by John Creasey
11
Touch and Go
Only a small out-house saved them from discovery as the shaded headlamps swivelled round, lighting up the grey stone walls of the old farmhouse.
Even then, it seemed that Pierre Blum was just that little bit too far ahead of the rest for safety. For a moment, he hesitated, as the long shadows of men in steel helmets with rifles jutting over their shoulders were thrown against the wall. Then as the engines were cut off, a harsh German voice roared:
‘Someone moved! Stop there!’
The refugee drew a sharp, terrified breath, and as Mike clapped a hand over his mouth, the old farmer stepped forward into the light.
In a surly voice, he growled: ‘It is my farm, m’sieu! I walk about it as I like.’
‘At such an hour?’ the harsh voice snapped, in passable French. ‘Explain yourself!’
‘All this bombing and shooting!’ the old man grumbled, and his resentful belligerence had a realistic ring. ‘How should it be otherwise? My beasts are nervous, and making much noise—it is necessary that I calm them.’
The Errols waited, breathless. It was a good excuse; as plausible as any they could have thought of—but it might not work.
It did.
‘Just remember, it is dangerous to wander about at night. Even for Frenchmen.’ The sneer was implicit. ‘And now, you will prepare two large rooms at once, for wounded men.’
‘But——’
‘Do as I say!’ roared the officer, and the old farmer shrugged expressively and made his way across the yard with a slow deliberation which must have enraged the German. As he pushed open the door of the farmhouse, men began lifting the first of the wounded from the trucks and ambulance.
There was no time to waste. Mike gripped the refugee’s shoulder to urge him forward, and the three of them crept stealthily towards the edge of the yard. The reflected light from the headlamps helped them see, yet brought its own obvious dangers. The chief hope was that the soldiers would be too busy with the wounded to glance in their direction.
They had to get past the farmyard, to reach the creek. Mark led the way, with Mike bringing up the rear and the refugee crouching between them. The dim light stretched no more than twenty yards, but every step of it seemed twice that far. All too close, they could hear the tread of heavy footsteps, the rattle of loosened equipment and the murmur of guttural voices, as the armed escort relaxed.
Four yards to go . . . Three . . . Two . . .
Mark reached the welcome darkness beyond the farmyard wall, and disappeared. As the refugee followed suit, Mike stepped swiftly after him—and trod on a loose stone. Momentarily off-balance, he staggered against the wall. He was only a split-second recovering, but the footsteps had stopped abruptly and his heart was palpitating as he reached cover.
In the sudden silence, the three of them crouched motionless behind the wall. There was a murmured exchange in German, then the sound of quiet footsteps, slowly approaching. As one man, Mike and Mark reached instinctively for their guns. They heard the faint rattle of metal as the men came nearer, and—tension making them hypersensitive to sound—they heard, too, the stifled breathing of the refugee as he fought for self-control. How long, Mike wondered grimly, could the poor devil keep his nerve?
The soldiers were no more than five yards away, now: he could actually see their helmets—three of them—silhouetted against the light. The footsteps stopped, and his fingers tightened about his gun. There was a pause, in which he hardly dared to breathe.
Then, into the silence—the striking of a match.
As the first man bent towards it, Mike saw his rifle—still slung at his back. There was a grunt of thanks; a red glow. A second. A third. And as the unappetising odour of ersatz tobacco wafted towards him, it was all Mike could do not to laugh aloud in sheer relief. But his heart was still pounding with the fear of discovery—and the danger was by no means past. Certainly they themselves could not move, while that trio remained only yards away—and fully armed.
They were conversing together, now, in whispers which Mike—the German expert of the cousins—could just about follow. And they were complaining. Of their Nazi Oberleutnant, for a start—presumably the one from whom they were now so carefully hiding. But also, which mattered more to Mike, of food, of conditions generally, of lack of sleep—and of the bombing.
‘By night, by day—always they come,’ grumbled one.
‘And every time, it gets worse,’ said another.
‘Ja, they are devils, these English!’
‘How many hurt, this time?’
‘The first two trucks: everyone. The third: seven. And you heard Hans was killed?’
‘Hans! Ach—first one, then another.’
From the direction of the trucks, there was still the sound of stretchers being moved, of muttered commands and the occasional groan of a wounded man. Cramped, not daring to move—hardly daring, indeed, to breathe—the three fugitives waited through minutes that dragged like hours. Discovery meant certain capture, and worse. And discovery was so terrifyingly possible.
Then came relief.
A cigarette went out, another was thrown to the ground and trodden on, and the three Germans moved off towards the farmhouse. Hardly able to believe their good luck, the Errols watched them go: and beside them, the refugee let out a long, trembling breath.
‘Thank God for that,’ said Mark. ‘We’ll move.’
‘I hope,’ Mike murmured, ‘he’s not going to give trouble.’
‘M’sieu, no, no—I assure you!’ They were startled both by the fact that he could speak English, and also the vehemence of his protest. Mike grinned in the darkness.
‘Apologies, my friend. Just follow us.’
‘I will, m’sieu—as the shadow!’
The reflected light from the trucks and ambulance showed the path to the creek quite clearly, and soon they reached the dinghy which they had moored less than two hours before.
This time Mike took the oars. He rowed for some minutes in silence, thankful that the stream moved swiftly towards the sea. For some time the only sound was of the oars dipping into the water, for here they were sheltered almost completely from the wind.
As they neared the coast, they began to feel it again.
They could hear it whining—and could hear, also that the crash of waves along the shore was louder than before. That did not augur well for Bennie and the men in the motor-boat, but neither of the Errols let themselves dwell on the thought.
By the luminous dial of Mike’s watch, it was three-fifteen when they reached the sand-dunes again.
The wind was more noise than anything else, although the sea was choppy and in the rubber dinghy it was going to be no picnic getting out to the motor-boat. They found the broken boat upturned on the sand without difficulty. Until now, they had been safe from the beam of the searchlight which swept the sea spasmodically, for the sides of the creek and then the dunes had shielded them. But they had a stretch of a hundred yards or more to cover, and they could not move while the searchlight was operating.
For whatever reason, it remained switched on this time much longer than it had done earlier, and they could only crouch there among the dunes as the long beam swept to and fro across the heaving sea.
The white-crowned waves served one good purpose, as Mark quietly pointed out: they hid the little motor-boat, which must otherwise have been picked out with ease in that prolonged sweep. Mike murmured agreement, but in fact was feeling far from sanguine. The choppy sea would also make it far more difficult for Bennie to see their own light signal.
Then abruptly, the searchlight went out.
They were off in a moment, making a bee-line from the upturned boat straight to the submerged rubber dinghy. Swiftly and silently, they refloated it and clambered in, the refugee crouching at the cousins’ feet as they took an oar apiece.
The expedition’s planners had judged the tide to a nicety. Earlier, they had come in with it: now, it carried th
em away from the shore. This made for easier rowing, but the swell was very noticeable now and Mark was soon retching miserably. Mike reached to take his oar as well—but the refugee was before him, and Mark gratefully slipped down to take his place. But he had the torch out and ready, before they were a quarter-mile off-shore.
Gritting his teeth, he knelt upright and began to signal. He had to repeat the double flashes several times before a brief, answering gleam came from the motor-boat.
‘We’re through!’ Mike said, his heart leaping.
‘Don’t talk too soon,’ muttered Mark, and Mike snorted his exasperation.
‘That’s right! Cheer us all——’
But in that moment, the beam of the shore searchlight shot out.
It was pitched alarmingly close to the motor-boat, which had been some eighty yards away when they saw its signal but was now no more than ten. If the light swung their way, they would be seen: that was certain. It was almost as certain that the motor-boat could not avoid discovery, as it chugged on steadily towards them. And as they waited, tense and anxious, they heard the roar of an approaching aeroplane.
It came lower, drowning all sound of the other engine. Then suddenly, its own searchlight shot out to join the first—and the beams converged on the little motor-boat. A split-second later, the dinghy itself was caught in the relentless glare.
The shooting started.
It came from the ’plane—tracer-bullets striking the water between the dinghy and the boat. And it came from the shore, as a small battery opened up with a roar. Its first salvo was well short of the mark: accurate aim would be difficult from the land, Mark thought thankfully, because of the heavy seas. Automatically, he unzipped the survival-kit pocket and thrust life-jackets at Mike and the refugee, then swiftly donned his own.
‘Going to swim for it, then?’ Mike said wryly.
As Mark nodded, deftly knotting the life-jacket tapes for their shivering companion, the man said: ‘Please, yes—here, we are sitting birds!’
The motor-boat was now caught hopelessly in the beam of the shore searchlight, and although the ’plane had overshot them, it was already swinging round. As one after another they plunged into the sea, Mike saw the veteran Bennie standing upright in the bows, and could only pray that the coastal gunfire remained inaccurate.
Then the ’plane returned and bullets spattered the waves just ahead of them.
‘Each man—for—himself, m’sieu!’ protested the refugee, as Mike reached his side. And although Mike grunted agreement, he stayed beside him, using his own bulk as far as possible to shield the other from the gunfire.
The ’plane passed again. But now the shore battery had corrected its range and the shells were not falling far short. It seemed impossible that the boat would not be hit. Not knowing whether to be glad or sorry, Mike saw Mark reach it, to be hauled aboard with maximum efficiency. In the searchlight’s glare, he could clearly see Bennie’s leathery face set grimly as he crouched again to haul the refugee inboard. Then as Mike himself was dragged over the side by the two crewmen, Bennie ran to the tiller and swung the boat round hard. And as it plunged away—for the first time in minutes, out of that dazzling glare—a volley of shells dropped plumb on the spot where it had been.
The aircraft was already zooming down on them again, but they were in darkness, now—with Bennie making a dead course for the English coast. And as the ’plane overshot them they heard the heartening drone of other engines, very high. Slumped exhausted in the bottom of the boat, Mike took enough heart from the sound to struggle up—in time to see the flashes from the guns and hear the roar as the shore-battery opened up again. Then another, bigger flash, different from the shell-fire—and caught in its glare for a moment, a ’plane over the battery. And then the reverberating explosion.
Mark, sea-sickness for once completely forgotten, was kneeling up beside him, now.
‘Well, that’s—’ he gasped, ‘—put paid—to that!’
Which it clearly had, for the shore battery did not open fire again—and the attacking ’plane had zoomed away, with the British machines hard after it. Now there was darkness, and near-silence, as they headed confidently for home.
Towards the end of the run, Mike said quietly:
‘Good work, Bennie. We had the luck.’
‘Ay,’ said Bennie. He was suddenly visible in the light from an inquisitive patrol-boat, and Mike saw that he was smiling. ‘Luck, sir—and guts. It takes both. Any rate—glad to have been of service, sir.’
And that, thought Mike and Mark Errol, was tribute indeed from that taciturn gentleman.
————
This time, apparently, they were not followed to England. Nor along the English roads.
They had an escort, just in case, and they reached London soon after dawn. On the way, the refugee slept, and in the morning light, Mike and Mark could examine him at leisure. He was a middle-aged man, with a high forehead, sparse, greying hair, a hooked nose with a strongly-marked bridge and brown, almost doe-like eyes.
A clever, queer-looking bird, thought Mike, who was wide awake when they reached the Brook Street flat. The refugee, they had been instructed, was not to go to Craigie’s office, but was to be interrogated at the Errols’ place.
Two of the Department men were on guard outside.
Craigie had not yet arrived, and the refugee took a bath—and seemed more grateful for that than for the food and coffee offered him immediately afterwards. After the crude and desperately meagre fare of a concentration camp, thought Mike, he must be amazed at white bread and bacon and eggs. He ate fastidiously, however, saying very little, but from time to time smiling at Mike and Mark, as if in apology.
At half-past eight, Craigie arrived.
He was on foot, with a man in front of him and another behind, watching and making sure that no attack on him succeeded. He seemed fresh and alert as he entered the flat and smiled at the Errols in his dour fashion.
‘Good work,’ he said briefly, saying it all, in two words.
‘He’s a queer customer,’ Mike said, ‘but he seems fit enough. I’d say he was suffering from shell-shock—that first guess of mine wasn’t far out. He’s sensible enough, yet somehow he just doesn’t seem to be all there.’
The subject of that comment was now in the spare bedroom, and out of earshot. Craigie shrugged.
‘I’ll see him in a minute. De Boncour’s coming, and he’ll be able to interrogate him better than I could. How did you get on?’
They told him, and they had just finished one of their peculiar turn-by-turn narrations when the front door-bell rang and de Boncour entered, grave-faced.
‘Ah, Craigie!’ You wanted me?’
‘Yes,’ said Craigie, and turned as Mark Errol came from the spare bedroom, with the refugee behind him. ‘We’re hoping that—
Craigie broke off and the Errols looked their amazement, as the refugee and de Boncour stared at each other: de Boncour with amazement on his face, the refugee with an expression of puzzled uncertainty and vague recognition.
‘Labiche!’ cried de Boncour. ‘C’est impossible, c’est Labiche! The man who writes to me of the island and of sleep, Craigie—it is a miracle! Labiche!’
But the refugee continued to stand and stare, a faint smile on his lips, puzzlement in his eyes. It was clear that he did not recognise his Chief.
12
Amnesia
The tension in the room held the Errols spellbound, while Craigie stared in dismay at the two Frenchmen. He was more acutely aware of the drama being played; of the tragedy which was hovering about them. Here was a man who could tell them more of the island of sleep than any who might wish to help them. That was certain. Here was the man who had already contrived to get word to de Boncour—the first hint of the barbarous menace that had reached the Allied authorities.
But Labiche did not recognise the other!
De Boncour realised it after a moment, and said more gently:
‘Ah, mon a
mi, you are tired, yes? Labiche, it is good to see you again. I am glad that the great effort was made to find you. You feel better, eh?’
Labiche said slowly, in English:
‘I feel better, m’sieu, thank you. But I do not recollect you. And yet—’ he drew a hand across his high forehead, and his brown eyes looked suddenly frightened; even haunted. ‘And yet,’ he faltered, ‘I recall that we have met. M’sieu—’ he stepped forward with sudden eagerness. ‘You will help me, m’sieu? We are in England, where it is safe! There is no fear——’
‘There is no fear,’ agreed de Boncour softly. He glanced at Craigie, who nodded. ‘You will be well-cared for. Labiche—your name, you remember it?’
‘M’sieu?’
‘And you will have sleep and good food,’ continued Boncour, as if he had not asked about the name. ‘You will have all that you need, Labiche. This is not the time for asking you to remember.’
Labiche shuddered, suddenly and uncontrollably.
‘I must forget, m’sieu—I must!’ He stared at de Boncour for a moment, then suddenly stripped off the coat Mike had found for him, and then the shirt. All four men stared as he swung round, showing them his back. They saw the deep weals which had scarcely healed. Across his shoulder-blades, he had been thrashed so mercilessly that the flesh was cut about like a fine wire-mesh. He stood like that for a moment, while the others stared, lost for words; then swinging round, he raised his arms. In the armpits and beneath the biceps they saw the marks of burns, deep scores which had lately healed; and others, more recently, which had not.
Labiche said softly:
‘They did that, messieurs. They gave me no food, no drink. They shut me in a space so small I could not do more than stand upright. They would have killed me, but—I got away, I came away, to revenge myself on them. I will, I will, I will!’
The last word was a scream, but before any of the others even attempted to soothe him, he quietened and looked at de Boncour apologetically.
‘I deplore, m’sieu, that my feelings overcome me—it will not happen again. But—I wish to work against them, m’sieu. Against Hitler, and all that he means. I have seen others treated as badly—worse!’ He had control of himself, now, and his voice was low-pitched and savage. ‘I have seen women maltreated, worse, far worse than myself, messieurs. I have seen men castrated, have seen them——’ He stopped, and his stomach heaved. ‘But it is past—and I am in England. I shall fight, now.’
