by Robert Rigby
The shriek of the engine’s whistle brought back the memory of Galtier’s final scream, and Paul shivered. He shook his head and forced himself to look past his reflection. Outside there were lights in the darkness; the train was slowing as it reached the outskirts of Montpellier.
Drained and weary, Paul got up and lifted down his suitcase from the rack. He was still in danger. It was possible that Galtier had been expected at Montpellier. Perhaps when he had spoken to the man on Avignon station he was sending a message onwards; perhaps gendarme officers were waiting on the platform at that very moment to take him into custody.
There were too many possibilities to plan for. For the moment Paul had to focus on getting to Renard. He would know what to do.
The train shuddered to a halt and Paul climbed down from the carriage. He strode, not too quickly, along the platform. Don’t stare at people and they won’t stare at you. Don’t look anxious. Stay calm; stay quiet.
It was late. The station kiosks were closed and darkened. Few people were about, and Paul was relieved to note the absence of any gendarme officers. The other passengers filed past, one or two greeted by waiting friends or relatives, but Paul could spot no one who seemed remotely interested in him. He wasn’t surprised; Renard was obviously being cautious, waiting to see if Paul was being followed.
He reached the main ticket area and lingered for a moment, giving Renard the chance to recognize him, before strolling slowly over to a closed kiosk. He watched the last passengers leave the building.
The train was going no further; the engine was shut down; the driver, fireman and guard had sauntered away from the platform and an eerie silence had descended over the station.
Seconds turned to minutes. Paul gazed around once more. The station was empty. And then he realized: Renard wasn’t coming.
Montpellier looked almost ready for sleep. The cobbled streets outside the station were virtually free of traffic. A young couple hurried homeward on the far pavement, the woman’s high-heeled footsteps echoing in the still air. Across the way, lights burned dimly in the window of one of the few cafés still open for business.
From the station entrance, Paul could see clearly into the café. It was deserted, save for the barman washing glasses to the recorded strains of a melancholy female voice and an accordion.
The song ended; the barman didn’t bother changing the record.
There was no curfew here in the Free Zone, but few people were demonstrating any enthusiasm for a late night out.
Paul turned to his right and walked away from the station, sticking to the shadows where he could. Going this way was a random decision, it just seemed important to get clear of the station. It was a major city building, a landmark, and patrolling gendarme officers were likely to turn up at any moment, for routine checks if nothing else.
As he walked and more of the city revealed itself, Paul was reminded of parts of Antwerp. The wide boulevards, large shop fronts and pavement cafés, their tables and chairs now stacked and huddled under awnings, brought back fleeting memories of the city he loved so much. And the people he loved too.
But there was no point now in thinking about Antwerp and the past. Paul was in trouble; he had to decide what to do. And he was concerned about Renard. Could he have been captured and arrested? Or worse, injured or killed? Was it possible that the unknown traitor in Antwerp had managed to inform on the Resistance group in distant Lavelanet?
Paul was worried but he wasn’t panicking. After the fight on the train, he didn’t think he would ever feel panic again. But he knew no one in Montpellier, indeed in the whole of southern France. He had hardly any money, probably not enough for a night in a hotel – and even if he could find cheap lodging, questions would be asked and papers checked. A suspicious hotelier with the wrong sympathies might very well call the police.
But being alone and so visible on the city streets was too dangerous; sooner or later Paul was certain to be stopped. And besides, he was desperately tired; he had to sleep, and soon. If only he could get a few hours he knew he’d think more clearly.
He’d noticed what looked like a small park across the road from the station – or, if not a park, definitely some trees and grass. And if there were trees and grass there were bound to be benches. The night was warm and Paul decided he would find a bench to curl up on.
He turned and started to retrace his steps. He had walked in virtually a straight line from the station. He smiled ruefully, thinking, At least it’s not raining.
Within a few minutes he was approaching the station again. As he drew nearer, he saw a man leave the building and stop outside the entrance.
Paul halted, pressing his back against a wall, trying to be invisible. Maybe it was one of Galtier’s contacts, concerned that he had not reported in after the arrival of the Lyon train.
Then again, perhaps it was Renard?
The man was staring out into the streets, obviously searching for someone.
Paul eased himself away from the wall and edged cautiously forward, seeking out the shadows with every hesitant step.
He was close enough now to see that the man had his right elbow cupped in his left hand. His chin was resting in his right hand and he was rhythmically stroking a bushy moustache with his right index finger.
Paul decided he had to take the risk. He stepped out from the shadows, and as he did the man turned in his direction, stared and came hurrying towards him. “Paul?” he asked quickly. “Are you Paul?”
Paul hesitated, reluctant to admit to his own identity until he was certain about the man. “Are you … are you…?” His bruised vocal chords had turned his voice into little more than a hoarse croak. “I’m sorry. Are you…?”
“Renard?” The man grinned. “Yes, I’m Renard.”
Paul nodded, relief flooding through his body. “And I’m Paul.”
TWENTY-TWO
Henri was not expecting a welcoming committee when he arrived home with Paul, but that was exactly what he got.
As the door swung open, he was greeted by his wife, Hélène; his daughter, Josette; Didier Brunet, and the gendarme officer, Gaston Rouzard.
All four advanced along the hallway, but Josette was first to reach Henri, hurling herself across the tiles and into his arms.
“I’m sorry, Papa. I’m so, so, sorry,” she said tearfully. “I should never have doubted you. Or Didier, or Gaston. I should never have doubted any of you. Never, never, never!”
Lost for words, Henri gazed over Josette’s shoulder to the others.
Didier wore a guilty look on his face. He raised both hands, palms upward and shrugged apologetically. “I had to tell her. I tried not to, but she was convinced you and Gaston were traitors, and responsible for Jean-Pierre Dilhat being arrested.”
“Arrested?” Henri said, freeing himself from Josette’s clinging arms and easing her away. “Jean-Pierre has been arrested?”
Gaston Rouzard took up the story. “Of course, you wouldn’t have heard. It seems our warnings to take care came too late. He was taken today. There was nothing I could do to stop it.”
“Where have they taken him?” Henri asked.
“I don’t know,” Rouzard said, with a shake of his head. “But I’ll find out.”
Hélène stepped over to Henri and took one of his hands in hers. “You’re so late. We were all terribly worried. What happened?”
“I know, I’m sorry,” Henri answered, smiling at his wife and squeezing her hand. “That idiot Maurice, over at Foix, kept me waiting for hours. I should have known; he’s always late. And then it took far longer to reach Montpellier than I thought it would. It’s changed so much since the last time I was there. By the time I found the station and left the car, I was late myself. Then I went into the station and there was no sign of Paul, and … oh…”
Henri remembered suddenly that Paul was behind him. He turned and held out a welcoming hand of introduction.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “Everyone, this is our new
friend, Paul.”
Paul had been standing, suitcase in hand, in the open doorway, attempting – and failing – to figure out who they all were and what exactly was going on. He was exhausted and in a lot of pain. He felt dizzy and hot, and waves of tiredness and nausea were washing over him.
Four faces smiled expectantly.
Paul smiled back. “Hello,” he croaked.
And then everything went black as he collapsed onto the cold tiles.
“Is he a bit soft?” Josette asked her father.
It was lunchtime the following day and there was so much she needed to know and had, until now, been unable to ask.
“No, he certainly is not soft,” Henri said, cutting a slice of cheese. “From what I learned last night he’s a very brave young man.”
“But he fainted,” Josette said, with more than a hint of scorn in her voice. “That’s soft. There’s nothing in the world that would make me faint,” conveniently forgetting that she had almost fainted when she heard her father and Gaston Rouzard talking in the office.
“He’s been through some terrible experiences,” Henri said, “including seeing his own father shot dead.”
Hélène stared at her husband. “He told you this?”
Henri nodded. “And last night, another man—” He stopped himself from continuing.
“Another man, what?” Josette asked quickly.
Henri shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“More secrets, Papa?”
“There are some things it’s best you don’t know.”
“Well, I don’t agree. How long have you known he was coming here?”
“About a week.”
“And were you going to tell me? Or was I meant to get up this morning to find him sitting here eating breakfast?”
“I was going to tell you, Josette, when it was first arranged. Remember the day you were late home for lunch? I planned to tell you then. But you came storming in with all this wild talk of resistance and taking action; it worried me. You’re so impulsive, and that’s dangerous. Then the last few days we’ve hardly spoken; there never seemed to be the right moment.”
“But, Papa—”
Henri cut the argument short, taking the knife again and carefully slicing a thin sliver of cheese. When he looked up he saw Hélène staring at the photograph of Venant. He sighed. He was uncomfortably aware that Paul’s presence in the house and the loss of his father would only heighten Hélène’s feelings of grief for their own son. “We must give Paul time to recover,” he told her gently. “How was he when you took up the soup?”
“Awake,” she answered. “A little confused. He said he would come down.”
“And what did you say?”
“That he should rest. But I certainly can’t tell him what to do; he’s not a child.”
“I fear that by the time this war ends there will be no children at all,” said Henri. “War makes even the young old.”
They sat without speaking for a few moments, each lost in their own thoughts, until Josette, as she frequently did, broke the silence. “Papa, I am sorry I doubted you. I should never have believed you were anything but a true patriot.”
“Like you?” Henri said, smiling.
“Of course like me. And I’m so relieved about Gaston and Didier. Please tell me what it is you’re doing – and how Jean-Pierre Dilhat is involved?”
“Josette, as I said, it’s best that you don’t know—”
“Papa, please! We’re all in this together and I want to help!”
“No!” Henri said, louder than he intended. He lowered his voice. “It may become dangerous.”
“I don’t care about the danger.”
“But I do! You’re my daughter, and I’ve already lost my…” Henri turned his head away and silence filled the room again.
Hélène reached across the table and put a hand on one of Henri’s. “Tell her what you’re doing,” she said softly. “She should know.”
Henri took a deep, halting breath, almost like a sob. Then he sighed and turned to his daughter. “There is little we can do at the moment; there are no Germans here for us to fight like there are in the north. But that may change. Mostly, for now, we’re making contact with others, trying to become more organized, waiting to do something useful. Now we have our chance. Very soon, we’re going to help Paul escape across the mountains into Spain.”
Josette considered her father’s words. “And what about Jean-Pierre?”
“We are few in number; Jean-Pierre has been trying to recruit more. But, as has been proved, it’s difficult to know who can be trusted. And Jean-Pierre … well, Jean-Pierre is like you, a bit of a hothead. But he’s a good man, and we must do what we can for him.”
Josette turned to her mother. “Did you know all this?”
Hélène nodded.
“And Gra-mere? Does she know?”
“I’m going to see her tomorrow,” Henri said. “I’ll explain, but I’d be surprised if she doesn’t have a pretty good idea already. Your grandmother doesn’t miss much.”
They heard the sound of creaking stair treads in the hallway.
“Paul,” Henri said quietly.
The door opened slowly. Paul looked pale and washed-out. There were dark bruises around his neck.
Nevertheless Henri said, “Ah, Paul, you look much better,” trying to sound encouraging. “Do come in and sit with us.”
Paul sat down in the chair next to Hélène. Henri glanced at his wife and saw the sadness in her eyes. It was the chair Venant always used.
But Hélène smiled at Paul. “Could you manage some bread and cheese? There’s still plenty.”
“You’re very kind,” Paul croaked. “But, no thank you.”
Josette stared. “What’s wrong with your voice?” she asked, as blunt as ever.
“Josette, please!” Henri said. “All these questions, all the time.”
“I only asked about his—”
“Enough, Josette!”
Josette shrugged and was silent.
“We didn’t manage proper introductions last night, Paul,” Henri said, “but you met my wife, Hélène, earlier, and this extremely inquisitive person is our daughter, Josette. Please don’t feel you have to answer all, or indeed any, of her questions.”
“All I did was asked about his voice, it’s—”
“Yes, thank you, Josette.”
Josette sighed and gave a slight nod of acknowledgement to Paul.
“We’ll talk about our plans as soon as you’re a little stronger, Paul,” Henri continued, “but in the meantime is there anything you want to know?”
“Not really,” Paul said. He swallowed, his throat feeling even more raw than it had the previous evening. “Except…’
“Yes?”
“I was wondering,” he managed to mumble, “about your code-name, Renard?”
“Renard!” Josette said, her eyes wide with amazement. “I didn’t know you were called Renard!”
Henri smiled. “It’s simple really. Old Maurice over at Foix, he says I’m a wily old fox when it comes to negotiating a price. So, when I had to choose a code-name, I decided on Renard.”
“You see!” Josette snapped, looking highly put out. “You tell him, but you didn’t tell me. You never tell me anything!”
TWENTY-THREE
A watery sun was dropping towards the mountains and there was a distinct chill in the air, but Paul was grateful to be out of the house at last.
He had remained indoors for a further two days as the bruises on his neck turned from brown to a dirty yellow. Henri worried that such highly visible marks would arouse suspicion in the town and said it was safest for Paul to recover his strength in the house while the bruising faded.
He stayed mainly in his room, reading a little and thinking a lot, especially about his life-or-death struggle with Galtier. He had no regrets. It had been him or his pursuer, and Paul began to think of it as a sort of revenge for the slaughter of his fath
er.
Henri and Hélène Mazet had been kind and sympathetic. But Paul didn’t want sympathy; he wanted to know what would happen next, when his journey over the mountains would begin. So far, he’d been told nothing.
Josette attempted to draw him into conversation whenever she could, desperate to learn more than her father had revealed. But Paul remained evasive and, Josette decided, deliberately elusive; he made excuses to get away or, when she had him cornered, did ridiculous mimes meant to suggest that his throat was too sore for him to speak.
Josette was never slow in reaching an opinion on a person, and after three days she had decided that Paul was a snob, and that she didn’t like him.
But at lunch on the third day, when Paul complained that he had to get out for some fresh air, Josette was quick to offer a late-afternoon tour of the town. After some resistance, her father relented, but insisted that Paul wear a scarf around his neck to hide the bruises.
The tour didn’t take very long; there wasn’t a great deal to see. Three main streets, with smaller streets running off them, a central area where the market was held, the normal range of shops, a cinema and the river. There was also a small railway station, but Paul had had enough of stations and trains for a while.
It felt good to be outside and to see for the first time the closest peaks of the mighty Pyrenees. Having spent most of his life in England and the flatlands of Belgium, Paul had never been this close to real mountains. They were an awesome sight, dark and brooding, even in the late sun, and a constant reminder of the crossing he had to make if he was to reach England and safety.
He was still feeling disorientated and a bit bewildered, which was partly why he said very little in response to Josette’s almost constant chatter and endless questions. But his throat was better and his voice more or less back to normal.
They were on a small side street, heading back to the house, when Paul suddenly stopped.
“What is that noise?”
“What noise?” Josette replied tersely.
“That sort of … wait … there, you must hear it, that clicking and humming. A mechanical noise.”
