In at the Kill

by Alexander Fullerton

‘I’ll tell you – there was a man by name of Lambert, a livestock auctioneer from Montereau, who also saw André quite often. We were waiting to tell him. He’d asked us never to try to contact him ourselves, he’d come by often enough in the course of his business.’

  Lambert, whom Marilyn had mentioned. She commented, ‘But he hasn’t, all this time.’

  ‘Nor did André. Then we heard he’d been arrested. Early in May?’ Jacques had nodded, and she went on, ‘But Joseph Lambert we still expected. We’d had dealings with him – mostly parachutages that he arranged and Jacques helped with. Lambert had stayed here for the night a few times. He brought his wife with him once – a very beautiful young woman. So – he was the man to talk to, and we waited for him. Nothing else we could do. Except we discussed with –’ a jerk of her thumb in the direction of the forest – ‘Jacques’ friends out there – possibilities of sabotage, blowing up the factory. But in the first place we were only guessing about the tubes – we had to admit that much – and secondly there’d have been reprisals. Also the policy in recent months has been to arm, train, be ready, not—’

  ‘Dufay told Michel that action by local résistants was out of the question because Marchéval was such a popular employer, no one’d lift a hand against him. And the prospect of reprisals.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Which accounts for our present intentions… Lambert, though – may have been chief of the réseau that was blown a few months ago?’

  ‘Ah – we know now it was blown. Didn’t until Victor Dufay told us, when he finally showed up.’

  * * *

  So Claire had been arrested in January, Rosie thought. (Having been back in bed for some while now – and glad to be, Marilyn’s message personnel about cool nights in midsummer being nothing but the truth.) And by January the first rumours about ‘Hector’ had been filtering through to Baker Street. Bob Hallowell ignoring them, attributing them to some other agent’s sexual jealousy. But – she thought, in reference to ‘Hector’, a.k.a. André having brought his father the bad news – he might even have shopped her himself?

  Dear André – of whom she’d never heard, until last night…

  Although another possibility was that the Boches might have taken Claire to give themselves a bit of extra leverage on him.

  Go on the air this evening, she thought. Tell them it looked highly probable, not yet 100% certain but in her opinion virtually so. Transmitting not from here – definitely not… The forest might be best – Boches well aware, obviously, that it was lousy with Maquis, which might help to confuse the issue in the minds of the Reichssicherheitshauptamt’s radio-detection boffins. Make the transmission from the vicinity of some other village: nearer some other one than this, anyway. Borrow a bike from Colette – or from one of her daughters – or get a lift from Jacques. Yes, that. Especially as it was months since she’d ridden a bike, and she wasn’t anything like as fit yet as she should have been. And didn’t know her way about – especially in the forest. Try Jacques anyway. Gazo battery to power the transceiver being a major advantage, no need to take its own battery along. And code up a message telling Baker Street: (1) Dufay arrested – essential warn Michel, (2) rocket-casings’ diameter now reported to be a shade less than one hundred and seventy centimetres, (3) twelve to sixteen finished casings awaiting collection from the factory by flatbed trucks, each capable of carrying four, but route or destination in Germany unknown and probably not ascertainable, (4) factory working round the clock seven days a week, and (5) hours-long troop convoy yesterday through St Dizier from direction of Lyon towards Reims, tanks reported on same route Friday.

  But how to get any more positive confirmation – when the Craillots from their insider position hadn’t managed it over a period of months… Maybe no way: maybe the information one had now was as much as one was going to get. And Colette’s soul-searching notwithstanding, one did not want London holding off now: one wanted the factory and the manor hit – for dear André’s sake, André-of-whom-one-had-never-heard’s sake…

  Add a sixth item to the signal, to the effect that evacuation of the village immediately prior to an attack was considered feasible.

  Monsieur Henri might be one’s best bet, she thought. Propose oneself as a candidate for the job at the manor? She’d thought of this when Colette had been telling her about it. At least, might get to see him, talk to him. The proposition might even make sense locally – if no village women would contemplate it for fear of ructions with Madame Briard, whereas this slightly dim and distant cousin (a) wouldn’t know anything about la Briard, (b) needed a paid job, which the Craillots couldn’t offer?

  It would have to be Colette’s idea. But then what?

  He wasn’t going to agree to having his factory wrecked, was he? Going by what Colette had said – and one’s own instinct. Especially if the daughter was a hostage for his good behaviour.

  It was still attractive, the idea of being right there, chez Marchéval.

  This room was on the auberge’s second floor. The Craillots’ daughters had rooms up here, but Jacques and Colette were on the floor below, where there were also three other guest rooms and the only bathroom. When there were paying customers they moved up here, apparently. The rooms weren’t bad, only smaller and with lower ceilings, and there was a lavatory with a hand-basin in it. There was also – across the passage from Rosie – a boxroom full of junk, amongst which yesterday afternoon she’d hidden her transceiver and the ‘S’ phone.

  Cash, codes and pistols were still in her suitcase: which didn’t lock. She’d hunted around for a loose floorboard, but hadn’t found one. First time ever: there’d always been loose boards…

  Sleep now, though. Concentrate the mind on Ben. Who might be lying awake himself, on this first night of knowing she was alive.

  * * *

  Breakfast consisted of ‘coffee’ and bread with home-made jam; she ate it in the kitchen with Colette, Jacques having already had his. By now he’d have swept the pavement in front of the auberge, Colette said, would be tidying up in the bar and cellar, then delivering some loads of charcoal in Villeneuve-l’Archevêque and some other nearby village, while she’d be doing this, that and the other, including later on some cooking. Also there’d be a scrubbing and cleaning woman arriving within the next half-hour, a Madame Brissac whose husband was a fitter in Marchéval’s.

  ‘I’ll give her the story we agreed. That’ll be a quick way of putting it around the village… Did you sleep all right?’

  ‘Until that car rushed past at ninety kilometres an hour, about four a.m. You hear it?’

  ‘Of course. Woke us up. Wasn’t it a cold night? Ridiculous, in August! A wind from the east, Jacques said. But that car turned into the manor.’

  ‘Which I’d like to see. Are we going on our tour of the village, some time?’

  ‘If you want. Yes, we decided we would, didn’t we?’

  ‘Will we see the manor?’

  For a preliminary check on distances and bearings as they’d relate to positioning herself with the ‘S’ phone. Colette was less than certain, though. ‘I could ask Monsieur Henri, if we might go in and walk around…’

  ‘I was thinking, you see – lying awake after that car roared by—’

  ‘Boches returning from a night out, it must have been. Dining with their friends in Sens or Troyes… You were thinking what?’

  ‘That if I could get to meet Monsieur Henri – what you said last evening, that he’d like to have someone other than Madame Briard work for him?’

  ‘You?’

  She nodded. ‘Being a total stranger, I wouldn’t know anything about the Briard woman, and if you played it down – you’d like the idea of getting me out from under your feet, and as an old friend of Monsieur Henri—’

  ‘You realize there are Boches all over that place?’

  ‘So what? Seeing as it’s his house and I’d be there on his authority?’

  ‘As an escaper you’ll be listed, surely.’ />
  ‘Oh, yes. In Metz and Nancy my face is on “Wanted” posters. Was, a few days ago. But it’s got to be a thousand to one against my being recognized down here. I got away with it there, for heaven’s sake… Aren’t any Gestapo here, are there?’

  ‘In Troyes and in Sens there are.’

  ‘Anyway, my papers are in order, and you’re giving me perfectly good cover. If Monsieur Henri did want to hire me, I could surely apply for a carnet de travail, carte de séjour, et cetera. If they’re even bothering now…’

  ‘What would you hope to achieve?’

  ‘Well – to get to know him – talk to him, listen to him.’

  ‘You think he’d tell you just at the drop of a hat what he won’t or can’t tell us?’

  ‘I might pick up something, that’s all. Look, you’ve had your bar full of Marchéval employees, and you’ve heard practically nothing. The odds are I’d hear even less, I’d be wasting time sitting here. Two angles, aren’t there? One, the factory itself, two, the tubes already made. If anything they’re the most important – because with any luck this place’ll be over-run by Yanks within a couple of weeks or so, the factory won’t have long to go in any case.’

  ‘Well – please God—’

  ‘But the tubes could be collected today, tonight, tomorrow. Damn little chance they won’t be, in fact. Wouldn’t Monsieur Henri have to know when the trucks were coming?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Well, if he could be induced to let that slip, I’d be on the air to London right away – road convoy of however many trucks plus escort leaving here Wednesday, Friday, whenever… It is a chance, isn’t it?’

  Colette silent for a moment, gazing at her… ‘Even to the extent they might leave the factory alone?’

  ‘Well.’ Spreading her hands, eyebrows raised – ‘Maybe. With time as short as we hope it is?’

  ‘Perhaps I’m hoping for the moon, but –’ shaking her head – ‘I’ll tell you something. Jacques and I feel we’ve been – stupid. Your questions last night, why we didn’t get word out sooner – or do something about it sooner. We should have, should have realized – maybe pressed harder for sabotage action—’

  ‘If you could have. But you explained—’

  ‘It’s only because of this that we can even contemplate involvement in any bombing. I want you to know that. It’s not only the lives at risk, it’s all these people’s way of life. Ours too, for that matter. Well – that’s our lookout… Anyway, I’ll speak to Monsieur Henri.’

  ‘You’ll call him?’

  ‘Yes.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘Now, in fact, might just catch him before he leaves for work.’

  ‘You do think that if an attack was laid on we could get everyone out of their houses?’

  ‘Oh – I’d make it a condition of helping you at all!’

  ‘I think I’d make it a condition.’

  ‘If you could. You mean you’d like to. But – yes, we could get word round. Jacques would arrange for say a dozen people, two or three taking each group of houses, maybe an hour before the start. Maquisards, and maybe others who’d say they’d been visited by Maquisards and ordered to put the word round. Jacques and I were talking about it after the car woke us up – when you say you were doing your thinking. There’s a danger some individuals might run straight to the Boches or the gendarmerie, of course—’

  ‘Wouldn’t stop the attack coming in. They’d be endangering themselves, that’s all.’ Rosie put her hand on Colette’s. ‘I am sorry—’

  ‘I believe you. But it’s not a nice position to be in.’ She took her hand back, and got up. ‘My prayer remains that it won’t happen. Listen – that thought of having them hit the convoy on the road instead – it’s possible that even without any tip-off from Monsieur Henri some notice might be given.’ On her feet, looking down at Rosie for reaction: Rosie thinking of the problems and complications, mostly unpredictable – such as availability at short notice of a suitable straffing force, and locating the convoy after its departure: also that if London were taking any such action they’d probably also want to target the factory. While what she wanted hit – as much as anything – was the manor. Colette had turned away: ‘I’ll try to get Monsieur Henri.’

  * * *

  He sounded excited – before she’d told him about Justine. Then there was a fall-off, hesitance, he certainly wasn’t jumping at it. He said, ‘Naturally I’d be happy to meet a cousin of yours… But look here – come tomorrow, not today. Colette, my dear, in any case I’m so glad to hear from you!’

  ‘Why, patron? What’s special?’

  ‘Well – it’s always special… By all means bring the young lady along – but I’ll particularly look forward to seeing you. Anyway—’

  He’d checked. Only buzzing on the line…

  ‘Patron?’

  ‘Just thinking I might stop by the auberge later on.’

  ‘Well, do!’

  ‘No. It’s not a good idea. Tomorrow. Definitely, you come here tomorrow.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Would you mind making it rather early? This sort of time?’

  ‘Seven thirty?’

  ‘Really, seven o’clock. I’m just leaving now for the factory, you see, I don’t like to be late and we’ll need more than a bare five minutes.’

  Colette found Rosie washing up the breakfast things.

  ‘Believe it or not, tomorrow at seven a.m. – at the manor. Something’s up with him – God knows what…’

  ‘Was he interested?’

  ‘To be frank – no, he wasn’t. Delighted to make your acquaintance, I should bring you along, and so forth, but –’ she shrugged – ‘he’s in a state. Excited about something. Tomorrow at seven all right with you?’

  ‘Of course. And thank you…’ Reaching for a dish-cloth. ‘One other favour – could I borrow a needle and white cotton, please?’

  ‘I expect so… Oh, Jacques—’

  ‘Just off – delivery round. Three calls in Villeneuve-l’Archevêque and one in les Marchais. Morning, Justine – sleep well?’

  ‘Very well, thanks.’

  ‘That’s good… What is it, chérie?’

  ‘Don’t forget the rabbits from Plassat’s – on your way back, eh?’

  ‘I swear. See you both later.’

  ‘Might I have a word, though?’ Rosie added as he paused, looking back at her, ‘I’ll come out with you – won’t hold you up…’

  Madame Brissac arrived at that moment: a big woman, dressed in black. Jacques went on out; Colette said, ‘Go on, have your word, I’ll introduce you when you come back.’ Rosie, following Jacques, heard her beginning to explain the distant cousinship, et cetera. Jacques was holding the door for her – a side door. He was in overalls and still hadn’t shaved.

  ‘What can I do for you, Mam’selle Justine?’

  She explained that she wanted a hiding-place, preferably outside, for her transceiver and a box of other equipment, and she’d wondered whether the outhouse where he kept his charcoal might be suitable and if he’d mind…

  ‘Do better than that. You’d be filthy with charcoal dust every time you fetched it or put it back.’ They were scrunching up the alley that led up this east side of the auberge to a yard at the back. A gazo pick-up truck was parked there, already fired-up, a red glow and the familiar hot smell from its burner. He told her, ‘My workshop’s the place. So much litter you’d never notice a bit more.’ Opening the door of what had been a stable. ‘Anywhere you like. No lock, see, you can always get in here – night-time, whenever. Is it night-times you do it?’

  ‘Depends. But this is perfect.’ Looking around, remembering a similar but less chaotic workshop which she’d been allowed to use for the same purpose at Châteauneuf-du-Faou. She looked back at him: ‘Jacques – talking about that – fact is, I do have a message to send. Any chance of a trip for more charcoal later in the day, taking me along?’

  ‘Transmit from the forest?’

  �
��As good as anywhere. At some distance from here. Transmissions can be pinpointed, you know.’

  ‘All right.’ He checked the time. ‘Say four o’clock. Have to be back by six, that’s all.’

  * * *

  Touring the village then, with Colette: turning left out of the auberge’s front door and following the narrow pavement past terraced houses – which had gardens behind them, she said, then woodland and low-lying orchard and pasture reaching to the Vanne – while on the other side of the road was the school and then the market square, with Rue de l’Ecole running south out of the square’s bottom right-hand corner. Looking down there – across the road, and past the side of the school – goal-posts were visible, this end of a playing-field which adjoined the paddock opposite the auberge. Rosie thinking that might be a good site for a bonfire, on ‘Jupiter’ night – bonfire to mark this end of the factory area, as she’d discussed it with Marilyn. The bombers’ line of flight would be near-enough due east – over the manor where she’d be with her ‘S’ phone, and four or five hundred metres – she’d pace the distance out, when time permitted – to the factory.

  Colette had stopped to speak to a youngish woman scrubbing her doorstep, and introduced Rosie; two others joined them, and Justine Quérier’s history was trotted out yet again. It was some time before they were able to move on.

  ‘The place we were telling you about. Hôtel Poste.’

  Even less attractive, now one had heard that story. Across the road the market square was much more pleasing to the eye: two or three shops, and a vegetable stall under the heavy-timbered, roofed structure in the centre, women moving around with baskets. A few waves, greetings from across the road… Bicycle traffic – no other kind.

  ‘Not exactly humming, is it?’

  ‘Well – Monday morning.’ Colette shrugged. ‘But – all right, we’re a backwater here, in any case. Most wouldn’t want it any different.’

  ‘The kids, I’d have thought—’

  ‘Well – why mine like to go away in the holidays, of course. But there are several larger villages in easy reach, you know, they have a lot of friends around.’