In at the Kill

by Alexander Fullerton

  ‘Well – as I said to Wachtel, perhaps some former employee—’

  ‘Whom you can’t name – nor can your man Legrand, Wachtel informs me. There’s also the business of the keys. I’d have liked to be able to explain that to this fellow when he gets here.’ The major picked up his cap. ‘I must go. If he wants to see you, I’ll send word.’ Starting towards the door: Monsieur Henri went ahead to open it for him. From the kitchen end of the hallway Rosie heard Linscheidt ask quietly, ‘The young woman’s simple, that what you were saying?’

  * * *

  ‘So the doctor hasn’t actually seen him?’

  She’d asked Monsieur Henri, but André cut in: ‘I’d like it if he did. OK, the ointment helps, but—’

  Grimacing: which did nothing to improve his looks. Grease of some kind – ointment supplied by the doctor – covered flesh that was now a dark pinkish brown, the skin broken in places and patched with singed stubble. It looked horrible, and he was obviously in pain: on the bed, in pyjamas presumably belonging to his father, propped against pillows which kept the bruised back of his head clear of the bedhead’s rails. There was an empty mug and a plate on the bedside chair. His father assuring him, ‘I will get Simonot out, once this inquiry’s done with. You see –’ explaining to Rosie – ‘I was nearly four hours at the factory – after you left us here – and I had Legrand with me all that time – and Wachtel, some of it. Well, I told them I had a dreadful headache, but being down there what could I do but go along to Simonot’s house – got him out of bed, in fact, explained the situation and he gave me the ointment. I had no excuse to bring him out here, you see. But as I say—’

  ‘Tell us what’s going on?’

  She’d cut him short: he’d been gabbling, tongue running away with him – ashamed that he hadn’t had the doctor to see his son, she guessed. Although in the circumstances it would have been dangerous, he was right: and if the ointment was as effective as apparently the doctor had said it was… André asked him, ‘You did say SS?’

  ‘Yes. Christ – I need a bath and a shave, a few hours’ sleep—’

  ‘SS.’ André’s half-open, raw-looking eyes on Rosie’s. ‘We know what that means.’

  As one SOE agent to another, she thought. She’d noticed that when he spoke his mouth moved strangely – as if he was trying to speak without moving it. It had to be fairly agonizing, that frizzled skin and flesh. She told him – and his father – ‘I encountered one just now – an SS Oberleutnant – at the gates when I rode in. He was with Klebermann. Did Linscheidt tell you anything else of interest?’

  ‘Well.’ A hand to his head, as if remembering was an effort. ‘Yes. That a Sturmbannführer Kroll is coming in over his head to investigate the circumstances of the attack. He hadn’t arrived, at that stage – twenty minutes ago, eh, when you got here? Some others had, but not Kroll. They’re from a battalion that’s had a bad time of it, badly cut up in action somewhere or other – remnants being withdrawn eastward. The man you saw –’ a nod to Rosie – ‘may be one who was at the factory when I was there. I thought half dead – practically asleep on his feet, anyway. He was with Wachtel for a while, then he went to the gendarmerie with Klebermann. Wachtel accused me of having provided the keys – Linscheidt took my side, I’m glad to say, pointing out that he has no proof whatsoever!’

  André said, ‘You feel you’ve been through it, then.’

  ‘Is that sarcasm?’

  ‘Why, heaven forbid!’

  ‘I have been through it! Would you believe it, they’d been rifling my office?’

  ‘And what’s the position now?’

  ‘Well – Kroll may be here by now. Or soon. And if he listens to Wachtel…’

  He’d checked: standing near the window. Spreading his hands, a gesture of helplessness. ‘He’s bound to, isn’t he?’

  Rosie suggested, ‘Unless he listens to Linscheidt?’

  ‘But he’s in doubt, now!’

  ‘The vital thing is they shouldn’t find André. Find him, they know everything, and—’

  ‘I can’t believe in this situation.’ Appealing to Rosie: she saw tears in his eyes. ‘There has to be some way – some answer—’

  ‘Not always, Papa.’ André’s eye-slits on him now. ‘You take a chance, things go wrong – as in this case I did—’

  ‘They can’t be allowed to find you.’ There was a shake in his voice. ‘In fact, there’s no reason they should search here. None at all – if there was some way out, about the keys…’

  ‘Gaspard Legrand?’

  Both looking at her – waiting for more. She shrugged: ‘Only a thought. Except that he’s something of a collab, I don’t know anything about him, not even what he looks like – but if you could pin it on him – his keys?’

  ‘Impossible!’

  ‘Suppose his pro-Boche attitude was an act. You’ve suspected for a long time he was secretly a résistant. He could have had a set of keys made on the quiet – could have made them himself, even. You can’t prove it, but you feel now you should have done something about him long before this – because they definitely weren’t your keys. Who’d blow up his own factory, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Not bad.’ André, watching her… ‘Not at all bad, Papa. That pose would have been good cover for him, wouldn’t it? In your shoes, I’d go for it.’

  ‘Think yourself into the part.’ Rosie had been about to put a hand on his narrow shoulder – he’d sat down on the edge of the bed – but he was leaning forward now, head down almost between his knees. Feeling sick, maybe, or dizzy. She told him, ‘The part’s you, really. You’ve done everything you could to keep your business going, workers and their families employed and safe. That’s a fact, you’re known for it, the entire village would confirm it – so how would it have made sense to throw it all away now? You wouldn’t. So who did? Tell them – it could only have been Legrand!’

  ‘Once I say this, Legrand will know for certain I’m the one.’

  ‘So he’ll accuse you, and you’ll have to face him down. You’re the boss around here – why should they take his word against yours?’

  ‘She’s right. It’s your best chance, Papa.’

  ‘The other thing is, leave André alone now. Lock the door and forget him. I mean it – don’t come near him.’

  ‘Food and drink?’

  “I’ll bring up whatever there is down there.’

  ‘What about Doctor Simonot?’

  ‘Well – when I can get him… No, second thoughts, forget him too. You’re not here, André!’

  ‘Well, thanks – I wish I weren’t, but—’

  ‘It might be a two or three-day business – not more. Linscheidt and co won’t be staying in St Valéry with the factory out of action – and when they pull out, d’you imagine the SS are going to stay here? What for – the fishing? Whatever they do, they’ll do it quick and push on. Two days, at most? Then the Maquis’ll move in, won’t they?’

  Eyes like brown cracks in half-cooked meat… ‘Persuasive, isn’t she?’ His father sitting upright now, drawing long, slow breaths, apparently not even listening to what was being said. Heart racing, she guessed. He’d be scared of that too. She told André quietly, ‘There’s an alternative. Suppose before Guichard takes over we find we can move—’

  ‘I’m ahead of you.’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘A flight out to England?’

  ‘Well – why not?’

  ‘Think I’m stupid?’

  ‘Far from it. But you’d get the de-briefing over – could go better than you expect, you did yourself some good last night, remember—’

  ‘Good, did I!’

  ‘And you’d get first-class hospital treatment – which you may well need, by then. Think about it.’ She asked his father, ‘What’s in the kitchen that I can bring up for him?’

  * * *

  He’d come down to help, show her what there was. Some eggs – which she put on to boil – cheese, bread stale enough to have
thrown out, and the remains of a rabbit stew. There was also the basin to wash out and re-fill: and chamber-pots to see to. A job for Papa, that one. She found some jugs for fresh water, and put a kettle on to boil for coffee-substitute: the last hot drink André would have for a while.

  She took it off again. The chicory mixture had a strong aroma – hardly likely to be emanating from a locked and empty bedroom.

  Monsieur Henri was back then, and she gave him a loaded tray to take up.

  ‘Not leaving you anything to eat. Come for a meal at the auberge, maybe.’

  ‘It’s – possible.’

  ‘There’s coffee anyway. Don’t give him any up there, someone might smell it. Better let him lock himself in and keep the key in there with him – d’you think?’

  In case she and/or Monsieur Henri came to grief: at least he’d be able to get out, try to get away. She added, ‘After that lot, there’ll only be the eggs. Might as well boil them hard.’

  He wasn’t in good shape at all, she thought – hearing him stumble on the stairs. Remembering that fit of the horrors he’d had, that moan of has to be some way – some answer… She’d felt a twinge of empathy – recognizing shock and desperation when she heard it, having known it herself a few times; but his son, she thought, probably had very little feeling for him at all. Thoughts jumbled, rushing, treading on each other’s heels. Mother’s boy: and lover-boy, who if he was going to get out of this alive wasn’t going to look half so pretty. And neither he nor his father was likely to hold much back, if the SS went to work on them. Lover-boy having already proved it, vis-à-vis the Gestapo – and admitted as much two days ago in the forest, that bit about red-hot skewers, effectively acknowledging that he’d known from the start he couldn’t have stood up to torture: alleging that he’d arranged his own Lysander pick-up, to avoid any such ordeal. Total lie – it had been the de-briefing in England he’d ducked out of – but still fair enough, the torture thing. She’d come very close to breaking-point herself – in Rouen, stripped to the waist by a Gestapo torturer wielding a pair of pliers. She’d admitted in her later de-briefing that in another half-minute she’d have been begging to be allowed to tell him everything she knew. So could hardly sneer at these two if they broke. Even though one had at least tried, up to that truly frightful point had held out. Probably everyone ever born had a certain threshold, she thought. One was not entitled to judge, therefore: could admire, certainly, but not condemn.

  Except you would. When your own life was at stake.

  Needn’t have been here. Could have flown home, with Marilyn. Home to Ben, for God’s sake!

  ‘The eggs done?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ She’d forgotten them. Le patron re-entering, putting one empty tray down on the table. It was a table of the old French farmhouse type, with a slide that pulled out from one end for use as a bread-board. Glancing at him as she took the saucepan off the stove: still with fair certainty that he wouldn’t even start to resist.

  Except for the lie about Legrand. Might lay on that act well enough, she guessed – in the hope of saving his own life.

  She had a bowl ready for the eggs.

  ‘Thought any more about Legrand?

  A moment’s blank stare: then a nod.

  ‘Yes. I’ll try it. André was saying just now it’s the only hope I have.’

  ‘To act it well you’ve got to believe it – know that you’re innocent and he’s trying to drop you in it. Be indignant – angry – and for real!’

  ‘Well. I don’t know…’

  ‘It’s not all that difficult. Just convince yourself, to start with. I’ll take these up, I’ll be quicker.’

  ‘No – I haven’t said goodbye to him—’

  ‘Be quick, then. We may not have long.’

  Listening to an echo of that ‘haven’t said goodbye’: with a tangential reaction of gladness that she’d asked Marilyn to give Ben the message that she was sorry she hadn’t said goodbye – if only to have him know it had worried her, that she cared that much… Well, he would have known it, but—

  To have said it, was the thing. And – back to earth, to now – might as well make some coffee for herself and Monsieur Henri. There was no milk, it would have to be black. Tipping out the kettle, for a start: then re-filling it…

  A crash from out there in the hall: the first thought in her head was of Papa falling down the stairs, and from that – as she hurried through – Heart attack, maybe: and a follow-up reflection that for him it mightn’t be a bad way out. For herself or the Craillots either, maybe – take the focus off him—

  Bursting into the hallway, stopping dead, staring openmouthed at Leutnant Klebermann. Behind him, brushing himself down, a sergeant – not SS – with a Schmeisser.

  ‘Oh—’

  Klebermann snapped at her, ‘Monsieur Marchéval, if you please!’

  Monsieur Marchéval was coming quickly down the stairs – calling down, ‘Justine, you all right?’

  ‘Yes, M’sieur, but –’ at least some warning – ‘it’s the Lieutenant Klebermann who’s asking for you!’

  Behind the sergeant, the door leading into the central part of the house stood open. Hence the crash, she realized: if it had been nailed up, and he’d put his shoulder to it. Gazing at it: dumb, astonished – heart hammering, not only from Klebermann’s precipitous arrival, but why they’d chosen to break through this way. Decision taken, Monsieur Henri found guilty, present usage and division of the manor therefore terminated? That was the instant conclusion: the only explanation, in fact – which one was going to have to face and cope with now – while continuing to act simple… Monsieur Henri meanwhile negotiating the lower part of the staircase more circumspectly, with his eyes wide on Klebermann: Rosie half expecting a shout from up there of ‘What was it, Papa?’

  No such thing yet, but—

  What was the betting Papa had left that bedroom door wide open?

  ‘Monsieur Marchéval.’ Klebermann rigid, facing him. ‘Major Linscheidt requests you come. Orders also of Sturmbannführer Kroll. If you please…’

  Chapter 18

  André had heard all that. Rosie had pushed the forcibly opened connecting door shut – more or less, but it had four-inch nails protruding through it – and waited half a minute before going up: primary objective being to get the bedroom door shut and locked. As they’d left her, stamping away into the main body of the house, she’d quavered – addressing Monsieur Henri but by then seeing only the sergeant’s broad back and slung Schmeisser – ‘I’ll finish cleaning in the kitchen then, M’sieur –’ and had no answer. Upstairs now: André wisely not speaking until she’d shut the door: he’d swung his legs off the bed, was sitting bolt upright, mouth opening with straight lips like a ventriloquist’s dummy: ‘Not going to get away with it, are we?’

  ‘Damn lucky they didn’t come up here.’ New thought then – to go and open the door of Monsieur’s room, so that if they came back to look around they might accept that that was where he’d been. She went out, found the room, and did it. Returning soft-footed to André then: ‘I can’t stay up here. Obviously. So—’

  ‘He’ll go to pieces, you know.’

  ‘Rat on you?’

  ‘Well – I’m sure he’d try not to—’

  ‘As you tried not to?’

  ‘As I told you – tell you again, if we’ve got time for this – by the time I woke up to what they were really after, they already knew it all – they were telling me!’

  ‘Because you’d already steered them to about a dozen réseaux? Thirty or forty agents?’ She agreed: ‘You’re right, we don’t have time. But one thing in your favour I’ll admit, you didn’t shop the Craillots. Drew the line when it came to old friends?’

  ‘They didn’t come into it. I was asked, “Are there any résistants in your father’s work-force or that village?”, but they had no information so I could safely deny it.’

  ‘Personal safety being your watchword. But would you now? In half an hour’s time
, say, if it comes to that?’

  ‘I’d –’ a nod – ‘I’d try. And pray to God for help. That’s the truth, believe me.’

  She could see it was. And honest, in its way. But it was ‘Hector’ she was talking to, not André: ‘Hector’ who’d helped fill that railway carriage. She didn’t have time for this, but there were still things she didn’t understand and would have liked to. She tried just one: ‘What about Joseph Lambert? Hey, wait…’

  Stepping back further from the window.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A truck – three-quarter-tonner – stopping here. Well – nearer the Briards.’

  Klebermann – and the SS Oberleutnant. And two helmeted troopers, also SS. Klebermann striding to the Briards’ door and banging on it: one trooper was staying with the truck. Tilting his head to look up this way.

  ‘They’ve gone into the Briards’. Klebermann and the SS officer I saw before. Briards up against it now?’

  ‘Informing, more likely. Saw something, or heard something.’ Eyes shut, and breathing through his mouth – short, panting breaths. ‘Tell you, Zoé – if you were in a position to repeat your offer of a flight out to Tempsford – which you’re not, of course—’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘I would be, but—

  ‘If by some miracle we can last out without them finding you—’

  ‘Would I get a fair hearing now in England?’

  ‘Fair hearing, certainly, but beyond that I don’t know. I doubt you’d face a firing-squad. Even politically, at this late stage—’

  ‘But you’d have killed me.’

  ‘The preference has always been to get you back. But you know the rules.’ She knew she had to move: only needed to see first what was going to happen down there with the Briards… ‘Baker Street obviously wants answers to certain questions – especially disappearances – and if you’d co-operate, I suppose—’

  ‘Why you on such a brief, though – in the state you must have been—’

  ‘I met you in Rue des Saussaies – as you remember. And before that, thanks to you, I’d have been trapped on my way from Soucelles to Rennes. And I was then on a train to Ravensbrück with other women agents, at least some of whom there’s reason to believe must have been caught as a result of your – activities.’ She’d shrugged. ‘Or you might say, your blunders.’ Glancing at him again, but mostly watching the parked truck and the Briards’ door. ‘I asked you about Lambert – or rather the Lamberts.’