by Desmond Cory
He stared out of the windshield again, at the road, black in the head-lamps and blotched occasionally with the white blurs that were insects flashing by. He looked at the dashboard clock and noted the time: eleven forty-seven. He wished he had noticed the time when he had started, so that he would have some rough idea of how far he had travelled. The village was, he knew, some twelve miles from Dupont’s house, and he had already covered what seemed like a hundred.
Then, even while he was calculating, he saw the pale, luminous glow of a farmhouse wall in the headlights and knew that he was there.
He went through the village at fifty miles an hour and did not slow up until he was well clear of all the houses. Then he began to search feverishly for the cart-track on the right-hand side of the road; in daylight he would have known exactly where to turn, but the darkness was deceptive. He had cruised up the road for some three hundred yards before he saw the ruts turning off the road on to the track that he was looking for. Then he swung the steering-wheel over and turned the car on to the side-road.
He had forgotten how terribly rough the track was. The first jolt made his stomach turn over and brought sweat to his forehead and to the palms of his hands; then he was in the ruts and half a minute of agony, which he afterwards compared to the efforts at fraternisation of the Siegen Gestapo. All the time he was trying to reach the switch to turn off the headlamps, but his hand was wandering aimlessly in the air as if independent of bodily control. At the top of the lane, where it twisted to the left, was an enormous clump of bushes; with what was the equivalent of a dying effort, he trod on the accelerator and headed the car into the midst of the thicket. It went in with a noise like a rogue-elephant on the rampage, advanced some ten yards through angrily whipping brambles, then stopped with the engine roaring defiantly.
Antoine stopped the car and switched off the headlights, then managed to push the door open enough to get his head out. At least, he only meant to put his head out; but somehow his body overbalanced and he fell forwards, hitting the door-handle with his elbow as he went, and landing on his face and shoulders. He lay there and was hopelessly, miserably sick. He was aware of nothing but the vomit streaming from his mouth and nose, and of the fact that his head was attached to his body by the thinnest imaginable thread of what felt like catgut. His eyes were tightly closed, but even behind his eyelids the world was rolling over and over in an incredible spatial parabola and he was rolling with it.
He returned to full consciousness only when his ears picked up the angry thrum of a high-powered engine far off in the night; and he felt sufficiently recovered to crawl the few yards towards the edge of the thicket that gave him a clear view of part of the road. He lay there breathing heavily and focusing his eyes with some difficulty on the black outline of the road; then the growl of the approaching car suddenly increased to a roar and it shot past, the head-lamps cleaving a path of dazzling light across the country.
Antoine saw in the dimly-lit interior the faces of Delacroix, hunched in the driving-seat, and of Colonel Dupont beside him, both frozen in attitudes of impossible immobility. Almost before the wind of the car had ceased to disturb the leaves on the hedge there came an answering snarl as Mariot’s four-seater flashed into sight, Mariot driving, with Rambert and a shadowy Pinot in the back seat. Then it vanished like a breath of air, leaving only a dying murmur that faded imperceptibly into the quiet rustling of the night.
Antoine gave a triumphant little chuckle and pushed himself up on to one elbow. After a painful attempt to turn round and crawl backwards to the car, he levered himself right over and lay on his back, so that the trellis of the thicket was directly in front of his eyes, silhouetted against the frosty stillness of the summer stars; all of which seemed to Antoine to be also lying on their backs, floating idly in a sky of midnight blue. He chuckled again at the thought and closed his eyes. He felt incredibly peaceful…
When I have lain here a little longer, he thought, I must get up and make tracks. By to-morrow morning I’ll be a marked man, with half France after me; so to-night I’ll have to find my hide-out, and it will have to be a good one. Where can I go now?…
No idea. He yawned. Here’s as good as anywhere. Nobody knows of this spot but me; just me and le rossignol and Picard and one or two other rough diamonds – and they’re all dead except me. Even Marcelline. Even Picard…
Yes. That was a nasty thing.
There was another woman, and another man, too. Lieutenant Picard was leading that attack, as you very well remember. God, as I very well remember. God, if I could only have forgotten!
… Who was leading this attack, Captain?
… Who is leading this attack, Captain?
Then the blow in the face, the brutal blow and the blood trickling, and the hardness of the stone flagstones on the face. Then the questions again: Who is leading this attack? – When is this attack – How many men? – What armaments? – Who? – Why? – What? – When? – Where? – and all the time no answer.
No answer, or was there? Yes, I’d give anything to know the answer to that one. If I had, no one would blame me, surely? But I didn’t. I’m sure I didn’t. I didn’t give away Picard. He was my friend before he was my rival. – Hell! – He was my friend all the time. If Dupont told Simone that, showed her that letter, would she believe him?
She said when I came back that it was I she always loved, never Picard, never any of the others, only me; and we were married within a month. But would she believe that I, that I, would do a thing like that…
He opened his eyes then and saw her standing over him, her profile remote yet clear in the starlight.
She said: “Darling, I knew you were here.”
He cleared his throat with a little rasp. He said: “Has Dupont seen you yet? Tell me.”
“Of course,” she said. “A long time ago. I know all about it.”
“He told you… that I gave away Gustave to the Boches, Gustave and all our friends, because I wanted him out of the way, because I was jealous of him, him and you. Was that what he told you?”
She was smiling now. “Yes,” she said.
“You don’t believe him?”
“No, of course not,” she said. She bent lower so that a wisp of her hair brushed his face. “I would never believe anything bad of you, sweetheart, especially not from those men, they who are all jealous of you… I’m very conceited, aren’t I?”
He laughed softly. “Very. The letter – what about the letter?”
“I don’t know. I can’t understand that letter. I can’t understand anything of this matter except that I love you! Antoine, you must find out what this letter is about, why it was written. Then no one will accuse you of such things.”
Of course, that was the thing to do. Skulking in hiding would lead to nothing. He said: “I’ll find out, somehow.”
She said: “Yes, darling, find out. I’ll wait for you. But I must go now. Good-bye.”
She stood up and, as Antoine reached out for her, was gone. Even as he sat up to look for her, he felt his eyes closing and the night was more peaceful than before.
He slept quietly with his head in the ditch and the blood slowly clotting in the wound – slept and did not dream any more.
CHAPTER THREE
IT was the sun that eventually awoke Antoine, the sun glaring into his eyes and the distant sound of church bells from the village. He opened his eyes, screwing them up against the sunlight, and for a moment lay still, considering his position. From his Maquisard days he had retained the function of knowing, as he woke up, exactly where he was and what he was doing, and the discovery that his head was resting in an inch of slime and that his whole body was aching intolerably occasioned him no surprise. His first action was to sit upright and to examine with some care the wound in his side.
The bullet had passed just beneath the bottom rib and had come out on a level with the hip-bone; but had not, apparently, touched it. It was obviously a flesh wound, unpleasant and painful, but already
clotting and presenting no surgical problems. Antoine gently replaced his shirt, stiff as cardboard with dried blood, and got to his knees preparatory to crawling back to the car. It was then that he heard the twig snap.
He twisted sideways and lay in the shadow of the nearest bush, straining the stiffness in his side. He remembered that his pistol was still in the car where he had dropped it, cursed silently and glanced at his wrist watch. It was still going, and the hands indicated five minutes past twelve.
He wondered how they had got on to his hiding-place so quickly. He should have started earlier; he had not meant to go to sleep at all, but even so – it was almost as if they had known where to look.
Then he heard a voice, so close that it almost made him jump.
“Monsieur Gervais. Where are you?”
It was a woman’s voice, and for a second Antoine thought that it was Simone – that he was still dreaming, Then he saw through a gap in the leaves the hem of a plum-coloured skirt and the brown sheen of a silk stocking, and heard the voice again.
“Captain Gervais – I’m a friend. I haven’t got a gun. If you’re here, will you come out?”
It wasn’t Simone. He didn’t know who the hell it was. But it was someone who knew where to find him.
Then the skirt vanished from sight and twigs crackled underfoot again. Antoine attempted to wriggle forward, but realised it was impossible without breaking the bullet-wound open. Then he saw the skirt again, ten feet away; beneath it were brown shoes, cut very low, and above it a pale silk blouse. Only the girl’s face was hidden.
He said quickly: “Stand still and don’t move. I’ve got a gun and I’m feeling rather nervous.”
The brown shoes stayed still. Then the girl’s hands moved upwards and out of sight.
Antoine moved, crouching, clear of the bush; he slipped one hand into his coat-pocket and pointed a finger in the approved gangster fashion. Even that, he thought, might work with a girl. He stood upright, pushed through an overhanging branch and faced her. He said: “Who are you and what do you want – if those aren’t personal questions?”
Two friendly grey eyes surveyed him perplexedly. She said: “I’m Marie-Andrée Duveyrier and I don’t want anything in particular. But you look as if you might be hurt.”
Antoine said: “I feel as if I might be hurt. But why should that worry you?”
She shrugged and smiled. “Feminine curiosity.”
“Oh, quite. Are you alone?”
“Yes, I rely on you not to take advantage of the fact.”
“I’m not in a position to take advantage of anything, even if I did not consider the fact,” said Antoine courteously, “almost incredible. Putting compliments aside for a moment, you knew my name. How?”
“I found your car. Your wallet was on the floor, also a gun of some kind and rather more blood than I’m accustomed to seeing in people’s cars. I was afraid you’d be dead in the bushes.”
“Assuming that to be true,” said Gervais thoughtfully, “you’ve got considerable nerve, young lady.”
The girl said: “Not really. I’ve heard your name before. You were awarded the Croix de Guerre last year, I believe.”
“Quite correct. You must read the papers closely.”
“I’m a reporter.”
“A reporter, eh?” said Antoine, amused. “Well, I’ll give you the story some other time, if I may. I must go now.”
“Oh, no,” said the girl, “I must hear all about this. I’m interested. And you ought to have a doctor quickly.”
“Yes, yes. If you step slightly to one side I can get past.”
The girl said: “Captain, Gervais, I told you a lie just now. I said that I hadn’t a gun. I have yours. Look.”
The hand holding it was remarkably steady.
“And you,” she continued, “lied to me. You haven’t got a gun, Captain. I really think I shall have to hear all about this.”
Antoine said: “Um.” He looked the girl slowly up and down. The outfit she was wearing made her appear astonishingly young, but her forehead was intelligent and the eyes, though still warm and friendly, were far from young – they were eyes that had seen things. Her general appearance was such as to encourage looking up and down almost to infinity. Antoine saw the dark provocative curl dipping over the left cheek and shrugged. He said:
“All right. What do you suggest?”
“My car’s on the track here. I suggest we get in… By the way, don’t come any nearer than that, will you? You look the type to rob an innocent girl of her firearms… We’ll drive into Paris, get you a doctor, and you can tell me what happened on the way.”
Antoine said: “I’d like to oblige you; but if I’m to be killed, I should like you to do it now. The Maquis are after me.”
The girl said slowly: “Oh, so that’s it!”
“For betraying them to the Boches during the war,” he added grimly. “I’ve no doubt it’ll all be in your paper tomorrow.”
“Did you do that?”
Antoine said: “No, I didn’t. Unfortunately, they have what looks suspiciously like proof that I did.”
“I see,” said the girl. “That naturally makes things difficult. What is this proof? Let’s have it from the beginning. Please sit down if you want to.”
Antoine did want to; standing up for even so short a time was making his head swim. He sat down on the ground and the girl sat cross-legged five feet away, resting the butt of the pistol on her right knee. He rested his back against the bole of a shrub and, after a moment’s reflection, gave a reasonably lucid account of the events of the preceding evening. Half-way through the narration she threw him a cigarette and watched him while he lit it.
“That was all,” he finally concluded. “I just bawled out ‘Heil Hitler!’ and was through the window before they’d recovered from their surprise. Almost before,” he corrected himself ruefully, “I drove off and hid here.”
She was silent for a few seconds considering his statement. Then she said: “What are you planning to do?”
Antoine said: “I don’t know. I hope to find out the truth about that letter somehow, why Boehm wrote it and what happened to it afterwards. It makes quite a problem.”
She nodded and said: “I’m inclined to believe you, for some curious reason. It sounds to me like the truth.”
“It’s the truth, yes. The thing is to prove it. Somehow I must get in touch with Boehm before the others catch me again.”
“I see. Well, your best way of getting in touch with Boehm is to let the others get hold of you. He was executed last month.”
Antoine whistled softly to himself. “That complicates matters.”
“It does, rather,” agreed the girl. She reversed the pistol in her hand and held it out to him, butt first. “Here’s your pistol.”
Antoine took it and slipped it into his pocket with a “Thank you.”
“Look,” said the girl thoughtfully. “Your plans seem to me to be a trifle vague. I suggest you drive back to Paris with me and lie up for a bit. Our reporter from the War Crimes Commission is coming back in a few days and there’s a chance that he may be able to give you some line on this matter. What do you think?”
Antoine shook his head. “No,” he said, “they’ll be on the look-out for me in Paris. Besides… I look rather conspicuous, if you see what I mean.”
“You look an absolute wreck. They won’t find you if I put you up, though. There’s no connection between us.”
Antoine looked at her curiously. “Why should you do a thing like that?”
The girl said: “I’m not quite sure. Except that there may be a scoop in this, that I believe you’re not a traitor and that I like you. How about it?”
Antoine placed the cigarette in his mouth and took three long drags before replying.
“Very well. I’ll come with you until my wounds have healed up enough to permit me free movement again, and then I’ll leave… I need hardly say how grateful I am. I only hope this won’t cause any tro
uble for you.”
The girl stood up. “I don’t see how it can, providing you stay put.”
Antoine said: “Yes. If we are careful, everything should be all right.” He stood up, swaying slightly from side to side.
“Here. Take my arm. My car’s only a few yards away, behind the bushes. Can you make it all right?”
“Of course,” said Antoine, annoyed.
They moved slowly forwards, Antoine walking stiffly but erect; passed round the clump of bushes and over to Marie-Andrée’s car. It was a Citroën saloon, navy blue in colour, with a press label on the left of the, windscreen.
Antoine said: “What on earth brought you up here?”
“Operation D,” said the girl smiling wickedly. “A friend of mine owns a farm at the other end of this track, and he lets me have butter, eggs and so forth – a very valuable friendship. I saw your car buried in the brush as I was driving down. A purely fortuitous encounter, you see.”
Antoine grunted.
“Lie down on the back seat,” said Marie-Andrée peremptorily. “When we get near to Paris you’d better pull the rug over you. Get in, quickly.”
Antoine opened the door and got in. The plush of the upholstery looked extremely tempting. He curled himself up in the corner with his head resting against the far window-ledge.
“Good’” The girl got into the driving-seat and slammed the door after her. “I’ll drive as slowly as I can and try not to bump you. This is rather a lousy stretch of road.”
Antoine said: “Yes, I’m well aware of that.”
“The great thing,” she said, “is not to bleed on the upholstery.” She let in the clutch as she spoke, and rolled the car forwards down the incline.
The jolting began at once, but there was none of the agony of the preceding journey. It was merely acutely uncomfortable. The girl was a good driver and was picking out the best of the track with some care. After less than a minute, she swung the wheel over and Antoine felt the smoothness of the main road under the tires.