In at the Kill

by Alexander Fullerton

  To silence, for a moment. Then she could hear men’s voices thinned by distance: could imagine the Boches’ fury – and that there surely would be reprisals.

  ‘Charles – can we get up the bank here?’

  ‘Easy.’ Splashing a bit further along. ‘Here…’

  ‘Go on, André. Very, very quiet now.’ Needing to tell him more – that his father’s door would be unlocked so they could just slip in as he had on Monday night, but that the Briards would most likely be awake and looking out – so not just quietly but silently, as well as invisibly and speedily. Cats being well and truly among the pigeons now, and moonrise not far off. Thinking ahead too, as they filed through the trees towards the manor: having parked André in his father’s house, persuade, Jacques to assist with transport, call for a Hudson pick-up. Persuade André that after his success tonight Baker Street would surely give him the benefit of any doubts – and that the last thing she’d ever thought of was to kill him.

  In his shoes, she asked herself, would she buy it?

  A door slammed. Could have been Monsieur Henri’s. They’d stopped, in the edge of the trees. Open lawn to the right, behind it the Manoir St Valéry a rectangular bulk against black, star-studded sky, and closer, harder-edged, the stable block overlapping this end of it.

  Saurrat whispered, ‘Might have been Briards.’

  Coming out, though, or going back in?

  She pointed to their right: ‘Best that way.’

  Between the stable-block and the main building. It would mean passing very close to the Briards’ door. But with luck if they were on the lookout it wouldn’t be this way, more likely towards the northern entrance to the stable-yard – the front of the house, Boches-occupied part. If so, the risk in passing so close was mainly if at the same moment one of them happened to be entering or leaving – if they’d just gone out, for instance, coming back… Mentally crossing fingers; crouching with the other two in the darker-than-dark cover of the trees, last pause before a fifteen- or twenty-metre transit to the corner of the stable-block and then about the same distance past the Briards’ door to the porch sheltering Monsieur Henri’s.

  ‘Charles – we’ll be close behind you. André, from here on, not even whisper. Your father’s door’ll be unlocked. As it was for you before – remember?’

  He grunted, she gave him a push and he was up trotting after the boy. She herself close on his heels. And this far – OK…

  At the corner, then. Drawing a couple of deep breaths. And hearing—

  God, no…

  ‘Car coming!’ Whisper from Saurrat. She’d already recognized it as a petrol-engined vehicle – therefore Boche – coming up the drive from the road. Now or never, therefore: she hissed, ‘Let’s go!’

  Running. Rosie praying that the Briards – if they were up and about – might hear the car’s approach and go to a window at that end. The car surely going to the front of the house?

  Unless it had been sent to fetch Monsieur Henri. Which in the circumstances was not at all unlikely…

  Into the porch: Saurrat trying the door – which was unlocked – and should have been, but by this time might not have, if the old boy had panicked… She squeezed in behind André – Saurrat was already in – Rosie twisting round to shut the door, feel for the bolt and slide it over – the car might have been coming into the stable-yard, some Boche leaping out to barge in here… Behind her as she pushed the bolt home she heard Monsieur Henri’s urgent whisper of ‘Saurrat? I was told you’d leave my keys and—’

  ‘Why yes, patron, and here they are, but—’

  Scrape and flare of a match being struck, candle-light spreading: a croak of ‘André? André – my God—’

  * * *

  In one of several small bedrooms, formerly no doubt servants’ rooms, André sat on the iron-framed bed while his father paced nervously around. Rosie was on a hard chair, Saurrat leaning against the wall. A table-lamp on the floor glowed dimly, but the curtained window was in shadow. Monsieur Henri said, ‘So you saved his life. Thank you. You too, Saurrat.’

  André’s beard had been mostly burnt off right down to the skin, which was lobster-pink with other patchy discolouring and seemed to be sweating blood and mucus. She’d helped him bathe it in an enamel bowl of cold water – not touching it, just dipping his face in – then arranged a clean towel to cover it – over his head, hanging draped over his shoulders; but he’d raised the front part of that now, although she thought it would be better left covered.

  There was heavy bruising to the back of his head, as well. Origin of the concussion, obviously.

  She answered his father’s comment about having saved his life with, ‘It’s true if we’d left him there for the Boches to find they’d have shot him or strung him up. But they’d also have been here in two shakes interrogating you, M’sieur.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Can you imagine they’d believe you weren’t in it together? Your own son and you didn’t know what he was doing? Where’d he have got the keys from?’

  ‘Perhaps – you’re right…’

  ‘So you’d know whoever else was in it, and they’d want to know that too.’ She glanced at André – who was alert enough to have caught the implication. He’d said it himself when they’d been talking in the forest: a red-hot skewer applied to a man’s eyeball…

  An admission that he’d never even hope to resist interrogation.

  She asked his father, ‘Will you get the doctor for him?’

  ‘Perhaps I should…’

  ‘You could say it was for you. Shock at the news of an attack on your factory. You might have had a stroke, even. But if they haven’t yet told you—’

  ‘Only Legrand, saying the Poste was alight but he saw no danger to the factory. André – should I call Dr Simonot?’

  ‘I’d say not. Safer not to draw attention.’ His voice was a cross between a murmur and a husky whisper. ‘Best thing might be to lie low here until Guichard brings his men out into the open – a matter of only days, perhaps, and by that time maybe –’ a hand moved towards his face but didn’t touch it – ‘be OK, rejoin them. Jacques Craillot might let Guichard know where I am. Ask him to do that, Justine?’

  ‘I’ll suggest it. But – better have the doctor.’ She urged his father, ‘For the burns. I wouldn’t worry much about concussion, but all that could get worse – septic even.’

  ‘As soon as I can, I’ll get him.’

  ‘Good.’ Rosie got up. ‘Tell him about the bruising as well, he might have something for it. Now we must go – moon’ll be up soon.’ Glancing at her watch: ‘My God, it will be!’

  Quarter past one: fifteen minutes, roughly. Monsieur Henri was stopping her, though: his hands on her shoulders, nervous eyes on hers: ‘Come in the morning? To work, ostensibly?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’ She thought about it. ‘If it’s possible to get here – yes. But don’t count on it. We don’t know how they’re going to react, do we?’

  ‘No reason they’d stop you, just because there’s been sabotage by Maquisards. Nothing to do with any of us. But with André here alone, you see, when I’m at work—’

  ‘The factory’ll be closed, surely.’

  ‘Production will be shut down, but there’ll be clearing up, and all sorts of decisions to be taken. Heaven knows—’

  ‘I’ll come if they let me. Probably early.’ A glance at Saurrat: ‘Come on, Charles.’ Pausing, then: ‘That your telephone?’

  He’d heard it too – one jangling ring, from downstairs, in the hall. Making for the door, muttering, ‘I’ll be back, André. This’ll be Wachtel, I dare say. Oh, God…’ It rang again as Rosie and the boy followed him down, and by the time they were crossing the hall towards the front door he had the receiver pressed against his ear, was shouting into the fixture on the wall, ‘But that’s terrible!’

  Listening again: also gesturing to her to stop, wait. A palm over the voicepiece, and a whisper, ‘Legrand again.’ Then loudly:
‘I can hardly believe this! How would they have got in? How on earth could—’

  She was at the door, easing the bolt back – very carefully, alert to the likely proximity of the Briards. Hearing him again: ‘Very well – tell him I’m on my way. I’ll come by bicycle. By the time I had the gazo warmed up… What? Of course I’ve got my keys! What sort of question’s that?’

  Chapter 17

  A very good question, she’d thought – and one that was liable to provide Monsieur Henri with grave problems. She hadn’t seen it so clearly, until this moment: had thought of the keys being returned to him quickly as an adequate covering of tracks.

  She hoped she was wrong now, but… Waiting with the door unbolted but still shut: his braying into the phone would be audible out in the yard when it was open, she wanted to hear him hang up before she moved. Hoping to God meanwhile that she wasn’t thinking straight – because if she was, it wouldn’t be only his bad luck.

  Work it out later. Talk to Jacques. Who’d also be in the soup: as she would be. And no immediately obvious way out.

  He’d hung up, at last. She eased the heavy door back and slipped out, pulling the boy with her and taking care not to catch the Sten against the door.

  ‘Go on, I’ll follow.’

  Back over the same route, to start with. There’d been a car or truck manoeuvring somewhere at the front, a bark of German and a sound of boots scrunching gravel – distraction for Briard ears, she hoped. She left the cover of the porch, followed the near-invisible and silent Saurrat, loping past the Briards’ entrance to the stable-block corner and on again into the shelter of the trees; through them to the wall.

  ‘Charles – hold on…’ A hand on his arm. ‘Not back the way we came. Other side of this wall instead – up to the road here.’

  ‘Then over and through the orchards. OK.’

  ‘Would it get you home?’

  ‘Sure. Quickest way, for me.’

  Down to the bottom, round the buttressed end of the wall on the stream’s bridle-path, then up to the road. Pausing there, with the wall a black slab receding into darkness on her right, edging the road towards the village. A flickering, pinkish glow amongst trees along there would be from the smouldering remains of the Poste; those trees were the ones around the start of the timber-yard track. She was only looking that way for a few seconds but in that time a heavy truck passed slowly – going away, in the direction of the church – in bulky silhouette against the glow.

  Fire-truck maybe.

  ‘OK?’

  Whisper from Saurrat – negotiating roadside thorn hedging and strands of wire. It was the same the other side, she remembered, having noted it en passant a couple of times from Jacques’ gazo. Checking up and down the road again, before crossing. Nothing, though, certainly no traffic on the move. Only – a double-take, as she joined him on that side – a hint of a first show of moonlight leaking up over that end of the village.

  * * *

  Jacques put a brandy in front of her, on the kitchen table. She’d given him the Sten – first extracting the magazine and clearing the breech – and he’d taken it down to the cellar. Telling her now, ‘You cut that fine enough.’ Referring to the fact that the moon was up now, silvering the eastern sky and silhouetting the church spire as sharp as a dagger-blade. He was topping-up his own fine, and Colette’s: in pyjamas with a jacket over them, Colette with a bath-robe over her nightdress, the robe’s belt cinched tight, indenting her hour-glass figure. They’d both been practically stunned with relief when she’d stumbled in through the side-door from the alley: since when of course she’d given them a blow-by-blow account of events from the time she and Charles Saurrat had set off around the back of the Poste, to just a few minutes ago when he’d parted from her in the orchard behind the auberge. Saurrat lived in the third cottage along from the gendarmerie, and his father managed the timber-yard. But he could have got home as easily the other way round, he’d explained, crossing the road between his own house and the bridge.

  ‘Your fire-bomb saved everything, Jacques.’ She took a long drag at her cigarette. ‘Without it, they’d surely have been in to check the factory.’

  ‘Emile Guichard’s notion, that fire-bomb.’

  Colette asked her – while Jacques was dispensing brandy – ‘Do you think André will be all right?’

  ‘Yes – as long as his father gets the doctor out to him. The burns are the worst of it – at least, I’d guess—’

  ‘He’s lucky then.’

  ‘Let’s hope so. Only thing is—’

  ‘Here’s to us.’

  Jacques – glass raised: Rosie tossed back about half hers, and shut her eyes for a moment. ‘Wow. That hit the spot.’

  ‘You said –’ Colette’s hand on her arm – ‘only thing is—?’

  ‘I was going to say that I think Boche suspicions are bound to focus on Monsieur Henri. Then if they search the house—’

  ‘But why—’

  Jacques said, ‘Because of the keys.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Rosie nodded. ‘It’s obvious the other two would never have let theirs out of their possession… All right, another set could have been made at some time or other – ages ago even, might have been a spare set in the factory somewhere, or in the gendarmerie even – that was the sort of thing I had in mind, vaguely – but the Boches’ll grab at the obvious answer – won’t they?’

  ‘It was André’s plan.’ Jacques had nodded. ‘Based entirely on the use of his father’s keys. His and his father’s participation – that was the big thing, as he wanted us all to see it. Guichard, I may say, wasn’t sold on it, but –’ a glance at his wife – ‘happened to suit our book, didn’t it?’

  ‘Because of the alternative.’

  ‘Exactly. And Emile went along with it finally for the same reason – your threat of bombing, Justine.’

  ‘Laid it on thick, didn’t I?’

  Colette asked her, ‘Are you sending a message to London that it’s been done?’

  ‘Well – I will be…’

  ‘The issue of le patron’s keys, though.’ Jacques had been standing, moving around, but he joined them at the table now. ‘I’m afraid you’re right, Justine, it’s not a good prospect, is it? My guess is they’ll want to be done with us here good and quick – matter investigated, action taken, Heil bloody Hitler…’

  ‘Investigation and action by Linscheidt and company, d’you think?’

  ‘I’d doubt it. But – only guessing.’ His thick, work-hardened hands were flat on the table, one on each side of his own amber-glowing fine. Glancing up – about to say something else, evidently deciding against it. Rosie thinking about punitive detachments – SS, typically – and guessing it was what he had on his mind too. She asked them both, ‘How would Monsieur Henri stand up to interrogation, d’you think?’

  No answers. Jacques looking away – at the clock, its hands standing at twelve minutes past two – and Colette with her elbows on the table, hands covering her face, forehead creased above the fingertips… Despite, Rosie thought – wondered – having apparently been quite unworried, over a period of years, by le patron knowing she and Jacques were résistants?

  Hadn’t thought of him being subjected to torture or threat of torture, she supposed.

  She tried, ‘You see, if he was the sort of man who could be expected to hold out…’ Pausing: both of them watching her, Colette peeking between spread fingers, Jacques motionless, expressionless. She went on, ‘It’s possible they might see it as an operation by Maquisards, who’d only have wanted the loan of his keys. No question of anyone else in the village being involved?’

  ‘You mean he might keep his mouth shut?’

  ‘Well – involving us wouldn’t get him off the hook, would it?’

  Jacques looked down at his glass, shook his head slightly. Colette took her hands away from her face. ‘I wonder if there’s any way to get André out of the manor.’

  ‘Surely not in present circumstances. Not certain
I’ll be able to get into it, even.’

  Jacques glanced up. ‘You’ve agreed to go to work this morning, you said?’

  ‘Yes. Monsieur Henri wants help with André, of course. If he has to go to the factory – or stay there, he’s there now, probably, they were on the phone to him when Saurrat and I left. But – Colette, about getting André out – at the moment, I’d say not a hope – I’m sure you’d agree, Jacques. But later on – maybe – and other circumstances permitting, I could call for a pick-up from England. You mentioned a landing-field you and Joseph Lambert used, Jacques, – a code-name beginning with “P”?’

  A nod. Brown eyes on hers, puzzled-looking… ‘Codename “Parnasse”.’

  ‘Thing is, André having been in Boche hands, SOE rules say he should be brought back for de-briefing. London would certainly co-operate. So – if he agreed, and you’d help with transport—’

  ‘I doubt he’d want it. Just at this time, I’d guess the Forêt d’Othe’s as far as he’d want to get. Anyway, Mesdames, the point here and now – if we can stick to it for say two seconds – is that if they do turn the heat on Monsieur Henri—’

  ‘None of us is safe.’

  Colette had said it. Or rather, Rosie guessed, brought herself to admit it – to even Jacques’ surprise. He’d stared at her for a moment, then tossed back what was left of his brandy – putting the glass down then and moving that hand to enfold one of hers. ‘You’re right, my darling. None of us is. But then again – in years now, who has been?’ Gazing at Rosie: ‘You haven’t – for more than ten minutes at a time, eh?’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘And there isn’t a thing we can do about it, is there?’ He lifted his wife’s hand to his lips, and kissed it. ‘Come on. What we can do is get some sleep.’

  * * *

  She could have sent Baker Street a message confirming the destruction of the rocket casings, but (a) it wasn’t all that essential – Marilyn’s signal had said Jupiter cancelled, not Jupiter postponed – and (b) it was hardly fair to the Craillots to transmit from the auberge. Especially as the district might by now be under close radio-detection surveillance. Her earlier transmissions would have been at least approximately charted, now there’d been sabotage action in this same previously quiet area, and there’d surely be detector vans deployable from Sens or Troyes.