Beacon of Vengeance

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  “A problem?” The taller agent glanced briefly across the otherwise empty room. “What sort of problem?”

  Now the sweat on the young policeman’s brow beaded and ran. “I regret to say we’ve misplaced the prisoner.” His fingers trembled.

  “Misplaced?” The new arrivals exchanged an incredulous look. The gendarme sergeant hovered just out of sight at the end of the hall, watching, waiting for their explosive reaction. “You misplaced a prisoner—here at the gendarmerie?”

  “You see, he became ill, and we sent him to the hospital. And he disappeared along with one of our men.”

  The agents broke out in laughter, one doubling over, unable to contain himself. The other stifled his glee long enough to say: “My regrets for your loss, monsieur. We’ll be on our way now.” They turned to leave.

  “But, sir—” the young man called out after them, “what should I tell my sergeant?”

  “Tell him we came to have the man released. He’s not the one we’re after.” And the men were still laughing as the door closed behind them.

  The young policeman sat to quiet the shaking in his legs. He’d come close to landing on the floor.

  The semi-local for Nantes was awash in travelers. Luggage and rucksacks were piled across the aisles and stuffed into every available rack. Small children sat on laps, infants bawled, slept in mothers’ arms, or nursed at their breasts. Sometimes even strangers took pity on the long-suffering parents and offered to hold the little ones for a while. Anyone hoping to make it down the aisle stumbled over baggage or the feet of passengers making do with the scarcity of space, their backs against the carriage walls. The windows were all lowered as people sought fresher air, but soot and cinders coated every surface. The odor of unwashed bodies and smoke was all-pervasive. Those lucky enough to have picnic baskets guarded them carefully. They were known to disappear after a single moment of inattention, and occasionally fights broke out—verbal and physical—over what belonged to whom.

  Into this morass of long-suffering passengers came a gendarme, wading through the sea of humanity, checking papers as he moved toward the front of the train. Those not too exhausted by their journey might have noticed the man appeared under the weather, his skin pale while the sheen on his forehead rapidly gathered soot. A good-looking fellow in his blue uniform, were it not for that sickly pallor.

  Having just endured the nuisance of a train conductor checking tickets, the arrival of the policeman might otherwise have been just another bother for the travelers. But the citizens of the Occupied Zone had grown both weary and wary of anyone in uniform. Spot checks of papers were unavoidable. Suspicion was rampant, since many had lost their money or ration coupons to men posing as Gestapo or gendarmes, only to discover later that this was an increasingly common ruse of crooks and scoundrels. And of the real police. There really was no way to be certain—forged official badges and papers were easily available to those who knew where to look and had the funds to pay. Who would knowingly run the risk of arrest, detention or worse by questioning the “official’s” authority, just in case it proved valid? So as this pallid policeman moved along, they dutifully produced their papers for his review with the hope he’d be soon out of their hair.

  Little did they realize that this gendarme was equally anxious for the trip to end, hoping that none of his “police comrades” would board the train while he was underway to Nantes. Once he’d fought the crowd the length of the train, checking every identity along the way, Ryan camped in the crowded vestibule closest to the locomotive, standing next to a foul-smelling WC, overused to the point of collapse. With his gut still roiling, he would use the facility if he must, filth and clogged toilet be damned.

  As the train rattled over poorly-maintained rail beds in its approach to the Nantes station, Ryan spotted two policemen coming his way up the aisle, obviously in a hurry and looking directly toward the final vestibule of the car where he was hiding. The men moved as quickly as they were able given the jumble of seated passengers with legs extended across the narrow passage and surrounded by haphazardly-piled luggage. These cops clearly had no interest in checking anyone’s papers, except perhaps Ryan’s should they get their hands on him. Someone had become suspicious. The train was pulling in beneath the massive entry arch with its neo-classical columns when he swung open the door of the carriage and hit the platform running, all sensitivity in his feet ignored.

  Racing into the station, he turned a few heads of those shouldered aside, but most kept their eyes forward as they regained their balance. It was always best not to get involved in police business. He passed beneath the triple-arched façade and cut across the park to head north. He ran up an alleyway and found refuge in the back streets beyond. Finally in the clear, he nearly collapsed from the exertion. Drenched in sweat, still suffering from the poisons in his system, he crouched low in an alcove until his breathing steadied.

  Regaining some strength, Ryan realized his first job was to find civilian clothing, and quickly. Assuming the same caliber of lodgings as what they’d had in Bayonne, he knew that showing up in uniform at Le Brigande would earn him a one-way ticket into the waters of the Loire with a slit throat.

  He chose the first shop open for business, a hardware store offering wrought-iron wares, hinges, locks and various building materials, some new, most salvaged from buildings damaged or destroyed by the bombings. The proprietor gave directions to a second-hand clothing store. The man was only too willing to help, even drawing a quick sketch of the neighboring streets—anything to get a policeman out of his store quickly.

  The used clothing store lay just off Rue d’Allonville. A bell above the door summoned a saleswoman from beyond a curtain of faded damask. Ryan scanned several tables laden with musty old clothing and racks at the walls holding the somewhat superior goods. The woman appeared to wear half of the store’s inventory, perhaps believing it might sell better if seen on a living mannequin. But her short stature forced her to roll up the overlapping sleeves, and the two or three skirts were bundled at the waist to prevent the hems from dragging on the scuffed linoleum.

  “Bonjour, madame.”

  “Bonjour, monsieur l’agent, how may I be of assistance?” She smiled warmly. Her pendulous goiter swayed as she spoke.

  For the first time in his short career as a bogus policeman he found someone apparently comfortable in his presence. “Madame, I’ll need you to keep a secret, an official secret.”

  “But of course, you’ve come to the right place.”

  “Then here’s what I need.” Ryan double-checked that the shop was truly empty. “I’m going on special assignment, and must have clothes suitable for a man of lower social standing. Can you be of assistance, madame?”

  Without a word the shopkeeper began rummaging through a rack of men’s clothing directly behind the counter, sliding aside hangers with worn jackets and trousers, intently searching for the ideal solution to his needs. “And shoes?” She continued to move hangers without turning around. “And a shirt, monsieur?”

  Ryan took a closer look at the scuffed police-issues and decided they fit well enough not to chance blisters with a different pair. “The shoes are fine, but a different shirt? Yes, definitely a good idea.”

  “And here we have it all.” She displayed piece-by-piece some dark woolen trousers in a pinstripe, a hound’s tooth jacket showing wear at the elbows, and a faded, blue cotton shirt. “Exactly what you need, and all for a mere thirty francs.”

  Ryan looked disconcertedly at his slender fold of cash. “I regret, madame, I’ve only ten to spare for this assignment.” He shrugged in disappointment. “And I’ll also need a different hat—” a sudden thought, “and perhaps boxers? Might you have something of lesser quality?” He caught the sparkle in her eyes.

  “Well then, would monsieur consider a trade. Ten francs for all this,” her sweeping gesture suggesting the finest of couture, “and you leave me that tired uniform of yours.” She tossed a soft-billed cap on the pile, then
rummaged through a drawer and presented thread-bare undershorts with a final flourish.

  Ryan laughed. “But what shall I wear once I’m no longer on assignment?”

  The woman gave a wink. “You appear resourceful to me. You’ll think of something.”

  He placed two five-franc notes on the counter. On one blue-and-white bill someone had typed in red ink “Vive le général de Gaulle.”

  “I believe there’s no need for a receipt, monsieur?” She grinned in complicity. “And perhaps you’d like to change in the back room.”

  “My sincere thanks, madame.” Ryan pulled the worn curtain aside.

  “Oh, and monsieur?”

  He turned. “Oui, madame.”

  “You may keep your pistol. I only trade in clothing.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Paris, Occupied France

  22 August 1941

  Serge knew he had this in the bag, but still his fingers tapped a soft-shoe on the perfect crease of his trouser leg. The dark sedan lurked in the shadows of an alley opening to Rue Jean Maldives. Blocks distant waited two Gestapo cars, one observing the front gate of the warehouse, the other parked just down the street from Serge’s passageway. His Walther automatic rested in his lap. His driver Paul and two best men were also suitably armed. Serge himself would oversee this operation.

  The Wehrmacht truck with the canvas cover and the bold V stenciled on the hood was at that moment taking on the load at the Branchot & Fils warehouse several blocks to the north. They had watched it pass by empty just before midnight, the masked headlamps casting a spectral bluish glow on the cobbled pavement. The haul was expected to be at least 500 cases, over six thousand bottles of prime Cognac Hors-d’Age. The liquid treasure from the château cellars of a wealthy and recently-uprooted Jewish family was now destined for the Reich elite, thanks to the rival Delfanne gang.

  Those bastards won’t see a drop of alcohol, thought Serge, or profit. The radium dial on his Patek-Philippe glowed faintly, but the watch hands seemed to stand still. He ran a hand over his shaved scalp and groomed his mustache with a comb. One a.m., and loading should already be complete. “What the hell’s keeping them?”

  Paul shrugged but said nothing, knowing his boss’s impatience.

  Serge’s spies had reported the operation was planned for midnight, with the shipment to arrive at the Gare du Nord freight yards no later than two-thirty. The transfer to a supply train destined for Berlin would be immediate. Experience told him the truck should have passed their position a few minutes earlier. He was anxious for a smooth heist and ready for a large score.

  The business arrangement with the Lesney woman was proving valuable. She had shown herself cooperative, if not eager. Although a bit old for his tastes—the younger the better in his eyes—her ass was firm and he would screw her eventually, if for no other reason than he could. And she would know he was boss despite the trivial thirty per cent he’d settled for. Hell, the Boches take that much from every French transaction! But the profits were adequate to provide him some minor income, and more importantly, she appeared well-connected to the officer crowd who frequented the establishment. Wherever the Krauts gathered he would find fistfuls of money.

  So it had been his good fortune to learn of this very shipment from the Wehrmacht colonel, a fool obviously smitten by the attractive bitch and very drunk. The pompous idiot had promised her several cases of the precious Cognac as a personal gift, and slipped up by boasting of the origin of the prize and the date planned for delivery. Nothing escaped Serge’s attention when a fortune in occupation marks was on the table, and his connections had needed only a day to run down the source of the booze and the people involved. As soon as he learned that his long-time rival Masuy was to profit, he knew he would hijack the load and give that Belgian asshole the finger.

  The car radio crackled and the game was on. Within minutes the truck rolled past their alleyway. On its tail came the black sedan that had picked up the target as it left the warehouse gates. The Boche cop on the passenger side signaled with a flashlight in passing. Paul’s engine failed to catch, and Serge buried both him and the vehicle in a foul stream of obscenities. The engine finally roared to life on the third try. Headlamps off, they rolled into the street toward the lights of the tailing car.

  Serge had chatted the previous night with the Wehrmacht corporal who was to drive the truck. The soldier agreed to cooperate with the “liberation” of his load in exchange for a commitment that his wife and children in Pirmasens would go untouched. The man was to reassure his co-driver that the police stop would be nothing but a routine spot check due to the late hour.

  The second Gestapo car, also alerted by wireless of their approach, would now be just ahead of the target along the dark stretch between Rue Malinot and Rue de Vence. Suddenly the truck’s taillight flared and it braked to a stop. The driver had spotted the Gestapo cars, front and rear.

  “Move it—now!” With a surge, Paul accelerated past the trailing vehicle and screeched to a halt alongside the truck. Serge’s men leapt out to surround the payload. Unexpectedly, a soldier, machine pistol on his shoulder, emerged from the canvas flaps protecting the load. One Gestapo agent spun around and dropped him before the man’s feet hit the ground. The body fell in a spray of blood and brain tissue.

  The truck driver and his partner came down from the cab with hands high. “Don’t shoot! We’re not resisting!” Serge approached the driver and put his automatic to the man’s head. The corporal trembled. “My god, monsieur, you promised you wouldn’t hurt me!”

  “Correction. I said your family lives.” A bullet pierced the man’s skull, and just as quickly the other soldier fell to Serge’s Walther. He grinned at Paul. “Back me up on this—I never said he’d live to see his family, right?”

  Two Gestapo agents strode over for further orders. “Get them out of here, schnell, schnell!” The two men dragged the bodies to the forward car and stowed them in the trunk. The corpse of the hapless guard landed in the rear of the other sedan. Another policeman reached for the machine pistol which had fallen to the pavement. Their role completed, the Gestapo cars disappeared into the night.

  His personal crew knew the rest of the plan. One climbed into the cab and found first gear as the others piled into the sedan. They followed the truck a block up Rue de Vence to a vacant warehouse, where one man sprang out to unlock the padlock and crank up the heavy metal shutter. A solitary light already glowed in the rear of the cavernous space. Once both truck and car were safely inside, the man dropped the noisy door and secured the lock, tugging at it twice to be certain. He then sauntered up the street toward the warehouse office entrance, lighting up as he went.

  Inside, Serge had already climbed up into the bed of the truck, a crowbar in hand. Prying open a crate, he pulled out a bottle and shattered its neck, sending the wax seal flying. He poured out some of the precious liquid to clear any glass shards, then downed a solid gulp before raising the tortured bottle to toast his men: “Job well done, lads!” The Cognac made the rounds as they all congratulated themselves on the haul. Serge was jubilant. “We’ve fucked him over good this time, that bastard Masuy!”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Nantes and Biarritz, Occupied France

  22 August 1941

  Le Brigande belied its rough-and-tumble name. It proved to be a modest but respectable small hotel on a quiet commercial street north of the river and well away from the warehouses, cranes and rail tracks servicing the port. What a contrast to the seedy lodgings in Bayonne! Facing the sidewalk ran a row of windows, each adorned with a potted plant encased in dark molding. Heavy burgundy drapes framed the plate glass. The lobby offered guests dated but well-maintained furniture. Two women chatted on a couch. A businessman read a newspaper, the aroma of his pipe difficult for Ryan to resist. A bank of mail slots with hooks for keys showed twenty-two rooms in the house, about half occupied.

  The man in striped trousers at the reception looked around as Ryan entered, hi
s eyes betraying more than a trace of skepticism. Without a greeting he returned to his paperwork, turning his back to the newcomer. “If you’re seeking work, monsieur, I regret that we have no need for a laborer or porter. Absolutely nothing for you here. Perhaps down the street at La Lorraine?”

  “I’m not seeking work, monsieur.” Ryan thought an old suitcase would have completed his disguise. Bad enough that the only identity papers he carried belonged to a Tours policeman, no doubt freed from the storage closet, an all-points bulletin out for his assailant.

  Realizing Ryan had no intention of leaving, the clerk turned to face the stranger. Craning his neck over the counter, he gave the new arrival’s unkempt appearance a quick once-over and sniffed in obvious displeasure. Ryan knew his face was heavily soot-stained from the rail journey, and he could see the drawn look to his features in the lobby mirror. The desk clerk finally spoke: “Then how may I be of assistance?”

  “You are the manager?”

  “The assistant manager, monsieur, fully capable of handling any inquiry.”

  “I prefer to speak with the manager. He is in?”

  “Sadly, no, he is not.” The man pivoted back to addressing envelopes.

  “If I may, monsieur—the open door there is clearly marked ‘Director,’ and from here I can see the back of a man’s head and smoke issuing from somewhere beyond. From the smell I would say a cigar.” Now Ryan stretched his neck to get a clearer view beyond the hinged shelf of the counter.

  “I am not about to trouble Monsieur Vaucault with some down-and-outer who won’t even state his business.”

  “Then I shall,” Ryan lifted the counter flap, took a step forward and called out: “Monsieur Vaucault!” His voice carried over the stuttering protests of the desk clerk. “Monsieur le directeur!”