by Thomas Wood
“Pardon, monsieur. Do you have a light?” I let him light my pipe, giving it several puffs, billowing smoke everywhere, before I loudly pretended that I hadn’t noticed who it was.
“Ah! Christophe! How have you been, my friend?”
We shook hands, as Christopher took another match and pressed it to the tip of the cigarette that hung limply from his lips. It seemed to epitomise him no end, the way his cigarette dangled, just like his arms did from his side and the way that his shoulders were hunched forwards. It was as if he had no real drive, no desire to want to stand tall and proud, and that he was happy just the way that he was.
“So,” he said, not whispering but not really wanting anyone else to hear either, “was that him?”
“Hmm,” I said as I puffed on the pipe, pretending to be interested in all the news that he was catching me up on.
“But that wasn’t his house?”
“No.”
“So, I am right in assuming that was not his wife, either?”
“Certainly not.”
“Naughty man.”
“Quite,” I muttered, the pipe bouncing around in my mouth as I did so. Christopher continued to pretend to regale me with stories about his young niece and nephew and how well they were doing at school, annoyingly loudly as two elderly women passed by on the other side of the street. They did not take too much notice of us, and I was quite sure that they wouldn’t have been able to hear a single thing, they were that old, but Christopher was keen to keep up the charade to the very best of his ability.
“I wonder what he’s doing in there,” he said wistfully looking up the street towards the door that he had disappeared behind.
“I can take a pretty good guess,” I muttered, as I checked over Christopher’s shoulder to make sure there was no one behind. “Am I clear behind me?”
“Yes, why?”
I lifted the front of my shirt up and pulled out the small, well-concealed pistol that had been rubbing against my bladder for the last hour or so. Slowly, I pulled it out, taking a firm grasp of the grip, fearful that I would for some reason end up dropping the article.
Even slower than before, I pulled the top slide back until I heard a slight click, then looked down to make sure I could see a small round waiting in the chamber. I let the slide back forward with a clunk, a little louder than I had anticipated.
“What are you doing?” Christopher said, panicked, his eyes wide and carelessly looking down towards the weapon.
“What do you think? Keep your head up, will you?”
He did as he was told and I noticed that the perspiration was already running down his head, his spectacles sliding forward on his nose, forcing him to push them back into place.
“No. It’s not right. There must be a better way.”
“What do you mean?” I growled, as I withdrew the pipe from my mouth and put a finger over the bowl in an attempt to extinguish it. “This is the perfect way. We’ve just caught the old goat sneaking into some other woman’s house that isn’t his own. If we can confront him here, then we can save a lot of time and effort which, if you recall, we don’t have a lot of.”
He looked as if he was going to cry, but still somehow managed to remain calm and composed and, if someone was to walk past us, they would have had no idea that we were in the middle of a mild disagreement.
“No, there is another way. There is always another way. If you try and blackmail him into some sort of agreement, then he will be more inclined to want to push back against you later on. If we can save him some sort of embarrassment now, then he might be far more helpful in the long run. That is what this is all about isn’t it?” he gesticulated, encompassing the entire street.
“Scoring points against the Germans in the long run. We could score a goal against them now, or we could score a hattrick against them over the next couple of months.”
“What do you propose then?” I growled, frustratingly putting the pistol back down my trousers, carefully so that it didn’t fall down one of my trouser legs.
He thought things through for a moment, the perspiration subsiding as he realised that he was winning the battle, for now. Instead, beads of sweat began to form on my own hands, as I realised that we were now two men, standing in the middle of a street, not saying anything to one another. We were beginning to stick out.
“We will make our way to his home. Then we will simply have to wait for him to return.”
“Alright. There is a phone box a few streets away. I will call Jules and tell him to get the other two to come with us to confront him.”
“No, not confront. Talk to him.”
“Alright then, talk to him,” I was growing frustrated with him and needed desperately to get away from the street and feel like I was getting some fresher air. In the loudest French that I deemed appropriate, I announced that Christopher must join me for a cup of coffee, to continue our catch up, before we made good our escape without looking back.
I felt Christopher relax as we padded away from the house, still clearly worried that I had even considered entering the building with a weapon drawn, but nonetheless encouraged that he had managed to talk me round. He became so relaxed that he even started talking, which did nothing but make me more uptight.
I grew uncomfortable with his questions, as he asked about my family, to the point where I knew I had to redirect the conversation.
“And, Christophe, what about you? What is your background?”
He didn’t seem as uncomfortable about the probing question as I had thought he would have been, especially given the nature of his beliefs, but all in all, he appeared, for the first time, quite open. Almost normal.
“My father, he fought in the first war. Was gassed at Ypres. He was never the same. All I can remember of my childhood was the coughing, sometimes mucus, often blood. Anyway, he died when I was twelve or so. And I vowed to never become involved in fighting a war for as long as I lived.
“Then this old thing kicked off. At first, I stuck to my guns, if you’ll pardon the expression, became a firefighter. All those bombs. Worse than what we had seen the other day.”
For the first time since he started speaking, he broke off, turning away from me and I could clearly see that he was dabbing away at some tears. When he turned to the front again, I could see that he was no longer with me, he was somewhere else, somewhere far more harrowing.
“I’ve seen houses collapse around men as they stepped into them. Fires engulfing entire streets. I’ve seen things that you would never believe.”
I hesitated for a moment as he took in a large gulp of air.
“Oh, I believe them alright. I have seen my fair share of what German bombs can do to a person.”
He looked at me and almost instantly understood. It was the first time that I had any kind of feeling that could have been mistaken for affection for the man.
13
I had never seen so many knees bouncing around in anticipation as I had done while I sat in Raymond Peintre’s living room. The chair that I was in was incredibly comfortable, but every bone in my body seemed as if it was out of place and disjointed, as I realised that until I was out of the house, out of the situation, I would not be able to relax.
Everything that I could think of to distract myself and simply cope with the situation had been employed, and failed, from counting the number of glasses that I could see displayed, to simply closing my eyes and embracing the darkness.
Instead, I had to settle for watching everyone else, and how their nerves manifested. There was a slight comfort in the fact that I was not alone, and that the people that I was with knew exactly what was expected from them and their role in the matter. But there was still the eternal fear that it would be me who messed up, it would be me who failed in their duty.
So far though, everything had gone swimmingly. Madame Peintre had been only too happy to allow these four friends of her husband into her home, to talk to him about his work in a most urgent manner. The
poor lady had no idea that she had just invited four potential killers into her home, who would likely end up threatening her husband to get their way. If she did have an idea, then I doubted very much that we would have been offered as much coffee and sandwiches as she had done.
As Madame Peintre left the room again, I began to think of her husband, and his funny little walk that he possessed as I had followed him around. It was odd that I had seen more of the man’s back than I had his front and wondered what his face would look like once I had been able to survey it.
I could still recall the very first time that I had seen Raymond Peintre’s name, on a crate in the station yard that we had been in to switch labels over. I had no idea at the time that Raymond had been the sole owner of the factory before the war, but now demoted to foreman as German replacements were sourced to oversee the production of engine parts.
Our presence in his house, and what we were about to attempt, was going to be a big risk, but one that we had deemed necessary for success. There was a large chance that he was in regular contact with the Germans about the various goings-on inside the factory, and that all he would have to do would be to mention it to his supervisor the next time he went to work.
It was an eventuality that seemed all the more likely to me once I had seen the house that he was living in. It was virtually palatial, and I could not help but wonder how a man, even one who owned an entire factory, would be able to afford the place that he called home.
I had never seen such vibrant and exquisite colours hanging from windows until I found myself enthralled by the Peintre’s curtains, some window panes quite clearly brand new. I questioned what kind of a man that we were confronting that was able to replace the glass in his windows as quickly as they were blasted out.
The door to the living room was shut tight, but we were still able to hear the crunch of the front door as it was opened and closed, and the shuffle of Peintre’s wife as she scurried past the door to greet her husband.
We all looked at one another, preparing ourselves for what was about to happen. The plan that we had was in place, but I could only wonder at how far awry it was going to go. All manner of things might happen, up to and including an arrest party bounding through the door. If that was the case, then I knew it would have been my fault; Christopher and I had stood in that street for too long. We had aroused suspicion.
There was a muttering out in the hallway, as a man’s voice, strained and concerned, gruffly berated his wife for simply letting the men in. They could have been anyone after all. She ought to have been more careful.
She promised never to do such a thing again and shuffled back down the hallway.
I almost felt the big exhale of breath as Raymond Peintre placed his hand on the door handle and turned, as everyone on the other side of the door did exactly the same thing.
The first thing I noticed about the man was that he had a face that I had not been expecting. I did not know why, but his posture and stature was one that told me that he had been in possession of an old, wearisome face, one that should have been weathered and battered.
But, in actual fact, he seemed quite young, his skin pale and soft and, had it not been for the great bushy beard that dangled from his chin, he would have perhaps looked younger still.
His eyes grew wide at the sight of the men in his house, but he was not overly concerned. It was almost as if he had come to expect this sort of thing.
The only hint of fear that I could glean from his expression was when Mike glided in behind him, closing the door and shutting off his exit. Even I had to admit that the fear would close in then. No man likes to have his only exit point cut off.
“Raymond Peintre?” I asked confidently, standing from the chair and placing my hands behind my back, as if I was a barrister.
He said nothing, but stared back at me defiantly, his frame far smaller than mine but as he puffed his chest out, he seemed to grow to the point where he had the upper hand.
“My name is Jean Pelletier. We are here to talk to you about your factory.”
Still, he refused to speak, but silently manoeuvred around the room until he found a spot to sit. He withdrew a packet of cigarettes and lit one, before finally acknowledging that I was in the room by motioning me to continue.
“The Allies have been bombing around the local area for a considerable amount of time, causing a great amount of devastation and loss of life. This has happened without much of the factory being hit and with negligible effects on the production of engine parts for the German war machine.”
He continued to stare at me, with no significant look on his face, apart from one of slight annoyance that he was already aware of the situation that had befallen his local area.
“In short, Monsieur Peintre, we would like your help in stopping the German ability to use your factory, without the need for significant bombing raids from the RAF.”
I could sense the growing frustration around the room, even Christopher, a recently converted pacifist was shuffling around, his knuckles tightening as I saw him lining up a decent punch to the man’s nose.
Despite the obvious tension, Raymond Peintre seemed intent on finishing his first cigarette, all the while keeping a firm stare with me, before he made any kind of noise. Once finished, he stubbed it out in a tray to his left, before withdrawing the packet again and lighting a second cigarette.
Just as I thought that we were going to have to wait for him to smoke his way through an entire packet before we made any progress, he spoke. His voice was inevitably rough and gravelly, the result of years of chain-smoking his way through any stressful situation, but what he said was neither an offence to my ears or music to them.
“I want the Germans out of my country as much as the next Frenchman. I despise them for what they have taken from me, and my family, but I don’t know you. You could be anyone. So no, I won’t help you, unless you can prove who you are.”
There was a swift movement from somewhere in my peripheral vision, and I was not too surprised to see that it had been Mike that had snapped first.
His pistol was drawn and soon pressing into the temple on Peintre’s head, the veins popping out to the surface of his skin as Mike pressed deeper into it.
“Does this prove who we are for you? Would the Germans do this to you if it was some sort of trap?”
Peintre remained calm, and even had the audacity to bring the cigarette to his lips for a drag.
“Yes. Of course, they would. Only they wouldn’t lose control like that. They would have done it far more calmly.”
Christopher got up from his chair and gently pulled at Mike’s shoulders, lowering the pistol as he did so. Mike got the message and tucked the pistol away again, taking a leaf out of Peintre’s book and lighting up a cigarette to calm himself down. Before too long it was difficult to see what was going on, there seemed to be that much smoke in the room.
Christopher smiled sympathetically at the man, before taking a chair opposite him and introducing himself.
“I’m Christophe Hanot. Excuse my friends, they are tired of the war.”
“We all are,” Peintre said, to which Christopher scoffed, not in a mocking way, but an understanding one.
“Look, my friend,” he said, looking up to see if he had got any kind of negative reaction, “we need your help. Too many people are dying around here. And it is because of your factory. If we were able to verify who we claim to be, then would you consider helping us?”
He looked around nervously, stubbing his cigarette out with one final flourish.
“Are you from Britain?”
“What makes you say that?”
“No Frenchman that I know would be so heavy-handed in their approach to a matter such as this.”
Christophe smirked and shrugged, conceding that his compatriots had not gone about things in the best way.
“Then yes, we were sent by London.”
He still did not seem convinced. As he thought about whether he
should light another cigarette, Christopher was growing impatient.
“Do you listen to Radio Londres?”
“Of course, everyone does. I daresay even the Germans do.”
“Then give us a message. We can get it transmitted for you. Then you will know that we are who we say we are. Not just some phoneys.”
As Christopher spoke, there was a knock on the front door. Everyone turned to each other in panic, convinced that one side had set the other up. Peintre looked to me as if to question whether I had any other friends preparing to drop by, while we all glared at him as if he had somehow set us up.
With horror billowing from all of our eyes, we heard the dutiful Madame Peintre slide towards the door, before greeting whoever it was that was there. We all prayed that she heeded the advice of her husband but either the visitor was persistent, or Peintre’s wife had a shorter memory than a goldfish.
As the figure walked into the room, I felt sick to my stomach as I saw his face. In actuality, there were worse persons that could have joined us at that moment in time but Philippe, one of the local police officers, was not a face that I particularly enjoyed seeing.
It took him a moment or two to realise who we were, which was understandable as we had normally seen him when covered in a thick coating of brick dust the night after a heavy air raid.
“You?” he mumbled, before taking a slight step backwards. It was futile, the same plan had been put into action the second that he walked through the door; Mike was already blocking his only exit.
There was a brief moment of panic on everyone’s face, as we wondered what was going to happen next but, fortunately, Mike did not seem so determined to draw his pistol again.
“What’s going on here?”
“Salut, Philippe,” Peintre said, rising from his chair and taking the officer’s hand. “Please, sit.”
The police officer obliged, knowing that he did not really have too many other options at his disposal. But it seemed to diffuse the situation somewhat.
