by Desmond Cory
“Probably choked.”
“Yes. No air-flow at all.” He rested the paper against the grating and peered past it. “Wonder if it would help matters if – No, I suppose not –”
“Oh, never mind that. Come and sit down,” said Marie-Andrée imperatively, “and finish telling me about this affair.”
Johnny obediently crossed the room and sat down beside her. “Where was I?”
“They’d just found out –”
“Yes. Yes. Of course. The link between Gervais and myself. Well – this is, of course, confirmed when I show up next morning with the letter in question, and they decide to rub me out; partly in case I get dangerous but mainly, I suspect, as a matter of principle. So that when I show up again that afternoon, le rossignol rings up one of her minor auxiliaries and arranges a little ambush for me. Unfortunately for him, he gets the wrong man and affords me an excellent opportunity to get him. The which I do… But then I seem to have underestimated them, because somehow they either followed me to your flat or picked up the trail again.” Johnny frowned slightly and rubbed his ear.
“Well, I was there about half an hour, I imagine, before things started happening; and whoever trailed me must have reported at once. The next step is that a woman – either le rossignol or Weill – ’phoned up Delacroix as the Maquis representative and told him where to find Gervais; then ’phones three of her boys and sends them round to make doubly sure. It’s pretty clear what happened then. The boys form up in the street and overhear me banging away on the piano. ‘That’s him,’ they say to one another, ‘that can only be the despicable Fedora.’ And up they rush – to find poor old Delacroix, who admittedly looked very much as I used to, sitting on the piano stool. Exit Delacroix, pursued by a bullet; the rest is silence. Or, at least, perfectly obvious.”
“Yes. I think I’ve got it all straight now.”
Johnny undid another shirt-button and stretched his arms painfully. “This concrete floor is damned uncomfortable,” he complained. “And the devil of it is, that I can’t smoke. A cigarette would just about make this atmosphere unbearable.”
“Do you think we’re supposed to suffocate?” said Marie-Andrée suddenly.
“What a horrible idea.” Johnny meant it, too. “But if that was the intention, there’d be singularly little point in having a ventilator at all. Besides, Paul’s orders were to keep us alive for the time being, you may remember. No, I think we’re just supposed to be mildly uncomfortable.”
“Johnny. If his orders are… to kill us, how on earth can we stop him? He only has to open the door, and… bang, bang…”
“As you say, ‘bang, bang.’ Well, we must go bang first.”
“But we’ve got nothing to go bang with. I do wish we’d kept my gun,” said Marie-Andrée despairingly.
“Or my explosive cigarettes. Yes. But I don’t suppose anything will happen till the morning,” said Johnny stretching himself out on the floor. “We may as well get some sleep.”
“I don’t know how you can be so calm.”
“Easy. Just relax and close your eyes. Use my coat as a pillow if you like… That’s right. Good night,” said Johnny, yawning. “See you in the morning.”
In spite of her alleged anxiety, Marie-Andrée was asleep within five minutes of resting her head on Johnny’s coat. Johnny, however, had no intention of following his own advice in that respect, and, as soon as he was confident that she was sleeping, he pushed himself up into a sitting posture, leaned against the wall and relaxed.
His features had softened into the vacant expression that indicated acute and much-practiced wariness.
Although he had hesitated to admit as much to Marie-Andrée, he privately considered their situation to have a great many unprepossessing features. It was true that he had crashed into it with his eyes open, both literally and metaphorically, with the avowed intention of gaining information. The information had certainly been forthcoming; whether he was going to be allowed to put it to any practical use was quite another matter.
A different matter altogether. Johnny’s great friend Henry Blenkinsop, most generous of bookmakers, would, he felt, have estimated his chances of getting out at about five hundred to one; but Johnny’s natural optimism compelled him to adopt a more sanguine viewpoint. He put them at about four hundred and fifty.
A lot, of course, depended on the methods that the opposition intended to use. If, as Marie-Andrée suggested, Paul decided merely to open up the door and open up with a pistol, the odds concerned promptly became astronomical. Short of Paul’s tripping over his own feet or some other unforeseeable act of God, nothing could save them. There is no arguing with a bullet before it hits you… But somehow Johnny felt that any such procedure was unlikely. It was not in accordance with the character of the Nazi Intelligence agent. And, from a more practical point of view the presence of a few .45 slugs in his body, when and if it were discovered, would undoubtedly cause British Intelligence to draw all sorts of unpleasant conclusions and to take the matter up seriously with whichever French Government might at that time be responsible. Presumably le rossignol and Co. would prefer to avoid any such publicity. On the other hand, Johnny reflected with a sigh, the manner in which Paul and Karl had emptied their revolvers into Delacroix had been positively carefree in its abandonment. Well, well. Time would show…
The atmosphere had been steadily increasing its content of carbon dioxide and now seemed to have reached saturation point. For some little time there had seemed to be just enough air to breathe and, apparently, that was how it was going to remain.
Johnny leaned forward to look at the girl; her breath was slightly laboured and slow, but she was sleeping peacefully. He rose to his feet and moved across to the ventilator.
There still seemed to be no air-current passing into the room, but he found the air coming through the ventilator to be perceptibly fresher than elsewhere in the room. The only explanation seemed to be that the ventilator did not lead into the fresh air outside the house, but merely into some other room in the building.
German thoroughness at its most typical, Johnny decided, ensuring that there could not be even the slightest outward indication of this cell. Satisfied, he remained by the grating for a few more moments, then returned to his former posture with his back – appropriately enough – to the wall.
Time passed. The hands on Johnny’s wrist-watch continued slowly in their course until they indicated eight o’clock, and Johnny was still sitting in the corner with his eyes as wary as ever, but devoid of any sign of strain. The thin cotton shirt he was wearing was damp with sweat and, although he gave no outward indication of his thoughts, the ragged edges of his patience were beginning to be revealed. He had been in that cell for ten hours – at least, that was all his watch suggested. But it was the sort of time that watches don’t give.
Marie-Andrée was now lying on her back with her mouth open; the movements she made every five minutes indicated that her sleep had become pretty light. It was no little credit to her that, in the most unbecoming of positions, she still looked attractive.
Johnny, with absolutely nothing else to look at, had now achieved a rapport with her personal appearance in all its aspects that, in more normal circumstances, ten years of married life could hardly have gained.
Unlikely as the fact seemed, he felt sick at the sight of her, and yet he regarded her with a curious and completely untypical affection.
The number of people who had been In A Hole with Fedora was not large, and – as is a well-known psychological fact – there is nothing like being In A Hole together for tightening relationships. Johnny’s attitude to Marie-Andrée had now reached the extraordinary state of companionable loathing known to all who have shared a foxhole under enemy fire for any length of time.
Johnny was pondering over this and eyeing the considerable length of leg the girl was displaying when a flash of white caught his eye. It was the first sign of inanimate movement which had occurred in the cell since they had
been locked in, and attracted Johnny’s attention at once.
After a momentary difficulty in focusing his eyes – which revealed how far the atmosphere and strain were affecting his physical condition – he saw that it was a thin slip of paper twirling to the ground.
For a second he thought that in some inconceivable way a message had been pushed down through the ventilator; then he remembered that he had left the paper there himself, after testing the draught. It had merely decided to obey the force of gravity.
But, of course, it had twisted as it fell, as if carried away by an air-current. At long last, some air must be coming through – somebody must have adjusted a slat somewhere. Johnny grinned impassively, got to his feet once more and ambled across to the grating… Yes, the air was distinctly fresher. He placed his nose down to the ventilator and sniffed rapturously.
The next second he was back beside Marie-Andrée and shaking her furiously.
“Get up, girl. Give me my coat!”
“What’s the matter?” Marie-Andrée sat up sleepily, and then saw the expression on his face. “What on earth –?”
“This is it,” said Johnny foolishly, snatching at his coat. “Keep it out. Choke it. No.” He suddenly stared at her blouse. “That’s better. Silk. Silk. Quick – give me your blouse!”
“Eh?” said Marie-Andrée, startled. She put a hand tentatively to her neck. “Why do you – ?”
But Johnny was in no mood for argument. He stretched out a hand and, with a single jerk, ripped that garment off, rather in the manner popularised by the heroes of certain sadistically-inclined novelists; then, even before Marie-Andrée’s horrified exclamation, he had crumpled one of Lestocq’s most exquisite creations into a ball and was stuffing it desperately into the grating.
“Sorry,” he gasped, squeezing it tight. “Most unwarrantable act of vandalism.” He surveyed his handiwork for a second, then tore off his own shirt, and used it to fill up the rest of the opening. “But I think that may just hold it. Most of it. Some of it, anyway.” He placed a hand against the wad of clothing, pressing it tighter and tighter.
“But what is it?”
Johnny looked round at her. “Can’t you smell it?”
She sniffed delicately once or twice, and then went pale.
“Yes – I see you do. Damn it; there’s still some coming through – we got to it early, though, thank God.”
There was a long pause, then she said: “What fools.”
“Weren’t we? A model gas-chamber, and we never realised it.” Johnny wiped the perspiration from his forehead with his free hand and coughed violently. “And how absolutely in keeping with the habits of our little friends. The old Buchenwald complex.”
She sat down again, picked up Johnny’s coat and pulled it modestly around her shoulders. She said: “What’s the routine?”
“I don’t know. Depends on the pressure, I suppose, how quickly the room is meant to be flooded. The pressure seems pretty high,” Johnny said. “If we can hold on for a quarter of an hour, we should be all right… Lie down. There’s a handkerchief in my coat-pocket. When things start getting bad, put it round your face and it probably won’t do you any actual harm.”
The smell of gas was getting slowly stronger and his breath was beginning to rasp uncomfortably:
He turned his head away, took a deep breath and continued:
“When they think they’ve flooded the place with gas, they’ll probably pump it out again. I don’t see how else they can clear it. Then they’ll come in for us… When you hear the door rattle, you must lie absolutely still. Sham dead. Leave everything to me.” He coughed and knuckled the sweat from his eyes. “Now don’t talk. Save your breath.”
The minutes ticked by remorselessly and the sweet, choking smell grew stronger and stronger.
Johnny’s chest was heaving in slow, mountainous gulps and something was humming angrily at the back of his head. From an enormous distance he could hear Marie-Andrée’s breath coming in long rasping sobs. He smiled at her encouragingly and saw one of her pale-blue eyes flicker above his handkerchief.
“Hang on,” he said. “Been ten minutes… They’ll be… pumping it out soon…” The voice, he noticed, didn’t seem to be coming from him at all, but boomed mysteriously in his ears as if relayed through an invisible set of earphones. He looked down at his watch and privately gave himself about five more minutes – four of gradually diminishing power, and one of agonised helplessness on the floor. He relaxed his grip on the clothing slightly in an attempt to conserve his energy; his arm already felt numb, and no longer a part of him. He flexed his fingers in an attempt to see if they were still working, and, as he did so, he caught an absurd, tinny sound that he recognised as the key turning in the lock. Almost in a panic he tore his shirt and the blouse loose, threw them in the corner and half-lay, half-collapsed beside Marie-Andrée.
His brain suddenly began to hum like a top, and he realised that the sudden change from the standing to the lying position was too much for him. He was going to black out. He made a desperate attempt to clear his brain, even to get up again; but the hard, glaring light grew steadily dimmer until it was a pin-prick at the end of a long dark tunnel. His eyes were wide open, he knew, but he could see nothing. The pin-prick of light receded gradually, attained an almost imperceptible, infinitesimal size, and then suddenly rushed back towards him. There was first a huge indeterminate white blur, then a confusion of surrealist shapes flitting to and fro, which he regarded with a detached interest; and then, suddenly and with no warning, Marie-Andrée on the floor beside him and a grey man with a fantastic face standing over her.
The face was unbelievable, like a pig’s; a dull grey monstrosity that shone dully in the light. It was a gas-mask.
The mask suddenly turned towards him and came closer, peering anxiously into his face. The eyes behind it were amused. It receded once more and then an unbelievable explosion of agony jarred the whole of Johnny’s right side .
The grey man had kicked him… He carefully watched the big black foot swinging viciously down, this time towards his head; caught it in his hands and twisted with all his force.
The effects amazed Johnny; the grey man seemed to fly over him, his arms spread out wide like wings, before hitting the floor with a tremendous impact.
Johnny sat up with an effort that made his head ring like an anvil struck with a sledge-hammer, and yet strangely clarified his vision.
The grey man he recognised as Paul. He was lying against the wall in a hideously contorted position, and from under his head a gleaming red snakelet of blood crawled across the floor, indicating that from that quarter at least Johnny had nothing to fear.
The butt of Paul’s heavy automatic pistol protruded from his pocket; Johnny rose painstakingly to his knees and fumbled until he had it in his hand.
“Marie-Andrée,” he croaked. “Marie-Andrée. Come on. It’s all right. He’s dead.”
But Marie-Andrée did not move. Johnny’s advice had been quite unnecessary; there was no pretence in that doll-like, motionless figure. She was right under.
Johnny crawled across to her, pushing the pistol into his trousers-pocket, and grabbed her. His fingers slithered uselessly on the smooth skin of her shoulders, then slipped under her arms and gripped on the silk of her petticoat.
Slowly, and with his head bursting at every hammer-blow of his pulse, Johnny dragged her the five feet which separated her from the door.
The relief as he lugged her into the next room was almost delirious: the air seemed to rush eagerly into his lungs, making him gasp and bringing tears to his eyes. He leaned against the door and pushed it shut behind him, watching the room in front of him settling slowly down to its normal condition.
Then he went down on hands and knees and was violently, satisfyingly sick.
“Paul,” said somebody in the hall, “One roll – or two?”
Johnny raised his head and eyed the door vindictively.
“Paul?” said the voice
inquiringly. There was a pause, and then the sound of footsteps.
Johnny picked up Paul’s gun and waited until a shirt-sleeved figure appeared in the doorway; then shot the newcomer neatly and efficiently through the heart. The morning’s events had somewhat soured his disposition, and besides, he wanted to go on being sick. He had just time to recognise the face of Karl Schubert before his victim pitched to the floor. He then continued to vomit undisturbed.
Five minutes later the only internal evidence of his alarming experience was a raw throat and a headache comparable only to those induced by the wildest and most licentious of binges. Johnny had ungallantly left Marie-Andrée lying on the floor, and had carried out a rapid search throughout the house – just in case any other members of Mai Weill’s private army were present. But, fortunately perhaps, there were none. He made the interesting discovery that a kettle of water was boiling in the kitchen; he carried out the necessary adjustments and then returned to the sitting-room where Marie-Andrée was still defiantly unconscious.
He picked her up – it seemed impossible that he could have had the slightest difficulty in moving this featherweight from the gas-chamber! – carried her over to the settee and began to slap her face gently with the palm of his hand. Gradually the colour began to flow back to her cheeks, and somewhere around the twenty-seventh slap she opened her eyes.
“Wakey; wakey,” said Johnny. “Time for breakfast…”
She looked round her vaguely with a completely befuddled expression that suddenly changed to one of undisguised fear. Johnny took her by the shoulders before she could say anything.
“It’s all right, chérie,” he said gently. “Everything is okay. We’re both all in one piece, and the enemy is satisfactorily routed. You just lie back on this somewhat revolting article of furniture and Uncle Johnny will make you a nice hot cup of coffee.” He smiled encouragingly at her and went out of the door, tripping ungracefully over Karl’s body as he went.
When he came back, triumphantly bearing two large cups of steaming coffee, Marie-Andrée was obediently stretched out on the settee and was once more the mistress of her emotions.
