The Little Parachute

by J. Robert Janes

  The patronne was blond, blue-eyed and very fair skinned. She reminded him of Véronique and this worried his conscience, for he didn’t want to compound the betrayal of the one with that now of another.

  ‘Madame VanKleist, you have a lodger from Paris, a Mademoiselle Moncontre.’

  ‘She’s not here. She’s gone out.’

  ‘Ah! of course. It’s but a small matter, but would it be possible to leave a note in her room?’

  ‘Notes … Is that one using the pension as a PTT?’*

  ‘The room?’ grimaced Ledieu, fighting for composure and fiddling with his fedora.

  The woman gave the shrug of, Don’t expect me to answer things I’m not supposed to know.

  Ah, damn this war, thought Ledieu. Damn the lies, the fear, the little things that so often tripped one up.

  The room was as if barely used—Isabelle Moncontre had had little luggage but the wireless set. A modest nightdress was neatly folded over the back of a worn fauteuil whose brown upholstery and yellowed antimacassars brought little cheer.

  The window overlooked the road. A plain pair of step-ins had been washed in the hand basin and left flattened on a hand towel, spread in hopes of their drying.

  There was little else.

  ‘I thought you wished to leave a note?’ asked the patronne.

  ‘The note … ah yes. Permit me to write it in privacy, please.’

  ‘As you wish. Who am I to say?’

  Left alone, he didn’t know where to begin. Théodore was just being his doubting self. Nicolas was leaving the matter in the balance as always so as to be credited with being right.

  Madame VanKleist would be listening from the corridor. Though he eased each of the bureau drawers open, they were not quiet and yielded nothing.

  The mademoiselle travels light out of necessity, he silently cautioned himself. ‘Look for the little things,’ Théodore had insisted. ‘In this clandestine war we are fighting, it is those that are often the most important.’

  There was little enough. A worn toothbrush in the water glass, no toothpaste or tooth powder—ah! such items were so hard to obtain even on the marché noir and costing a fortune. Five hundred francs for a two-hundred-milligram canister.

  The toothbrush was from before the Defeat. ‘The face cloth,’ Théodore had said. ‘Look for it. Remember La Samaritaine.’

  ‘Our sous-préfet can dwell on things as our dentist does a sore tooth with no anaesthetic!’ he muttered to himself.

  There wasn’t a sign of the face cloth, which would, no doubt, be white as had the towel that had been used in the killing. The hand towel here was obviously that of the pension. The step-ins were of plain white cotton, the faded label revealing that they had been purchased in Paris at the Galeries Lafayette. Before the Defeat also.

  This is ridiculous, he scolded himself. She’s from the Résistance in Paris, has been sent especially to us at great risk to herself and everyone else there, has brought us a wireless set and has warned us of possible infiltrators.

  There was one thing, but he thought little of it, only a boyish pleasure, for the book beside the bed was The Count of Monte Cristo.

  ‘Dumas was always a favourite,’ he murmured.

  The binding was of a dark blue leather with gold leaf on the spine. One of a treasured set, no doubt, but the inscription was not made out to herself, but to a Jean-Baptiste Bernard de Fleury.

  It had been dated 3 March 1914, de Fleury’s tenth birthday at Nugent-sur-Seine, upriver of Paris.

  ‘By then I was in uniform,’ he said sadly, ‘and soon to hear the Kaiser’s shells bursting overhead.’

  Martin Bellecour had been an avid reader, and as Ledieu left the room, he idly wondered if the boy had discovered Dumas.

  ‘The note?’ asked the patronne.

  ‘Ah! I’ve forgotten. It’s of no consequence, Madame VanKleist. I shall no doubt meet the mademoiselle in the street and can tell her.’

  Halfway up the road, he wondered if his not bothering to leave a note was not another of those little things. ‘Must loyalties always be questioned?’ he asked, reminding himself that the house had never been suspected of harbouring anything other than its regular tenants and an occasional visitor.

  ‘The PTT … ? Then who had left her a note? Who knows she’s here but ourselves?’

  Théodore had suggested she might not have come alone. That must be it. The note had been left for her by one of them.

  But if they had killed Véronique, how was it, please, that a réseau in Paris knew more of what was going on here than they did themselves?

  No one would question his making yet another survey of the docks and ruined warehouses. When he reached the meeting place of last night, Ledieu put the bike out of sight. Coming here would be of no use, but he had to force himself to remember every detail. How had she known where to find them? Had she followed him? She had come in and had leaned her bike against the others.

  Right here, he said, letting the broken slats throw their shadows over him. Rubble littered the floor—bits of broken plaster, lath and concrete. Her footprints were in the dust.

  Hurriedly he began to brush them away. The Nazis … the Gestapo Munk and Sturmbannführer Kraus would notice them if they came here, if …

  ‘Ah! what’s this?’ he asked. The rubble had been pushed up into a little mound.

  When he uncovered the face cloth, he found he couldn’t move but stood with that thing dangling from his fingers. What did it mean? he begged. Why had she thought it necessary to hide it before coming in to them, to them?

  Had she killed Véronique? She must have.

  Doumier had been betrayed but until the body of Véronique had been found this morning, they hadn’t known who the betrayer had been.

  But this one had. ‘Infiltrators,’ she had warned them. ‘Infiltrators, ah no …’

  * The big asparagus

  * Poste, Télégraphe et Téléphone

  9

  Hidden in Bois Carré, the building was very long. It had no windows but, having darted inside it, Martin was forced to continue for fear of being discovered near its entrance. Increasingly the darkness grew. The walls were higher than he could reach, and he wished he was taller so that he could count all the rows of blocks the construction workers had used. The floor was of concrete, the width no more than two bicycle lengths. A strange sort of building—a tunnel, really, but lying above ground. Perhaps the walls were as much in height as the width.

  When he looked back, he could no longer see any light because the tunnel took a bend before quickly reaching its open end where sliding doors would be fitted.

  The tunnel was completely empty but for himself, of course. He felt the wall at its far end and panicked at the thought of darkness closing in but slapped himself hard and said to himself, Behave. You are a man now. This isn’t the only tunnel. They are building five of them in and near the woods and all are exactly the same, so what, please, are they to be used for?

  This was a puzzle. Two of the tunnels were just outside the woods, for Bois Carré was not so very big. Perhaps six or eight hectares, he thought. A little woods, then, and one the Germans had completely taken over.

  Roads led to each tunnel but also from each entrance to a square building that was quite small and perhaps only twice the width of the tunnels but placed next to a set of narrow rails that ran through the trees and rose up from among them at one end.

  ‘A launching ramp,’ he softly said.

  The soldiers had as much as confirmed this. Overhearing them had not been as difficult as avoiding them. Time and again the words Vergeltungswaffen Eins had been heard. Bomben die fliegende. Flying bombs. London … the City of London, England.

  The tunnels must be houses for the bombs but if so, then what did they do with the wings? Take them off? It must be so.

  Kno
wing that he had to, he began to count the blocks in one of the rows along its length. Soon there were a hundred, then two hundred and fifty and only then was there light coming in from the entrance.

  ‘It’s at least three hundred blocks long,’ he whispered and swallowed tightly at the thought of leaving the tunnel. Should he wait until nightfall? Should he take a chance now—there wasn’t anyone working near here. Beyond the tunnel, the road from the entrance went away and through the woods to the square house and the launching ramp, but there was still lots of cover. He could hide under the ramp if he had to.

  With his back to the innermost part of the bend, he crept along and into the light, but when he heard voices approaching, he retreated. A torch was switched on. He ran. He cowered in a far corner at the back against that final wall and with no hope of escape.

  Steps echoed. Voices boomed. The beam of the torch was flung across the walls and roof—he could see it so clearly because the men, they were in the straight part of the tunnel and now well inside the bend. Their shadows were huge.

  Vibrations from hobnailed boots rang out. ‘Ist fern genug,’ said one of them. ‘Nun zeigen Sie mir was Sie haben, ja?’

  A bag was set on the floor between the two men. Bottles clinked. A rucksack followed it. ‘C’est de l’eau-de-vie de poire et du calvados. Il y en a cinq, vous comprenez? Cinq.’

  A hand was held up. Five fingers.

  ‘Ich gebe Ihnen zin des Schinkens.’

  ‘Schinken, was ist das, s’il vous plaît?’

  ‘Geräuchertes Schweinefleisch—oink, oink. Schenkel Hauch der Rauch.’

  ‘Jambon. Ah! C’est très bien. Trois boîtes.’ Three fingers were held up.

  They settled on two tins of ham and some rubber things the Unteroffizier stretched and snapped to show how good they were and laughed as he did so.

  They shared a cigarette. Then the Unteroffizier said, ‘Dies Spurhünde kommen sie hier in den Wald, ja? Es ist besser dass wir fortgehen.’

  ‘Le parachutiste ne peut pas être ici. C’est impossible.’

  ‘Sie haben ein Witterung. Ein Parfüm.’

  The Unteroffizier made the sounds and motions of a dog getting a scent. It was enough. They were going to bring the dogs into the woods.

  Cloud shadows fled across the ripening fields to darken the maize where only the helmets and sometimes the shoulders of the Waffen-SS could be seen.

  Elsewhere, long, thin lines of soldiers waded through waist-high wheat and barley or broke the clods of newly ploughed fields under jackboots into whose tops had been stuffed stick grenades.

  Marie-Hélène could see it all quite clearly from a copse some three kilometres to the west and downslope of them. Kraus, the Oberst Lautenschläger and others were standing in a cluster surrounded by bare earth. The colonel was insisting the sweep be continued westwards; Kraus wanted the woods to be searched at once.

  The dogs would settle it and they did. When released from their leashes, their handlers running uphill after them, they raced for the woods.

  The Sturmbannführer started after them. He tossed an insult over his shoulder. Oberst Lautenschläger clenched a fist perhaps, but didn’t shake it at him.

  As they converged on the woods, she tried to see a way of isolating Kraus and having him killed by others but the only way to be certain was to do it herself. When he asked for the names, she must reach into her handbag for the list she would say she had made for him. There wouldn’t be much time. The Luger would have to be ready, no safety on, and a cartridge in the chamber.

  But where to do it? In her room at the pension—would he be so thoughtless as to blow her cover by coming there?

  In the ruins of that hut? Yes … yes, she would tell him to meet her there. She’d say she thought the terrorists must have hidden things there and that she was going to take a look at it.

  That would be best. Kraus would then think there would only be the two of them. He’d like the thought of being alone with her.

  Gradually everyone entered the woods and soon the fields were empty of them but now there was shouting, now there was insane barking, now the instantly rapid and decisive firing of a Schmeisser.

  And then … then as the dogs must have been grabbed and put back on the leash, silence. Even the rooks winged their ways in flight without a sound.

  She searched the line of the woods and fields. Had they killed Châlus? she wondered. Would they drag him out by the heels or stand around looking down at him?

  The novice too.

  So silent were things, Marie-Hélène found it uncomfortable and had to turn to leave, but when she reached the road, the sous-préfet Allard and Father Nicolas were waiting for her.

  There were binoculars in Allard’s hand, tears in the curé’s eyes but were they those of gladness or grief?

  ‘It’s not safe,’ she said and heard her voice as if given by a stranger. ‘The countryside is crawling with them.’

  They looked at her, these two. Allard’s nostrils flared in doubt, Father Nicolas just stood there saying nothing. At last Allard found his voice. ‘Your priest, mademoiselle, and the novice are no longer visiting the graves of others.’

  Then it had been Châlus in the woods—were the curé’s tears those of gladness? she wondered.

  ‘How is it, please, that you knew of them?’ he asked.

  ‘One soon learns what to look for,’ she said, not avoiding that doubter’s gaze of his. ‘Look, I only suspected them of working for the Gestapo. But I have to tell you, messieurs, I’m glad they were in the woods today.’

  ‘Yes, yes, the gunfire has given a suitable warning,’ acknowledged Father Nicolas, ‘but why would they choose to go there if working for the Nazis?’

  So that was it. ‘Because there are construction workers among whom there are most likely sympathizers if not those who are already involved in the Résistance. Contact must have been attempted so that infiltration could begin.’

  ‘Then why risk taking a woman with him?’

  ‘He probably didn’t. They would have split up. Châlus to enter the …’ Ah no …

  ‘Châlus?’ asked Allard.

  ‘Yes. The name he’s using is Raymond Châlus. Her alias is Yvette Rougement. They followed me from Paris but when they continued on, I … why I felt I should at least warn you of their presence.’

  ‘Yet you knew who they were,’ mused Father Nicolas. ‘You could have as much as led them to us.’

  ‘I had a wireless set with me, didn’t I? What, please, was I to have done with such a thing? Lugged it around for days?’

  The wind tugged at her wavy dark brown hair and at the collar of her shirt-blouse. A not unattractive young woman. Tough, oh yes, thought Allard. ‘What had you in mind by coming here?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you think?’ she countered. ‘Everything we need to know for the British is in that woods.’

  ‘Yes, but there are also five other such sites in the countryside around Abbeville.’*

  ‘I haven’t got to any of those yet, but maybe if we worked together, we could visit all of them and find the one with the weakest security.’

  ‘She has a point, Théodore,’ said Father Nicolas. ‘Standing out here on this road will only bring company we don’t want.’

  ‘Then let’s tie her bike to the back and give her a lift into town.’

  Were they planning a little something for her? ‘Look, we shouldn’t be seen together.’

  She was good, thought Father Nicolas. If one had wanted a quick answer, what better to have given?

  ‘Later, then,’ said Allard. ‘The same place as last night, the same time. We’ll map out a strategy then and decide how to divide up the work.’

  She tried to smile—it was a brave attempt but he had to ask himself, What is it about her that, like the clouds above, casts doubt upon her? The toughness, her alone
ness, the way she defiantly looks at us as if, yes, she is calculating what we’ll do.

  Only then did he notice that she had moved her right hand to her bag and that it was now all but in it.

  ‘Until tonight,’ he said and nodded curtly at her. ‘Come on, Nicolas, we had better get back to town.’

  They left but she didn’t look away towards Bois Carré, to what must be going on there. She followed them with her eyes until, at last, the car was hidden from her.

  ‘They’re up to something,’ she said and was torn between running to Kraus for help or continuing alone.

  No one had yet left the woods. It was still far too quiet and she had to wonder what was going on in there, had to ask, What have they really found?

  The dogs were slavering. Held back by their leashes, they repeatedly lunged towards the boy who could just be seen among the shells, beneath the low roof of corrugated iron that covered them.

  ‘GET HIM OUT OF THERE AT ONCE!’ shouted Kraus, setting the dogs to leaping harder. ‘SHOOT HIM IF HE REFUSES. HERE, GIVE ME THAT, DUMMKOPF. THE RIFLE AT ONCE! I’LL SHOW HIM.’

  ‘Ach du leiber Gott, Sturmbannführer. Not unless you wish to kill us all and who knows how many others.’

  Lautenschläger yanked the rifle from him and thrust it back into the hands of the one who had given it up. ‘Don’t ever do that again,’ he said to the corporal. ‘I’m still your commanding officer. A soldier without his weapon is no soldier.’

  Verdammt, what the hell were they to do? he wondered. There were warning signs posted all around the dump, which had been deliberately placed out of the way near the edge of the woods. Barbed wire surrounded it, but this alone wouldn’t have held back the dogs. By some stroke of bureaucratic bungling, the Wehrmacht’s bomb-disposal unit had put off moving the shells until they had received word on how and where to destroy them, for they weren’t ordinary shells and the boy had gone to ground in the one place the dogs would refuse to venture.