Single to Paris

by Single to Paris (retail) (epub)

  ‘Lafont, chasing Clausen’s—’

  ‘Exactly. In which case his business with Clausen—’

  ‘Holding your friends, on behalf of Gestapo or SD.’

  She nodded. ‘Since the Boches are closing down here and there. Wouldn’t it make sense?’

  ‘For your friends’ sake one might hope not.’

  ‘Yes. One’s heard—’

  ‘They’re murderers and rapists.’ The schoolmaster added, ‘He’d have been dealt with long ago if he wasn’t always surrounded by bodyguards.’ He looked at Dénault: ‘It makes sense, what she’s guessing.’

  ‘So – her friends could be in 93 Rue Lauriston, or 3b Place des Etats-Unis—’

  ‘Didn’t we hear they’d moved out of there?’

  ‘—or Rue de la Pompe. If that’s still in use.’

  Leblanc said he’d find out. Rosie asked Dénault, ‘Couldn’t you break into all three places?’

  ‘Not impossible. Depending of course on what else is happening.’

  ‘I’m suggesting, do that before anything else and irrespective of whatever the hell else—’

  ‘Could get them killed, you know.’

  ‘Think they’d be safer just left there?’

  ‘Of course not. And if you accept that risk – yes, we could smash our way in simply for what those houses are, not on the face of it expecting to find—’

  ‘Will you do it?’

  ‘We’d need a strong team, and well armed. The Lauriston gang have everything – sub-machine-guns, grenades, fast cars—’

  ‘Another thing I saw this morning was what might have been your people – or perhaps Reds – making off with rifles and ammunition from two Boche trucks that had crashed. There were about four dead ones.’

  ‘Dead what?’

  ‘Boches!’

  ‘Where? When?’

  ‘The carrefour Rue Langry/Boulevard St Martin. This morning about eleven-thirty.’

  ‘That.’ A nod to Leblanc. He was on his feet: stooping then to tell her in a stage whisper close to her ear, ‘Tonight we hope to do even better.’ Straightening, and reaching to shake hands. ‘Which is why I can’t stay now. Look, we’ll meet here in the morning… Patrice – ready?’

  ‘As always, chief. How many of us will-there be?’

  ‘Thirty, maybe forty – from the five groups. Six of us, including you and me.’ He turned back to Rosie: ‘Jeanne-Marie, I’m sorry this business of yours is taking time, and you’re naturally anxious—’

  ‘That’s putting it very mildly.’

  ‘One understands.’ All of them were looking at her as if they really did; and Patrice looking at her mouth – which she found annoying. Adée moved up beside her, put a hot, heavy arm round her shoulders. ‘Poor Jeanne-Marie!’

  ‘No. Poor Léonie and poor Rouquet.’

  ‘But we’ll meet here in the morning to decide about those addresses.’ Leblanc, nodding reassuringly to Rosie, added to Dénault, ‘Which if you make a good job of it tonight—’

  ‘It’ll make a difference. Then, no matter what else is going on. Start our ball rolling, you might say.’

  ‘What time in the morning, though? I have to be in Rue de Passy by about noon.’

  ‘Ten o’clock here, then?’

  ‘Make it nine?’

  ‘Nine-thirty.’ Dénault shrugged. ‘And there goes my Sunday lie-in. What we do for our beloved allies!’ Dénault winked at Adée. ‘Especially pretty ones…’

  * * *

  ‘Four kilometres?’

  ‘About that. It’s not a place I’d have picked, mind you. Given them enough trouble around there already.’ Dénault had unchained his bicycle, was waiting for Patrice to do the same. They were at the side of the Hospital Lariboisière, close to the Gare du Nord, the building shadowing them from the setting last-quarter moon. Too many bikes tethered outside a café-bar at a time like this might well attract the kind of attention you didn’t want. Visitors to places of refreshment had to get away home eventually, and when a curfew was in force – how, without infringing it? Whereas a hospital – or indeed a brothel… Dénault added, ‘Sod them, anyway. And if we get what we’ve been promised… Come on, man—’

  ‘Padlock’s rusted.’ Patrice got up, pocketing the lock and chain. ‘You lead?’

  ‘Sure. Stay well behind me, so we don’t both ride into trouble. And because I’ve gone round a corner doesn’t mean it’s safe for you to whizz round after me – take care, eh?’

  ‘Doubt we’d meet trouble.’

  ‘Famous last words. Know where it is now, do you?’

  ‘North of the cemetery. Rue St Fargeau… Yes, I do, but—’

  ‘Close to the far end of it, over the Avenue Gambetta. A working garage – repairs, gazo conversions. Fécontel’s to have one of his people looking out for us, we ride in and they shut the door again. All right, here we go.’

  East – Boulevard de la Chapelle – then south-east, Dénault pausing at every blind corner, usually in shadow. Patrice keeping 30–50 metres behind him. Swinging to the right without pausing at the La Fayette/Jean Jaures junction, into Avenue Secretan: it was all wide open, that crossing, moonlit as well, no cover; if you were spotted by Milice or Schutzpolizei you’d stoop low and race, simply trust to luck.

  Over it now, anyway – in Avenue Secretan. Ahead, Dénault weaving somewhat drunkenly as he turned to look back. Patrice muttering, ‘Don’t worry about me, just keep going’ – at that moment hearing a car behind him – not gazo, petrol engine. Up at the crossroads somewhere, no sight of it or shred of light, in a quick glance back; telling himself it might not be coming down this way.

  Dénault had swung off to the right. Patrice put his back into it, maximum effort, pedalling like crazy to get to that turn-off before—

  Streak of light from a masked headlight behind there, at the crossing. He wondered, Fall off, act plastered? On the assumption that neither Milice nor SD would take much interest in a drunken curfew-breaker. Unless they were out trawling for replacement hostages. But have to smell of drink, which despite being a barman he did not – not tonight, anyway. He’d reached the fork, was careering into it. That blackness a few hundred metres ahead had been the Buttes Chaumont, a steep wooded rise, which meant that this curl of road had to be – oh, Avenue Simon Bolivar? The car’s engine was loud behind him – shifting gear. To make the same turn? Spotted him, in pursuit now? There was no sight of Dénault in front; no cover either – not a corner, tree or parked vehicle, entrance with a wall, or—

  It had passed the turning, and gone on – straight on down Avenue Secretan. Either had not seen him, or had more urgent business. Patrice braking, guessing that if he didn’t slow up he might shoot out at the bottom of the next wide bend just as the car passed at that lower junction, this end of the Buttes. Although Dénault – well ahead of him, presumably – which would mean he must have put on a hell of a spurt – might have a better chance of doing precisely that.

  ‘Hey! Patrice!’

  Speak of the devil. Riding sedately out of this intersection – a slightly smaller road, whatever the hell it was. And the sound of the car passing the other end of it, its junction with the lower end of Secretan, at just this moment. Gone then, and the sound fading.

  ‘All right?’

  ‘Now, it’s all right!’

  ‘What was it, did you see?’

  Dénault was so thickset that approaching head-on as he was you didn’t notice the bike, only the squarish mass of him above it. Patrice had stopped, one foot on the kerb. Telling him no, he’d no idea; some Boche general, been dipping his wick, maybe. Was this the Avenue Bolivar though?

  ‘Exactly. At the bottom we go over the carrefour into Rue des Pyrenées. Five hundred metres then and Saint Fargeau’s on the left, and after about another five hundred—’

  ‘OK.’

  They’d be getting – had been promised – several hundred Schmeisser machine-pistols tonight, also a large quantity of 9-millimetre.


  * * *

  Dénault had stopped to wait for him on the Rue St Fargeau between Avenue Gambetta and Boulevard Mortier.

  ‘It’s up there.’

  The approach was by way of a concrete strip with a warehouse on one side and a 10-foot brick wall on the other. At the back of the warehouse it led to a cindered parking area with some wrecked-looking gazos here and there and a single-storey garage frontage at the back. The garage. As their bicycles scrunched off concrete on to cinders, a torch flashed once, over there. It was very dark but one’s eyes had become used to that – the moon being down now, and of course no street-lighting. To keep its lights on and the Metro running Paris needed 10,000 tons of coal a day, and wasn’t getting any. Dénault dismounted, began to push his bike towards the garage, calling into the silence, ‘Georges Dénault and Patrice Macombre.’

  The torch came on again, licked across timber double doors – closed – and lingered on a small personnel door set in the left-hand one. This was clearly for their guidance, the torch-man calling to those inside, ‘Dénault and another. Open up!’ It was opened, and another torch shone into Dénault’s face and then Patrice’s as they wheeled their bikes in, Dénault grumbling, ‘Trying to blind me? Oh – you, Alain.’

  ‘No problems?’

  ‘None at all. Are my people here?’ Shaking hands. ‘This is Patrice Macombre. Alain Fécantel.’ The place was crowded but reasonably quiet, men standing around chatting, smoking, exercising patience: there was an aroma of oil and cigarette smoke. Dénault adding, ‘The way we came, nothing’s moving.’

  ‘Boches are patrolling the main through-roads. Milice don’t seem to be out at all.’

  ‘A lot of ’em left town Thursday night. But they’re still in and out of Rue Monceau, I heard. And the Auteuil synagogue they’re using for a barracks. What time’s this fellow due?’

  ‘Twelve to twelve-thirty.’

  ‘But that’s now!’

  ‘Yes. You were a little late, Georges.’

  ‘What sort of guy is he?’

  ‘Typical black-marketeer. Name of Maurard. The guns and ammo just happened to fall into his hands, he says.’

  ‘What about payment?’

  ‘He’s accepting a promissory note. Parodi’s backing it so he can’t doubt it’s good. My idea’s to stash most of the stuff here and move it out load by load Monday. Your one-fifth to Gare de l’Est – that still OK?’

  ‘So all we do tonight is unload the man’s transport?’

  ‘And divide it. Jabot and Ruard are taking theirs, they’ve gazos out there.’

  ‘I thought those were wrecks!’

  ‘It’s a risk, moving the stuff at night. But that’s what they want, so—’

  ‘Hey…’

  A thump – a bang on the small door. In here, sudden and total silence. Then the voice from outside – not loud but carrying, in the hollow stillness: ‘A truck’s backing up now!’

  You could hear it: a big petrol engine. Some of these crooks really took the biscuit – you could bet your last sou it would be a ‘borrowed’ Wehrmacht truck, would have stood virtually no risk of being stopped. Dénault had just put a cigarette in his mouth and would by now have lit it, instead was returning it to the pack. Muttering to Patrice as the other man left them, ‘Fucker’s on time, what’s more. Too good to be true, huh?’

  ‘Hello there, Georges!’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Paul – also Marcel and Bernard.’

  ‘Where’s Tallandier?’

  ‘He’s here somewhere. Hi, Patrice. Make mine a double, eh?’

  Chuckles, handshakes, pats on shoulders, cigarette stubs being dropped and trodden on. Sound of a heavy vehicle braking out there, and the torch-man’s call of, ‘Open up, lads!’

  ‘Yeah. Let’s get on with it…’

  They were working on the doors, which began scraping open. Still only the one torch – no, two, but both of them dim, in need of new batteries. Dénault muttering, ‘Need more light…’

  They got it. Brilliant, from the open back of the truck. Guns too, the kind they’d come here for, Schmeisser machine-pistols in the hands of maybe a dozen SS men, some jumping down but others staying up there with the stubby blue-black barrels of the Schmeissers glinting in the spill of light from those blinding, shifting beams and trained on the mob inside here. A German voice then yelling in accented French, ‘Stay where you are – hands up! Move, you’re dead! You—’

  A short burst: and the man who’d been outside and had backed into the garage with his torch, guiding the truck’s driver, and who must have made some move – maybe to get out past it – was down on his knees on the concrete, arms clutched around his belly; there’d been ricochets, steel-cased slugs singing away to smash out through the tin roof. The officer jumped down and finished off the torch-man with a single shot in the back of his head. Facing them again in the outspill of the lights that were intermittently blinding everyone; two other Germans had jumped down, those still up there watching keenly over the helmeted heads, machine-pistols as well as the light-beams shifting this way and that. The officer again: ‘Any of you carrying arms, drop them! Use only one hand. Now! So… One man at a time – starting there; you – forward! Any still carrying a weapon will be shot, so – drop them! All right – hands up! Higher! Und – forward! No – in file, in file!’ A few gutturals then to those up behind him on the truck, and a sack was dumped over, crashed down on the concrete – heavy, metallic, a weight of chain.

  Chapter 11

  By 9.30, when the men were due, Adée and Rosie had washed the tables and swept the Dog’s floor; Adée had also riddled the cinders out of her stove and topped it up, and given the toilette a once-over, while Rosie took on the easier job of polishing and stacking glasses – Adée pointing out that Patrice having got away with it last night would be expecting to do it when he came on duty at 11 o’clock.

  ‘Won’t be coming with Georges, then?’

  ‘Doubt it. He’s a lazy devil.’ She had the door open to the street, to air the place. ‘And Georges is late, of course, but that’s his habit. Don’t worry, he’ll turn up with some cast-iron excuse… Morning, Susanne!’

  A fat girl who’d been passing – people were walking or cycling past all the time – had stopped, just about filling the doorway. ‘Adée… Did you hear, they’re flying the tricolor over l’Hôtel de Ville as well as the Préfecture now?’

  ‘Who are?’

  ‘Why, the Résistance, surely! What’s more, they say there are barricades—’

  ‘Only in some side-streets here and there.’ Martin Leblanc, with a hand on the girl’s elbow, squeezing himself in past her. ‘Not on any of the boulevards or main streets. The Boches are still patrolling those, and they look as if they mean business.’ He patted the girl’s arm: ‘Run along, you’ll be late.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve been to early Mass, m’sieur!’

  ‘Run along anyway, there’s a good lass.’ He came on in, glancing back to make sure she’d gone. Then: ‘Georges not been in touch?’

  ‘No.’ Adée shrugged. ‘But when was he on time?’

  ‘Morning, Jeanne-Marie.’

  ‘M’sieur le professeur…’

  He looked ill, she thought. Had shaved, and nicked himself in two places; his rather close-together eyes looked weary and had dark pouches under them, and his skin was yellower than she remembered it. Daylight, of course: but still… She asked him, ‘Did you by any chance – you know, Georges said you were meeting someone—’

  ‘No luck, I’m sorry to say. Something may come of it – at least the word’s out in that quarter now. But as of this moment, no.’ He was wearing a pullover instead of the black waistcoat, and a collarless grey shirt under it. Teacher’s Sunday gear… Asking Adée, ‘Want the door left open, do you?’

  ‘For air, yes – and for Georges, damn it…’

  ‘Any chance of coffee?’ Sliding himself on to the bench behind the left-hand table. ‘I’ve had nothing since I was here la
st night. Hell of a night, and now it’s worse. I’d better break it to you – not that one can be certain—’

  ‘One can be muttering gibberish, by the sound of it.’ Adée, on her way to the stove, shrugging and raising her eyebrows at Rosie; Rosie at the other table now, facing the distinctly rough-looking schoolmaster across the room. He’d looked less rough unshaven. Giving himself a cigarette but pausing, holding the packet up: ‘Anyone?’

  ‘No, thank you. What are you telling us?’

  ‘Had a nuit blanche, he said. Don’t make it more serious than that.’ She was very anxious, though, Rosie saw, clearly didn’t want to hear whatever bad news he’d brought. He warned Rosie: ‘If it’s what it looks like it’s more than just “serious”.’ His match flared: then, expelling smoke in a sudden gasp. ‘Nothing would delight me more than to have Georges walk in that door, but—’

  ‘Why shouldn’t he?’

  ‘Adée, the facts are these. Listen. I pray that I’m wrong, jumping to conclusions.’ The cigarette smelt like smouldering horse-hair. ‘Please, God—’

  ‘Please, Martin—’

  ‘First – no, not first, but I’ll start with this – at about six I had a telephone call from Henriette Fécantel, whose husband was running the show last night. It was with him – Alain Fécantel – the crook with the load of Schmeissers got in touch, you see.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘He’s not home. Alain is not at home. Wasn’t then and still isn’t. Well, twenty minutes ago he wasn’t. I checked again before I left. He’d guaranteed he’d be home before sunrise, and he’s a man who makes a plan then sticks to it.’

  ‘Well – if he can, but—’

  ‘No, wait. Henriette sent her boy round to her friend Antoinette Jabot – and Marc Jabot hadn’t got back either. They wouldn’t have been together, but the fact is they’re both missing. And there’s another – I forget his name, one of Alain’s younger follows—’