagher drove the van into the front courtyard, Hamilton sitting beside him. As they got out, the front door opened and Sister Maria Teresa came down the sloping concrete ramp to meet them. She wore a simple black habit, a small woman with calm eyes and not a wrinkle to be seen on her face though she was in her sixties.
“Dr. Hamilton.” Her English was good, but with a pronounced French accent.
“This is General Gallagher. He manages de Ville Place where the patient is employed.”
“We’ll need a trolley,” Gallagher said.
“There’s one just inside the door.”
He got it and brought it to the back of the van. He opened the doors, revealing Kelso lying on an old mattress, and they eased him out onto the trolley.
Sister Maria Teresa led the way inside, and as he pushed the trolley up the ramp, Gallagher whispered to Kelso, “Don’t forget, keep your trap shut, and if you have to moan in pain, try not to sound American.”
Hamilton stood in the operating theater examining the x-ray plates which young Sister Bernadette had brought in. “Three fractures,” Sister Maria Teresa said. “Not good. He should be in hospital, Doctor, but I don’t need to tell you that.”
“All right, Sister. I’ll tell you the truth,” Hamilton said. “If he goes down to St. Helier they’ll want to know how it happened. Our German friends insist on it. You know what sticklers for detail they are. Le Marquand was fishing illegally when the accident took place.”
Gallagher cut in smoothly, “Which could earn him three months in jail.”