by Robert Rigby
“Planning to wait for the Germans until after dark,” Paul added. “He’ll drive out to meet them with the Bernards as his prisoners.”
“Then you must go and save them,” Rosalie Granel said. “Go now, quickly.”
“But I must get my daughter to hospital,” Henri said.
Rosalie looked over to the car. “Your daughter? What’s wrong with her?”
“She was wounded. She’s lost a lot of blood.”
Rosalie’s face instantly softened. “Why didn’t you tell me that in the first place, you silly man!” She bustled off towards Henri’s car. “Antoine, go and fetch our car. You can take Monsieur Mazet and his daughter to Lavelanet.”
“Yes, Rosalie,” Antoine said obediently and hurried away.
“And you boys must go to bring Max and Julia back from Espezel,” Rosalie said as Paul, Didier and Henri followed her towards the car.
“We must try,” Paul said to Henri. “Everything we’ve done over the past few days will be for nothing if we don’t stop Alain now.”
“It’s dangerous, I should help you.”
“No, Henri,” Didier said. “You have to stay with Josette.”
“But Alain is armed! I saw the pistol he’s carrying.”
“And I have my shotgun in the car.”
“Do you know the house?” Paul asked Didier.
“Espezel is a small place. Anyone there will tell us where it is.”
“But there’s still Puivert tonight,” Henri said anxiously to Paul. “You must be there by eleven thirty, ready for the plane.”
“There’s time, Henri, plenty of time.”
Rosalie had already opened the back door of the car. Josette was curled up to one side, her face resting on the window, eyes closed.
“The poor child has fainted,” Rosalie gasped.
But then Josette opened her eyes. They widened as she saw four anxious faces staring in at her.
“I feel tired, Papa,” she said to Henri, “really tired.”
“We’re leaving for the hospital now,” Henri told her. “Antoine is taking us in his car.”
As her father and Rosalie helped her from the car, Josette was too weary even to ask why there had been a change of plan.
Paul, ready to leave, took Josette by the hand. “We know where the Bernards are,” he said slowly and deliberately. “We’re going to get them.”
Josette’s eyelids flickered; she was only just conscious. “Is it … is it dangerous?”
“We’ll be fine. Didier has his shotgun.”
“But you will be careful, both of you.”
“We will,” Didier said, “and we’ll see you later.”
“But you’re leaving tonight,” Josette said turning back to Paul, her eyes suddenly wider. “I will see you before you go?”
“Of course,” Paul said. “We’ll get Max and Julia away from Alain and bring them back to Lavelanet.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.” He smiled. “I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye to you, could I?”
FORTY
Even when the day was at its brightest it felt more like night inside Alain Noury’s house at Espezel. Daylight rarely found its way through the shuttered windows into the dusty corners and recesses.
The house stood alone, away from the wide central area of the village, on a narrow road leading uphill towards the bigger town of Belcaire. From a distance it was imposing, and in Alain’s grandparents’ time it had been an impressive house. But times had changed, the family fortunes had dwindled and now the building had lost its grandeur and was sadly dilapidated.
Roof tiles were cracked or missing, allowing winter snows and hard rains to find their way through to the top floor; one exterior wall bulged at the bottom while another leaned in dangerously at the top; the windows and shutters were mostly bare of paint and riddled with rot. Close up it made a sorry sight.
The interior was even worse: its pervasive dank, musty atmosphere contrasted starkly with the clean, clear mountain air outside.
Thick cobwebs matted the high, paint-flaked ceilings, some of them spiralling downwards in long, tight columns. Wallpaper curled free from the plaster, while rotting floorboards were spongy underfoot or broken completely in places. Mouse and rat droppings littered the floors and even the flat surfaces of some of the furniture.
The house was exactly how Alain liked it.
Alain was a hoarder, a collector. He bought and sold, but his purchases far outnumbered his sales. He would buy almost anything and then find space for it somewhere amid the massive, dark oak furniture that had stood in the same place since being hauled into position by his grandfather.
There were stacks of unmatched, patterned crockery, much of it chipped; black iron cooking pans nesting one inside another; empty glass pickling jars; piles of dusty, moth-ravaged rugs, bed sheets and woollen blankets. Old, crudely painted oils, many faded from the sun, stood against the walls along with smeared and pitted mirrors in broken gilt frames. Sideboard and cupboard drawers could hardly be opened, stuffed as they were with odd pieces of cutlery, boxed sets of fish knives and more fabric; linen, lace, cotton.
Then there was the furniture Alain had added: armchairs with springs poking through the coverings, rickety tables and wonky chairs; most of it was worthless. A massive, glass-fronted bookcase was packed to capacity with dusty, crumbling volumes that Alain had never opened, let alone read. And the tools: hammers, hoes, long-handled scythes, garden spades, shovels and sieves.
The house was a dump and a dumping ground, and Alain was always at his happiest when he was there among his things.
His blue van was parked at the back of the house. It had to be close to the wall, for the space between house and garden, once a wide terrace, had dwindled to virtually nothing as thick weeds relentlessly sprouted and spread.
Beyond the terrace was a garden, now an overgrown jungle, where thick creepers and ivy were gradually strangling the life from the once abundant fruit trees. Alain never ventured into the garden.
He had made coffee and offered it, in chipped cups, to Max and Julia Bernard. They refused and watched in silence while Alain sipped his.
The Bernards were sitting on upright, wooden chairs, hands tied behind their backs to the chairs.
“Can’t you untie us?” Julia asked. “This rope is hurting my wrists.”
Alain was facing them in a sagging armchair. He smiled shrewdly. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. You’re very valuable; I can’t afford to lose you.”
“You could be condemning us to death if you go through with this plan,” Max said.
Alain shrugged. “I’m sorry, but it’s business. Don’t take it personally.”
“Let my wife go, then; it’s only me they want.”
“I’ll let our German friends decide that.”
“But you don’t even know where to meet them or what time they’ll get to the plateau.”
“Oh, I know exactly where to meet them: I saw my cousins there with them the other day. They told me some ridiculous story about finding land for grazing cattle, but they couldn’t fool me: they were checking out the landing site. So we’ll get there after dark and then wait. It’s quiet, so we won’t be disturbed.”
There was a sudden movement against one wall as a mouse scurried along the skirting board before disappearing behind a cupboard.
Alain smiled again. “They’re quite friendly.” The smile faded. “I don’t have many friends, you know, not even my cousins, really. They won’t be too pleased when I turn up on the plateau with you – I’ll be taking the money they were meant to have. But it’s their own fault. They should have cut me in from the start.”
He picked up a pistol from a small side table jammed against the armchair and studied it. “You know, I’ve had a difficult time these last months, so it’s about time my luck changed.”
Max and Julia remained silent and Alain gave them a hostile glare, his eyes flicking from one to the other. “Don’t y
ou want to know why?”
“Yes, tell us why,” Max said quickly. “We’re very interested.”
Alain grinned and settled back in the chair. “Well, there was Victor Forêt, of course, though he’s not a problem any more. But my real troubles started last summer. It had all been going so well before that.” His face darkened. “Then Henri Mazet and his crowd messed everything up. They almost ruined my life.”
“Henri?” Max said. “How did Henri do that?”
“Well, if you really want to know, I’ll tell you.”
He took his time, explaining everything in great detail, revealing how he and his friends, Yvette Bigou and Gaston Rouzard, had teamed up with the Andorrans to rob and murder Jews escaping across the Pyrenees through the Eagle Trail into Spain.
“Making a fortune, we were,” he said, “until Henri Mazet and his friends came along. That kid, Paul, was meant to cross into Spain, but they worked out what was going on and killed our Andorran friends. They were onto Yvette. I knew she’d tell them everything, even about me, so I had to kill her. I had no choice. And then Gaston – I couldn’t give them the opportunity of speaking to him. He always was a loud mouth. So I shut him up for good.”
He held up the pistol and pointed it at Max. “With this.”
FORTY-ONE
Peering through a gap in a broken shutter, Paul could just see the glimmer of candlelight reflected in the grimy windowpane.
Moving slowly, he crept along the wall, ready to spring back into cover. He reached the back door and waited, listening, but heard nothing.
Didier was watching from no more than five metres away, hidden in tall grasses and weeds, his shotgun at the ready. He’d told Paul that he would not hesitate to take Alain out if it came to a shooting match. Their lives were at stake. Again.
Paul gripped the metal handle, pushed it down and applied a little pressure to the door. It moved; it was unlocked. Alain was obviously feeling confident – perhaps too confident. Pulling the door shut, Paul carefully released his hold and moved silently back into the cover of the weeds.
“It’s not locked,” he said quietly to Didier.
“Better than we hoped,” Didier replied. “Are you ready, then?”
Paul nodded.
“Knock as loudly as you can; shout as well.”
“Oh, he’ll hear me, don’t worry.”
They had decided on another diversionary tactic. The hope was that with Paul hammering at the front door, Alain would go to investigate, giving Didier the chance to burst in through the back door in a surprise attack.
If Alain was unarmed or threw down his gun and surrendered, all well and good, but if he even raised the pistol, Didier would let him have it with both barrels.
“Good luck,” Paul whispered as he hurried away.
It was nearly dark. They had known for certain that Alain and his prisoners were in the house as soon as they arrived and spotted the open-backed blue van at the rear of the building. But they chose to wait for the shadows of evening to aid their attack, hoping, too, that the passing hours would increase Alain’s confidence and that as a result he might drop his guard.
It seemed, with the unlocked door, that perhaps he had.
Time was ticking and the countdown to Eagle had begun, but they knew they would get only one chance with their rescue bid. It seemed better to wait, to plan and prepare, rather than crash straight in as soon as they arrived.
But now they were on the move.
Readying himself to burst in through the back door, Didier edged slowly forward. Once the noise started, he would give it ten seconds – any longer could leave Paul, who was unarmed, in big trouble. He peered through the gap in the shutter and saw the candlelight seem to flicker momentarily as though someone had passed by, causing a draught.
Breathing in deeply, Didier took a couple more steps and then waited.
The noise began: a rapid pounding on the front door and Paul’s voice loud and clear in the still evening air.
“Come on, open up!” he bawled. “Open up, Alain, we know you’re in there; you can’t escape! Give up while you can! Come on, open up!”
Didier completed his countdown, and as the hammering and shouting continued he grabbed the door handle, pushed it down and burst inside.
He found himself in a small kitchen, where a steaming coffee pot perched on top of an ancient cooker.
It was dark, difficult to see. There was another closed door to the right; Didier realized it had to lead to the room where the candle flickered and where, hopefully, Alain and his prisoners were waiting.
There was no time to stop and consider; the shouts and knocking at the front door, muffled now, were continuing. Didier knew he had to keep moving forward. He kicked at the connecting door with the sole of his boot, sending it crashing back on the hinges and smashing into a stack of crockery. Plates and saucers shattered on impact as Didier moved into the adjoining room, shotgun raised.
He stopped.
It was a large room, gloomy, dark and dusty, furniture and clutter everywhere.
On the far side, Max and Julia Bernard sat facing him, side by side on two upright chairs. Their hands appeared to be tied behind their backs and their mouths were gagged. Alain stood immediately behind them, looking surprisingly unconcerned.
“We thought you’d never come in,” he said, smiling, “skulking around outside like that for so long. Well, don’t just stand there, Didier, come right in, and I’ll let your friend in, too. He’ll lose his voice if he carries on shouting like that.”
Didier didn’t move.
“Don’t worry, I’m not armed,” Alain said. He pointed to a nearby cupboard. “Look, my pistol’s on there. You’ve nothing to worry about, come on in.”
“Stand back, then,” Didier ordered, his eyes fixed on Alain’s as he took a step forward onto a faded red rug covering the floorboards. “And lift your hands up so I can see them.”
“All right,” Alain said raising his arms obligingly. “I don’t know why you’re so worried; I can’t hurt you from over here. And I really ought to let your friend in.”
Didier took another hesitant step forward and then one more, and as he glanced fleetingly at Max Bernard, he saw too late that Max was frantically shaking his head. The rug sank down and the floorboards gave way, and with a snapping and splintering of rotted wood, Didier plunged feet first into the cellar. He yelled once and then crashed heavily onto the hard mud floor.
Then there was silence: even the shouting and hammering at the front door stopped.
“Oh, dear,” Alain said brightly. “Didier seems to have fallen. I do hope he’s not hurt himself.”
FORTY-TWO
Paul heard Didier yell and then a deep rumble, like thunder, from inside the house, and as he looked to his right he spotted a cloud of dust billowing up from a tangle of weeds by the front wall.
He moved across, covering his face. He pushed away the weeds and saw a grille made up of thick iron bars set into the ground. It was obviously an access to a cellar and Paul realized that his friend must have somehow fallen into it.
As the dust cleared, he grabbed two of the bars and heaved. They didn’t budge; the grille was set in concrete.
“Didier!” Paul hissed, unable to see into the inky black hole. “Didier, can you hear me?”
There was no reply and no sound from the darkness, but as Paul stared he suddenly heard a key turn in the locked front door.
Paul leapt to his feet; he was a lightning fast runner. He had turned the corner of the house before the door opened and Alain Noury stepped out, pistol in hand.
“Paul,” he called warmly. “Paul, come and join us. We’re waiting for you. Didier’s waiting for you – I think he might have hurt himself. I need your help.”
Pressed against the side wall of the house, Paul made an instant decision. He ran to his left, quickly and silently.
Alain looked to his right and then to his left. He sighed. There was no sign of Paul.
&nbs
p; It was fortunate for Alain that his property stood on its own, a little away from the rest of the village and prying eyes. People were nosy and Alain liked his privacy.
He took a few steps from the house. On the far side of the narrow road running past the front of the house was a line of trees.
He’s probably hidden in there and is staring at me this very moment, Alain thought. He scanned the line of trees, looking for movement. “Paul?” he called again. “Paul, it’s no use hiding there, I can see you quite clearly.”
Raising the pistol in his right hand, he walked to the edge of the road. He stopped, eyes moving along the trees for a second time. He focused on one tree, took aim, and then suddenly swung around to face the house, eyes darting from one side to another.
“Thought you might try to creep up on me,” he breathed. “But maybe you’ve made a run for it.”
He lowered the pistol and walked slowly back to the house, staying alert, looking from one side to the other until he reached the door. He went inside, closed the door and relocked it.
Max and Julia were still in their chairs in the large sitting room, backs to the front window, their heads turned to one side to watch Alain as he came in.
“Can’t find him,” Alain said to them brightly. “Think he’s run for it. Deserting Didier: what sort of a friend is that? Not a very good one, in my opinion.”
And then Paul leapt at him.
Using all his weight and force, Paul smashed into his target just below the shoulder, and as they toppled over, the pistol in Alain’s right hand spun free, bounced once and disappeared into the hole in the floor.
Paul was staking everything on this shock attack. He’d hurtled round to the back door, rushed inside, given Max and Julia the signal not to give him away and then squeezed himself in at the side of a cupboard.
Being several years older than Paul and stronger too, Alain might have expected to win a fight between the two of them. He screamed in fury, desperately trying to free himself as they rolled across the floor, dangerously close to the broken floorboards and the gaping hole.
