The '44 Vintage dda-8

by Anthony Price

  "Right, sir," said Butler.

  They hit their second Chandos Force soldier at the edge of the wood, with the chateau plain to see.

  And hit was again the operative word.

  "Wot the 'ell's this, then?"

  Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

  Butler swung his back to the man instantly, thanking God for the rival attraction of Hauptmann Grafenberg, who had the stupid bugger staring pop-eyed: it was the bandit with the Uncle Joe Stalin moustache who had stood right next to him in the barn.

  "Where's t' major?" The best chance of safety lay in the Lancashire accent he had been trying to lose for two years and more. "Happen we've got summut for 'im, eh?"

  "Back at the gate, sorting out the frogs—" The bandit cut off the automatic answer. "But 'oo the 'ell—

  ooof!"

  The question was cut off abruptly and finally by the barrel of Sergeant Winston's machine pistol swung viciously on the back of the man's neck.

  There was a garden—or it had once been a garden, but now the trim little hedges and the espalier fruit trees had run riot, and the flower beds were choked with weeds.

  "Frogs at the gate," said Audley. "Could be that the major's having trouble with your friends, Doctor—

  could it?"

  "Not my friends, David," said De Courcy.

  Overgrown garden giving place to gravel square at the side of the chateau—

  Broken boxes and the remains of a giant bonfire, the fitful wind stirring thousands of charred fragments of paper, black against the pale brown of the gravel.

  They have been burning their files—

  More debris: all the wreck of a hurriedly abandoned military outpost and the litter of defeat—

  And just ahead a broader stretch of gravel, with the welcoming parapet of the bridge to the left—

  "Smartly now," snapped Audley. "March as though you own the place."

  ”What the devil!"

  Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

  An officer's voice. Butler tried desperately to catch Audley's eye, but the subaltern was out of view behind his left shoulder, leaving him closest to the voice.

  He turned towards the chateau.

  It was one of the officers who had joined them in the barn—or it must be, though again he couldn't recognise the blackened face.

  "Prisoner, sir. Caught 'im by t' gate in t'wood back there," Butler jerked his head in the direction from which they'd come.

  "A prisoner?" The officer took three more steps toward Butler, frowning at him. "What d'you mean?

  And who the devil—"

  "Herr Oberleutnant!" Hauptmann Grafenberg interrupted him sharply. "I must protest in the strongest possible terms at my treatment! My rights under the Geneva Convention have been flagrantly violated

  —"

  "What—?" The officer swung towards him.

  It was then that Butler understood, in the last hundredth of a second before he hit the officer, exactly why Second Lieutenant Audley had put so much force into that punch of his.

  Striking a private soldier in the British Army—and striking him unawares too—must have been on about the same level of impossibility for Second Lieutenant Audley as what he was about to do was for him.

  And that added the force of absolute desperation to the action: when a corporal hit a captain there was no possible room for half-measure.

  And he knew also why Audley had said Here, you too—

  "Sir—" he said sharply.

  The officer turned to receive his fist.

  As they marched onto the bridge he was most strangely aware of the different pieces of him that objected to what was happening to them. He could feel his toes itch— His ear ached with a dull pulse of pain— And now his skinned knuckles burned.

  Everything was unnaturally sharp and clear in the sunlight: the weathered parapet of the bridge, the gravel under his feet, the great windowless tower rising up into the blue sky.

  Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

  And now there was a gap between the end of the parapet and the curve of the tower—a gap in which he could see the beginning of a stone stair spreading to the left and right beneath them. And away beyond it the river rippling and flashing, olive-green and silver.

  Audley went through the gap without missing a step.

  Journey's end, thought Butler stupidly.

  But not in lovers meeting.

  "That'll do very nicely, Sergeant Purvis," said Audley, holding out his revolver stiffly, two-handed.

  "You can put it down now—just let it go—and back up, both of you."

  "Or don't let it go—I'd like that," supplemented Sergeant Winston. "Then I can shoot you with a clear conscience, you sonofabitch."

  Purvis looked at them for a second without recognition. As he had turned towards them, before Audley had spoken, Butler had caught the ghost of that familiar smile which he'd last seen at the road junction to Sermigny. But now the ghost was gone, and almost as quickly the uncomprehending look became one of frozen surprise at being faced by other ghosts: the dead of Sermigny risen from their graves.

  The sledge hammer dropped with a clatter among the jumble of stones and the scatter of mortar fragments which lay on the pavement around the sergeant's feet. In the few minutes since they'd last glimpsed him he had completed his job: clear from waist height to the curve of the original arch there was a gaping hole in the stonework, and Butler realised that he hadn't heard that regular bang-tap on the hammer striking solid masonry since they had met up with the guard on the edge of the wood.

  "And who might you be, then?" inquired Audley of the soldier beside Sergeant Purvis.

  "Me?" The soldier looked around desperately.

  "Me—sir," snapped Audley.

  "Sir?" The little man did a double take on Audley, saw no badges of rank, but surrendered to the voice of authority. "Yes, sir—Driver Hewett, sir ... Colonel Clinton's driver that was, sir—I mean, Colonel Clinton that was, sir."

  "Ah yes—the walking map!" Audley relaxed slightly. "And what happened to the colonel, then—he walked off the map, did he?"

  Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

  "The map, sir?" Driver Hewett's face screwed up in misery. "I dunno about that, sir. But a sniper got the colonel last evening, that's what. Walking with the major, 'e was"—he looked nervously at Sergeant Purvis—"so they say, that is—sir."

  "I'll bet," murmured Winston. "So you just showed the major where you'd stashed the loot, huh?"

  The American accent threw Driver Hewett momentarily. "Yes, sir. Those were my orders—from the colonel himself. 'If anything happens to me, 'e says . . .'" he licked his lips. "But I didn't. . . stash the loot, like you say, sir—" his eyes widened suddenly as he caught sight of Hauptmann Grafenberg and Dr. de Courcy. "Christ!"

  "What the hell did you do, then?" The American lifted the machine pistol threateningly. "You led that bastard here, for a start, huh?"

  Years of gangster films had clearly left their mark on Driver Hewett. He pointed to the hole. "I—I only finished the wall, sir. The officers unloaded the ambulance all by themselves. Wouldn't let me touch a thing—not even watch them at it, they wouldn't—same as when they'd loaded it. The brigadier in 'is red tabs, an' all."

  "What brigadier? What officers?" Audley stared at the hole.

  "Dunno their names, sir—except Captain Spicer wot brought me up from the 'ospital to the place in Paris. Just officers—except they weren't real officers, of course—" Hewett gave Audley a meaningful look, half confiding and half doubting that Audley himself qualified for the courtesy.

  "What d'you mean—not real officers?"

  "Well. . . doctors, of course—like Captain Spicer. I mean, 'e was an officer, but 'e didn't know one end of a gun from the other. 'E was a doctor—RAMC—'Rob All My Comrades.' Not real officers."

  "Oh my God!" whispered Audley.

  "Doctors?" said Sergeant
Winston. " Doctors?"

  Audley looked at him. "It was an ambulance, Sergeant. That's what doctors use—ambulances. Give me your cigarette lighter—and keep an eye on that man." He pointed at Sergeant Purvis.

  Butler watched him climb into the hole, to drop with a crunch into the darkness. The lighter flared, went out, then flared again.

  Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

  "I only built the wall, sir," said Driver Hewett plaintively. "It was half built when we got here—the builders had all scarpered. 'Fact, everyone had scarpered—cleared orf. It was a wonder we got away, come to that . . . after the bleeding ambulance packed up. Got out of Bordeaux we did, the last boat.

  Took us ten days to get there . . . But I only built the wall, that's all I did."

  "And a very good wall too," Dr. de Courcy spoke soothingly from just beside Butler. "A most professional wall."

  "Well, it ought to be," said Hewett, becoming talkative with fright "Bricklayer I was, before I joined up in '38. An' it was all 'ere ready— the sand and the cement, and the stone too, ready dressed. T'other wall was up and they'd part done this 'un—up beyond drainage channels." He pointed to the small gratings at the foot of the wall. "It weren't but a two or three hour job, really."

  "But still a good wall," said De Courcy encouragingly. "And the . . . the place in Paris—where was that?"

  "Bloody 'ell, I dunno, mister. Captain Spicer, 'e knew where to go . . . turn left, turn right—an' when we get there, 'Stay in the cab, Hewett, ready to drive off quick' 'e says. Which wasn't surprising seeing as

  'ow the jerries were already in Paris when we drove out—I know that for a fact, because the brigadier said so to Captain Spicer, an' everyone else 'ad already scarpered except 'im and me—we'd been ordered to stay be'ind. An' I didn't reckon we'd 'ave got out neither, except the captain 'e knew Paris like the back of 'is 'and, 'aving studied there before the war an' spoke the lingo." He shook his head. "But where it was

  —there you've got me."

  "But you remembered what it was like," De Courcy persisted.

  Hewett shrugged. "Well ... it wasn't a hospital—leastways there weren't no patients I seen . . . though there was a young chap in a white coat went by. . . . But it was a big place, with a brass plate on the front, an' double doors. You drive through into a courtyard—I 'ad to back up against another pair of doors—that's when the captain tells me to stay in the cab an' mind my own business." He thought for a moment, his wrinkled monkey face screwed up with the effort. "I remember as we drove out there was this little bit of a park right opposite, with a green statue looking at you."

  "A green statue?"

  "Well, not green exactly—sort of greeny-blue, an' streaky like someone 'ad tipped a tin of paint over it.

  Yes—an' I remember thinking it looked funny too because 'e was holding 'is 'and up and reading from a book—the statue—but 'e wasn't a parson because 'e 'ad a French army hat on, like their officers wear, an'

  medals on 'is chest."

  De Courcy stiffened, and Butler heard him draw in his breath.

  " Zeller," whispered the Doctor.

  Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

  "Who, sir?" asked Butler.

  "Zeller," said the doctor aloud, staring right through Butler. "Henri Auguste Zeller. The Saviour of Hanoi."

  There was an expression on his face that suddenly frightened Butler. "A general, sir?"

  De Courcy focussed on him. "A general? Yes—a general." He glanced at Driver Hewett. "But not a real general."

  "Then what—" the words were dried up in Butler's mouth by the wild thoughts which were beginning to come together in his mind.

  De Courcy's eyes turned back to him. "It was the Zeller Institute, Corporal," he said. "That's where they went—L'Institut Zeller."

  There came a sharp, crunching sound from the hole in the wall. "That's right, sir," said Audley.

  "L'Institut Zeller, rue des Cannes—and let's get to hell out of here on the double!" He began to scramble out through the hole.

  De Courcy pushed past Butler and seized the subaltern's arm. "David—in God's name—what is in there?"

  Audley faced him. 'What do they do in the Institut Zeller, Doctor— you tell me!" He paused. "Medical research, eh?"

  De Courcy clenched his teeth. "It is one of the main centres in France for microparasitical studies, David

  —"

  "Micro—what the hell is that?" snapped Sergeant Winston.

  "Germs," said Audley shortly. "Germs, Sergeant."

  "Bacteriology and virology," said De Courcy. "Yellow fever and cholera—I know they were working on influenza vaccines and—and la poliomyelite. It was Zeller himself who pioneered the treatment of plague in Hanoi—he was a pupil of Pasteur—David, what is in there?"

  "Plague!" Audley's lip twisted. "Chandos Force, by God! Someone's got a very pretty sense of humour, I'll say that for them—let's get out of here, then. Come on!"

  Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

  Butler looked uncertainly from Audley to the American, who was still watching Sergeant Purvis like a hawk.

  "Tell the man, Lieutenant—and tell me too, for Christ's sake," growled Winston out of the corner of his mouth.

  "In there?" Audley pointed into the hole, his voice rising. "In there? You really want to know what's in there—you really want to know?" His voice cracked insanely.

  Butler heard the sound behind him a thousand years too late.

  "Right then—don't let me hear one of you breathe!"

  A thousand years too late. And if he lived another thousand years he would never forget that voice.

  Butler held his breath as Audley stared past him.

  "That's good. Now—put down your weapons slowly."

  The subaltern's chin lifted in that characteristically obstinate movement Butler knew so well. "Nobody moves," he said hoarsely. "Nobody moves."

  The Sten was sweaty in Butler's hands and his back crawled.

  There was a scrape of boots behind him.

  "Well, bless my soul!"

  The other voice—the voice which had frozen him once before, under the bank of that sandy island by the Loire.

  Kill him with the others!

  "Bless my soul!" repeated Major O'Conor. "Now ... let that be a lesson to you, Sergeant-major—"

  How could they have been so careless, thought Butler brokenly: to stand here gabbing as though they had all the time in the world, so wrapped up in the hole and its contents that they hadn't even bothered to set someone on watch—how could they have been so careless?

  "—Never underrate a friend when you ask him for a favour!"

  Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

  "Sir?" The same neutral sound he had first heard by the stream in the bocage of Normandy.

  Oh God, how could they have been so careless?

  Butler's finger tightened on the trigger.

  "Yes ... I asked Chris Sykes for a good man, and he gave me one, don't you see?" The major's tone was curiously sad. "And a German prisoner into the bargain too. You've done well, young Audley—I'll say that for you. And it took some doing, I shouldn't wonder, eh?"

  Butler stared at Audley's blackened face and felt the subaltern's will weaken.

  "Sir—" his own voice came from far away.

  "It's all right." Audley swallowed painfully. "We still outnumber you, sir," he addressed the major.

  "Tck! Tck! Don't be silly, boy." The major injected a world of regret into the words. "Your men are facing the wrong direction, and you've no idea how competent Sergeant-major Swayne is at close quarters—eh, Sergeant-major?"

  "Sir!" The sergeant-major agreed.

  "But you'll still lose, sir," said Audley.

  For a moment Major O'Conor didn't reply, and Butler had a vision of that dead eye staring fishlike at Audley beside him. Then the real world came into focus: the broad back of the American just ahead of h
im to his left, and beyond that Sergeant Purvis and Driver Hewett frozen like waxwork figures on the very edge of the pavement with the river behind them.

  Somewhere behind him and to the left were the Frenchman and the German, but they didn't come into it.

  Because before he could swing halfway through the full circle the sergeant-major would cut him down, and the American—aye, and probably Purvis and Hewett too, which was a fear already stamped on their faces. And if Second lieutenant Audley thought that would slow the sergeant-major down he was backing a bloody loser, he decided bitterly.

  "Because of your French friends beyond the gate, do you mean?" the major said. "You've never seen my lads in action, young man—they'll go through that rabble like a dose of salts, believe me. If you're relying on them then I'm afraid you're going to be awfully disappointed."

  Judging by the performance of the Communist partisans in the ambush it would be the major who was disappointed, thought Butler. But that would be too late for them. If they moved they were dead and if Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

  they surrendered they were dead, he had no doubt about that: the major had gone too far to leave any of them alive behind him. The only surprising thing was that they were still alive.

  Audley shook his head. "I don't mean that, sir"—he pointed to the hole in the wall—"I mean that," he said thickly.

  Again there was a slight pause.

  "The payroll, you mean?" There was something different in the major's voice: it was hard to interpret the nuances of meaning in a man's voice when one couldn't see his face.

  The payroll—?

  "The what?" Audley's mouth opened.

  "You haven't had time to look, then?" The major chuckled, and Butler knew what he had missed: the smile of triumph—the winner's smirk.

  "But then of course the late lamented Colonel Clinton was rather security-conscious, I must admit—