by Desmond Cory
Everybody seemed to be behaving normally, or as normally as one does behave at an officers’ reunion party. In the chair facing him was Mariot, frowning perplexedly into his glass and tapping the stem nervously with long, slim fingers. His fair, glossy hair was brushed straight back from the high forehead and gleamed in the electric light. Rambert was sitting on the arm of the same chair, talking in a low voice about the Black Market and the best places to buy clothing. Antoine smiled internally. Rambert hadn’t changed much since the war.
The Colonel had, though. Greyer, thinner in the face, more nervous; he was standing by the door chewing the ends of his thin, grey military moustache and looking straight at the opposite wall. Dupont was getting a bit long in the tooth now, but still every inch a soldier; there were seventy-five of them, Antoine remembered. Occasionally he murmured an answer to the conversation of his companion, mainly in monosyllables; once he looked round, saw Antoine regarding him and hurriedly looked away again.
Antoine raised one eyebrow thoughtfully and sipped his cognac – Pinot: from the War Crimes Commission; still tubby, unsmiling, yet talkative; chubby in the face but with cool, unconcerned grey eyes that seemed alarmingly incongruous, one never quite got used to them. And Delacroix: lean, saturnine, mercilessly efficient, wearing on his lapel the insignia of the Croix de Guerre. Beautifully-tailored clothes and a superb figure under them, broad-shouldered, with thin hips and a Gallically supple waist, the waist of a professional athlete.
Antoine reflected that he had never liked Delacroix; wondered why not, and if it could be jealousy. When one’s own tummy consists largely of oddly-assorted lengths of lead piping it is easy to be envious of a waist like that.
He shrugged and turned once more to the cognac bottle. Pinot saw him turn out of the corner of his eye and said in a low voice:
“He’s watching us like a hawk, you know. I think he suspects something.”
Delacroix said appreciatively: “I think he senses it. A most extraordinary man, that… I am sorry about this.”
Dupont sighed. He said: “Yes. So are we all. But what can one do? He deserves no sympathy.”
Delacroix grunted. He said: “Well, let’s get it over, then.” Dupont looked at him and then at Pinot. He nodded slowly.
“Very well.”
He walked forwards to the fireplace with the long, slow pace of an infantryman; Rambert glanced up at him and rose to his feet, followed by Mariot. Antoine looked round casually, then also got up. Dupont noticed that his eyes were surprised and had narrowed involuntarily, like a cat’s; that his feet were apart and very slightly tensed. He thought that Antoine knew what was coming and glanced warningly at Delacroix, leaning against the door.
He rested his weight against the fireplace and coughed once into the silence.
“Well – gentlemen,” he said, “you all, I think, know that this is more than the usual reunion dinner of the officers of the late Dupont Brigade. You all know what we have to do this evening and we have all agreed that it must be done.”
He paused. Antoine said: “I haven’t the slightest idea, Colonel.”
Dupont looked at him dispassionately. He said: “Haven’t you?”
For perhaps twenty seconds they looked at each other, then Dupont continued in the same soft, even voice: “We have recently learnt that five years ago you gave yourself up to the Germans and volunteered information concerning our raid on the Duclos Works. That’s all.”
Antoine sat down again rather awkwardly and said:
“This is interesting. Please go on, Colonel.”
Dupont looked away from him towards Pinot, then said: “We all know what happened on the Duclos raid. The Boches were waiting for us and blew hell out of us; but for that raid there’d be five other officers here, all of whom were our friends; not to mention the Englishman, Captain Gus. It was obvious that information had been given, but we did not know – until two days ago – who had given it. That is why I called this meeting.”
Antoine drew on his cigarette and said: “Am I supposed to have given this information?”
Dupont said: “Didn’t you?”
There was a long pause. Then Antoine said very slowly: “God knows. I have always believed that I didn’t, but – anyway, the suggestion that I gave myself up and volunteered the information is ridiculous.”
Dupont said: “You’d better have a look at this. It’s the translation from a German original. It’s perfectly clear.”
Antoine reached out and took the letter. It was typewritten on a single sheet of notepaper and was unsigned:
SECRET.
28th September, 1944.
From: O.C. 9th S.S.. Bde.
To: O.C. Concentration Camp, Siegen.
Antoine Emile Gervais.
Jean-Gustave Leblanc.
“These men have recently surrendered to the Geheimstaatspolizei and have voluntarily given information of the greatest value. They will be treated as privileged prisoners in accordance with LB 7043/2, and may be sent under suitable escort to Camp Headquarters at Marburg. ― Acknowledge.”
“The original signature,” said Dupont wearily, “was that of Colonel Boehm. I’ve compared the writing with other documents bearing Boehm’s signature and it’s genuine.”
Antoine refolded the paper and handed it back. He was puzzled and looked it. He said: “This is very strange.”
“Very,” agreed Dupont. “I was puzzled for some time as to your motive for such an action, but Delacroix has provided one which I am satisfied is correct… In fact, every one of us here agrees to your undoubted guilt, and the only reason for this meeting is to hear what you have to say.”
Antoine sat back, surveying Dupont intently. “All I have to say is that, in spite of that remarkable document, I didn’t volunteer anything. As you know, they bashed me about so that I remember next to nothing of what happened, and the idea has always been at the back of my mind that I might have talked. But to say that I volunteered information, that I gave myself up to do so – that’s ridiculous…”
“Yet that letter does say that.”
“Maybe. But if anybody thinks I got privileged treatment at Siegen he’d better have a look at my tummy – that’s if my face isn’t enough proof.”
Dupont looked at the thin face with the long white scars across the forehead, at the broken nose and the unevenness of the bones where Antoine’s jaw had been telescoped. He said: “You got what you deserved, Gervais. That letter was never sent; it was found in the files at S.S. Headquarters when Jules here was investigating Boehm’s papers. At that stage of the war the German communication system was badly disorganised, even in Germany. Obviously, that letter didn’t get priority.”
Antoine looked at Pinot. He said: “Is that right, Jules?”
Pinot nodded. He said: “I’m afraid so. I’m responsible for all this, Antoine.”
Dupont said tersely: “You did your duty. This letter explains a lot.”
Antoine said: “Such as –?”
“Why you were picked up by the Gestapo when nobody could have told them where you were – except you yourself. How the Boches knew as much about our plan of attack as we did. It might even explain your association with le rossignol before you joined us.”
Antoine said quickly: “No!” Then: “None of us knew what she was then. Not I, nor anyone else. That’s one thing I can deny outright.”
“Well,” said Dupont. “That’s a matter of no importance. All that matters is that you had opportunity, means and motive to give us away and that we have decided that you did so,”
Antoine realised that his cigarette was burning his fingers and stubbed it out carefully. He said: “What’s the motive supposed to be? The Gaston woman?”
“There was another woman,” said Dupont, “and another man, too. Lieutenant Picard was leading that attack, as you very well remember.”
Antoine said very casually: “So he was. I begin to see what you’re driving at.”
Dupont said: “All righ
t. We’ll leave it at that.” He looked slowly round the room as if seeing it for the first time. “When we held our meeting before Captain Gervais arrived, gentlemen, we decided that the punishment should be, could only be, death. Have any of you decided otherwise since then?
Pinot shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, but remained as silent as the rest. Antoine looked quizzically from one face to another, outwardly unconcerned, but inwardly not liking the situation at all.
Dupont’s sudden exhalation of breath was almost like an explosion in the stillness.
“Very well,” he said. Then, more formally: “Captain Gervais, you have been court-martialled by your fellow officers and found guilty of treason, for which crime you have been condemned to death. From this particular Court, which I need hardly say is unofficial, there is no appeal.
“I therefore suggest that you act in accordance with the traditions of the French Army, and commit suicide in the manner becoming a gentleman.” He took a light .32 pistol from his pocket and weighed it tentatively in, his hand. “If you refuse, Captains Mariot and Delacroix will take you into the garden and carry out the execution – which will be considered by the police as suicide… In this way, the honour of both the Dupont Brigade and of your wife and relations will be preserved. You understand?”
Antoine said wickedly: “You have never before considered me slow on the uptake, Colonel.”
Dupont said: “I have always before considered you as a man of whose friendship I was proud and as a credit to the country I serve. Whenever I have heard rumours I have ignored them. I am more sorry than I can say that I have been proved wrong.”
“Thank you, Colonel. May I say that I, too, have valued your friendship highly?… Now give me your pistol.”
There was a muffled click from the doorway, the click of a safety-catch being pushed forwards. It was at once repeated from farther along the wall. The pistols in the hands of Delacroix and Mariot were levelled at Antoine’s chest.
Dupont handed the pistol to Antoine. “You see how it is,” he said, “no tricks. Delacroix and Mariot will escort you into the garden and watch you carry out the operation.”
Antoine held the pistol in his left hand and looked at the long blue steel barrel, pointing at the carpet. The safety-catch was already off; he shrugged and pulled at the sleeve, pumping a round up into the chamber. He looked again at Dupont, still leaning against the fireplace and staring into the far corner of the room, and the pistol, held apparently negligently in his left hand, casually aligned itself with a point high above Dupont’s head.
He said: “No tricks, Colonel,” and threw his right arm up until it was straight in front of him and shouted at the top of his voice: “Heil Hitler!”
Then shot the light out.
There was a pause of perhaps half a second before the sharp crack of Delacroix’s pistol and the answering slam of Mariot’s. You can move the hell of a long way in half a second – under certain circumstances. Nevertheless, the whip of the first bullet fanned Antoine’s wrist as he shot sideways; then he felt a staggering jolt of agony in the right side as Mariot’s shot hit him. There was a second shot from Delacroix; Antoine heard it smack into the wall behind him while he was actually in mid-air. He went through the window with a splintering crash that sounded to him like the end of the world, and fell blindly through the darkness for fifteen feet.
He landed heavily, did a Judo-roll forwards and came up on his feet, still clutching the pistol in his left hand. He stood doubled up for a second as the first wave of pain from the bullet wound in his side really hit him, and heard through a fog of agony the confused shouts and directions from the room above. Then he set off at a shambling run across the lawn towards the garage, still bent double and clutching at his side with a hand already dripping with blood. He was cursing in a low but audible voice, a monotonous stream of monosyllables without a second’s pause in between them; but, oddly enough, he was happier than he had been at any time since the commencement of the Dupont Brigade’s reunion party.
He had been the last arrival – which fact no longer surprised him – and his car was at the end of the line that was drawn up at the side of the gravel drive. It was facing outwards, too; pointing towards the road, for which trifling circumstance Antoine felt more grateful than anything else in his life. He reached it; stood leaning against the door panting and sobbing, then dragged it open and pulled himself inside with an effort of the will rather than of the muscles. He leaned forwards, resting his head against the dashboard, and fumbled with the ignition key until he felt, rather than heard, the engine throb into life.
His head was on the dashboard and he couldn’t move it. He wrestled frantically with the muscles of his neck, but the dashboard was as comfortable as a pillow and his head had decided to stay there; the instruments straight before his eyes were reeling to and fro in a fantastic Dance of the Hours. He began to cry because he couldn’t move his head; he felt in some extraordinary way that it had let him down.
Then there was a muffled crack from somewhere behind and an angry spang as the bullet leapt away from the metalled chassis. The reflex lifted up his head and tensed his shouder-blades unbearably, and the next second the car was rolling forward and gathering momentum. From far behind came a fusillade of shots that whistled past him and rattled against the car before singing off into the night – then he was past the house gates, touching one of the posts and knocking it slightly sideways; had turned into the road; and the bumbling of the motor had changed into a confident roar. The hedges to either side began to gather speed until they were flashing past him like tracer-bullets at midnight.
Now that Antoine’s head was up, everything was infinitely better; his vision, always good, was clearing, and when he glanced down at the instrument-board the dials were still; slightly misty, true, but still. He was driving automatically, as a lorry-driver drives in his sleep, but control of his muscles had returned. After a few moments’ experimentation he found those that were tensing his shoulder-blades, relaxed them, and felt almost comfortable. He began to consider his next move.
He had not much doubt that he was being pursued; but his car was a beauty and, providing he lasted out the trip, he should gain on the pursuit all the way to Paris. But he was equally sure that Paris meant not safety, but further danger. He was widely known there and, once the word that he was a traitor had gone round the Maquisard grape-vine, he estimated his chances of survival there as about a hundred to one. He remembered what had happened to Cadell last year; two days after the news had gone round that he had worked with the Germans, his bullet-riddled body had been fished out of the Seine. The police had made no arrest, of course. It was nothing but the innate instinct of self-preservation that had made him get out of Dupont’s house as he had done; that, and the feeling that there was something fishy about the entire business. Sooner or later, he supposed, they were bound to get him, but if he played it carefully, something might be done about this situation.
Dupont’s house. It was situated less than a mile north of Melun; Antoine had driven straight out on to the Paris road purely through instinct, and he now wished vaguely that he had not done so. The first step was obviously to get rid of the car where it would not be found for some little time…
Yes, he knew the place. That was the plan of action, then. That was all right.
He decided to carry out an inventory of his wounds; he was soaking wet, but he was by no means certain what was sweat and what was blood. The cloth around his hips was clammy and was beginning to cake around the ache in his right side; that was blood all right, but not very much of it. There was a good deal more blood on the floor of the car, and his right hand was wet with it. He discovered that it was trickling down his forehead from a minor cut just below the commencement of his hair.
Exploring his arm with more care, he found a great gash in the sleeve below the elbow and a three-inch cut in the flesh, which, he now realised, had been throbbing painfully all the while. The rest, he con
cluded, was sweat. He found a handkerchief with a tremorless left hand and forced it inside his shirt as near as he could get to the bullet-hole; licked his lips and settled down to driving as fast as he dared. It was essential that he reached his destination before he lost too much blood. The broken glass of the window was likely to do more harm than the bullet-wound itself.
Antoine began to study the sides of the road, looking for the by-path that he had in mind as a refuge. It was, he remembered, just the other side of a tiny village, the name of which he had forgotten. One day in 1944, in the summer, he and a friend had driven there, had had an enormous country meal, free from the food restrictions of war-time Paris; then had turned down the cart-track that wound away from the road and had spent the night there. A single nightingale in the depths of that wood had sung for hours on end – a love-song that, if he’d had any sense, he’d have recognised as the clearest of warnings. He smiled ironically as he remembered his companion, Marcelline Gaston. Le rossignol, in fact. The owner of the village estaminet had known they were members of the Diamond Group and nothing had been too good for them. And le rossignol, she had been too good for him in a completely different sense… A spasm of pain ran up his spine and tightened his sardonic grin to a stiff and agonised rictus.
God! he thought, this isn’t good. He clenched his hands so that the knuckles were white on the steering-wheel, felt another spasm coming up from his stomach and flowing over him… Not nearly so good. Blast that bullet.
He fumbled inside his shirt and pulled out the handkerchief, now sticky and soaking red. He looked down at it and saw that his right thigh was also red, the cloth of the trouser-legs dripping with the blood that it had previously concealed. It was worse than he had imagined.