by Desmond Cory
“It might be a help,” said Marie-Andrée, “to know just what is going on.”
“A brief résumé of the evening’s events? Yes. I’m rather anxious to know who the first gentleman with the firearm was. The lad you introduced to us as Delacroix.”
“Delacroix?” said Gervais tiredly. “Oh, one of Dupont’s officers. A bad lot.”
“Apparently. What was he after you for?”
“Didn’t seem to like me much. I think he’d gone a bit round the bend. War affects some people that way – or it might be more truthful to say that peace does.”
“Yes. Well, I’m glad he was there. What’s obviously happened is that our friends from Germany mistook him for me. You saw that photograph–?”
“Not clearly.”
“No. Well, nor did I. But I’m pretty sure it’s identical with that one you lifted from Pinot’s safe. The boys here must have got wind of my impending arrival, you see, and have circulated little photographs of me to all concerned. Unfortunately, the change in my appearance seems to have fooled them even more neatly than we hoped.”
“Yes. That photograph did look remarkably like Delacroix.”
“Sufficiently. And – I suppose you saw – there wasn’t an awful lot of Delacroix’s face left by the time all that shooting was over. What’s more, his sitting on the piano stool must have made it something of a clincher, if they heard me playing before.”
Gervais was silent for a moment. Then he said: “I suppose Pinot is concerned in this.”
“Who d’you think our friend just ’phoned? He obviously wants Pinot to come and identify you.”
“You were a fool,” said Gervais.
“Oh?”
“Yes. What the hell made you say you were me?”
“I didn’t want to be left out of the fun,” said Johnny innocently.
“Well, you’ve got yourself into a spot now. And Marie-Andrée, too. You had no business bringing her into it – none at all. He only wanted me.”
“You don’t really think–” Johnny began, but Gervais interrupted him.
“No, I don’t. Foolish of me. You would almost certainly be dead by now.”
“I don’t see any need to qualify that statement at all.” Johnny grinned at the girl. “Even now I’m not sure Why they brought you along. Possibly the harem needs re-stocking…”
“You don’t seem at all scared,” she said. “Do you mind if I scream?”
“Do, if you wish. But this place is quite obviously soundproof. Now, I wonder what happens next…”
“Seems pretty obvious,” said Gervais bluntly. “Pinot will arrive and single me out. I will then go and meet this legendary Chief and will presumably be fished out of the river some time next week. My only consolation will be that you will have suffered a similar fate somewhat previously – as soon, in fact, as our respective identities are established.”
Johnny shot a quick sideways glance at Marie-Andrée.
She was, he thought, really taking all this remarkably well. The edges of her mouth were suspiciously white, but that was all. As he watched, she gave the uncanny little half-yawn of almost unbearable suspense.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll be out of this as soon as we find out what we came to find out.”
“Which is?”
“The trouble is I’m not exactly sure. A little more information, shall we say, regarding these individuals… ‘Who is Sylvia – what is she?’ – and all that.” Johnny whistled a few bars of the song abstractedly and sat down on the floor, resting his back against the wall.
“How are we going to get away afterwards?” said Marie-Andrée.
“Oh, we’ll find a way.”
“If you think it’ll be of any use,” she said tentatively, “I have a gun.”
“A gun? Where?”
“Here.” She opened her handbag and took out a small .22 pistol. “It’s not very big, I’m afraid.”
“No. But it’s handy;” Johnny’s long fingers almost enveloped it as he took it from her. “How did you hide it? He looked into your handbag back at your flat.”
“He looked into a handbag. A very similar one. But I picked this one up in the hall – I was well ahead of him, you may remember; and I don’t think he noticed.”
“He is careless, that boy. A bit too sure of himself… can you use this thing?”
“Not very well,”, she said candidly.
“Then we’ll let Antoine have it. Then, if he does get around to seeing the Chief…”
Gervais said: “Yes. I won’t miss.” He took the gun and thrust it into his coat-pocket.
“Take your time, if you do get a chance. It’ll have to be right on the mark, with a peashooter that size… By the way, I think the Chief will be a woman.”
Gervais said: “Marcelline?”
“Well, maybe. Or maybe not. But she’ll do.”
“Yes,” said Gervais. “She’ll do.” He smiled quietly to himself, then hurriedly adjusted the set of his pocket as the key rattled in the door. Johnny pulled himself upright again and watched the door swing slowly open. After a moment’s pause, a fat little man came in and blinked nervously at them through his spectacles. It was Pinot… Behind him was Paul, still caressing his pistol and still bored.
“What an unpleasant place,” said Pinot, surveying the wall intently. “Let’s all go into the sitting-room.”
They adopted much the same positions as they had occupied before: Johnny, Gervais and Marie-Andrée on the settee, Paul by the mantelpiece and Pinot – the latest addition to the party – strolling up and down the carpet beside them.
“Pour out some sherry, Paul,” he said. “You forget your duties as a host.”
Johnny regarded him with interest, as Paul moved unhurriedly towards the sherry decanter. Pinot seemed quite remarkably nervous and somewhat out of place in a grey stock-size suit, the trousers of which seemed to be too tight around his plump little belly. He kept shooting glances in Johnny’s direction, rather as if the other’s proximity scared him half to death, and his little eyes continued to blink about once every five seconds, but his hands were perfectly calm and rested by his side in an obviously unstudied immobility.
Johnny took his drink from Paul with a nod, and continued to scrutinise Pinot unwinkingly.
The Frenchman seemed to be a trifle uneasy under Johnny’s relentless gaze. After one or two abortive efforts to return the stare, he half-danced across the room to Johnny’s side and began an examination of Johnny’s face. He then selected a strand of hair behind Johnny’s ear and tweaked it out before the other realised his intention.
“Ow,” said Johnny.
“So sorry,” said Pinot, holding his capture up to the light and edging away from the settee. “Yes. Yes. Paul, dear boy, you have made a slight mistake…”
Pinot’s own nervousness seemed miraculously transferred to Paul. For a second his eyes had the unmistakable flicker of fear.
“Mistake?”
“Yes.” Pinot’s voice was a gentle coo. “The gentleman on the left is Captain Gervais. That is quite all right. Congratulations. The other one is Monsieur Fedora, of Brititsh Intelligence. That,” he said suavely, “is not quite all right. That is bad…”
“It is certainly bad for Monsieur Fedora, if that is so.” Paul’s attitude was still carefully unruffled. “But, with due respect, one wonders in that case who the gentleman who killed Georges may be.”
“That aspect of the matter is rather curious. He resembles the circulated photograph, you say?” Pinot looked towards Gervais for enlightenment and, receiving none, shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I think I know who it may be. It is no matter. But it has been known to me since this afternoon that Monsieur Fedora had changed his appearance since his last visit to this country… This hair, you see, has black roots. It has been dyed. The face also, to a close scrutiny, shows the slight discolouration that reveal a minor facial operation. This is undoubtedly Fedora.”
“I am sorry. I received no
indication of this in my orders.”
“No. I imagine it was either considered unnecessary or impracticable to discuss the matter over the telephone. You are hardly to blame. Nevertheless, the mistake might have had serious consequences.”
Pinot appeared to be almost as nervous in addressing Paul as he had been in approaching Johnny, but Paul seemed to find no reassurance in this. He blanched.
“Ah well. Fortunately the matter can be redressed. And this sherry, at least, is excellent – you agree, Antoine?”
It was the first time he had directly addressed Gervais or, indeed, anyone except Paul. Antoine sipped his sherry and maintained silence.
“Oh, dear,” said Pinot. “I’m afraid Captain Gervais disapproves of our new relationship.” He approached Gervais with his curious dancing step, rather as one approaches a quiescent but potentially ferocious hound. He stopped just in front of the settee; then the blow knocked Gervais’s head back with a noise like a violent cannon on a billiard-table.
The glass slipped from Gervais’s fingers and smashed on the floor.
“Traitor,” said Pinot with a malicious little chuckle. He looked at Marie-Andrée, whose face had suddenly gone very white. “You should not have associated with this man, my dear. A notorious seller of State secrets. I am not surprised that he is ashamed to address me.”
“You are a traitor,” said Marie-Andrée. The remark was hardly in the best traditions of repartee, but was said with such calm severity that Pinot seemed taken by surprise.
“I? No, my dear. Not that. Perhaps – as Antoine is proving so uncooperative – I may take the liberty of introducing myself. My name is Brunner – Adolf Brunner.” He made a ridiculous little bow. “Temporarily of the French Army – yes – but by prior loyalties a member of the Nazi Party.” He indicated Paul. “May I also introduce my colleague, Ernst Mayer, of the same organisation? There are quite a few of us here, but I don’t think you will have the pleasure of making any further acquaintances.”
“Believe me,” said Marie-Andrée, “it is no pleasure.”
“No? Well, well. Here we have Antoine, who does not speak at all; and this young lady, who speaks only to be rude. How depressing. I hardly suppose Monsieur Fedora will be more co-operative –”
“On the contrary.” said Johnny. “I’d appreciate a little chat.”
“You would?” Pinot’s expression was still set in its simulation of anxiety, but Johnny was delighted to see something in his eyes which was no mere affectation. “But this is wonderful. This restores my faith in human nature!”
“I was wondering what you intend to do with us,” said Johnny.
“My dear fellow!” Pinot examined his sherry glass very carefully. “You put me in a most embarrassing position, you really do.”
“I see. I was also wondering why you – er – collected us in the first place.”
“That, again, I can’t discuss, I’m afraid. I have my orders, you see…”
“Quite. But I thought we might arrange a little exchange of information. The gentleman whom your colleagues have recently removed was a Captain Delacroix – as you’ve probably guessed. He came round in response to a telephone-call – most probably from le rossignol – and, but for your friend’s timely intervention, would unquestionably have terminated our existence. One feels that that might have saved you a lot of trouble.”
“It might, indeed.” Pinot glanced at Paul, who continued to contemplate his own right shoe. “You seem to know a great deal, m’sieur.”
“Less, perhaps, than you imagine.”
“We – I see no harm in telling you this much. Thanks largely to your own efforts on behalf of Captain Gervais, it seems likely that he may be cleared completely – which, after all my trouble, is a great pity. I made, you know, a remarkably thorough job of that letter. But there you are – the latest reports from the Etoile suggest that serious doubts have arisen as to its authenticity; and that the Maquis can no longer be trusted to finish off Antoine for us. We felt obliged, you see, to resort once more to our own devices.”
“It would surely have been quicker to have done that in the first place.”
“Quicker – but far more dangerous. Captain Gervais, you understand, was something of a national hero.” Pinot paused to sneer. “Any attempt to murder him would inevitably have resulted in the entire resources of the Maquis – which I do not underestimate – searching for us instead of him. Our way was, I feel, subtler and more efficient.”
“Why was it considered necessary to remove Gervais?”
Pinot hesitated. “That,” he said, “I do not feel I can reveal – even to one in your position.”
“It doesn’t matter. I imagine it to be because he has a restaurant in the Avenue Victor Hugo.”
The apprehension in Pinot’s expression was now unmistakably genuine. He said:
“You do know a great deal too much, Monsieur Fedora. I don’t think I wish to continue this conversation… Paul, I think we had better get moving.”
Paul nodded.
“Antoine,” said Pinot, “you’re coming with me. Come along.” He fumbled in his pocket and extracted a serviceable-looking pistol. “The other two,” he said to Paul, “you’d better take into the cell, and –” He inclined his head slightly.
“If I might suggest it,” said Paul, “Monsieur Fedora might be of some value, alive.”
“That is true. He might. Your instructions were –?”
“Dead or alive. The former admittedly seemed the more probable, but –”
“Yes. Well, lock them up and telephone the Chief. Obey her instructions. I will take responsibility for Captain Gervais.”
“Very good,” said Paul. He looked at Johnny and made the same movement with the pistol that he had made before. “Once again, please – if you don’t mind.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
At exactly three minutes before midnight Marie-Andrée burst into tears, Johnny sighed to himself and lent her his handkerchief, but made no effort to console her. The tears, he reflected, were those induced by gradually reducing tension, and a really good cry was going to do her all the good in the world. He therefore patted her shoulder absently, allowed her to make a large damp patch on the lapel of his coat, but remained discreetly non-committal.
In less than five minutes she had recovered again, and occupied herself in blowing her nose mournfully and in regarding him reprovingly with tear-filled blue eyes.
“How long – just how long have we been here?”
Johnny looked at his wrist-watch. “A shade over two hours. It’s just gone twelve.”
“Is that all? I thought it must be morning.”
“Not yet,” said Johnny. “But I don’t think anything further will happen tonight. You may as well get some sleep.”
“I can’t,” she said irritably. “It’s too close.”
Johnny had to agree. It was getting unpleasantly warm; he had already loosened his tie and undone the top button of his shirt, but the sweat still gathered slowly on his face and hands. “It is a bit.”
“Are we really going to get out of this?”
“Have to,” said Johnny, running his finger round his collar. “We’ll have to. It’ll be an awful waste if we don’t. They’ll have to send somebody else out here – and he’ll have to start from scratch.”·
“What about Antoine?”
“Ah. Well, if he gets away, that’ll be all right.”
“But you don’t think he will?”
“No,” said Johnny candidly.
There was a pause; then the girl said: “A pity.”
“Yes. If he does get Weill, though” – Johnny was talking as much to himself as to her – “If he should get Weill, then that’s all we need. I can round the rest of the business up myself.”
“Who’s Weill?”
“Weill? She’s the leader. She’s the unknown quantity. The ultimate end. The last Weill and Testament… She’s the one who has to go.”
“I see.”
“We know all the others now, you see. All the Executive boys. Somehow, we’ve got to get at the brains.”
“I see,” said Marie-Andrée again. Then, in a small voice: “You know le rossignol?”
“I know all about her, yes. With Gervais, I could lay my hands on her in five minutes.” Johnny waited for a moment, relishing the prospect. “Without him, it’ll take me a little longer. But now that I know where she works, the rest shouldn’t be too difficult.”
“Where does she work?”
Johnny glanced at her. “Western Defence H.Q., I’m afraid. That’s the cause of all this trouble… It was always obvious, you see, that these boys had some contact inside the place. That’s how the information was leaking. And the restaurant Gervais owns is almost smack-bang opposite the place.
“You see the situation? After all her trouble in getting in, she finds the one man in Paris who can’t fail to recognise her working next door to her. That’s why Gervais had to be removed.”
Marie-Andrée nodded slowly. “Yes. I begin to see the pattern.”
Johnny chuckled. “You’re going to have quite a story for your paper when this business is over.”
“I’d almost forgotten about my paper,” she admitted. “Yes, I certainly will… How do you think they managed to trace Antoine?”
“That is a bit puzzling. I’ve been trying to sort that business out myself. I think that they must have done it through me.”
“Through you?”
“Yes. Look at it from their point of view. At first, as Pinot tells us, all they had was the information that I was arriving. The next thing that happens – which must have shaken them – is our burglary of Pinot’s flat. They find two things missing – that letter, and my photograph. The obvious inference is that Gervais and I are working together; which is, of course, the last thing they want… My God – it’s stuffy,” he added. “May I take my coat off?”
“Do.”
“Thank you.” Johnny slipped off his coat and walked over to the grating in the wall. “This ventilator doesn’t seem to be much good. I can’t feel any draught at all.” He fumbled in his wallet and tested the air-current with a thin slip of paper.
