Duchene held out his hands as his daughter started to stiffen. He lowered his hands. ‘Lucien’s dead.’
Stepping back from the table, she crossed her hands tight around her waist. Her pale face seemed to turn another shade lighter, and a tear formed on the edge of her eye. ‘How?’
Duchene remained still. Stahl had stopped smiling.
‘Marienne, I don’t want to frighten you, but we’re against the clock. We’ll mourn Lucien, I promise – I already am. But we need to know if there’s any reference to Christian Kloke in the book. It’s really urgent.’
‘Why, because the people of Paris are rising up? Because the Germans are about to be overthrown?’
‘Because an enemy who’s afraid is dangerous,’ he replied in French.
Stahl started to speak and Duchene raised his hand.
‘Please,’ he said in German.
Stahl nodded and Duchene continued in French. ‘The Germans have tanks and artillery. They have trained troops. Our people might have the numbers, but we hardly have any weapons. It’s not going to happen in an instant – it will take days if it happens at all. That’s easily enough time for the two of us to lose our lives. And Marienne, my love, I don’t want you to be killed. It would rend my heart.’
A tear rolled down her cheek, and she quickly wiped it away. She nodded and sniffed. Duchene offered her his handkerchief, and she used it to wipe her eyes, her nose. Then she returned to the book. ‘Christian Kloke?’
‘We need to know if there’s anyone listed close to him, maybe at the same address. Start from Friday the eleventh of August and track backwards.’
She thumbed to the relevant pages and started to flip through, her eyes scanning quickly down each page. ‘I’ve got him and another man listed together. Olivier Manaudou, who traded a box of cigarillos for two fillet steaks and half a bottle of merlot. And I have Christian on the page prior, from two days earlier – traded a silk dressing-gown for three litres of gasoline.’ She kept flicking through the pages. ‘They’re listed in here quite a lot – they seem to have been two of Lucien’s regulars.’
‘And in the back?’ asked Stahl. ‘Does it have his address?’
Marienne checked. ‘Yes, one address for both men. Fifty-four Rue du Château-des-Rentiers, 13th arrondissement.’
‘That’s back across the Seine,’ Duchene said.
‘Let’s hope he’s in,’ Stahl muttered.
Duchene held his hand out for the ledger, and Marienne passed it back to him. ‘Please stay safe,’ she said.
He gave her a hug and kissed her on the forehead. ‘And you too. Try to stay inside. I’ll call you soon.’
As he left, he cast one last glance at his daughter. She stood in her living room, the sun streaming in through the window, her wild hair lit like a halo.
TWENTY-TWO
Duchene had to rush down the stairs to keep up with Stahl. The lights weren’t working, but there was ample illumination coming through the large glass panels on the entrance doors that led out to the street.
Stahl paused in the lobby. ‘You’ve done well,’ he said, reaching out a hand.
Duchene refused it. ‘Is my life still under threat?’
‘Kloke is almost found,’ Stahl said with a frown. ‘It’s midday now, and it will take us fifteen minutes to reach our destination. You should be reasonably confident you’ll live.’
‘Well, let’s keep the handshake until then.’
Stahl nodded and pushed the door open.
With a loud crack, Stahl’s head erupted.
Duchene felt a warm spray across his face and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he looked to the ground.
Lucien was there spasming, trying to speak as blood gathered in his mouth. The spasming continued, and as though it were infectious Duchene started to do the same; within seconds, his whole body was trembling.
Finally, Lucien lay still, and Duchene could see it wasn’t Lucien at all. Stahl had been shot in the head.
An iron smell filled the air as blood coursed out of the wound. Duchene looked up, blinking through the blood that streamed from his face. He raised a hand to his forehead. Something sharp was lodged there. Pulling it free, he saw it was hair and bone.
Duchene dropped it on the steps as Armand rushed up at him from the edge of the door. The pistol in his hand still smelt of gunpowder, the muzzle hot as the maquisard pushed it hard against Duchene’s head. ‘Get inside,’ Armand hissed.
‘What have you done?’ Duchene could barely form the words.
‘Get the fuck up!’ Armand shouted as three men ran across the street and pulled open the entrance door that was caught on Duchene’s leg.
Duchene swayed as he stood, his legs giving way, and Armand pushed him back into the narrow foyer. He tripped and fell, sprawling across the floor. His chin hit the tiles, and blood flowed from his lip.
Turning around, he saw Casin and another man pulling Stahl’s body into the lobby while Philippe kept watch from the doorway. A few faces had appeared at windows and balconies on the street outside.
Philippe waved a red scarf back at them and shouted, ‘Vive la France!’
Duchene’s hands were spreading blood – his, Stahl’s – across the floor. ‘What have you done?’ he asked again.
‘We killed that SS dog,’ Armand shouted, ‘and we’ll do the same to you if you don’t shut up. Where is the girl?’
Philippe slid the bolts on the door shut before walking back into the darkness. Casin and the other man had the mop cupboard open and were shoving Stahl inside.
Armand pushed his pistol hard into Duchene’s cheek.
‘Stand up,’ Philippe said as he reached a hand down to Duchene, before saying to Armand, ‘He knows he’s been caught out. Let’s get him upstairs so we can find out what he knows.’
Armand took the gun from Duchene’s face.
‘Come,’ Philippe said to him, gripping his hand as he pulled him up. Blood was smeared on Philippe’s hand and jacket cuff. ‘You must have gotten a hell of a fright. We had to strike first.’
‘I was using him to find Kloke.’
‘Please, Auguste, you weren’t using him. He was using you. Come, let’s see if Marienne has something we can drink.’
It took only a moment for them to reach her door. Philippe tapped on it. ‘Mam’selle, I need you to open up.’
‘Don’t do it,’ Duchene called out, his voice sounding unfamiliar, and Armand slapped the back of his head.
‘You can let us in, or we can come in,’ Philippe said. ‘Only one of those options leaves you with a door that you can still lock.’
Silence.
‘Casin, Jean,’ Philippe said.
The two larger men stood alongside him while Armand pulled Duchene back. The three men at the door counted down and kicked in unison, their boots crashing onto the panel nearest the handle. The door buckled under the force, and a fissure opened in the pine along the edge of the handle, a pale contrast against the dark grey of the paint.
‘One, two …’ Three. They kicked again, splintering the wood and ramming the door open. The chain swung limply to one side, its mooring point buckled.
The men didn’t move – Philippe had raised his right hand to call them to a stop, while with his left he’d reached into the room.
Duchene tugged against Armand to see what was happening.
‘Mademoiselle, please, put down the gun,’ said Philippe.
‘Let my father go and leave.’ Her voice was strong. Unwavering. Something about her resoluteness scared Duchene.
‘That won’t be happening. You fire, Armand will shoot your father and then you. Some of us might die, you two definitely will. Is that something you want? We’re not here to fight you. We’re here to fight the Germans.’
‘Get him to put his gun away first.’
>
Philippe nodded. ‘Of course.’ He flapped his raised hand, and Armand slid the revolver into his belt.
Duchene glanced at it. It was still cocked.
Dangerous.
‘Now, then,’ said Philippe, ‘we were hoping you might invite us in for a drink. So we can all talk.’
He led the others in, his hands still raised, and skirted around the side of the room, keeping an armchair between him and Marienne.
Duchene felt a surge of fear when he saw her, now in a floral dress, holding a gun towards Philippe. She glanced at him briefly but kept tracking the weapon across all the men.
It was a Luger. German. An officer’s sidearm.
Armand pushed Duchene into the apartment.
‘I’m going to open your sideboard now,’ Philippe said as he bent down to its polished walnut doors. ‘I’m hoping I’ll find your liquor.’
‘Who are these people?’ Marienne said to Duchene in English.
‘You’re better off with German,’ Philippe replied in English.
‘They’re Resistance,’ Duchene said in French. ‘Philippe is their leader. They asked me to find some missing guns for the insurgency.’
‘An excellent summary,’ Philippe said as he stood up, holding a half-finished bottle of whisky. ‘Teacher’s,’ he said, examining its label. ‘This will help smooth out the edges. Mademoiselle, please, the moment has passed. You can lower the weapon. We should all have a talk.’
Marienne kept the gun pointed at them.
‘Please. There are only two outcomes – you do what we ask, or you die.’ He unscrewed the lid and started to pour out six measures into glasses on the top of the sideboard. ‘I’d rather talk to you than shoot you, but if you give me no choice, I will go ahead. We were all prepared to die when we decided to fight the occupation. Armand lost his family to the SS; they were killed in cold blood for capturing a Nazi officer. Casin saw his father taken off to a work camp last winter – he was sick with pneumonia. Jean lost two brothers, just the other day, shot in the Bois de Boulogne and finished off with grenades along with thirty-three other men. The Germans are indifferent and evil, but as you can see, we are ready. Can you say the same?’
Marienne lowered the gun.
‘Thank you. Perhaps you could place it on the table?’
She paused.
‘Armand?’ Philippe said.
Without hesitation, the maquisard drew his revolver and fired.
The blast was right next to Duchene’s head; his ears screamed, and he clapped his hands to them.
Marienne had dropped to the ground beside the table.
Duchene couldn’t see her. He howled. His heart was hitting his chest, his head dizzy, tears welling in his eyes.
Look. Think.
The wall behind her – clean. Not a drop of blood. But there was a dark circle, a bullet hole, with the plaster cracking around it.
A warning shot.
‘Not pleasant, to be shot at.’ Philippe said as he passed a glass to Casin, whose eyes were wide, his hands trembling. ‘Please put the gun on the table and slide it towards us.’ Philippe handed a glass to Jean. ‘For you.’
Duchene realised he was crouching. The ringing in his ears remained, but he got to his feet all the same, hoping to glimpse his daughter.
She pushed the Luger onto the table and slowly stood.
Philippe plucked it up as he handed her a whisky. ‘Very good.’ He circled the table and pressed a drink into Armand’s spare hand. ‘Let’s put the gun away. Shall we sit, everyone? I really feel like I need to sit down after all that excitement.’
Duchene slumped against the table. Armand sat between him and Marienne.
‘Are you all right?’ Duchene asked her, and she nodded. ‘I’m sorry about this. All of it.’
‘Shall we drink?’ asked Philippe. ‘Vive la France.’
The partisans drank their whisky in one hit. Marienne left hers untouched. Duchene sipped from his, the alcohol stinging his split lip.
‘Jean,’ said Philippe, ‘can you get something to clean up Monsieur Duchene’s face? All that Boche blood is distracting.’
Jean returned from the bathroom with a damp handtowel, and Philippe used it to wipe his hands clean before tossing it to Duchene. It was warm and eased some of the pain as he placed it across his face. It took off most of the blood but broke open the laceration on his forehead. Philippe threw over a handkerchief from his pocket, and Duchene held it against his head to staunch the flow. It failed.
‘Ridiculous,’ Marienne said and stood up. Armand followed her as she entered the bathroom and came back holding a first-aid basket. She wiped the wound with Dakin’s solution and wrapped it in a dressing.
‘I need to be clear about something,’ Philippe said to Duchene. ‘You are aware that the uprising has started? Today is the day we start to fight back against the Germans.’
‘I’d noticed.’
‘But what we don’t have are the right weapons for the job. You so artfully summarised why we’re here in your daughter’s apartment, but have not updated us on your search.’
‘Lucien stole your guns, in partnership with a German soldier called Christian Kloke.’
‘Bullshit,’ said Armand.
Duchene reached into his pocket and tossed half of the wax mould onto the table. It had broken in two, probably when he fell. ‘This is the cast they made from the crypt key. I found it in Lucien’s apartment. Think about it – the thief had to be someone who knew about the weapons. No one would randomly walk into the crypt of Saint-Lambert and walk off with six crates of weapons.’
‘So the priest didn’t move them?’
‘No. He’s probably dead.’
‘So why would Lucien take our weapons?’
‘To do what he did best – sell them on the black market.’
‘To whom?’
‘Back to the Resistance.’
‘Bullshit,’ Armand barked again.
‘Who else would buy them? Civilians don’t want to get deported or shot for having weapons. Only the Resistance would take that risk. But don’t believe me – talk to Colonel Rol.’
‘I have,’ said Philippe, ‘and he doesn’t have anything from our cache. His first priority is securing proper weapons. That Vichy traitor Pétain was right about one thing – “firepower kills”. We’d be taking more profound action if we had rifles and machine guns. We need to talk to Lucien.’
‘He’s dead. He was shot by the Gestapo.’
Marienne looked at Duchene, her eyes focused on his face, as though trying to read him, trying to make sense of this news.
Philippe shook his head, a bemused smile spreading across his face. ‘The Gestapo? The same Gestapo officer we just shot in the foyer? The same one you arrived with half an hour ago?’
The realisation hit. ‘You’ve been watching Marienne’s apartment.’
‘Of course,’ said Philippe. ‘We needed to make sure she didn’t run off with her Luftwaffe lover. Makes it hard to motivate a man when we have nothing to motivate him with. Where is the lieutenant, by the way?’
‘Gone,’ Duchene said.
‘A lot of people are gone, missing or dead,’ said Armand. ‘Where is the cache?’
‘I was leaving to get it when you arrived,’ said Duchene. It might be true – and without that possibility, he had nothing to bargain with.
‘With the Gestapo?’
‘They wanted to arrest Kloke.’
Armand sneered. ‘And leave you with the guns?’
‘Why would I lie?’
‘Why wouldn’t you? Your daughter is about to lose her life. You too. I think a man in your situation would do anything.’
Marienne’s eyes narrowed. ‘Fuck you.’
‘But,’ Philippe held up his hand, ‘if the Gestapo believed you,
that would suggest there’s some truth to it. Murderous scum they may be, but fools they are not.’
‘So what do we do now?’ Armand asked.
Philippe sank back into his chair and stared hard at the surface of the table. ‘With Lucien dead –’
‘If Lucien’s dead,’ said Armand.
‘Is. Isn’t. Duchene here says he knows where the guns are.’
‘With Kloke’s lover,’ said Duchene.
‘We go there. If we can’t find the weapons … well, that will be the end of it. We won’t waste any more time looking for them, and we’ll need to move to alternate plans.’
‘I can take you to them,’ Duchene said, trying not to leap too quickly at the suggestion.
‘In the meantime,’ Philippe said, ‘we’ll take the girl somewhere else. We can’t stay here with a dead Gestapo officer in the closet downstairs.’
‘Take the girl somewhere?’ asked Armand. ‘We should all go to the cache.’
‘It’s too dangerous for a large group to cross the city,’ said Philippe. ‘Especially if we end up returning with weapons. We lost too many patriots at Bois de Boulogne. We can’t afford to repeat that mistake. The Germans are yet to make their move; they might come out in force, and we don’t want to be caught in the open.’
Armand nodded. ‘So how do you want to do this?’
‘Armand,’ said Philippe, standing up, ‘you and Casin will go with Duchene to the weapons. Find them and call in. Jean and I will take the girl to a more secure location and wait for your call.’
‘Where will you take me?’ Marienne asked.
Philippe thought for a moment. ‘Give me the keys to your apartment,’ he ordered Duchene, who placed them into his open hand. ‘This Kloke is a soldier. He’ll be armed.’ Philippe took the Luger from the table and passed it to Casin, who tucked it into the back of his trousers.
‘What about you?’ Armand asked.
‘I’ve got Jean, and Jean’s good with a knife.’
Jean pulled back his coat to reveal a sheath in his belt.
‘Take the truck,’ Philippe said to Armand, handing him a set of keys. ‘I’ll take the Citroën.’
The Paris Collaborator Page 18
