‘Outside it – north-west, halfway to – oh, the Fresquet direction. A farmhouse I’ve used a good few times. I was running this end of an escape-line – au fond a BCRA operation, which is what I was, you see, technically still am.’
‘Voreux – forgive the interruption, but don’t give me your life story, and in return I’ll spare you mine. But – right out there… No, I’d sooner be in the town, I think. I have friends whom I’d like to see and who’d put me up, not a doubt of it. Put us up, if the others want. Basan anyway.’
‘My instructions are to take you there and run you in to the station in the morning. Staying there myself, of course. I’ve set it all up – with André and Candice Anslan, who’ll have a meal prepared and —’
‘Thank them for me, and leave it at that. From my friends’ house in Narbonne I can walk to the station in the morning. If the others are with me we don’t have to go on the same train even, we’re free elements, you might say…Yes, that’s it, what I will do. On your way through the town I’ll drop off, and if Basan – well, either or both, I suppose —’
Marc sighed. ‘If you insist. Some way to go yet, though. When we’re there – OK, if you still want to… Whatever you feel’s best for you, of course, but—’
‘You can take it as read, that’s what I’m going to do. Meanwhile, though, what’s the form if we’re stopped along the way here?’
‘Checkpoint, or—’
‘Whatever.’
‘Odds are we won’t be. I never have been, on this route. Although – see, with you here in front, as I was saying – every gendarme for miles around knows me, but a passenger—’
‘How about the Boches, they know you?’
He frowned, sighed, glancing at Gérone before answering. ‘As it happens, I haven’t seen a Boche patrol on any of these minor roads yet. All right, we’ve only had ’em with us – what, three weeks, I suppose they’ve barely got themselves organised yet. But what I’m saying – I did try to persuade you we’d be better off with the three of you inside.’
‘Curfew starts at eleven, right?’
‘Yes. So it’ll be in force before we’re in Narbonne. But you see, there are risks one has to take – otherwise – hell, one does have to move around—’
‘But not teach one’s grandfather to suck eggs, young man.’ A chuckle, and a pat on the shoulder. ‘It’s not behind the ears that I’m still wet, eh?’
‘I wasn’t meaning to—’
‘I’m sure you weren’t. How old are you, Voreux?’
‘Twenty-three next month.’
‘Saints alive. I’d guessed twenty-five, twenty-six. Twenty-two, for God’s sake. Anyway – pull off the road somewhere along here, and I’ll join them in there. Then in Narbonne – you’ll be taking the Capestang road out, will you?’
‘No. Back-streets, then a small country road, don’t offhand know if it has a number.’
‘So let me off in the back-streets somewhere.’
‘Sure that’s what you want?’
‘A man’s usually better off on his own two feet, Voreux. That’s always been my philosophy and experience.’
* * *
And he’d be wise to stick to it. Thinking this a few minutes later, getting the van off the verge, back into the roadway. Soggy wet verge and muddy, unkempt road, but rain still holding off. No traffic had passed while they’d been stopped. He’d let Gérone into the cargo-space, replaced the partition and left them to it – leaving the other two less comfortable than they had been, having to crowd up to make room for the new arrival with his long legs and snooty manner.
Sticking to that philosophy of his might well save his bacon. Contrary to one’s own interests, but – there you were. One wasn’t greatly taken with him, could understand Lallande’s dislike of him. That authoritative manner, air of superiority. Lallande almost for sure would not get off in Narbonne. Please God, wouldn’t – simple reason he’d be glad to see the back of Gérone. Was certainly no smoothie. Short-arsed, hard-faced, like oneself dragged up the hard way – that was the impression one had of him. And a comic vision of Gérone coming up out of the sea soaked to the waist, Lallande beside him more like to the armpits. And with that bouncy walk – ape-like… Marc smiling to himself – the wheel juddering in his palms on the road’s pot-holed surface, muddy water flying – thinking of Gérone’s assumption of some kind of social background while also mentioning that as a child he’d paddled in the étangs – even caught fish – or a fish – using a straw hat as a scoop – at a time when the local sewage systems – well, as he’d also mentioned, didn’t bear thinking about. And there was your answer, of course – poor kid, now self-made man. Lawyer maybe, having somehow got started as an office-boy. Something like that. Come to think of it, if that guess was a good one, coming from this district he might even have known – or known of – Charles- Henri Vérisoin.
On whom Gabi had evidently spilt the beans.
One had assumed she might have anyway. Knowing there wasn’t anything they might not have done to her. For that matter, have done – have been doing – to Denise.
In connection with whom – well, what actually mattered here was (a) that Gérone would not be trying all that hard to persuade the other two to join him, (b) that even if Basan chose to, fifty to one Lallande would not.
Lallande’s rotten luck. Shame. Would much rather have been putting Gérone in it.
* * *
Narbonne, at last. Between Bages and Les Hauts-de-Narbonne he’d thought there might be a tail on him – headlights that more or less stuck there, some vehicle keeping its distance – but he’d been wrong. There’d have been no reason for it anyway – unless either Hohler had decided not to trust him, or it wasn’t connected in any way with the rest of this business. In which case it could have turned out to be a bloody nuisance and hard to deal with. And how would anyone have been following…Well – the van being instantly identifiable, to those who knew it: and some officious gendarme… Curfew in force too by that time. He’d thought about diverting right around the periphery of the town – might have if he hadn’t made that arrangement with Gérone – and while considering this, the suspected tail had vanished.
On into town and over the canal, therefore, then bearing left. Asking himself yet another question now – why on earth he should oblige Gérone, why not keep going directly to the Anslans’ farm, deliver the full cargo?
Hard left again…
Truck – petrol-powered, no chimney – turning into the road a hundred metres ahead. He’d doused his lights, in the hope it might not have seen him. The van’s light-coloured paintwork wasn’t ideal for this: and that truck could have held gendarmerie.
If not, other curfew-breakers.
If he’d locked the van’s rear doors after putting Gérone in there – which he hadn’t done because if you were stopped, if you could wave a hand towards the load and tell them, ‘Fish for the first train to Toulouse – take a look if you want’ – well, they might glance inside, see the wall of boxes and a few loose ones on the floor – and catch the smell – whereas otherwise the check would most likely be more thorough. Anyway if he had locked the doors, maybe would have risked pushing on to the farm, but as it was Gérone could break out at any time he wanted and thought the van was moving slowly enough; by the time they were pulling into the farm most likely would have been ready to burst out, which could have complicated matters.
With luck, both Lallande and Basan might be staying with the van. Two out of three then. Could also describe Gérone well enough – beanpole, large grey head, one suitcase, sure to turn up for a Marseille train some time during the day.
Warehouse district, this. Concrete and deep shadows, high wire fences. Slowing, to reduce the gazo clatter. No glimmer of light anywhere, no movement, not even a stray cat.
So turn left here – and if all clear…
Cul-de-sac. But the hell with it – pull in and stop, then quick—
Gérone sure enough met him at the
van’s rear end. One door open, Gérone emerging bent double, Basan close behind him. Marc face to face then with Gérone, asking him, ‘All right?’
‘Best not prolong this stop. Lallande’s staying with you, by the way.’ In the roadway, peering round. ‘Where on earth—’
‘Back-streets as you wanted. Industrial quarter.’ Basan had passed a suitcase to Gérone and was pulling out his own, hadn’t uttered a single word. Gérone asking Marc, ‘Want to set up that partition thing?’
‘I don’t need help. Better get along, uh?’
‘Goodbye, then. Thanks for the ride.’
‘For nothing.’ A pause, then ‘Good luck.’ They’d started away. Gérone, leading, wouldn’t have heard that. Or for that matter know just how much luck he was going to need. Inside, working on the partition, Marc asked into the darkness, ‘All right, Lallande?’
‘Far as it goes, all right.’ A growl like a dog’s. ‘How much longer?’
‘Forty, forty-five minutes. When we get there, sit tight, keep quiet until I come and let you out. I’ll be checking around first.’
He’d got the wall up. Two of the boxes in the top layer could be pulled out so you could put your hand through and engage latches at each side. He called, ‘OK, were off.’ Out then – this time locking the rear door, eyes probing the wet dead-end, and in memory hearing Denise telling him more than a year ago when he’d been joining her on the escape-line, ‘There’s no limit to what you can get away with, Marc. Put your mind to it and keep your nerve, next thing you’re doing it.’
In which spirit one might say one was here now, doing this. Words he’d never forgotten, bless her, and which over the past year or so had more than once served to stiffen his resolve.
After Jean had told him on Thursday that three BCRA agents were to be landed on Sunday night and he was to take them to one of his safe-houses, after two sleepless nights and fretful days he’d got through to Hohler at the peculiar telephone number he’d given him, asked him whether the deal they’d discussed had yet been approved by his Abwehr chiefs in Paris. It hadn’t, Hohler had said, but he expected an answer at any time now. Marc had jumped in quickly then, guessing from the German’s tone that he was about to hang up on him, asked him whether it might help if he delivered three recently-arrived BCRA agents to them. To him. After giving it a moment’s thought, Hohler had said yes, it would – as a token of good faith, in no way altering the deal as they’d tentatively agreed it.
* * *
A T-junction, then sharp left. The next turn would be to the right, where he’d be joining a lane that paralleled a disused railway-line.
He’d settled on the Anslans’ place because of its being out on this side of Narbonne, nowhere near the sea or where one might stop if coming from any place along the coast. Not wanting to raise any thoughts of beach landings: just as he’d been inclined to avoid Boche interference on Canet-Plage this evening. Having known Jean would be there, for one thing, and for various reasons not keen to drop him in it at this stage.
Actually, just about anything could have happened. For one thing, they’d have had a fire-fight on their hands: might have lost it, or if they’d been there in sufficient strength might have snuffed out Hardball. Where’d Hohler’s deal have been then?
Next question – in effect on similar lines – what if the Abwehr said ‘no’ to letting him have Denise?
He thought they’d be stupid not to. What they wanted, they wanted quick, and he was their quickest route to it. Even if they had a high-level dispute with the Gestapo over it: which could be what had been holding things up. Right now as a guarantee of one’s own compliance they’d be getting Lallande – the ‘token’ – and of course they’d have him, Marc Voreux. In regard to whom – well, if La Geste had their way – their customary way of obtaining information from prisoners – all right, they’d tear one apart and eventually get Jean, Alain and Suzette, but by giving him Denise they’d get them a lot sooner. Point being that Hardball was now or at any rate very soon and they needed to move against it right away. It had been in the air for weeks, now. Virtually Hohler’s first question, arising apparently from some partly broken cypher passed through the American woman in Lyon. Hardball, Jake, and the replacement pianist had been the three specific interests he’d named, and that still applied except that one couldn’t go on hiding behind the Vérisoins, who effectively had been a blind, a conclusion Hohler himself had jumped to. Now, when/if the deal was agreed, one was going to have to come up with something solid – they wouldn’t just give him Denise, he was going to have to earn her.
Then move like greased lightning: facing the fact that having got what they were after they’d almost surely re-arrest her, and him as well. So given as much as a single day, even…
Face that, be ready for it, settle the mind to it. Settling meanwhile for Hohler’s suggestion of the two of you working for him. Too bad about the others. A matter of facing reality, was all. Suppose one made contact with Jean – customary exchange of telephone calls through cut-outs to arrange a rendezvous which on this occasion Abwehr or Gestapo would keep. Could be set up, for sure. But how long might it take them, once they’d got him?
Too long, he guessed. Same probably with Déclan. And in Déclan’s case although one could direct them to his house at Léguevin, odds were they’d only get his wretched wife, who wouldn’t be able to tell them anything no matter what they did to her – which wouldn’t stop them doing it.
Left only Suzette.
The hamlet with no name now: if it had one, he’d forgotten it. Only a few cottages, and no lights showing, nothing on the move except himself, this trundling van – and he was through it now, around a small lake then into a long curve of lane, a tunnel with trees’ branches meeting overhead. Stone wall now on the right: trees behind it and a faint lightening in the sky above them.
Entrance here now. Shifting up a gear before turning into the cobbled yard. The house was at the back of it, stone-built and two-storeyed – with a yellowish light glowing over the front door, to which three or four steps led up between iron hand-rails. He stopped a few metres from them.
The yard was empty. Hohler and company’s car or cars, van or whatever, would be round the side, he guessed, where the cobbles led around that end of the house to a stable-yard, cattle-pen and outbuildings. André Anslan was well-to-do, raised horses more or less as a hobby, and had allowed his house to be used as a planque only because he disliked Pétain and Vichy and of course detested the Boches.
Where might he and Candice be now?
Marc said, close to the van’s side, ‘Hold on now’, and walked towards the house. Feeling slightly ill. In his mind, a paraphrase of those words of Denise’s – Next thing you know, you’re killing people.
What else – have them kill her?
Up the steps quietly, reaching to the brass horse’s-head knocker. Finding it difficult actually to raise his hand to it – as if hand and wrist had become somehow weighted. But there was already movement…
‘Finally, Voreux.’ Hohler, in the abruptly-opened doorway: now stepping out. Behm emerging from behind – beside him – and a third one. Uniformed – boots, belts, insignia, swastikas etcetera, and Hohler the only one bare-headed. ‘Took you long enough, didn’t it?’
‘Well—’
‘That thing locked?’
‘Yes. Also there’s a partition, hooks at the top—’
‘Keys.’ Behm’s hand out, palm up. Marc put his van’s keys on the thick hand, swivelling aside as the sergeant pushed past him – followed by the other one, also a sergeant – Feldwebel, whatever – Walther pistol in his fist. Boots loud on the cobbles – Behm working at the nearside rear door, Hohler motioning to Marc to stand clear, racking a round into his own pistol. Marc began, ‘There’s only one—’
‘Huh?’
‘Lallande, unhook the partition!’
‘One?’
Sound like a scream of rage from Lallande. A fight in progress, van rocking on i
ts springs, a yell in German from one of them and the sound of a heavy blow. Lallande ejecting then, crashing off one of the doors, sprawling face-down on the cobbles, Behm calling to Hohler what might have been German for ‘Only one, not three!’ Lallande half up, on his knees and one arm, the other hanging loose at a peculiar angle, the third Boche taking a step towards him and swinging a boot savagely into his ribs. A shout from Hohler: ‘That’s enough, Derzinger!’ Adding, ‘For the moment.’ Turning on Marc then: ‘Where are the other two?’
‘You’ll get them all right, I—’
He’d checked. Eyes on Lallande, who was glaring at him. On his back – face contorted, eyes – astonished, blazing, murderous. Marc finding his voice again – or a version of it – telling Hohler quietly, his back to the man on the ground now, ‘Let them off in Narbonne – had to, or I’d have lost all three. You can pick them up at the station in the morning, I’ll give you descriptions. They’ll be taking a train or maybe trains to Marseille.’
‘Are you absolutely certain?’
Hohler’s eyes hard and bright on his. Marc hearing what sounded like Lallande being dragged away – drag of his heels on the cobbles, and a moan. Behm’s voice raised then, calling in German to the other one. He told Hohler, ‘Yes, quite certain. Important, is it?’
‘I told my people there’d be three agents and they’ll be wanting to hear about them. Wouldn’t be too good for you – even for me—’
‘You mean in terms of our deal?’
‘That’s agreed – she’ll be brought down to Castres tomorrow or the day after.’
‘The prison, you mean—’
‘Would you have expected the Grand Hotel?’
16
They’d made an early start from l’Hôtel du Tennis, and stopped at an impressively massive, empty, fort-like château on a wooded summit east or south-east of Quillan, to send a short message away to Baker Street. Jake had known about this château – she guessed he might have made use of it in company with Wiggy at some time; he’d given her the text of the message over breakfast in the hotel and they’d encyphered it an hour and a half later in the Buick, smoking Gitanes and looking down through pines and a lingering early mist into that fantastic gorge. It was a very steep approach-road and by the time they’d got up there she’d been scared the car might have been about to cough its lungs out.
Staying Alive Page 27
