In at the Kill

by Alexander Fullerton

  ‘Convoy.’

  ‘Yeah.’ They were down to about 15 k.p.h. The half-track in front, this other stuff crowding up behind. Luc squinting into his rear-view mirror again. ‘Convoy. And we’re in it…’

  Motorcycles: two outriders, coming up screaming fast, swinging out around the big trucks, then up to this one. Powering forward to check on whatever was making them all put the brakes on, no doubt. One of them seemingly tucking itself in close behind them – close enough to be fairly deafening – and the other decelerating but slowly overhauling. Getting a look inside… Rosie keeping track of events now only through her ears, definitely not looking back: she had at first, but with the bikes this close hadn’t again. And now, that one was dropping back. Squinting out of the left corners of her eyes she’d seen Luc push out his left hand, either waving them on or – just a friendly wave… Rosie began: ‘What—’

  ‘Hang on.’

  Hanging back – leaving a gap of about twenty metres between the gazo’s nose and the Boche half-track’s rear. Troop-carrier, whatever it was. Machine guns of some kind, probably Spandaus, one each side under canvas covers. Luc telling her – hunched over the wheel, pale eyes fixed on that thing’s rear – ‘We’ll be dropping out of this shortly. Any second now. There.’ Stabbing a forefinger towards an entrance coming up on the right. Slowing even more. Half-track pulling away ahead, half-tonner closing up astern: the outriders gunning their engines suddenly, swerving out and passing – on the outside, of course, the left, the side away – thank God – from Rosie: despite which she’d put her hands and forearms up to obstruct any view of her as they shot by. Luc shifting gear: and swinging the wheel over now – hauling the gazo – rather too fast, so as not to impede the Boches behind them any more than he had already – off the road and into this open gateway. Fence of wire mesh on iron uprights, gates similar, and a painted sign DP AGRICULTURAL ENGINEERS. The heavy trucks were pounding past behind them as they nosed into a concreted yard with tractors parked here and there – also some cars and lorries. Further in, she saw a house that might have been converted from a stable building: L-shaped, actually quite pretty, a country-cottage look, although the base of the ‘L’ looked unconverted. Luc drove straight through and pulled up outside that bit, which seen in close-up now consisted of workshops or stores, with what looked like living-space above them. He switched off, lifted both hands in a gesture of helplessness… ‘Sorry, Rosalie.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Well – military depot just down the road there. Stuff’s always passing. Should’ve damn well thought!’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Put you on the floor. Blanket over you.’

  ‘Thanks. In this weather…’

  The outriders had checked the company name on the tailgate, seen they had every right to be coming here, therefore had had no reason to stop them. Even if they’d seen her: a truck-driver could have a woman with him, without posing much threat to the continuance of the Third Reich. She put a hand on his arm: ‘Luc, you’ve done marvellously, I’m grateful.’

  * * *

  The big surprise of the evening came at bed-time.

  Rosie and Luc had had supper with the de Plesse family in their cottage, and Luc had stayed down there, having business to discuss with their host, while she’d gone up to bed. At least, to her room: but intentionally, to bed. It had been a long day and by that time she’d been feeling it. Hadn’t enjoyed the evening much, either. Her room, previously used by Luc, was in the flat over the workshop; there was a larger one which had been Michel’s and to which Silvie, Raoul’s wife, had moved Luc’s gear; the two men would share, when Michel turned up. It was known as ‘the mechanics’ flat’, could be entered from the first floor of the cottage but also had its own entrance/exit by a ladderway down into one of the workshops.

  The de Plesse family consisting of Raoul himself – a short-legged, big-bellied man, three-quarters bald, mid-forties, with shrewd, watchful eyes: the look of a peevish dachshund, she thought – and at that, with a strong sense of his own importance – and his wife Silvie – tiny, with straight fair hair fading into grey, and a tendency to speak only when spoken to, at any rate in her husband’s presence – and a daughter, Roxane, who was plump, blonde, shy – and son Maurice, aged fifteen, afflicted with a crippling stammer but according to his father a technical genius. Rosie had thought to herself during supper that he probably had to be, poor kid. Chip off the old block, was the implication. He was expected to get into the university in Nancy to read engineering, and meanwhile his out-of-school hours were spent working in the business, which consisted largely of supplying and repairing farm machinery, particularly tractors. New ones being unobtainable, it was a matter of salvaging wrecks, either rebuilding them or cannibalizing them for spare parts, also converting diesels and petrol-fuelled machines to gazo. Converting motor vehicles of other kinds as well. It was obviously a successful business, which of course would also allow de Plesse and his people virtually unlimited scope for getting around, pursuing more covert interests.

  She’d been anxious for a chance to discuss her own situation, but the first chance she got wasn’t until after supper, when she managed to catch him alone for a minute. He’d seemed surprised that she’d wanted to discuss anything at all, before Michel’s arrival; but he confirmed that at Michel’s request he’d initiated enquiries about a firm of manufacturing engineers by name of Marchéval.

  ‘That’s your interest, I believe?’

  She’d nodded.

  ‘Well – Michel has been following up on what I was able to tell him. He was going to visit a certain individual – a résistant – who if anyone can help at all—’

  ‘Whereabouts, exactly?’

  ‘Well, that’s a major factor – Marchéval’s is near Troyes. Not south of Paris as you’d indicated.’

  ‘Troyes—’

  ‘Michel will tell you more. He’ll know more than I do, by this time. But he won’t be with us long – you realize?’

  ‘Luc said that.’

  ‘And you’ll want to move rather quickly, I imagine. Which brings me to the question of your papers – which Luc was telling me are – unsafe… Well, as I’ve understood it, your plans are by no means certain, so I suggest waiting until Michel gets here, when presumably you’ll decide what you are going to do. All right?’

  ‘You think he will be here in two days?’

  ‘About that.’ A shrug. ‘But – who knows…’

  ‘My own priority is to get in touch with London. I don’t want to delay that now if I can help it. Michel said you’d put me in touch with local SOE?’

  ‘Yes, he spoke of that. And it could be arranged. Not here, but in Nancy. A problem however is that you’ll have to go there yourself – so the business of your papers again becomes important. To be on your own – in that town at all, in your situation…’ Shake of the head: ‘Not without its hazards, Mam’selle. I think the answer can only be to wait for Michel. Sleep on it, eh, talk again in the morning?’

  * * *

  She wasn’t sleeping on it yet, only thinking about it, in her room in the flat. On edge, rather, moving around. Apart from the hour or so she’d spent on her knees she’d been sitting all day in any case. Tired, certainly, but her feet weren’t; and she doubted whether if she turned in now she’d sleep.

  Troyes, for God’s sake. She’d been visualizing a factory in some Parisian industrial suburb.

  She thought that in the morning she’d try to push de Plesse into arranging a meeting with the SOE organizer in Nancy right away – not wait for Michel. Or maybe – with this thing about papers – the SOE man could be persuaded to come here. She’d already done a lot of waiting, things could be moving fast elsewhere, and Michel’s ‘two days’ this last time had stretched themselves to a month. OK, no blame attaching, obviously, he had a lot on his plate, but this was her business and SOE’s, no one else’s.

  Talk to de Plesse again in the morning: explain the urgency, get out o
f him anything else he might have discovered about Marchéval’s – to give Baker Street as much background as possible, in case they wanted her to do anything about it. To which she certainly wouldn’t be averse. Michel’s musing rang in her memory: But how you’d get to him… Then the bit about when the shit hit the fan – i.e. when ‘Hector’ went on the run. When, and/or if. There might be a chance of nobbling him, that was all: and for herself, a chance to clear up that unfinished business, at least assist in the nobbling process, conceivably instigate it, even carry it out – if Baker Street opted for that, would allow it, didn’t have plans laid already… In which case – well, forget bloody ‘Hector’, leave him to others. Send up a prayer of thanks when they caught or killed him, but meanwhile – midnight pick-up, magic carpet home.

  Within just days…

  Home – with Ben. Safe.

  Why think for even a split second of anything else?

  Eyes shut, for a moment: remembering from previous occasions the bewilderingly sudden transition to safety – which only in recent years one had learnt was the ultimate, stupendous luxury.

  People didn’t realize – at least, outsiders didn’t. Might guess, but could never really get near it. Since of course one never told them.

  Ben knew, through having virtually shared her nightmares. Holding her sweat-slippery body, stroking her, murmuring into her ear – calming, comforting. Time and again she’d woken out of sheer terror into that urgent reassurance, taking a few moments sometimes to recognize this as the reality – Ben’s voice, hands. Ben’s love. There, now, waiting for her: all she had to do was get back to it… She’d been perched on the edge of the bed but was up again and moving, putting her mind back to the present situation’s realities and needs: one element of its bloodiness being that she didn’t much like Raoul de Plesse, and guessed from his reactions that she might have been unguarded enough to have let him see it; another, perhaps more easily solvable but only with that man’s help, the problem of how to get by in Nancy for some period of time with papers that wouldn’t stand close inspection and one’s portrait on ‘Wanted’ posters all over town: having to be there at least several days, first seeing the réseau organizer, then waiting for an exchange of signals, and maybe further signals, elucidations.

  Get Justine Quérier’s papers doctored? Maybe just a few essential alterations and up-datings would be enough, if they had someone here who could handle it. Getting new papers forged would take too long. Easy and quick in England, where SOE had a suburban house equipped and staffed by expert forgers. But even here, with papers already existing and needing only slight adaptation – changing a date or two, replacing a passport-size photograph with a new one, duplicating the rubber stamp that had been applied to Justine’s…

  Brain flagging. Not yet back in anything like peak condition, either mentally or physically. Although the heart – pulse-rate – seemed OK at the moment. Another temporary condition – please God… Should have thought before of getting changes forged into these papers, though. Couldn’t have expected Luc to have – he was a soldier, not an agent. And Raoul de Plesse wouldn’t have, she supposed, because Luc would only have told him this evening that they weren’t up to scratch.

  De Plesse was probably all right. You couldn’t expect to like every single person with whom you found yourself working. Up to now, no doubt at all, she’d been extremely lucky.

  But also, up to now, hadn’t had to sit around waiting for other people…

  A tap on the door, so soft she barely heard it. Then a murmur: ‘Rosalie?’

  Silvie de Plesse. Trying again, more audibly: ‘Rosalie? Are you awake?’

  ‘Yes. Hang on.’ She’d been turning down the bedclothes, went now to unlock the door. ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘You’re still dressed. How fortunate. My dear-Michel—’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Well – he’s here!’

  Staring at her: while that sank in. Then – masking a surge of relief – ‘I’ll come down.’

  ‘Such a surprise! Only just beating curfew – he’s been here half an hour, they’ve been talking in the study, but he’s having some supper now. We wouldn’t have disturbed you, only—’

  ‘One moment.’ Going quickly to the mirror that was on the chest of drawers, and smoothing out uneven, patchy-grey hair with her fingers. Not that it made much difference to it… The whole outlook was different though, suddenly: no more waiting about – touch wood… She faced Silvie again: ‘Still awful, isn’t it.’

  ‘Your hair?’

  ‘Better than it was, but—’

  ‘It’s not all that bad, dear.’

  The hell it wasn’t. She was acutely conscious of it… Out into the passage, shutting the bedroom door as her hostess opened the one into the main part of the house. Glancing round with a solicitous, motherly look: nice enough, kind et cetera, but out of her element in all this – and under that sod’s thumb. Telling Rosie, ‘With professional attention – your hair that is, Roxane and I were talking about it – we do know someone who’d come. I mean, someone – safe. If you like, I’ll ask her?’

  ‘Terrific. If you could. Except I should mention I’ve no money. Although of course my people will—’

  ‘Don’t even think of it!’

  They were in the living-room then: Michel getting up from the table, coming to meet her. Very much as she remembered him. Memory had worked reasonably well, considering how it had been that night – the state she’d been in, and having seen him only in semi-darkness. A big man, over six foot and powerfully built, with a lively, humorous expression – which she realized she had not seen in the oil-lamp’s glow in Thérèse’s attic. Big nose, wide jaw, and that smiling – slightly wild look. Thatch of rough, black hair. His hand – the one and only – was extended towards her as if to take hold of her arm or maybe slide behind her shoulder, as would have been a natural movement if he’d been about to stoop to kiss her – as he had been, she realized; seeing him register – at the last moment, holding back – that they weren’t on such terms, in fact barely knew each other.

  If he had kissed her she wouldn’t have minded.

  Because he’d saved her life – the feeling that at some depth she did know him?

  ‘Rosalie.’

  She’d put her hand in that one of his. The other shirt-sleeve was missing, had been removed, the shoulder sewn up. She’d taken that in without consciously looking at it, certainly wasn’t seeing it now… ‘Very nice surprise, Michel.’ A new, rather startling thought had formed in her mind just in that moment, but she hadn’t time for it. ‘They said two or three days. You’ve done far better!’

  ‘I had a good reason to cut it short, where I was. But you’re looking a lot better too, thank God.’

  ‘Thank Thérèse.’

  ‘Oh, Thérèse—’

  ‘And your sulphur powder?’

  ‘That – yes. While I think of it, though – sorry I couldn’t get back as I said I would. Several reasons, I’ll explain… But this shocking business of Thérèse—’

  ‘Did you just hear of it?’

  ‘At the weekend – through Raoul here. In code, you might say – at first I hoped I was getting it wrong. How lucky you were outside the house, though. Luc was telling me. And the Destinier place close by—’

  ‘Marie Destinier was superb. But what anyone can do to help Thérèse—’

  ‘Nothing. If news of her did leak out we’d hear from Marie – that’s to say, Raoul would. But I’ve a lot to tell you, Rosalie – truly vital stuff—’

  De Plesse cut in, ‘Finish your supper first, then we can really get down to it?’

  There was a place set at the table, where Michel had been sitting and went back to now. A plate of left-over rabbit stew, Rosie saw, a bread-loaf and a glass of red wine. The food and the wine would be black-market, she supposed. Would have to be. De Plesse well able to afford it – despite most of the populace especially in towns being on near-starvation diets. In Paris
, one had heard, a lot of people literally were starving.

  Michel murmuring to Silvie: ‘Apologies – letting your delicious food get cold.’

  ‘Finish it, then we’ll talk.’ De Plesse, looking at Rosie, smiled in a slightly more friendly way than he had before. ‘Sit down, girl. He eats like a wolf, this fellow. Even if he has another helping it won’t take long.’

  Michel admitting as he began to eat, ‘It’s a fact, I was slightly famished.’ Movement of the head towards Rosie: ‘As she was, when we got to the Michon place that night. They’d starved her in the prison – and whipped her, the swine…’ Glancing back from her to de Plesse: ‘Killing their own generals now, did you hear?’

  ‘The bomb-plot generals, you mean.’

  ‘And working down from that level – God knows how many’ll pay for it. Like a pogrom with the victims all his beloved Aryans. He’s raving mad, of course.’ Switching to Rosie again then; she’d parked herself at the end of the table, beside Luc, Silvie had asked her whether she’d like coffee, and she’d said yes, please – Michel telling her, ‘It’s not going to take long now, Rosalie.’ Meaning the war, not coffee or what passed for coffee. ‘Not here in France, that is. I mean, if you want to get that creature before he disappears?’

  ‘You’ve been investigating. I hear. I’m grateful – and surprised you’d have remembered, let alone spent time and—’

  ‘Big thing on your mind, wasn’t it, but it rang alarm bells in mine too – danger to us all – at any point of contact, it is. Therefore – logical reaction – eliminate it, if there’s a way of doing so. Should say, help Rosalie eliminate it. But now there’s more, much more – it’s a big thing you’ve started. I’ve been to see a man I was put on to by Raoul here. Who incidentally may have told you the business is near Troyes, not where you thought?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Making it easier for me, as it happens – made this recce possible, only a slight diversion from what would have been my route anyway. In fact, two diversions, because after I’d left him I was near Dijon, he was able to get a message to me through mutual friends, and I went back there. Where I’ve come from now, you see – because the sooner you heard this, the better. I take it you’re still of the same mind – to go after that vendu?’