The Avion My Uncle Flew

by Cyrus Fisher

  From le maire, they’d understood mon oncle, Paul Langres, had been killed during the war. Of course, le maire hadn’t heard correctly—mon oncle had only been severely wounded, but they didn’t know that. Also, from the same source, they were informed the other owner of the Langres place was ma mère. She was supposed to be thousands and thousands of miles away, in the United States, so loin—so far—she wouldn’t ever come here, and would be willing to sell. They’d counted on buying the land cheaply, setting up there in the maison, melting the gold and silver, and escaping safely, all three of them, with their stolen fortune. It was a good plan, I guess, and simple in the details; but, like mine, it got complicated toward the end.

  First, they discovered mon oncle hadn’t died. He was recovering from his wounds. Monsieur Simonis didn’t want to take the gold and silver coins from the maison, as they were, because other Germans in other parts of France also had stolen French money and now the government had the police and special agents on the lookout for all such money thefted from French banks. By melting the money into gold and silver bullion, it could be taken out of France and resold in Spain without much difficulty. But to melt all that money down into bullion meant that they had to have time and be undisturbed in the maison. Consequently le maire, acting under orders from Simonis, attempted to buy the land from mon oncle. Mon oncle refused to sell.

  Secondly, as you know, my family arrived in Paris. That upset all three thieves. Monsieur Simonis planted Albert in Paris, at the hotel at which we were staying, to spy on us. Albert was lucky enough to get the chore of pushing me in the wheel chair, which played smack into the hands of Monsieur Simonis. As you know, Monsieur Simonis learned mon oncle and I meant to come to St. Chamant. He had to prevent this at all costs. He made the effort to buy the land. That failing, he determined to scare me from coming, to get rid of one of us, trusting he could handle mon oncle later. He failed when mon oncle rescued me in le parc.

  Well, Monsieur Simonis took the same train we were on—got off that one—followed us, right behind us, snuck up to our maison and for a time lived there in the cellar until I happened upon the hiding place. I guess, by then, he was nearly crazy with worry, blaming mon oncle and me for all his misfortune.

  Later on, when they’d put Albert in jail, Albert admitted to a few things le maire had forgotten. Albert was ordered to drive me out of le village. He’d hummed under my window. He had thrown stones at my window, to make me nervous. He swore he hadn’t ever attempted to climb in, though. Maybe he was telling the truth about that. Possibly, at that time, I was already so nervous and scared, my imagination ran away with me, and I merely thought someone actually was climbing in to get me.…

  Anyway, when le maire finished his part of the whole miserable scheme, le village might have strung him up right there, if le forgeron hadn’t stepped in and taken charge. He reminded them France had laws for collaborationists. That was what the mayor was—a collaborationist. He would be punished, perhaps beheaded, or at least stuck in prison for fifty years or so, the rest of his life, as payment for all the suffering he’d caused. The people didn’t have as much hate against Albert as they did for le maire. Almost, I pitied that maire. He resembled a balloon with all the air drawn out from it. Monsieur Joubert, the detective I’d thought was a peddler, clamped handcuffs on the two prisoners.

  The people milled around the mayor and Albert, Monsieur Niort thundering, mon oncle watching, smiling, his eyes shining. I still felt shaky. I sat near the framework of the runway, in the sunshine, thinking that it was fine to have le maire and Albert caught, but wondering how Monsieur Simonis had managed to escape. That didn’t cheer me, at all. With Monsieur Simonis free, he’d never rest until he’d repaid mon oncle and me for all we’d done. My broken arm started hurting, too. Nobody seemed to notice me any more—not that I blamed them. They were too busy with le maire and Albert, keeping the two talking, explaining. I thought of mon oncle’s avion, cassé, wrapped around that oak tree. It seemed to me as if about everything had gone wrong.

  I happened to look up. I saw Suzanne and Charles in front of me. Suzanne reached down, and gently touched my arm. “C’est cassé?” she asked. I nodded. She ran to mon oncle. She spoke to him. He jumped around. Both of them ran back to me. He knelt in front of me. “Jean!” he exclaimed. “Why did you not say you were hurt?” He called to Dr. Guereton.

  I didn’t care about my arm as much as I cared that Monsieur Simonis had escaped. Maybe, after all that had happened this morning, I was a little out of my head. I remember, between them, mon oncle and Dr. Guereton carried me, planning to take me back to the automobile. I was shouting not to waste time, to go after Monsieur Simonis. Charles and Suzanne ran along beside me. Suzanne had practical sense, always. She saw I wasn’t going to be satisfied or quiet until I knew how mon oncle and the twins escaped, and where Monsieur Simonis was. Very quickly, mon oncle explained how Suzanne had helped. He said, “Albert and the mayor guarded us while Monsieur Simonis ran to the edge of the cliff to shoot at you. Albert had a revolver. I zink we would right now be dead, maybe, in the cellar if Suzanne had not been so quick. When Simonis was shooting at you, all of us except Suzanne watched. Suzanne ran for the ax. The mayor ran at her. Charles tripped the mayor. Albert forgot me and pointed the revolver at Charles and I—” He snapped his fingers. “I jumped upon Albert and—voilà! That is all. You see the rest.”

  I guess I gaped at him. “How did you ever dare to tackle him when he had a gun?”

  You know how vain mon oncle is. I guess it’s born in him; he can’t help it. For an answer, he simply snapped his fingers again, said, “Pouf! Am I not a Langres, hein? It was simple.”

  And I asked, “But where is Monsieur Simonis?”

  “Oh,” said mon oncle, his face changing. “I zink this afternoon we will send men to the bottom of the cliff and we will find him there.”

  “He got away by walking down—”

  “Walking?” Mon oncle lifted one eyebrow. He rubbed his big nose. “Not by walking. No. I zink he was more interested in shooting at you than seeing where he was going. For a man who does not take care, it can be very dangerous to stand on the edge of a cliff. The rock crumbles.” He eyed me. “You understand?”

  I said, “Oh!” and for an instant, it was like being up in that avion again, and having it drop suddenly. Almost, I could see Monsieur Simonis, standing solitary and evil on the edge of that high cliff, concentrating with all his might on me and the avion, stepping forward, one step, another step, aiming his long pistol—and just one more step—

  I said, “Oh.” That was all I could say.

  Mon oncle changed the subject. He said Monsieur Joubert wanted to see me a minute before he took le maire and Albert to Tulle, where a jail was waiting for them. While the doctor did what he could to my arm, and we waited for the detective to free himself from the crowd, mon oncle told me about Monsieur Joubert. The government had sent him here secretly, convinced someone in le village was aiding the escaped Nazis—but not knowing who it was. The detective had revealed himself to mon oncle, asking for assistance, pledging mon oncle to remain silent about him.

  And the detective had heard Charles and me steal out of the hotel last night, not knowing it was us. He tracked us as far as the graveyard before losing us. After that, he’d gone up the montagne to awaken mon oncle and warn him, telling him something was occurring in le village—he didn’t know what—but to remain on guard. After awakening mon oncle, Monsieur Joubert had climbed higher in the montagne, circling to the east, hoping to find traces of someone hiding in the forest, returning to le village about the time I made my unexpected flight in l’avion.

  Now Monsieur Joubert approached.

  But before he had time to question me, Dr. Guereton rapidly said something. Mon oncle said, “We will take you to the hotel first, Jean. You can answer questions later on.…”

  I don’t know, but I think I must have passed out. My arm hurt a lot. Probably I ought to add here, they did find
what was left of Monsieur Simonis; parts of him, I understand, were spread over quite a distance.…

  By the following day, Dr. Guereton had set my arm in splints, and I was allowed to come down to the main floor of the hotel. Charles and Suzanne were there, dressed in their best clothes. Madame Meilhac was with them, smiling, her cheeks redder than ever. I’d never seen anyone so happy.

  Mon oncle informed me the gold and silver had been located. The men from the banks were up at the meadow right now, loading it into trucks. The banks would be opened. From now on, the Meilhacs wouldn’t be poor.

  I don’t suppose St. Chamant ever had as much excitement as it did during the next week. By that second day, the news of what had happened had spread all over the country. In the big cities the papers carried accounts of it. A thing happened that neither mon oncle nor I had counted on. The reporters learned from the village people that I had flown the avion—a boy. At least, that’s the account that was printed. The newspapers seemed to believe it was an extraordinary thing, a perfect miracle, for a boy who’d never before in his life been in an avion, to fly all that way down and almost make a perfect landing. It evidently caused talk all over France, because by the third day, the town was filled with reporters and tourists coming in from as far away as Toulouse and Brive and Marseilles and Bordeaux. Madame Graffoulier’s hotel was packed.

  When people asked him how a boy could fly his avion, mon oncle would snap his fingers and say in French, “Pouf! It was simple. I built the avion to be flown by anyone. Am I not a Langres?”

  Albert and le maire had been taken to Tulle and jail by Monsieur Joubert, who wasn’t simply a detective, but chief of police there. After putting them in jail, he took a train to Paris to explain everything that had taken place to the police in charge of French security. He sent his assistant, a sharp-eyed little fellow, back to St. Chamant to interview mon oncle, the Meilhac twins and me. He was supposed to obtain the whole story of what Charles and I had done, to make everything official. Well, I didn’t understand enough to do any talking. Charles did all the explaining.

  Come to think of it, I guess this was the first time mon oncle had heard Charles’ complete account of our adventure, except for what Charles had briefly told him up on the montagne. Now mon oncle’s face became more and more puzzled. “Quoi?” he said. “Quoi?” He looked at me, blinking.

  By and by this assistant to Monsieur Joubert gravely got up. He walked to me. He shook hands with me and made a long speech. It was all beyond me. After he finished, the two policemen accompanying him did exactly the same thing. All the time, Charles looked on and grinned, and acted as if this was the proudest moment of his life. When the police had finished with me, they shook Charles’ hand, and seemed to be complimenting him, too. I wondered what on earth he’d told them.

  And when all that was done, Monsieur Niort came to me. He said, “Un brave garçon!” which means, “A brave boy!” and he shook my hand. So did the doctor. So did about ten other men listening to what Charles had told the police. Every time they shook my hand I could see Charles visibly inflate with pleasure, as if he were basking in some sort of glory I’d acquired, I didn’t know what. At last mon oncle said hoarsely, perplexed, astounded, bewildered:

  “But Jean. Tell me. How did you happen to suspect the mayor was a Nazi accomplice? How, Jean? You must tell us. We are all ears to know how you managed such a stupendous thing.”

  I said, “What?”

  Mon oncle said, “Monsieur Joubert was told by Charles, up on the montagne, what you had done.” He added crossly, as if slightly vexed, “I wish someone might inform me now and then what my nephew does. Now, Monsieur Joubert has given specific instructions to his assistant to learn how you first suspected the mayor. Monsieur Joubert was unable to ask you when we were all on the montagne. Well?” finished mon oncle, giving me a peculiar look.

  I swallowed. “You mean Monsieur Joubert believes I suspected the mayor of being a Nazi?”

  “Yes,” said mon oncle, baffled. “Charles has just told us. He has explained everything, how you told him that night he stayed with you that you’d discovered Mayor Capedulocque was a Nazi and how you showed him German money you’d found in the mayor’s house as proof the mayor was a traitor.”

  I just sat there, with my one arm hanging limp, and my other arm in the sling, and my legs stuck out straight in front of me. I noticed Charles was smiling at me. He believed I’d discovered the truth about Mayor Capedulocque long before anyone else, and was pleased because at last he’d given me what he thought was the credit I’d earned. And the fact was, it never had entered my head that Mayor Capedulocque—le Maire Capedulocque, I mean—was a Nazi. My scheme hadn’t considered him as a collaborationist. All I’d wanted was to make le maire think a Nazi was in hiding! When all along le maire knew a Nazi was in la montagne and was doing his level best to keep that fact hidden.

  That’s what comes of trying to explain a scheme to someone like Charles in a language you can hardly speak. Charles never had gotten my scheme at all in his head. Now I understood why he’d jumped up that night when I was saying, “Le maire—Nazi.” I’d expected he’d realize what I was driving at—that we counted on frightening le maire by pretending to be Nazis!

  Mon oncle asked me again, perplexed, how on earth I’d discovered le maire’s secret when no one else had suspicioned it. The police were looking at me as if they wanted to know, too. A couple of reporters from Tulle came in closer. They were waiting for the mystery to be cleared as well. I simply slumped down and fortunately, Dr. Guereton entered and said I’d been questioned enough for today. So I escaped.

  That night, I learned from mon oncle, he’d sent off a cable to my parents to inform them I was well and safe in case they’d seen any of the newspaper accounts of our experience. He was tremendously excited. He said le village had voted Monsieur Niort to be the new mayor. After that, le village had voted for a festival for the avion next Sunday. Invitations had been sent to everyone of importance in the district. I asked, “But isn’t the avion cassé?”

  “Ah,” he said, mighty cheerful. “Only one wing. Six of the best carpenters in Corrèze are working on it night and day to have it repaired—réparé—for Sunday. Besides, I do not design airplanes that break, airplanes that remain cassé permanently. I design good airplanes. Pouf!” He snapped his fingers. “It is simple to have it ready to fly by Sunday. Am I not a Langres?”

  By Saturday morning there must have been nearly two thousand people camped around St. Chamant, or crowded into the maisons and hotel, for the festival—for la fête. The weather was warm, with sunshine. Charles, Suzanne and I went to the workshop and saw the avion, with mon oncle explaining how by tonight the repairs would be completed. He drew me to one side and whispered, “Ah, Jean—” and seemed a shade embarrassed. “Between us, hein? Just how did you suspect the mayor?”

  I didn’t have time to tell him I hadn’t ever suspected le maire, because the postmaster ran in at that moment with a cable he said had come all the way from London. It was from my father. He’d read in the Scottish papers about what had happened and had received mon oncle’s cable, assuring him I wasn’t harmed except for a broken arm. He had cabled to tell us he and my mother were leaving London Sunday and would arrive Monday.

  We cabled back to try to tell them to leave at once, to be in time for la fête, Sunday. But evidently the cable didn’t reach them in time. They weren’t there, Sunday morning. Dr. Guereton took me as far up the montagne as his car would go. I walked the rest of the way, with Monsieur Niort—now le maire—on one side, and Suzanne and Charles on the other. Behind us came Madame Meilhac, Madame Graffoulier and the Graffoulier kids, and all the rest of le village—tout le monde—everyone, camera men, the people from the surrounding towns and villages. It was like being on a great vast picnic. They had the band playing in the meadow. Monsieur Niort made a speech. He called Charles and Suzanne and me to the platform on the runway, the avion—now repaired—right behind us. Mon oncle
was there, too. All of us had to be photographed. It was the most wonderful day I’d ever seen, le ciel blue and clear, the wind blowing gently.

  Suzanne wore a new dress, bought in Tulle. Her hair was curly, done up, and she was pretty as a picture. I couldn’t hardly believe she was the same Suzanne I’d seen way early in the summer playing at “peau-rouge,” until she gave me a quick pinch when nobody was looking. “Bon jour,” said she, smiling.

  “Bon jour,” I said, pleased to see that same friendly smile. Actually, she and Charles had deserved the credit, all of it. Monsieur Niort finished his speech and turned to distribute the reward of ten thousand francs—about four hundred dollars—between the four of us, mon oncle, the Meilhac twins, and myself. They helped me down; the band played again. Monsieur Niort thundered to everyone that the moment was now here when Monsieur Paul Langres would this time himself voler in his avion.

  I looked up at mon oncle Paul. I looked at the avion. Ah, I thought, the avion is grand—is big. The avion is ready to fly. Oncle Paul bent down at me and grinned and said, “Bon jour, Jean,” as if we were together on a joke or secret. I asked, “Are you ready?” and he said he was prêt; he wished to fly very far this time, to make a record. “Très loin,” he said gaily.

  Seeing him up there must have reminded Suzanne of that other time when the avion was ready to fly. She became a trifle nervous. She called up, “The airplane isn’t broken?”—that is, l’avion n’est pas cassé?

  Mon oncle said, “It’s repaired, don’t worry, Suzanne. It’s ready to depart.” He said all that in French, but I understood that much. Suzanne said, “Good, but please don’t fly too far,” and everybody around laughed. By now, mon oncle entre—entered into l’avion. He called, “An revoir!” and Monsieur Niort chopped the rope and poussed—pushed the avion and away it slid, down the runway and into the air. I heard people in the crowd shouting, “Bonne chance! Bonne chance!” which was their way of saying, “Good luck!”