V for Vengeance

by Dennis Wheatley

  They walked back to the café and collected the other two, whom Gregory introduced as Pauline Vaquière and Alexis Tambov, since he considered it wisest to guard against possible future complications that might arise if Madame Boucheron, or any of her friends, happened to remember Madeleine’s name in connection with the police notices which had been published a fortnight earlier.

  Boucheron had a small house in the Rue Amiral Courbet, and on the way there they agreed on a story that the strangers had just arrived by train from Paris to take up work with the harbour authorities.

  Madame Boucheron received them very kindly, putting down the state of their clothes and their untidy appearance to the fact that they were only poor working-people who had travelled third-class in one of the trains which now took a day and a night to get through from Paris to Le Havre.

  Her brother was with her, as he had come to stay with them for the wedding. He was a tall man named Picquette, with sunken eyes and a ragged moustache. They were both hard at work preparing for the wedding-party, so Boucheron took his guests upstairs in order that they could tidy themselves and rest, turning over to them a room that had been his son’s until the boy had fallen fighting on the Somme during the previous summer.

  When they had cleaned themselves up as well as they could Madeleine lay down on the bed, while the men stretched themselves out on the floor, and they all got in three hours’ badly needed sleep before Boucheron came up to tell them that it was now seven o’clock and the wedding guests were assembling.

  The little parlour downstairs was soon crowded with people; the men were all dressed in their Sunday black, and the women had brought out their best bits of finery for the occasion. Their roughened hands and garlic-smelling breath betrayed the fact that they were all working-people, but they were a kindly, good-natured lot, only too happy to have this chance of forgetting the war for a few hours. There was much hearty laughter and a certain amount of crude fun poked at the bridegroom, a stalwart young fellow who looked most uncomfortable in his very high white collar, and at the bride, a pretty buxom girl of twenty named Colette.

  The marriage was a civil one, and the functionary who performed it was treated with great deference. When it had been duly solemnised the whole party adjourned to a small hall nearby which had been taken for the reception and a dance.

  Everyone exclaimed at the good things, so rare in these hard times, that Madame Boucheron had managed to provide for her buffet, although nearly all the guests had made some contribution to the feast themselves. Healths were drunk, there was much hand-shaking, and as the wine began to circulate they all gave free reign to their high spirits. Now that they had rested Gregory and his friends were able to join in the fun. He had a dance with the bride, and during it he asked her if she could keep a secret.

  ‘Of course I can!’ she smiled up at him. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Simply that my friends and I would like to give you a wedding present, but we’ve had no time to buy one, so we want you to buy it yourself; but you must promise me that you won’t say anything at all about it to your mother, or even to your husband, until tomorrow morning.’

  As he spoke he pressed a mille note into her hand. It was his way of rewarding the Boucheron family for their kindness, but he knew that the gift of so large a sum coming from a poor workman would excite comment from the girl’s mother and friends if they learned about it before his party were safe out of Le Havre.

  ‘A thousand francs!’ the girl whispered. ‘But how can you possibly afford it?’

  ‘That’s all right,’ Gregory smiled. ‘Your uncle has done me a great service, and I have more money than you might suppose from looking at me. I hope your marriage will be very happy.’

  All the time they were dancing or talking among the crowd round the buffet the three friends were keeping a watchful eye on the clock, and at half-past eleven Gregory caught the eyes of the other two. After a few minutes they disengaged themselves from their partners and joined him.

  ‘Time to go home,’ he said with a quiet smile. ‘We won’t make our adieux to anybody. Boucheron will understand and explain to his wife tomorrow. There’s a small ante-room at the far end of the hall, and it has a side-door leading on to the street. If we slip out that way nobody’s likely to notice our disappearance.’

  Madeleine and Stefan danced the length of the floor while Gregory strolled slowly behind them; then all three walked casually into the ante-room. The cloak-rooms were just beyond it, and having collected their hats and coats they came back to the little room with the side-entrance. To their annoyance they found Madame Boucheron’s brother, Monsieur Picquette, standing in it. He had evidently just entered and closed the door to the dance-hall behind him.

  ‘Hallo!’ said Gregory cheerfully.

  Picquette did not smile, but asked in a gruff voice: ‘Where are you three off to?’

  ‘It’s pretty hot in there, so we thought we’d go out for a breath of air,’ George replied lightly. ‘We didn’t want to catch a chill after dancing, though, so we thought it best to get our coats.’ Then he pulled a pretty bluff by adding: ‘Care to come along?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Picquette. ‘I’m not going out, and neither are you.’ Suddenly he produced a revolver from behind his back and pointed it at them.

  ‘What the devil are you doing with that thing?’ Gregory asked with a laugh, although he knew now that Fate was evening up the scales. The fickle goddess had sent them Boucheron in their hour of need, but now she had dealt them out this sunken-eyed fellow; and it was quite clear that he meant to make trouble of some kind.

  ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ Picquette went on. ‘But I remember you all right—all three of you. Perhaps you recall a certain nursing-home in Paris that was raided by the police last November? I was one of the agents de ville that you tried to shoot in that affair. I’m only here on leave from Paris to see my niece married, but it will be a real pleasure to hand you over to the Nazis.’

  22

  Sitting on Dynamite

  ‘So that’s it,’ nodded Gregory. ‘All right, I’m not denying anything, and I take my hat off to you as a first-class policeman for having recognised us after all this time. But as you’re a Frenchman it’s only reasonable to assume that you’ve no real love for the Nazis. Let’s make this a business deal. What’s it worth to you to let us go?’

  ‘Nothing that you could pay,’ came the prompt reply. ‘That girl with you is Madeleine Lavallière, and the Germans are offering fifty thousand francs for her apprehension. They’re offering another fifty thousand francs for you two men. That’s big money to a man like myself, so you can save your breath and stay where you are until the Nazis come for you.’

  ‘How about your brother-in-law?’ Madeleine said swiftly.

  ‘Are you prepared to get him into trouble for having taken us into his house?’

  Picquette shrugged. ‘You needn’t bother your head about Boucheron. No one can prove he knew who you were, so I’ll fix things for him all right.’

  ‘As you say we’re to remain here until the Nazis come for us I take it you’ve already tipped them off?’ remarked Gregory.

  ‘That’s right; I put a call through to Paris within five minutes of setting eyes on you this afternoon. I didn’t want any local big-wigs interfering with my kill, so I spoke to Major Schaub, the man you knocked out—remember?—in that nursing-home affair. He was as pleased as a dog with two tails when he heard that I’d got you taped. I told him about this place and that we’d be here tonight and that I’d keep an eye on you; so he said that he’d come from Paris himself to pull you in. As a matter of fact, I expected him here about eleven o’clock, so he and his “black boys” may turn up any time now.’

  The Quisling policeman had not even told Gregory and Stefan to put their hands up; but he knew his stuff. His revolver was pointing straight at Madeleine. He was banking on the fact that neither of the others would dare to attack him knowing that whatever happened she woul
d be shot.

  Gregory and Stefan were horribly conscious of his strategy. In such a desperate situation either of them would have taken the risk of rushing him, but as it was they dared not move; yet their whole escape was now in jeopardy, and their only chance lay in doing something before the Nazi police cars arrived upon the scene.

  Madeleine too had sized up the situation. She knew that it was up to her. With splendid courage she suddenly began to walk the few steps forward which separated her from the barrel of the gun.

  ‘Stand back!’ cried Picquette. ‘Stand back, or I shoot!’

  But his momentary hesitation to kill a woman cost him exactly one hundred thousand francs. As his finger squeezed the trigger Madeleine flung herself headlong on the floor; Gregory and Stefan sprang at the same instant. Picquette’s revolver was wrenched out of his hand. Kuporovitch dealt him a terrific punch which landed on the side of his jaw, sending him backwards, so that his head crashed against the wall. He fell, limp and bleeding, in the corner.

  The crash of the single shot had hardly ceased to echo before Madeleine had picked herself up and all three of them were outside the building running down the street.

  All was quiet outside, as in the occupied cities few people remained out after ten o’clock. For the first fifty paces all Gregory’s thoughts were riveted on the sounds which were coming from the blacked-out windows of the hall. Everything now hung on whether Picquette’s shot had been heard by anyone in the dance-hall. If it had, his unconscious form would be discovered within a few seconds and a score of men would come running out into the street to see if his attackers were still in sight. If they were, a hue and cry would start, the nearest police would join in, and once the human pack was after them it would be difficult, if not impossible, to shake it off.

  But Dame Fortune had turned the smiling side of her face to them again. Evidently the music of the accordions, and the stamping feet of the dancers, had drowned the noise of the shot. The merry-making continued unabated, and with a quick word to his companions Gregory brought their pace down to a walk.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a few minutes’ grace anyway, and if we run we may attract the attention of some patrolling gendarme. We’ll have to hurry, though, as that fellow caused us to lose quite a bit of time.’

  ‘I told you before that I thought you were leaving it a bit late,’ said Kuporovitch.

  ‘We’d have had ample time if we hadn’t been held up,’ Gregory replied, ‘and I fixed the time of our departure as late as possible for two reasons: firstly, I didn’t want to leave the party sooner than we had to in case some Quisling there wondered where we had got to and started to make enquiries about us; secondly, we’ve still got to get into Boucheron’s boat and out to the Sans Souci unseen. We shouldn’t have stood a dog’s chance of doing that earlier in the evening while there were still lots of people moving about among the cafés on the waterfront. They don’t close till eleven anyhow, and we had to give them a bit of time to settle down for the night, so the longer we could leave it the better.’

  Boucheron’s boat was in the Arrière Port, so from the Rue Amiral Courbet they had to make their way right round the inland basins and across the railway. That meant a good two miles’ walk, and it was now twenty to twelve. But the Sans Souci was not due to sail until well after midnight, and Boucheron had been confident that she would not get under way until half-past twelve at the earliest.

  There was no traffic in the streets, and very few pedestrians, so they were able to put their best foot forward. Gregory had made a careful study of the route they would follow when walking back from the Arrière Port with Boucheron that afternoon, so he had little fear of losing his way. Nevertheless, in the tricky turnings between the railway station and the Quai Georges they did lose it, and a precious ten minutes sped past before they managed to find it again. In consequence, it was twenty minutes after midnight before they reached the Arrière Port, and they were all now in a state of suppressed anxiety, as they felt that their margin had become terribly narrow.

  There was no time left to make a cautious investigation of the wharf side, to satisfy themselves that no fresh sentries had been posted to keep watch on the small craft during the night. They could only take a chance on the sentries being at the same posts as they had occupied that afternoon and go boldly forward to the steps beneath which the boat lay.

  Luck favoured them again. The challenge that they dreaded to hear each second did not ring out. Treading as gently as they could, they covered the last few yards of pavé, slipped down the stairs and into the boat. Gregory took the tiller, while Kuporovitch undid the painter and got out the oars. Next moment they were off.

  If the Russian had used the full strength of his arms he could have sent the rowing-boat ahead at a fine pace, but dared not do so from fear that the splashing of the oars would attract attention. He could only paddle gently, keeping well into the shadow of the wharf side. The minutes seemed to fly by as they slowly progressed and rounded the corner into the Avant Port, where the Sans Souci had lain that afternoon. Gregory and Madeleine strained their eyes ahead into the darkness, endeavouring to pick out the jetty where the tug and her string of barges had been tied up. At last they saw it, but to their dismay the Sans Souci was no longer there.

  With a sudden pull on the tiller-ropes Gregory turned the boat’s nose out to sea, as he said grimly: ‘We’ll have to risk someone hearing the splash of the oars now. Come on, Stefan! Put your back into it! Row for all you’re worth.’

  Instantly the Russian dipped his oars deep and exerted all his strength. The boat shot forward with a quick hissing sound, while Madeleine looked anxiously behind them, and Gregory again strained his eyes, peering into the gloom to seaward.

  For the next ten minutes they did not exchange a word, as with heave after heave Kuporovitch sent the dinghy bouncing forward. Then Gregory exclaimed: ‘Stick to it, Stefan, stick to it! I can see something ahead.’

  The moon was now in its dark quarter, but faint starlight enabled them to see a little distance, and as they advanced Gregory could now make out a black mass that he had sighted across the water with growing distinctness. His heart leapt with joy. He was certain now that it was the Sans Souci with her string of barges. Another five minutes’ hard pulling and they were under the stern of the rearmost barge.

  But the Sans Souci was just passing the harbour mouth. The size of the waves was increasing, and having cleared the entrance she was now putting on speed. It was all that Kuporovitch could do, even by the mightiest efforts, to keep up with the rearmost barge. At Madeleine’s urging he put on a final spurt, then standing up in the dinghy, Gregory cast its small anchor up on to the barge. It caught on the low rim which ran round the deck, and by hauling on the anchor rope he was able to pull the dinghy up under the barge’s counter.

  For a few minutes Kuporovitch rested from his exertions, while Gregory lashed the anchor rope to the boat’s thwart and got a second grip on the barge with a boat-hook. The Russian then prepared for the difficult job of getting on board.

  The side of the barge was eight feet or more out of the water but by standing on the little triangular foredeck of the boat he reduced the distance by two feet. The anchor rope was too thin for him to climb, and the only way that he could reach the barge was to jump.

  With the boat now tossing in the waves it was a most hazardous attempt to make. For a few seconds he balanced himself precariously until a wave-crest carried the boat up; then, knowing that if he failed to secure a hold he would be dashed overboard and swept away in the darkness beyond hope of rescue, he sprang.

  His fingers caught the wooden rim above the barge’s deck. For a moment he hung there kicking wildly, while Gregory and Madeleine watched him fearfully. Then, with a frantic wriggle, he managed to lever himself up and tumbled head foremost into safety.

  A moment later, now lying on the deck, he put his hands and arms over the side. Madeleine was all ready for him. As she jumped he
caught her in his arms and hauled her in. As soon as he had released her he turned again, and gripping Gregory’s hand pulled him up too.

  For a full minute all three of them sat panting there on the deck, then Madeleine cried: ‘We’ve done it, we’ve done it! We’re safe at last!’

  ‘Yes, we’ve done it, thank God!’ Gregory echoed. ‘But I’m afraid we’re only safe for the moment. The devil of it is that through that wretched fellow Picquette holding us up we were unable to join our friends, and I don’t see how we can do so. We caught the boat all right, but we’re in the wrong barge.’

  ‘What does that matter?’ Madeleine shrugged.

  ‘It matters a hell of a lot,’ Gregory said with unusual seriousness. ‘Now we’re out of France I can tell you the plan we hatched for conveying all our Paris friends to safety. These barges are bound for a Dutch or German port, so they’ve got to pass through the Straits of Dover. Reconnaissance aircraft of the R.A.F. are keeping a daily watch for them. The recognition sign is that the third barge in the string is much smaller than the other four. When we’re sighted the Royal Navy will get busy. The Nazi escort ships will be sunk, and the people in Baras’ barge will be rescued and taken to England.’

  ‘But how marvellous!’ exclaimed Madeleine. ‘And in that case why ever should you worry? When the Navy comes on the scene we have only to show ourselves and shout, and they’ll take us off too.’

  Gregory grunted. ‘That sounds all right, if the Nazis don’t spot us first and shoot us; and if the British come near enough to hear our voices. The trouble is that four out of five of these barges are filled with high explosives. The Navy has orders to cut out the barge which has our friends on board and blow the others sky-high. As I’ve just pointed out, we’re on the wrong barge, and, as far as I can see, have no means of reaching the right one.’