The Short, the Long and the Tall

by Jeffrey Archer

  ‘You seem to have forgotten one thing, my son.’

  ‘And what might that be, Father?’ said the mayor, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘The intervention of the Almighty.’

  ‘That’s another risk I’m willing to take,’ said Lascelles, ‘as he’s certainly taken his time over the Second Coming.’

  ‘May God have mercy on your immortal soul.’

  ‘I’m not interested in mortality, only in which one of us will be on the train back to Saint Rochelle in the morning, which I can assure you, Father, will be me.’

  ‘Unless the partisans were to find out the truth,’ said the priest.

  ‘I don’t have to remind you, Father, that if you utter one word of my confession to anyone, it will be you who will be condemned to spend an eternity in hell.’

  ‘You’re an evil man,’ said the priest.

  ‘At last we’ve found something we can agree on, Father,’ said the mayor as the priest fell to his knees and began to pray.

  The mayor gave the sign of the cross, before saying in a loud voice, ‘God bless you, Father.’ He smiled and returned to his seat at the top of the table.

  ‘That didn’t take too long,’ said Claude.

  ‘No, but then I’ve led a fairly blameless life, and had little to confess other than my desire to continue serving my maker.’

  ‘That’s noble of you,’ said Doucet, looking down at the priest. ‘He was clearly moved by your testimony.’

  ‘Possibly, but then I did make it clear to the good father,’ continued the mayor, ‘that I was content to let the Almighty decide which one of us should be spared, stressing that all three of you were far more worthy of his beneficence than I was.’

  Tessier raised his eyes to Heaven in disbelief.

  ‘Do you think Father Pierre has made his decision?’ asked Philippe.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Lascelles, as he turned to face the priest, who was still on his knees praying.

  The mayor raised his glass and said, ‘May the Lord guide you in your deliberations, Father.’

  The other three raised their glasses and said in unison, ‘May the Lord guide you—’ but before they could finish, the mayor’s face drained of all colour and he began to tremble. He dropped his glass and it shattered on the table as he continued to stare in front of him.

  His three colleagues turned to look in the same direction, but the priest was no longer there.

  2

  They all counted the chimes as they rang out: one, two, three, four. Two more hours before they would discover their fate.

  ‘What are you doing, Claude?’ asked the mayor as he sat back down in his seat.

  ‘Writing my will.’

  ‘Would you like me to draw it up for you? After all, you wouldn’t want there to be any disputes or misunderstandings after your death.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Tessier. ‘Then I’ll be able to say it was drafted by a lawyer, should I live.’

  ‘Touché,’ said the mayor.

  Claude tore half a dozen pages out of his little black book, and handed them across to the lawyer.

  The mayor spent some time studying the banker’s efforts at making a will before he settled down to write.

  ‘You’ve been extremely generous to your sister and your friend Thomas Bouchard,’ he said, after he’d turned the second page.

  ‘As I had always intended,’ said Tessier.

  ‘And your young wife?’ said the mayor, raising an eyebrow. ‘Is she to get nothing?’

  ‘She’s young enough to find another husband.’

  The lawyer turned another page.

  ‘And I see you’ve left a large donation to the church. Was that also something you’d always intended?’

  ‘No more than I promised Father Pierre years ago,’ Tessier replied defensively.

  ‘I also made promises to the good father that I intend to keep,’ said the mayor, before adding, ‘should I live.’

  The lawyer continued to write for some time before he presented the testament to his client.

  Once Claude had read the document a second time, he asked, ‘Where do I sign?’

  The mayor placed a forefinger on the dotted line. ‘You’ll need two witnesses who are conveniently on hand at no extra charge.’

  Tessier looked across at the doctor, who could have been in another world. ‘Philippe,’ he said, interrupting his friend’s thoughts. ‘I need you to witness my will.’

  The doctor blinked, picked up the pen and, turning to the last page, added his signature.

  ‘Are you still awake, André?’ asked the mayor, looking across at the headmaster’s back.

  ‘I haven’t slept a wink,’ came the weary reply.

  ‘I need a second witness to Claude’s will, and wondered if you’d do the honours.’

  André heaved himself slowly up off the bottom bunk and placed his feet on the cold stone floor before making his way across to the table.

  ‘Do I need to read the document before I sign it?’ he asked.

  ‘No, that won’t be necessary,’ said the mayor.

  ‘You’re simply witnessing Claude’s signature.’ He watched as André Parmentier scribbled his name below that of Philippe Doucet. The lawyer placed the will in his battered briefcase.

  Tessier jumped up from the table and began pacing around the cell as he thought about the document he’d just signed. If he was to die, it made sense for Thomas Bouchard to merge the two banks and allow his sister to play her part. He didn’t doubt that, between them, they’d make a far better fist of it than he’d managed. He only wished he’d taken his father’s advice and put Louise on the board years ago.

  The mayor was taken by surprise when André didn’t return to his bunk, but said, ‘I would also like to make a will, Max.’

  ‘I’d be delighted to assist you,’ said the lawyer, ripping some more pages out of Claude’s little black book before picking up a pen. ‘Who will be the main beneficiaries?’

  ‘I want to leave everything to my brother Guillaume.’

  ‘Don’t you think you’ve done more than enough for him already?’

  ‘Not nearly enough, I’m afraid,’ the headmaster replied. He extracted a sheet of paper from the pile and began writing a letter to his brother.

  Dear Guillaume …

  The mayor didn’t have time to argue with his client, so set about preparing the headmaster’s will. A simple exercise that only took him a few minutes, and once he’d double-checked each paragraph, he handed the single sheet of paper across to the headmaster.

  ‘Thank you,’ said André, who read it slowly, before signing on the bottom of the page and handing it to Tessier and Doucet for their signatures. ‘I’d also like this letter to be attached to my will,’ he added, giving a folded sheet of paper to the lawyer before returning to his bunk.

  Once again André closed his eyes, although he knew he wouldn’t sleep. If he were among the three picked, at least Guillaume and his family would live in comparative comfort for the rest of their lives. And he hoped the letter would finally make it clear that his brother had not been responsible for killing the young girl – especially since Guillaume believed he was still the guilty party. When five chimes interrupted his reverie, André wasn’t troubled by the thought of only having one more hour to live.

  Once the mayor had placed the headmaster’s will and his letter to Guillaume in his battered attaché case, he smiled at Philippe and said, ‘What about you, my friend, have you thought about making a will?’

  ‘What’s the point,’ said the doctor, ‘when I’d have to leave everything to you just to clear my gambling debts, and that there still wouldn’t be enough to pay your fee.’

  ‘Prison visits are pro bono,’ said the mayor with a chuckle.

  Philippe leant on the table and placed his head in his hands as the lawyer began writing a third will. The doctor’s thoughts drifted back to Celeste as they so often did when he was alone. She’d be middle-aged by now, and he won
dered if she was still married to Victor Bonnard. Did they have any children? Had they migrated to their home in the country after the Germans had marched down the Champs-Elysées? Had the Palladian mansion been requisitioned by the German High Command? Not a day went by when Celeste didn’t creep into his thoughts.

  Once the mayor had completed a document of which he was the only beneficiary – not strictly legal, but who would know – he swivelled it round for Philippe to sign. Claude and André added their signatures without comment.

  ‘Will you be making a will, Max?’ asked Claude.

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ replied the mayor without explanation.

  A strange and eerie silence descended on the cell. Four men lost in their thoughts as the seconds ticked by and they waited to learn their fate.

  The mayor occasionally checked his watch, only to find time was something he couldn’t influence as it progressed on its predetermined course, like a runner on his final lap. No one spoke when the first chime rang out, echoing around the cell. Long before the sixth bell had struck, they all heard the key turning in the lock.

  ‘You can rely on the Germans to be on time,’ said the mayor.

  ‘Especially for a hanging,’ added the banker as he stopped pacing and stared at the door. The mayor placed the deck of cards neatly back on the table. The headmaster sat bolt upright in his bunk, while Philippe continued to think about Celeste. Was he finally going to be released from her spell?

  They all watched apprehensively as the massive door swung open and Captain Hoffman marched into the cell, a large smile on his face.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I hope you all had a good night’s sleep.’

  No one responded as they waited to find out which one of them would be reprieved.

  ‘I have your tickets,’ said Hoffman, before handing each of them a small green billet. ‘We’d better get a move on, as the only train to Saint Rochelle today leaves in about half an hour.’

  The four of them still didn’t move, wondering if they were taking part in some elaborate Teutonic version of gallows humour.

  ‘Can I ask,’ said the doctor, the only one willing to voice what he knew was on all their minds. ‘How many people were injured in last night’s train crash?’

  ‘What train crash?’ Hoffman asked.

  ‘The one that took place yesterday evening. We heard three German officers and three Frenchmen were killed by a bomb that had been planted on the track.’

  ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ said Hoffman. ‘There hasn’t been a bombing on the Saint Rochelle line for several months. A fact that the commandant is particularly proud of. I think you must have had a bad dream, doctor. Let’s get moving, we can’t expect the train to wait for us.’

  Hoffman turned to leave, and the four men reluctantly followed him out of the cell.

  André wondered if he was about to wake up.

  Hoffman led his little band down a long dark corridor, up a steep flight of worn stone steps and out into a sharp morning light that the four of them hadn’t experienced for the past six months. As they walked across the courtyard, their eyes focused on the gallows.

  * * *

  Colonel Müller and his ADC marched into the station and came to a halt in the centre of the platform. When the locals saw them, they immediately scattered to the far ends of the platform, as if the colonel was Moses, parting the Red Sea.

  ‘I’ve allowed the mayor and the three councillors to travel back to Saint Rochelle first-class,’ said the commandant. ‘The occasional concession does no harm if we hope to keep things running smoothly.’

  ‘Is the mayor still onside?’ asked Dieter.

  ‘For the moment, yes,’ responded the commandant.

  ‘But that man would switch sides without a second thought if it suited his purpose.’

  Dieter nodded. ‘And I fear I’m going to have to leave you to deal with the damn man, sir, because I’ve just received orders from Berlin instructing me to join my regiment in East Prussia. It looks as if the Führer has called off an invasion of England, and has decided to attack Russia.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Dieter,’ said the colonel. ‘And I suspect it won’t be too long before I’ll have to join you, and leave the mayor in charge of Saint Rochelle.’

  ‘Perish the thought,’ said Dieter.

  ‘I’d rather the mayor perished,’ the colonel replied as Captain Hoffman marched onto the platform, his four charges in his wake.

  Captain Hoffman walked across to join his colleagues beside the first-class carriage in the centre of the train, while the mayor and the three councillors kept their distance. Hoffman clicked his heels and gave the commandant a Nazi salute. ‘The paperwork has been completed, sir, and as instructed, they’ve been issued with first-class tickets.’

  ‘Don’t acknowledge them,’ said the colonel as he turned his back on the mayor. ‘No need to give the partisans any reason to suspect we have someone on the inside.’

  ‘Frankly, I wish I could send the mayor to the Eastern Front,’ said Hoffman.

  ‘Amen to that,’ said Dieter as the three German officers boarded the first compartment in the first-class carriage.

  ‘Say nothing,’ whispered the mayor to his three colleagues, ‘until we’re on board, when no one else can overhear us.’

  The four Frenchmen waited until everyone else had got into the second-class carriages before they climbed into the last compartment in first-class, leaving an empty compartment between themselves and the three Germans.

  The mayor placed his briefcase on the rack above him, and settled down in a corner seat.

  ‘Max, I’ve been thinking about my will,’ said Tessier, who sat down opposite him, ‘and I’ve decided I’d like to make a few changes.’

  ‘Why?’ demanded the mayor, staring innocently across the carriage at the banker.

  ‘Circumstances have changed.’

  ‘But you gave your word to Father Pierre—’ The mayor stopped in mid-sentence, aware that he’d raised the one subject none of them wanted to discuss.

  3

  The two resistance fighters picked up the bomb the moment the sun disappeared behind a solitary cloud. They crept out of the forest, moved stealthily down the grassy slope and planted it in the middle of the track.

  The older man began to walk backwards, unwinding a wheel of fuse wire, until they were once again safely out of sight. Once the correct length of wire had been cut and attached to the detonator they both slithered back down the slope and spent the next twenty minutes covering the exposed wire with bracken, stones and tufts of grass.

  ‘Just in case an observant driver spots the wire glinting in the sun,’ Marcel explained to his latest recruit.

  Once the job was done to the older man’s satisfaction, they clambered back up the hill to their hiding place and waited.

  ‘How old are you, Albert?’ asked the resistance commander as he lit a cigarette.

  ‘Sixteen,’ the boy replied.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be at school?’ he teased.

  ‘Not until I’ve seen the last German leave France in a wooden box.’

  ‘Why made you so keen to join our cause?’

  ‘The Germans came in the middle of the night and arrested my mother. Father says we’ll never see her again.’

  ‘What was her crime?’

  ‘Being Jewish.’

  ‘Then it’s your lucky day, Albert, because my contact in Saint Rochelle has assured me that three German officers, including the prison commandant, will be on the train this morning.’

  ‘How will we know which carriage to blow up?’

  ‘That’s easy. German officers always travel first-class, so we are only interested in the carriage in the centre of the train.’

  ‘Won’t some of our own people be injured, even killed by the blast?’ asked Albert.

  ‘Unlikely. Once it’s known there are German officers on a train, the two second-class carriages on ei
ther side of first-class will be deserted.’

  Albert stared at the plunger, his hands trembling.

  ‘Patience, my boy,’ said Marcel as the train rounded the bend and came into sight, billowing clouds of smoke into a clear blue sky. ‘It won’t be long now.’

  Albert placed both hands on the plunger.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Marcel. ‘I’ll tell you when.’

  The young recruit could feel the sweat pouring down his face as the train came closer and closer.

  ‘Any moment now,’ said the older man as the engine clattered over the bomb. ‘Get ready.’ It was only a few seconds, but it felt like a lifetime to Albert, before Marcel gave the order, ‘Now!’

  Albert Bouchard pressed firmly down on the plunger, and watched as the bomb exploded in front of his eyes. As the blast tore through the carriage, a ball of purple and blue flames shot into the air, mixed with shards of glass and debris. The carriage was blown unceremoniously off the track, landing with a thud on the far bank, a mass of twisted, molten metal embedded in the grass. Albert sat there, mesmerized by the scene. His only thought was that no one could possibly have survived. He stared at the other two carriages lying like abandoned children by its side, doors flapping and windows smashed.

  ‘Let’s go, Albert!’ shouted the older man, who was already on his feet. But the boy couldn’t take his eyes off the carnage.

  Marcel grabbed his new recruit by his collar and yanked him up. He quickly disappeared into the forest with young Bouchard following in his footsteps. No longer a schoolboy.

  * * *

  The guard who had been stationed in the rear carriage was among the first on the scene. When he came across the bodies of three German officers, including Colonel Müller, he crossed himself. He moved on and was surprised to find the bodies of three of his countrymen lying nearby. They must have been travelling first-class. But why, he wondered. Everyone had been briefed about the latest directive from the commander of the resistance.

  Next on the scene was the driver, who’d been furthest from the blast.