‘Where exactly are we?’ Gregory asked.
‘On the Quai de la Gare,’ replied Baras. ‘The barges are moored only two hundred yards from here, on the left bank just this side by the Pont de Bercy. The next job is to get all these people on the empty barge without their being noticed, but we should be able to manage that all right in the course of the next hour of two, if they cross the street two or three at a time at decent intervals.’
‘Good!’ said Gregory. ‘Kuporovitch and I are going off to see if we can collect Madeleine Lavallière. If we can we’ll join you on the barge later. If we don’t turn up you’ll know that she’s been caught, and we’re staying behind on the chance that we may be able to rescue her.’
‘Good luck then!’ the ex-Deputy said; ‘and don’t forget that the empty barge is Number 2 in the string.’ As he spoke he led them over to a rickety board doorway and, pulling the staple from its socket, let them out into the night.
As quickly as they could they walked along the quay towards the Gare d’Austerlitz. At the Pont de Bercy they saw the tug—the Sans Souci—and the barge which it was hoped would carry out of Paris such an unusual cargo, somewhere about dawn.
The barges were not like that upon which many months before Gregory had made his trip through Northern France into Belgium. They were many times larger, being of the big sea-going barges which cannot pass through canals but are used only on the principal European rivers and for coastal work between the big ports. He noticed, however, that the third in the string was considerably smaller than the other four.
When they reached the station they were greatly relieved to see that it was only just after half-past eleven. It now seemed hours since they had been pulled down into the catacombs as prisoners. They had feared that they would have to walk or hitchhike, on any belated lorries that they might find, half across Paris; but the Metro was open until midnight, so they were still able to get a train after waiting for ten minutes on an almost deserted platform.
Directly they reached the Malesherbes station they hurried along to the Café du Rhône, as Kuporovitch still hoped that Madeleine might have caught his last words before they had been cut off, and have managed to get there. As eleven o’clock was the curfew hour for all cafés, under the German régime, it was shut; but a faint chink of light showed at the side of one of the black-out curtains, so evidently someone was still about inside. They knocked on the door. It was answered by a waiter whom Kuporovitch knew well, and he asked if Madeleine had been there that evening. His heart sank as the waiter shook his head. ‘No, she’s not been in at all tonight.’
Having thanked the man they proceeded round the corner towards Luc Ferrière’s house. The moon was now within two days of full, and the whole street was bathed in its brilliance. Directly they entered the street they saw that a van was standing outside Ferrière’s door, and Gregory felt certain now that their worst fears had been realised. He had seen such vans in the Paris streets too often in recent months to be mistaken. It was a police van.
They had not advanced ten yards when the van began to move. Kuporovitch started forward, about to dash down the road in pursuit, but Gregory grabbed his arm with the words: ‘Steady, Stefan! You’ll never catch it now, and you’ll only give yourself away by running after it.’
The pace of the van rapidly increased. In another moment it had disappeared round the corner at the far end of the street. Keeping an iron control over themselves, and trying to assume an air of nonchalance, they walked on more slowly now until they reached Ferrière’s house. Two agents de ville were still standing outside it talking, but having finished their argument they went back into the house, slamming the door behind them.
Gregory and Kuporovitch knew then that beyond all question they were too late. The house had been raided, and Madeleine was once more in the hands of the Gestapo.
21
Race Against Time
They walked on in silence that could almost be felt. Kuporovitch was in such agony of mind that he could hardly think coherently, and even Gregory was at a complete loss how to console his friend.
He knew that they were now really up against it. When they had had their first fears that Madeleine was in trouble there had at least been the Professor’s house which they could have used as a safe refuge, but obviously Pierre had given that away to the police, and it was now a heap of ruins. Had Ferrière’s been raided during the previous weeks, or even right up to the previous night, there were a score of places where they could have found safe sanctuary with other members of the movement; but now there was not a single roof in Paris which sheltered friends who could aid them. For a few moments Gregory was utterly stumped, then, on a sudden thought, he snapped his fingers and exclaimed: ‘Ribaud!’
Owing to his key position, the French detective alone of all Lacroix’s supporters in Paris was remaining there. If they could get on to him he might be able to give them particulars about what was likely to be done with Madeleine. They increased their pace to a run until they reached a call-box, from which they could ring up the Sûreté.
Whenever they rang up Ribaud, which was as infrequently as possible, they used the most guarded phrases and, in most cases, terms with a double meaning which had already been agreed on with him. On this occasion he was more abrupt than ever, and when Kuporovitch said that it was essential for them to see him he replied that it was quite impossible for him to come out. The Russian insisted, but Ribaud continued to refuse, and it was only when Kuporovitch threatened to come and see him in his own office that he at last reluctantly consented and said the he would meet them in the porch of Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois at 12.15.
When they arrived at the rendezvous they found him furiously angry. He had heard that von Geisenheim had done his stuff and turned in the expected list of addresses, but at about the same time he had also heard that a raid was being made on the Professor’s house; so he knew that things had gone very badly wrong somewhere. In view of that, he had decided that he must watch his own step more carefully than ever, and that the best way for him to protect himself was to remain in the Sûreté all night, so that he would have a perfect alibi and could not be accused of helping any of the conspirators to get away. By forcing him to come out Kuporovitch had wrecked his plan.
For a few moments the Russian and the Frenchman wrangled angrily in the darkened porchway of the old church, which served partially to conceal them from the strong moonlight that lit the street. Then Gregory intervened.
‘Listen, you two! We’re wasting time; and you, Ribaud, have damn’ well got to help us, whether you like it or not. You must for your own protection. Don’t you realise that once the Gestapo get their hands on Pierre Ponsardin he’ll blow the whole works and you’ll be the first for the high jump?’
‘Mon Dieu! You’re right!’ exclaimed Ribaud. ‘The little swine! It was his crazy jealousy for Kuporovitch which caused him to give the meeting-place away, and he meant to make a bolt for it with the girl: but now the Nazis have got him they’ll torture him until he reveals everything he knows. It’s not only myself but Lacroix we have to think of.’
‘Exactly,’ added Kuporovitch; ‘so you see how vital it is that, by hook or by crook, we should get him and Madeleine out of their hands.’
‘God alone knows how you’re going to do that!’ moaned the Frenchman despondently. ‘If I lift a finger to help either of them I’ll immediately become suspect myself.’
‘You might be able to lift a finger to help us, though.’ Gregory suggested. ‘I mean as a signal for the right time to go in and attempt their rescue. As they’ve only just been pulled in they’ll probably be transferred from their cells to the place where they’re questioned, or even from prison to prison, in the next twenty-four hours. If you could tip us off when that’s likely to happen we might be able to do something.’
‘Maybe,’ grunted Ribaud, ‘but wherever they’re taken you can be certain they’ll be heavily guarded. Anyhow, I’d better get back now and find out
all I can about what’s being done. I’ll slip out again to meet you here for a few minutes in an hour’s time.’
Ribaud moved off along the moonlit street, but the other two remained where they were and sat down in the deep shadow on the steps of the church. There didn’t seem any point in their going anywhere else, and for the time being there was nothing at all that they could do.
They were both too anxious to talk of casual things, so for most of the time they sat in silence. The hour seemed a long one, but at a quarter past one they began to show a little more liveliness and keep a lookout for Ribaud.
The moments seemed endless now, but the short, dark figure they were expecting did not appear. Half-past one, a quarter to two o’clock, a quarter past—and still no sign of Ribaud. They had begun to fear now that Pierre, in his terror at being caught, had already denounced the French detective, but their only hope was to hang on where they were on the chance that he would yet turn up. Another half-hour dragged by wearily, then, at last, just after quarter to three, Ribaud came hurrying down the street.
‘They’ve been questioning them for the past three hours,’ he said, ‘and I knew that nothing would be settled until the preliminary investigation was over. There was no point in my coming out before, and I felt certain that you would wait.’
‘Is Madeleine all right?’ Kuporovitch demanded anxiously.
‘She was looking pretty washed-up after her grilling; but they haven’t started in on her physically yet.’
‘How about Pierre?’ Gregory enquired. ‘Do you think he’s split?’
Ribaud shrugged. ‘I don’t think so. It’s hardly likely that he would until the Gestapo people began applying their hot-irons to him. If he had I should probably already be under arrest. Anyhow, he’s past doing us any further damage now.’
‘You mean …?’ Kuporovitch muttered.
‘I mean that the little traitor’s dead. After our people had taken him down to a cell I saw him and gave him a cigarette.’
Gregory nodded. ‘That was much the best thing to do, in view of all that’s at stake. It was lucky that you had some on you.’
Ribaud’s smile was grim. ‘I always keep a few in my case; one whiff and the cyanide does its work. I know far too much about the inside of a Gestapo torture chamber now ever to let them get me alive.’
‘What do they intend to do with Madeleine next?’ Kuporovitch asked.
‘At the moment she’s in a cell at the Sûreté, but they’ll transfer her to the Cherche-Midi, where they keep most of the women these days. What time that will be I can’t tell. It all depends on when there’s a police car free to do the job; but I should think they’ll take her across within the course of the next two or three hours. Once she’s inside you’ll stand precious little chance of getting her out. The trick you played before won’t work a second time, even if you could find another Luc Ferrière.’
‘What happened to him?’ Gregory interjected.
‘The old chap’s protesting his innocence and offering to swear to it on Mein Kampf. They’re treating him quite decently at the moment, but I doubt if he’ll get away with it when they find that stuff you planted in his house. Serve him right, too! The dirty little Quisling was responsible for our nursing-home being raided; and if you knew what those devils have done to poor little Nurse Yolanda and the others who were there you’d be ready to tear that old man’s guts out with your naked hands. But, as I was saying, your only chance of rescuing Madeleine is to intercept the car that takes her to the Cherche-Midi. Now I must get back, otherwise I shall find myself having to smoke one of my own cigarettes.’
They gave Ribaud two hundred yards’ start, then followed him until they reached the Sûreté. Walking round it, they took up their positions in a deep doorway on the opposite side of the road to the entrance of the courtyard, from which the police cars always drove in and out.
It was now getting on for half-past three, but another long wait was in store for them. Occasionally it was broken by a sudden tense expectancy as a police car came out of the yard, and they strained their eyes to see if Madeleine was in it. Had it not been for the bright moonlight they would have had no hope at all, but as long as the moon lasted they felt reasonably certain that they would be able to pick out a woman’s figure, even if she were seated in the back of a car, some distance away. Four o’clock came, then an intensely worrying period when the moon disappeared behind the roof-tops, and semi-darkness partially obscured their view; but by five the street was lighting with the early summer dawn.
They were both very tired from their long vigil, and incredibly depressed by the thought that, even if they were able to make their attempt, it could only be a forlorn hope. Madeleine’s escort was certain to be armed, and the driver of the car would have only to put his foot on the accelerator for it to streak away. Their opportunity would consist of no more than a bare half-minute, as the car turned out of the courtyard before developing its full speed.
Suddenly Kuporovitch gripped Gregory’s arm, but at the same second Gregory had seen the same thing. A police car was running quietly out of the yard, and in its back they could plainly see Madeleine seated beside an agent de ville. They had long since discussed their method of attack in detail, and now, without an instant’s hesitation, they put it into operation.
While Kuporovitch remained concealed in the doorway Gregory stepped out on to the pavement and hailed the driver of the car. Just as the man was about to put on speed he turned with a look of surprise. Letting the car run gently on he called: ‘What d’you want?’
Gregory ran swiftly across the road to him, crying as he ran: ‘For God’s sake come and help me! Some men have broken into my apartment in that house. They’ve half-murdered my wife, and I only just managed to get away.’
The police chauffeur stopped the car and leant out of it, as he said quickly: ‘That’s bad luck, but we’ve got a prisoner and can’t leave the car. There are scores of our chaps in the yard of the Sûreté there. Give a shout to some of them.’
Gregory was now right close up to the man, and he waited on tenterhooks for the next act in their skilfully staged plot. Suddenly it came—a single shot rang out. Unseen by the driver, Kuporovitch had come up behind the car and fired through its window, shooting through the back the agent de ville who was sitting next to Madeleine.
The instant Gregory heard the shot his hand darted forward. Grabbing the police chauffeur by the throat he dragged him from the seat. Then, lifting his fist, he hit the man a hard blow between the eyes, dropping him in the roadway and, scrambling into the car, seized the wheel.
Meanwhile, Kuporovitch had run round the other side of the car. He jumped in beside Gregory, and with his gun still in his hand thrust it in the face of the agent de ville; but he had no necessity to shoot again. The man was lying back, either unconscious or dead.
The single report of the Russian’s automatic had been enough to raise the alarm in the courtyard of the Sûreté. Other policemen were now running from it, shouting at them to halt; but Gregory had the brake off. He let in the clutch and the car shot forward.
A pistol cracked, another and another. The shots echoed through the quiet dawnlit street. A bullet clanged on the metal-work of the car; another hit one of the rear tyres, which went off with a loud plop. The car swerved wildly, but Gregory managed to get it under control. Crouching over the wheel he drove on all out, in spite of the bumping rim.
But he knew that he would never be able to get clear away in the car now. The rim must be cutting the flattened tyre to pieces, and the stout rubber-covered canvas might catch in the axle, causing it to jam. In addition, there had been a number of other cars in the courtyard of the Sûreté. In them the police would give chase at once, and he could not hope to outdistance the pursuit with one of his back tyres gone.
He took the first corner to the left at full speed, ran on a little way, then turned right, into the entrance of a mews. ‘Come on!’ he cried, jumping out. ‘We’ve got to run fo
r it!’
Kuporovitch had been leaning over the back of the seat examining the agent de ville. He found that his victim was still breathing, and he hoped the fellow would live. He had little time for the French police who were now co-operating with the Germans, but he knew that they were more or less forced to do so, and it had been particularly distasteful to have to shoot the fellow in the back; but Madeleine’s safety being involved, he had not hesitated an instant, as it was so obviously the one certain means of putting the man out of action before he could offer any resistance.
There was no time to examine the policeman further, so Kuporovitch extricated his body from the car and, seizing Madeleine’s arm, began to run. Gregory had only waited to see that the other two were out before setting off at a pace which he thought Madeleine could manage.
As it was still early the mews was empty, except for one chauffeur who was cleaning a car, which had a red label Médecin pasted on its windscreen. At first the man made as though to intercept them, but Gregory cried: ‘Get out of the way! The Germans and the police are after us!’
Immediately the man’s expression changed. He pointed to his garage. ‘Get in there! I’ll tell them you ran past.’
With a hurried word of thanks they ran into the garage and crouched down behind an empty trailer that occupied the back of it, while the chauffeur went on cleaning his car.
A moment later they heard a police car drive up. Excited questions were flung at the man who had hidden them; but apparently the police were satisfied with his replies, as they drove on, and silence again fell in the mews.
After another few minutes the chauffeur came in to them and said: ‘The coast’s clear now, but they may come back later to make a more careful search. You’d better get out while the going’s good.’
As they thanked him for his help he shrugged: ‘Oh, that’s nothing. It’s a treat to be able to put one over on the police, now they’ve gone in with those filthy Boches.’
V for Vengeance Page 37
