The Eagle Trail

by Robert Rigby

  As a boy, he had envied the fact that Henri would one day inherit the family business and never have to struggle for money, as Gaston and his family had. Even when Gaston became a gendarme officer, he had to support his elderly parents in the long years before they died. Since then, he had got by; a gendarme’s pay would never make him rich. He didn’t need to be rich, just better off, and his new venture would certainly improve his financial situation.

  The train stopped at Sainte-Colombe-sur-l’Hers station, which sat on the edge of the village. No one got into Gaston’s compartment, and he was pleased to remain alone with his thoughts and his plans.

  The whistle sounded and the train moved on. Gaston checked his wristwatch, noting with satisfaction that Didier would by now have been dispatched. He was a troublemaker; too keen, too questioning, too interfering – and wanting to be involved in the last part of tonight’s operation had been the final straw. Gaston didn’t want to risk further complications, so he had acted – swiftly and decisively. It would have happened soon enough anyway.

  The others would be similarly dealt with in due course, even Henri’s brattish daughter, Josette, who had almost ruined everything with her stupid guesses and hasty accusations.

  Gaston was convinced that, despite the setback with Didier, Henri would continue with tonight’s operation. He had to; there was no alternative. With Didier out of the picture, the plan would have to be amended a little, but that was nothing Gaston need worry about.

  He smiled to himself. Too many people had been underestimating him for too long. They’d all come to realize that when he took over.

  As the train passed sedately along the embankment at the top of the village, Gaston looked out at the red-tiled rooftops and glimpsed a handful of villagers going about their day-to-day business. He was certain that they, like him and thousands of others, wanted nothing to do with the war or with the occupation of northern France. They wanted stability and order. Marshal Pétain and the Vichy government would ensure both.

  And so would he, Sanglier, with the help of true friends and patriots, those who felt the same way he did. He had already begun to recruit and once he was fully in charge, more would join. He was certain of that too.

  The train gathered speed as the track curved a little downhill. Soon it was passing close to the village of Rivel.

  A temporary station had recently been constructed near to the internment camp. Few trains had stopped there so far but before long they would stop frequently, as the current batch of prisoners were taken away to north Africa and others brought in to await transportation to different destinations.

  Troublemakers, all of them, Gaston thought to himself, as he glimpsed the wire fence and, beyond it, the brown-suited prisoners in the compound.

  The next stop was Chalabre. The train slowed and Gaston got to his feet, feeling his inside pocket to check that the envelope containing the wad of notes Henri had given him was safely in place. He dusted down his uniform and lowered the window in the carriage door.

  With a shudder and a squeal of brakes the train halted. Gaston reached through the open window to push down the handle. He opened the door and stepped onto the platform, instantly spotting his old friend and colleague, Raymond Martel, who raised a hand in greeting.

  “Ah, Raymond,” Gaston said as they shook hands, “it’s good to see you again. You have a busy night ahead of you.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  It seemed impossible to Henri Mazet that Didier had fallen into the loading machine by accident. Didier was simply too careful, too aware that the machines he worked with daily were potential death traps, to be treated with the utmost care. He didn’t fall, thought Henri, staring at the bloodstained mechanism. He was pushed.

  The factory floor was deserted apart from Henri, who had sent everyone home. He was trying to figure out the sequence of events. The loading machine was used to raise heavy bundles of material to a conveyor belt, which ran high across the factory, close to the ceiling. Didier had pitched headlong into the lifting mechanism and become trapped in the drive belt. He must have twisted sideways at the last moment, as his left arm and shoulder and the left side of his head had taken the impact.

  When they finally managed to free him, the full extent of his injuries was revealed. A long jagged gash, oozing blood, ran down the left side of his head, and there were further bloody wounds to his shoulder and arm. But he was alive. Unconscious and deathly pale, but breathing.

  Henri had acted swiftly. He staunched the blood flow with clean bandages while barking out a string of orders to the petrified onlookers.

  A doctor arrived within ten minutes and Didier was rushed to the local hospital. Paul went with him, while Josette was sent to fetch Didier’s mother.

  All the machines in the factory were shut down, but before dismissing the staff for the remainder of the day, Henri questioned everyone who had been in the vicinity of the accident. Or, as Henri now believed, the incident.

  No one had seen a thing; at least, that’s what they were saying.

  An ashen-faced Marcel Castelnaud, unsmiling for once, said he’d simply fetched Didier to the machine after being told it had stopped working.

  “And who told you?” Henri asked him.

  “Joseph. He’d been using it in the morning and switched it off at lunchtime. He was on some other job in the early afternoon, but when he came back to the loader it wouldn’t start. So he told me and I fetched Didier.”

  “And left him to it?”

  “That’s not unusual. I wouldn’t normally stand and watch him do a repair. I was busy; I had other things to do.”

  Joseph confirmed everything the foreman said and added nothing to help solve the mystery.

  Henri questioned others, including a tearful Yvette Bigou, first on the scene and still badly shaken.

  “I was on the way back to my loom,” she told Henri. “The loading machine had already shut down when I got there, but I think I heard Didier yell before I came around the corner. I’m not sure; you know how noisy it is. But then I saw Didier, trapped like that, and the blood…” She began to cry again. “That poor boy … and his poor mother…”

  “Yes, Yvette, we must hope for the best.” Henri answered gently. “And you saw no one else?”

  “No one. No one at all,” Yvette sobbed.

  Henri received the same answer from everyone he questioned.

  “No one at all,” he repeated to himself, stepping back from the machine to get a wider view. He sighed. Whoever pushed Didier had picked the perfect spot to attempt a murder.

  The loading machine was in an isolated position, hidden from the main part of the factory floor. Bundles of material to be shifted were brought up on trolleys. Several of these stood close by, further masking the machine from general view.

  So, Henri decided, it was probably true that no one had witnessed the pushing.

  Henri tried a different line of thought. Who, in the factory, might possibly want to harm Didier? More than hurt him, kill him?

  “No one at all,” Henri said again. Didier was one of the most popular members of the workforce. He had no enemies – not that Henri knew of. So it couldn’t have been a personal grudge. There was only one possible explanation, the incident had to be connected with tonight’s operation. Could there be a traitor in the team? The thought was painful but had to be considered.

  A few people knew the full details of the operation: Henri himself, Didier, Léon Anglade and Gaston Rouzard. Neither Léon nor Gaston could have pushed Didier into the machine. They were nowhere near the factory when the incident happened. Léon was in Foix and Gaston was on a train travelling to Chalabre.

  It had to be someone else, someone close by. But who? And why? Had someone let a vital piece of information slip? And was the person who tried to kill Didier also the one who betrayed Jean-Pierre Dilhat?

  Henri was wracking his brains for answers when he heard footsteps approach. He turned around to see Josette and Paul. “How is he?”
>
  Josette shook her head, unable to speak.

  Paul answered for her. “Still unconscious. His mother’s with him now so we thought it best to come back.”

  “And the doctors? What did they tell you?”

  “Nothing very much. They did say that until he regains consciousness it’s hard to tell if there’s any permanent…”

  Paul didn’t continue, but Henri knew exactly what he meant.

  “But they also said it looks as though there are no broken bones,” Josette said, finding her voice. “That’s a good sign, isn’t it, Papa?”

  Henri smiled. “A very good sign, Josette. Very good indeed.”

  They fell silent, their eyes hypnotically drawn to the congealed blood on the machine. Henri was about to share his thoughts when he noticed how pale Josette looked. He decided to say nothing. It could wait; Josette and Paul had enough to worry about for now.

  He nodded towards the machine. “I’ll clean it up before we leave.”

  “No, let me,” Paul said. “I’ll get some water.”

  “Paul, wait a moment,” Henri said before he had the chance to hurry away. “You must both be wondering, so I’ll tell you now: tonight goes ahead as planned.”

  “But, Papa, you can’t!” Josette said quickly. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “Hardly more dangerous than before,” her father said.

  “But it is! There’s no one to bring Jean-Pierre back to Lavelanet on the motorbike.”

  Henri was about to answer but then stopped. He spotted the guilty looks passing between Josette and Paul. “How do you two know about the motorcycle?”

  Josette looked down at the floor and said nothing, so Henri turned to Paul, raising his eyebrows.

  “We … we overheard you talking,” Paul said. “To Didier and Gaston.”

  “You over—?” Henri hesitated and then spoke more urgently. “Did either of you mention any of what you heard to anyone – anyone at all?”

  “No!” Paul and Josette said together.

  “You’re certain?”

  “Yes!”

  “Very well. Then it can’t have had a bearing on what happened today.” Frown lines crossed Henri’s forehead and he glared sternly at his daughter. “Although I would like to know how you managed to overhear us through a locked door.”

  Josette still said nothing, and this time Paul stayed silent too.

  “Perhaps you’ll let me know in due course, eh, Josette?” Henri said.

  “Perhaps,” Josette said, in little more than a whisper. “But, Papa, it does mean that you can’t go tonight.”

  “It means nothing of the sort. Léon and I…” He paused. “I suppose you know that Léon and I will be going to Rivel in one of the trucks?”

  They both nodded.

  “Yes, I thought so. Well then, Léon and I will bring Jean-Pierre back in the truck.”

  “But that’s too dangerous!” Paul said. “You said yourself that the truck is the diversionary tactic.”

  Henri gave Paul a stern look. “Did you overhear absolutely everything that was discussed?”

  “Just about.”

  “Then you’ll know,” Henri said abruptly, “that because the weather will undoubtedly change for the worse any day now, we have no choice but to go tonight.”

  “Actually you mentioned that before we left the room,” Josette said, and then wished she hadn’t as her father glared at her.

  “Did I indeed? Thank you for reminding me, Josette.” He sighed. “Anyway, the important fact is that as neither Léon nor I have ever ridden a motorbike, it has to be the truck.”

  “No!” Paul said, quickly. “It doesn’t have to be the truck. I can ride the motorbike. I can bring Jean-Pierre back to Lavelanet.”

  “You?”

  “I had a motorbike in Antwerp; I rode it every day, all over the city. I’ve been riding for over a year.” He smiled confidently, well aware that he was deliberately holding back the full truth. The little machine on which he chugged around Antwerp was a completely different proposition to the powerful motorbike Didier rode.

  “No, no, I couldn’t possibly allow it,” Henri said, shaking his head. “I couldn’t possibly.”

  “But why not? I can do it, I know I can.”

  “But … but … you don’t even know the way to Rivel.”

  “I do. Didier took me there on the bike the other evening, by the back roads. He didn’t mention anything to me, but I see now that it must have been a trial run. I can remember the way, it’s easy, just a couple of turns early on. After that it’s almost straight.”

  “It’s hardly straight, Paul. The back roads never stop twisting and turning.”

  “But it’s only one road by then,” Paul said again. “You just have to remind me where I need to make the turns.”

  Josette was staring at Paul, looking as though she didn’t know whether to beg him not to be so stupid or to hug him for his bravery.

  “Paul, I can’t let you do this,” Henri said again. “It’s our job to get you safely across the mountains. That will be gruelling, so you must rest until we return from Rivel with Jean-Pierre.”

  “You know I won’t be able to rest,” Paul answered. “And you know the bike will be much safer than bringing Jean-Pierre back in the truck. If you’re stopped with him, the whole operation is blown and neither of us will get across the mountains.”

  He could see that Henri was wavering. “Please, Henri,” he went on quickly. “You’ve done so much for me, everyone has. This is my chance to do something in return, to repay you all, and Didier especially. Let me do it. For him.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  It was ten o’clock, windy and dark, with low clouds blanketing the town. Motorbike and truck were about to depart, because although both journeys would take less than an hour, Henri wanted them all at Rivel well before the midnight rendezvous at the internment camp fence.

  Both vehicles were parked at the front of the house, hidden from the road by a low wall, high railings and a thick hedge.

  They were ready to go, but Henri wanted to see Paul safely away before he and Léon Anglade set off. He’d gone over Paul’s route carefully, telling him exactly which turnings to take and where they were to meet at Rivel: a secluded hiding place just outside the village, but away from the camp.

  Good news had come in a phone call to the hospital – Didier had regained consciousness. He was suffering concussion and was groggy and confused, with no recollection of his fall into the machine.

  And there was a new worry; no word had come through from Gaston Rouzard. He should have returned from Chalabre long before now to confirm that his contact would be ready with Jean-Pierre at midnight. Henri had heard nothing and there was no reply when he telephoned the gendarme officer’s home.

  The carefully planned operation was close to unravelling, but Henri was determined to carry on. He had to; this was Paul and Jean-Pierre’s only chance of escape.

  While Henri went through operational details with Léon, Paul took the opportunity to sneak out for a closer look at Didier’s motorbike.

  It had two wheels, handlebars and an engine, but the similarities with the one he’d ridden in Antwerp ended there. Paul’s machine had been pedal-started – basically a bicycle with a small engine – and once it was running there were only the throttle and the brakes to consider. Didier’s was a serious motorbike, with kick-start, choke, clutch and gears to manipulate and master.

  Paul did, in theory, know how to get a bike like this running. A friend of his father’s had a motorbike and had once demonstrated how to start and ride it. Paul had even tried using the kick-start. But that was as far as it went.

  Paul hadn’t mentioned any of this to Henri, Josette and Léon.

  They were all watching as he buttoned his jacket, pulled on gloves and slipped a pair of goggles over his head. He walked to the bike, trying to recall the three words his father’s friend had used when telling him how to start the engine. He’d used these three words
several times; Paul knew they were important, but he was struggling to remember them.

  Josette came closer. “Good luck, Paul,” she said softly. “Come back safely.”

  Paul’s eyes were fixed on the bike. Suddenly he turned to Josette. “Compression, spark, fuel.”

  “What?”

  “Something just came back to me.” He smiled. “See you later.”

  Muttering “compression, spark, fuel,” Paul casually eased out the kick-start and gently pumped it with his right boot, trying to make it look as though he’d done it a hundred times before. Soon he felt the slight resistance, what his dad’s friend had called the “compression stroke”. Phase one was successfully completed. Now he had to prime the engine with oil before switching on the fuel and ignition. He pushed down hard with his boot, then again, and a third time; so far so good. He switched on the fuel, choke and ignition and, after a reassuring smile in the general direction of his audience, he kicked down again.

  The engine coughed, then spluttered, but didn’t start.

  Paul took a deep breath and reapplied his foot. Another splutter but still the bike didn’t start.

  “Come on,” Paul whispered, his head down. “Please, don’t do this.”

  “Be careful you don’t flood the engine,” Léon said.

  Paul nodded, pushed the choke in a little and tried once more. The engine gave another cough, as though it were clearing its throat, and this time burst into life.

  With a whispered murmur of thanks, Paul gently feathered the throttle and swung his leg over the machine. He fitted the goggles onto his eyes, gripped the handlebars and eased the bike off its stand. Then he carefully shut off the choke so that he was controlling the engine with the throttle.

  He’d got it started; now all he had to do was make it move.

  “See you in Rivel,” he said to Henri.

  Henry pointed to the front of the bike, mouthing over the noise. “Lights.”

  Lights. He had forgotten the lights! He flicked the switch and the area in front of the house was suddenly illuminated. He kicked the bike into gear. It lurched forward as he eased out the clutch, almost stalling. He quickly pulled the clutch back in and smiled at Henri. “Just getting used to the gears.”