V for Vengeance

by Dennis Wheatley

  While two gendarmes remained on guard with them the inspector rapped on a door, and on receiving a muffled call to enter went in, closing it behind him. It was then they noticed that under the large ‘No. 104,’ which was painted on the door in white, there was pinned a visiting card which read: ‘Wolfram Schaub, Major, S.S.’, and they realised with renewed trepidation that they were to be examined by one of the Nazi officers who now controlled the French police. After a moment the door was opened again, and they were led in.

  Madeleine suddenly went white as a sheet and dropped her handbag. One of the French gendarmes politely stooped to pick it up for her, but in stooping herself she gained just a moment in which to make a wild endeavour to get back her composure. Major Schaub, the lean chunky-faced man in the black uniform of the German S.S. guards, who sat behind the desk, was the man who had come to her apartment on that unforgettable night of the occupation and fired the final shot which had driven the last flicker of life from her dear Georges.

  Half fainting from a mixed emotional stress of hatred and fear, she waited in an agony of suspense to see if he would recognise her. If he did, her alias as Antoinette Mirabeau would be torn to shreds. Her association with both Georges and the little priest, on top of the false name she had given, would be more than enough to cause the Major to believe that she was already up to the neck in some anti-Nazi conspiracy. Even the faintest hope of release would be gone and she would find herself in an internment camp before morning.

  Her every effort was needed to retain an outward semblance of calm and prevent her limbs from trembling. As in a daze she heard the French inspector’s report, but she dared not look up for fear of meeting the Major’s eyes and seeing recognition dawn in them. When the report was finished the Nazi began to shoot staccato questions at the prisoners in excellent French, and she was now compelled to raise her glance. His hard blue eyes bored for a second into hers, then with a faint smile of appreciation they flickered downwards, taking in her figure. The look was an insult, as it stripped her naked where she stood, yet she was hardly conscious of it from the sudden surge of relief that she felt. He had looked in her eyes, but he did not remember her. Major Schaub showed great annoyance when he learned that the prisoners had undergone their first examination together. In swift, sarcastic phrases he rated the French inspector soundly, telling him that he did not understand his business and that such examinations should always be carried out separately, since there was more likelihood of the prisoners making contradictory statements.

  To see the French inspector snarled at and insulted in front of his men so infuriated Madeleine that she temporarily forgot her own precarious situation, which enabled her to answer the questions that the Major snapped out promptly and with spirit. Kuporovitch, who was still completely ignorant that the Major had seen Madeleine before, which now placed her in special peril, answered with calmness and dignity. Both of them flatly denied that they had ever seen the little priest before and stuck firmly to the story that he had come uninvited to their table and made rather a nuisance of himself, by seeking to draw them into adverse criticisms of that night’s news bulletin.

  The inspector had turned up Mademoiselle Antoinette Mirabeau in the telephone book and checked the address that Madeleine had given. When she was questioned about her family and occupation she gave the answers in every case without a trace of hesitation, because she was able to reply just as though she were Antoinette, and when she said that she was a teacher of music that tallied with the fact that the Rue Meslay was just round the corner from the Conservatoire.

  The Russian’s answers, on the other hand, were by no means so satisfactory. His case was also aggravated by the fact that one of the German officers had stated that it was he who had flung the water-bottle containing the pear which had landed in the middle of their table, evidently with intent to injure one of them. This Kuporovitch stoutly denied, and luckily for him the inspector’s notes read to the effect that the officer had thought that Kuporovitch had thrown the bottle, because it had come spinning through the air from his direction. Both Madeleine and Stefan seized on this to assert that the officer must have been mistaken, but the suspicion still lingered.

  Asked how he supported himself, Kuporovitch said that he had brought his savings with him out of Belgium, and as evidence of this produced the several thousand francs which still remained of his money from his pocket. Then, when it came to the question as to what his relations were with Madeleine, he showed uncanny shrewdness. So far, she had managed to maintain a fairly clear bill, whereas he was evidently subject to much permanent suspicion from the fact that he was a foreigner with no permanent address. He saw at once that the less connection there appeared to be between them the better it would be for her, and he felt it wiser to jeopardise her reputation than her safety; so after a well-acted little show of reluctance he said:

  ‘Well, if you insist, monsieur, I really hardly know Mademoiselle here. The fact is that I’m a very lonely man, and she, too, perhaps is lonely, because although she was a stranger to me until this afternoon she graciously allowed me to speak to her while she was walking in the Jardin des Tuileries, and later permitted me to take her out to dinner.’

  The S.S. man’s hard face relaxed into a sudden grin, and he looked Madeleine up and down with an appreciative glance.

  ‘So that’s how it is,’ he said quietly. ‘Well, I admire your choice, and I must say it’s hard luck that you’ve been deprived of the pleasant ending which you doubtless anticipated for your evening with this young lady. Still, I’m by no means satisfied about you.’

  While the questioning had been in progress a short, dark French detective in plain clothes had come into the room and stood there listening intently. Suddenly he addressed the Major.

  ‘If I may recommend, Herr Major, I would suggest that we let the woman go. Now that the food situation is becoming so difficult any number of our young women are willing enough to be picked up by a stranger for the sake of a good dinner, and evidently this is a case of that kind. We have nothing against the girl on our records, and we require all the room we have in our prisons for more serious cases. They’re terribly overcrowded as it is.’

  The Major nodded. ‘Yes, I think you’re right, Lieutenant Ribaud, but I don’t think that we should release the man without further investigation.’

  ‘As you wish, Herr Major.’ replied the Frenchman. ‘But we are already overburdened with work as it is, and he’s probably no more dangerous than the majority of these homeless people who’re wandering about the city. These White Russians have no particular cause to enter into a conspiracy against the régime, but they’re all more or less undesirables, so I would suggest that since he is a vagrant without domicile we should expel him to Unoccupied France. That, at least, will mean one less mouth to feed, and once he’s out of our territory he won’t be able to do us any damage even if he wishes to.’

  ‘That’s a very good idea,’ the German said at once. ‘All right then. Release the woman and have the man put across the frontier.’

  Major Schaub gave a curt nod of dismissal to Kuporovitch and favoured Madeleine with another lecherous leer. The inspector stepped forward, and they were both marched out of the room.

  The decision was a sad blow, both for Madeleine and Stefan, and they were denied even the consolation of taking a proper farewell of each other, since in front of their captors they had to keep up the appearance of being no more than casual acquaintances who had met the previous afternoon.

  When they had been taken down to the entrance-hall Stefan kissed her hand gallantly and said with a lightness that he was far from feeling that he hoped they would meet again in happier times.

  She pressed his fingers and nodded dumbly, fearful of speaking lest she betrayed her emotion. Having nursed him back from death’s door through all these tragic weeks, she naturally felt a special interest in him, but it was not until she was on the point of losing him altogether that she realised how much the jovial Ru
ssian’s companionship had meant to her. In a vague way she had realised that once he was fully recovered he would probably move from her mother’s apartment. But in the uncertainty of the times no one in Paris was inclined to make any plans for the future, so she had never actually visualised his leaving and what his departure might mean to her; and, now, overnight, through sheer ill-luck, their separation had been decreed before she had even had time to get used to its possibility. With a heavy heart she turned away and went out into the grey street, while he was led down to the basement and locked into a cell.

  For five days Kuporovitch was kept a prisoner. He was given scanty and uninteresting but sufficient meals, and, although he questioned his warders frequently, they could give him no idea as to how long he might be confined there; so he could only assume that it was not convenient for the authorities to send him into Unoccupied France at once and that he must wait upon their pleasure.

  On Sunday the 15th he was taken upstairs and out to a waiting car, in which there were two agents de ville. The car drove off, and as soon as it was outside Paris took the road to Melun, continuing on through Nemours, Montargis, Gien and Nevers to Moulins, which they reached late in the afternoon. It was here that the new frontier had been established, dividing Occupied from Unoccupied France. At the barrier Kuporovitch’s captors handed him, together with a packet of papers, over to other police officers who were under the control of the Vichy Government. He was then marched away to a large barrack-like building on the outskirts of the town and locked up in a small room with barred windows for the night. The following morning he was taken out again, put in another police car, and driven the remaining fifty odd miles to Vichy.

  The famous spa on the banks of the River Allier was crowded to overflowing. Normally it has a population of only some 17,000 people; now, as the capital of Unoccupied France, it was called on to house not only the headquarters of the Civil Ministries, of the fighting services, the prisoners of war and refugee organisations, and the Diplomatic Corps, but also the thousands of hangers-on and stray people of every nationality who were trying to get jobs, news of missing relatives, or permits, either to return to their homes in Occupied France, from which they had fled before the invader, or to leave the country.

  It had no doubt been chosen on account of its many luxury hotels, which in times of peace accommodated the great numbers of wealthy people who came from all over Europe to do the cure, as these lent themselves readily for conversion into Ministries and as quarters for the more important officials, but they housed only a comparatively small portion of the swarms of bureaucrats, police, soldiers, diplomats and refugees who now thronged the little town.

  The great thermal establishment, where in pre-war days the ailing had received their massage or strolled about to the music of the band while sipping their mugs of tepid water, had now been taken over by the Forces, as, although under the terms of the armistice the French Army was to be reduced to a purely token force, its disbandment had not yet been completed, and this entailed enormous work upon the military authorities. Even shops and garages were being used as sleeping quarters, but the accommodation was still insufficient, and during the fine weather which still prevailed, many of the less fortunate were dossing down each night in the two parks and the gardens which ran along the east embankment of the river.

  As the car entered the town it was compelled to slow down to a walking pace, because the people were so numerous that they overflowed from the pavements into the roadway. One of Kuporovitch’s captors pointed out the Hôtel du Parc to him as the new seat of the French Government; then they drove slowly on until they reached the Hôtel International in the Rue Maréchal Foch, which had been requisitioned as Police Headquarters.

  There, Kuporovitch was taken up in a lift to the sixth floor and put into what had obviously been a bedroom. A basin with running water was affixed to one wall, and the room still contained a wardrobe and chest-of-drawers, but the bed had been removed, and by the recent placing of heavy bars across the only window the room had been converted into a cell. At midday a meal of thin soup and bread was brought up to the Russian, and shortly afterwards a bearded police inspector appeared, carrying in his hand the documents which had been despatched from Paris with the prisoner.

  The inspector ran swiftly through the brief dossier, reiterating here or there a question which had already been asked and receiving the same answer that appeared in the report; but this visit seemed more a formality than anything else, and he displayed little interest in the business. Just as he was about to go Kuporovitch pointed out that there was no charge against him and asked when he might expect to be released.

  ‘When you reach your destination, I suppose,’ the inspector replied promptly.

  ‘My destination, eh!’ Kuporovitch repeated in a puzzled voice. ‘So you are sending me somewhere else. But why, and where to—may one ask?’

  The Frenchman gave a bored shrug. ‘Since you are a Russian you will naturally be repatriated to Russia.’

  ‘What!’ exclaimed Kuporovitch. For nearly a week he had been living for the hour when, free in Vichy France, he would be able to set about recrossing the frontier in secret to rejoin Madeleine. This was shattering—utterly devastating. The very suggestion threatened his whole world with ruin. He might never see his adorable Madeleine again. Hurriedly he broke into a storm of protest.

  ‘But you can’t do that! It’s impossible—unthinkable! I’m a White Russian—an ex-Czarist who has quarrelled with the régime.’

  The Frenchman shrugged again. ‘That is unfortunate, monsieur, but what can we do? It is everyone for himself in these days. In Unoccupied France we already have nearly ten million refugees from the North. We cannot turn our own people out, yet the territory which we control is no longer big enough to support them. As it is, the shortage of food and fuel will create the most appalling misery in the coming winter. Therefore we are getting rid of everybody we possibly can who has no proper claim to be domiciled here.’

  ‘But to send me back to Russia would be as good as condemning me to death!’ expostulated Kuporovitch.

  ‘That would be hard indeed,’ the Frenchman sighed. ‘If you have friends here with influence it is possible that they might secure you a permit to remain.’

  ‘Unfortunately that is out of the question. I know no one in Vichy. But surely Monsieur l’Inspecteur, an exception could be made in my case?’

  The inspector shook his head. ‘It would be wrong to encourage you in that hope. The orders regarding aliens are definite and urgent. You have my sympathy, but unless you can bring influence to bear it seems that your only recourse will be to endeavour to make your peace with the Soviet Government when you arrive in Russia. C’est la guerre, monsieur, and life is hard on all of us these days.’

  When the man had gone Kuporovitch sat down gloomily to consider his position. He was intensely averse to going anywhere, even to regain his freedom, which would place many more miles between himself and Madeleine; but, had he been given a choice of evils, he would far rather have remained in prison in Vichy than be deported to his own country.

  It was not even as though he was in reality a White Russian who had spent many years in exile. Had he been, there was at least a good chance that if he was prepared to give assurance of complete acceptance of the Soviet régime on reaching Russia he might have reaped the benefit of some form of amnesty, which he knew vaguely was now open to returning exiles. The fact was that up to some six months before he had been a Bolshevik General, and he had then deserted his command and fled the country. In consequence, there was no doubt about it that once he set foot on Soviet soil he would be summarily court-martialled and handed over to a firing-party the moment he was recognised.

  In something nearer panic than he had felt for many years he began to consider the possibilities of escape. The bars across the window prohibited any attempt in that direction, even had he been prepared to risk his neck in a highly perilous endeavour to climb, spreadeagled like
a fly from any projections which offered in the face of the building, up on to its roof; and having examined the lock of the door he found it to be a stout one, which he had no means of either picking or forcing.

  At the best of times Vichy is a depressing place, as it lies at the bottom of a hollow ringed by hills, and for the next hour he sat brooding miserably in the partly furnished bedroom on this frightful decree, that would carry him a thousand miles from the woman he loved, and at the same time place his life in extreme peril. In vain he racked his brains for some ingenious story which he might spin to his captors in the hope of causing them to reverse their decision; he could think of nothing.

  His agonised thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of a warder and a kittenish young man with a tripod and camera. He was told that he was to be photographed for a carte d’identité which would be sent with him, and this news brought his spirits down to a new low level. The journey by ship from Marseilles round to a Soviet Black Sea port was certain, in these days, to take some weeks. The French police only knew him as Ivan Smernov, and he had hit on the idea that if he thinned down his heavy black eyebrows and grew a beard on the voyage he might escape recognition by the Soviet officials when he landed and succeed in disappearing once more after they released him. But if a photograph of himself as he appeared at present was to be hung like a millstone round his neck his identification was certain. Nevertheless, it was useless to resist, so he submitted to being taken with the best grace he could muster.

  Dusk was falling when the inspector came to him again and announced briefly that as a matter of routine his chief wished to see the prisoner before he was removed to the quarters where other aliens who were being deported had been confined. With surly kindness he added: ‘If you’ve got any story to put which might induce them to let you remain in France you’d better tell it to the Colonel.’