Diana

by R. F Delderfield

  I thought I could do with a nip myself so I opened the drawer he indicated to its fullest extent. Inside were various odds and ends, ink, pens, receipted bills and a few metal castings of bolts with two inch screw nuts attached to them. There was also a half-size bottle of Courvoisier which I took out and uncorked. There was a carafe and glasses on the table and I poured a measure, helping myself first and then pouring another.

  “Not for me,” said Diana, when I glanced at her. She was tinkering about the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet and as she spoke I heard a sharp click and the cabinet swung round to an angle of forty-five degrees to the wall. It was just as she said, behind it was a small wall safe.

  Yves had his drink and it seemed to lift him out of his lethargy. “I should like to have another look at that envelope!” he said very civilly.

  “Watch him while I tackle the safe,” I told Diana and she came over to the desk, taking out her automatic and sitting down immediately opposite her husband who slumped into the desk chair.

  I tried the small keys and the third one sprang the lock. There was no combination. For a man engaged in highly secret work, de Royden was very miserly when it came to buying security. There was not a great deal on the shelves, a bundle of what appeared to be deeds, a large cash box containing a considerable sum of money in new notes, and a small pile of ledgers.

  “Most of this is nonsense,” he said, lifting my list, “it has little or nothing to do with German contracts. The only thing that can possibly interest you are the drawings of the cylinder and the jet with which it is fitted!”

  For some reason I was certain that he was not bluffing. I was so sure that I left the contents of the safe undisturbed and came back to him.

  “Where are they? Here, or in one of the other offices?”

  He seemed to ponder for a moment.

  “You promise me British protection from the De Gaullists? I get prisoner-of-war status?”

  This was a teaser, but I had to take a chance on it.

  “I can only guarantee you your life, I have no authority to bargain about your status. My rank is only that of Captain.”

  He opened the centre drawer of the desk and took out a large blotter, a commonplace thing bearing the advertisement of a garage in the Auteil district. He lifted a corner of the blotting paper and extracted from beneath it a sheaf of drawings on linen-fold paper.

  Very few people and certainly not me, knew anything at all about jet propulsion in those days and I was now looking at the drawings of a Heath Robinson outfit in terms of today. In the drawings, numbered Two and Three, a cylinder had been broken down into various component parts, air intake, flap valve grid, combustion chamber and so on and although I had received a very limited technical briefing, my common-sense, together with Yves de Royden’s manner, told me that I now had something under my hand that was likely to prove extremely valuable to the Allies. So strong was this impression, that I decided not to bother with the other documents in the safe. We already had de Royden’s briefcase and the index book that Raoul wanted, and these, together with the drawings, seemed to me a worthwhile haul. I still meant to visit the other factories according to plan and make certain there was nothing else worth taking but I made up my mind not to prolong our stay at the Vincennes office. Time was getting along, we had less than five hours of darkness left and I meant to be off the streets before dawn. I told Diana to lock the safe and bring the keys, and I motioned to de Royden to get up and move on ahead of us.

  Diana turned off the lights and we went through the typists’ room and down the concrete steps to the yard. Taken all round, I felt very satisfied with our progress and now that Yves had voluntarily handed over the drawings I suppose I must have relaxed my vigilance somewhat. I quickened my step to walk beside him as we made for the car.

  The janitor had followed my instructions and one gate, just wide enough to enable us to pass out, was hooked against the wall. The janitor himself was standing beside his hut over which there was a single shaded lamp that lit up the gate area, but its light did not penetrate to where the car was standing. Diana was not more than a yard or so behind us and we passed out of the circle of light thrown by the lamp at the head of the steps and into a patch of shadow marking the limit of the gate lamp’s glow. It was here, some ten steps from the car, that de Royden made his bid.

  At the time, of course, I had no clear idea what had happened. All I recall is a sudden flash, like a firework exploding in my face. Then I was down on one knee with de Royden standing over me brandishing something. I was by no means fully conscious, but I was not much more than stunned. I could see but without fully comprehending what was happening and although I felt no pain, my other senses must have been functioning, for I heard the crack of a pistol and saw Yves drop what he was holding and dash for the open gate. I even realised what it was he had dropped after using it to strike me a vicious but glancing blow on the right side of my head, it was one of the heavy bolts that had lain in the drawer from which I had taken the cognac. The drawer had been left open, and he must have snatched one in the odd second or two that I spent glancing at the drawings after he had taken them from beneath the blotter. Considering that both of us were watching him it was a notable sleight of hand, for not only had he snatched it from the drawer but had somehow managed to slip it into his pocket and keep his hand on it ready for an opportunity to strike.

  Immediately he had dropped the bolt, he dashed for the open gate and this was the worst thing he could have done, for he ran straight into the pool of light. If he had doubled back into the shadow we should have lost him in the maze of outbuildings with which he was familiar and if we had wasted a moment or so pursuing him, the janitor could have slammed the gate and raised the alarm. I suppose he lost his head, or he might have been winged by Diana’s single shot.

  He ran like a hare and was more than halfway across the wide yard before I realised that he was not going to strike me again. Then, with a roar, the Mercedes leapt forward, so suddenly that it seemed to spring into the air. It shot across the yard and overtook the running figure at a point exactly between the two gate pillars, where a wide patch of road was lit by a suspended lamp above the weighbridge. It swung hard left and the wing struck the fleeing figure in the small of the back, pitching him forward and upwards like a ball. Then, as he fell back, the wing caught him again and flung him against the stone pillar of the gate. At the same moment, the car braked and skidded on the gravel, slewing round and striking the pillar with a grinding crash. The watchman ran out into the road and stared at the car and then at Yves, who was lying under the wall. In these few seconds, Diana reversed the car a yard or so and there was a squeal of tortured metal as the wing dragged away from the stone. A second later, she was beside me, supporting me under the arms.

  “The car, Jan! Get to the car! Hurry, Jan! Hurry!”

  My vision steadied but the blood from a deep gash on the side of my head was pouring down my cheek. I found that I could walk but I had to lean heavily on her as I staggered across to the car and slumped face foremost across to the driving seat. She pushed at my legs and slammed the door and the next moment she was beside me and we were roaring past the watchman, now crouched over Yves under the wall.

  Diana headed the car back into the city but even in my confused state of mind I realised that there was something seriously wrong. The beat of the engine was harsh and irregular and we tore along to the accompaniment of a hideously loud clanking. I remember being puzzled by this noise and it was not until we stopped in a narrow street between rows of what seemed to be warehouses that I realised the clanking was caused by a trailing, offside wing.

  I had managed to check the flow of blood somewhat with a duster that I found in the glove pocket but I was still too dazed to be able to marshal my thoughts and Diana’s urgent voice came to me through an orchestra of buzzings and hummings.

  “Let me see it! Lean over this way, never mind the blood!” and she shone a torch on the wound. Then the
torch went out and I saw her fumble in the glove box. A flask was pushed against my teeth and I gulped down a few mouthfuls of spirit. “There!” she said, “you’ll have to make an effort, Jan! Well have to leave the car and go on foot! Can you walk? Can you walk if you lean on me?”

  The cognac had restored me a little and I was able to make a clumsy pad of the blood-soaked duster, stuffing it under my hat and cramming the hat low on my forehead. The wound throbbed and smarted like the very devil.

  “Why can’t we make a dash for Raoul’s in the car?” I asked her.

  “Because it will attract attention wherever we go! Everyone will remember us passing and if we weren’t stopped by the police, they’d trace our route. We stand a far better chance on foot! Come on, Jan darling, make an effort Wait! Give me your gun!”

  I fumbled for the automatic and passed it to her and she slipped it into her handbag, leaning over and opening my door. I got out and stood swaying but in a moment she was beside me, her arm tight around my waist.

  “Now! Lean on me all you want to, but keep going, Jan, keep moving!”

  We lurched along the street and emerged on to a road running north from Vincennes. I recognised the spot as being fairly close to the Place de Grève. One or two cars sped by, but there were no pedestrians about and we began walking slowly along the inside of the pavement, using the shadow of the shops that lined the route. Once or twice we stumbled over projecting hoardings and awning poles but we finally reached the Place, where Diana hesitated a moment before plunging into a narrow street on the left.

  Awareness came and went, like gleams of sunshine on a winter’s day. Sometimes I knew approximately where we were and what we were doing, then a blanket would descend and I could only cling to her supporting arm with both hands and drag my feet like a hopeless drunk. Several times I fell but always she dragged me up again and we pushed on, staggering from side to side and sometimes actually striking the walls on my side of the road.

  “How about Raoul’s car?” I demanded, during a flash of comparative clarity, “he was supposed to be following, wasn’t he?”

  “He’ll have lost us,” she said, “I had to zig-zag after I left the factory. I can find my way from here but we’ll have to cross two main roads. Wait here a minute and have another swig!”

  She half pushed me down against a wall between two buttresses and thrust the bottle into my hand.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To see if we can cross. They patrol the main roads at night, and the checkpoints down here are close together.”

  She was gone for about five minutes and I had another drink, fixing the rough bandage more firmly under my cap. The duster had stuck to the wound and the bleeding seemed to have stopped. I made a tremendous effort to collect myself, splashing my face with water from a puddle in which I was sitting. Diana came back and whispered:

  “It’s all right, there’s a post about a hundred metres down the road but they won’t see us if we’re quick. Come on!”

  She sounded almost as if she was enjoying the excitement. I got up and put most of my weight on her and together we emerged from the side street and slipped across the main road into a shadow on the far side. We turned right and moved back in the direction of the south side of the Place but before reaching it, ducked into a maze of side-streets, some of them not much more than alleys, until we came to a passage that ran between two high walls plastered with advertisements. At the far end of the alley was another main road and when we reached it, Diana stopped and left me again, returning almost immediately.

  “How do you feel now, Jan? We’re almost there!”

  “How the hell do you know where we are?” I asked her, helplessly. “We might be in the middle of China, for all I know!”

  “You could lose me in China, but not in Paris! I’ve had over a month to study street-plans. Now listen carefully. There’s a street opposite and the far end of it comes out about two minutes’ walk from Raoul’s place but there’s a check-point at the entrance of the street and a gendarme outside it, smoking. You can see his cigarette end from here, over there near the sentry-box.”

  I looked out and saw the vague outline of a man. He was leaning against the side of his box and as I watched, he stood upright, flipped his cigarette butt into the road and strolled to the edge of the pavement.

  “Can’t we double back and get across somewhere else?” I suggested, but humbly because the decisions were now hers.

  “No,” she said, “it would take us too long. It will be daylight soon and we must get to Raoul’s while it’s dark! Then we can lie low for a day or two and get your head attended to. Now listen—I’m going across to the gendarme to turn on the charm! He looks bored to death and obviously hasn’t been alerted yet, or he’d be keeping a much sharper look-out. I hope to God that watchman at Vincennes takes his time reporting and it looks to me as if he has, or perhaps Raoul has attended to him. Keep me in view and dive across the moment you get the chance, do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I said, “but how will you get away when I’m across?”

  “Great God!” she said sharply, “he’s on duty, isn’t he? It won’t take very long!”

  The remark meant nothing to me at the time. If I thought about it at all, which is doubtful, I probably gathered from it that she meant to distract the gendarme’s attention while I tottered across the road and into the shadows on the far side but I do recall that I made another great effort, finishing the brandy, standing upright and edging along the wall to a spot where I could watch them without showing myself.

  I saw her emerge into the street, walk straight up to the sentry and say something to him. At the same time he moved nearer his box and the sentry post light fell on them. They remained talking for a moment and presently she threw back her head and laughed. The sound came to me quite clearly across the twenty yards or so that separated us. Then he reached into his tunic pocket and took out a packet of cigarettes and she held out her palm and he counted several cigarettes into it. It seemed a very odd thing to do and puzzled me somewhat until I remembered that cigarettes were currency in Paris, particularly among low-grade prostitutes. Then I would have cried out and crossed the road if my legs had not buckled under me so that I cannoned off the wall and fell flat on my face. I suppose I lay there several moments, weeping with pain and weakness and perhaps something else, the thought of Diana being pawed and sweated over by a gendarme in a shop doorway. Then my head cleared again and I forced myself to reflect what would almost certainly happen to us if her ruse failed and we were marched along to the nearest police depot Within an hour or so teleprinters all over the city would be broadcasting the news of Yves’ murder. All exits to Paris would be sealed and Gestapo cars would cruise over every yard we had covered since midnight. The Mercedes would be found and reported as soon as it was light and our trail would be picked up within minutes. By the time Parisians were brewing their acorn coffee, we should be under lock and key, probably at the Gestapo headquarters in the Avenue Foch. After that, I should never see Diana again and a firing squad would be the best we could hope for.

  Savagely I pushed myself up and lumbered across the road into the shadow at the mouth of the side street. I found a nook behind a refuse bin and crouched down waiting, my heart hammering and one side of my scalp feeling as though it was being stripped from the skull by pincers. The thunder that had been threatening all night now began to rumble overhead like the passage of a train and heavy drops of rain began to fall, beating out a slow tattoo that synchronised with the throb of my wound. I sat there for perhaps ten minutes before Diana rejoined me, reaching into the darkness and touching me on the shoulder.

  “Quickly, Jan, straight ahead! Don’t let go of me and walk on your toes!”

  I noticed that she was breathless and as we passed under a lamp at the far end of the short street I saw that her headscarf had been thrown back and her hair disordered. Then I saw that her beautiful dress was disarranged and rage rose in my throat
and I caught her by the hand and stopped her dead.

  “Damned swine!” I shouted, but she shook her head, lifting my blood-caked hands and kissing them, as a mother might comfort an hysterical child.

  “We haven’t time, Jan! Not now! Later we’ll talk about it, but not now, dear, not now! Keep moving, Jan! Keep hold of me, we’re almost there!”

  We set off again and blundered forward, turning right towards the corner of the street where the awning of a cafe projected over the wide pavement. Just as we reached it, the storm burst, half-stunning us with its hiss and confusion. Lightning forked across the sky, making the street as bright as noon-day and the darkness that followed bible black.

  It might have been the stunning contrast between the glare and the darkness that extinguished the final flicker of consciousness, or perhaps I had reached and passed the extreme limit of my endurance and used up the final dregs of my will-power. Whatever it was, I remember nothing more of that nightmare journey and still less of what occurred during the next few days. The last thing I recall after the first lightning flash was rain bouncing from the awning at eye-level and the neat stack of chairs and tables pushed against the wall under the cafe window. I know now that we were actually in the Avenue des Capucins and not more than a hundred yards or so from Raoul’s apartment but I had no notion of this at the time. I clutched at the nearest awning pole and missed, falling against the stacked chairs. Then thunder crashed again and I was whirled away on the storm.

  Chapter Seven

  THE NEXT thing I remember was an uneasy swaying motion, as if I was lying in a bunk at sea and the illusion was increased by the bitter taste of bile in my throat as though I had just finished retching and was lying back exhausted by the effort. Then, to my right, I saw a low-powered bulb that winked like a baleful eye and when I raised my hand to ward off its beam I discovered that my head was covered with bandages passing over my cheeks and under my chin and piled so thickly that my head felt twice its normal size.