by Robert Rigby
Paul turned his head towards the source of the sound, which had come from the inky darkness at the far end of the barn, a good twenty metres away. Close by, there were high piles of cut planks, the type the house and barn were made of. But it was difficult to see further into the gloom.
His eyes adjusted to the shadows and shapes and gradually focused on what looked like a small, self-contained structure against the far wall. It appeared to have chest-high solid walls topped with vertical wooden bars.
Something silvery moved behind the wooden bars and Paul stared.
The movement came again.
“What is it?” one of the Germans said.
And then a heavy grey horse whinnied loudly, shaking a tangled mane as it stuck its head over the half-door of the stable.
The two Germans began to laugh and went strolling towards the horse.
The horse whinnied again as the Germans approached, and Paul knew this was his chance.
Keeping his eyes on the men’s backs as they neared the horse, he edged to the front of the car and tiptoed silently across the mud floor to the wide entrance. He paused, glanced out to make sure that no one else was in the yard and then sprinted into the trees.
Didier was waiting and he looked as furious as he sounded. “What the hell were you doing? You could have got yourself killed. And me!”
“I know, I’m sorry, but I had to take the risk.”
Didier was generally mild tempered and rarely angry, but now he was seething. “Trying to win the war on your own again! You can’t do it, Paul, it’s not fair on everyone else. You didn’t even stop to think.”
“There wasn’t time, and anyway, what was there to think about?”
“Footprints for a start, when you ran across the yard.”
Paul glanced back towards the yard. “It’s still wet and churned up, my footprints don’t show.”
“And what about inside the barn? Wet footprints on dry mud? It’s a complete giveaway.”
“But it’s so dark in there, they’d never see footprints.”
Didier took a deep breath, the anger in his face starting to fade. “You got lucky. This time.”
“Look, I’m sorry, Didier, you’re right; I should have stopped to think. But I know what’s going on now, they were talking and I could understand most of what they said.”
“And?”
“They’ve got Max’s wife in the house, and the Noury twins have been working for them. But not any more – they tried to free Julia and that’s why the Germans killed their dog.”
“How many are there?”
“I’m not sure. Those two, an officer in the house, the one who went in the lorry, and we know they left two more at Max’s house, that’s six. Maybe there are more. But there’s something else…”
Didier suddenly raised one finger to his lips and Paul fell silent. He looked back and saw the two Germans, both carrying a shovel, striding away from the barn. They crossed the yard and went around to the front of the house.
“Something else?” Didier whispered, when he was certain the Germans were out of earshot.
Paul nodded. “The person who helped the Germans organize this whole operation is Victor Forêt.”
“Forêt?” Didier said, stunned. “Victor Forêt? From Lavelanet? He’s helping … he’s a collaborator?”
“They’ve gone for him now,” Paul said. “In the lorry we saw leaving. Forêt’s been providing them with information about Max Bernard. And they’re banking on him leading them to him again.”
TWENTY-TWO
Victor Forêt stared nervously out through the café window, across the terrace and the small square to the lorry parked on the far side.
He couldn’t see the face of the German sitting in the cab but he knew the man was staring in his direction. Silently commanding him to obey orders.
Victor was behind the bar and Eddie Noury was on the other side. Both looked panicked at the way events were panning out.
“You got us into this, Victor,” Eddie said. “You have to get us out.”
“Quiet!” Victor said. He seemed short of breath and his face was crimson. “You want everyone to hear?”
The café was hardly packed: the only customers were two elderly men nursing half-full glasses of beer at a table close to the front.
“I can’t just close the place,” Victor whispered, glancing towards the two beer-drinkers. “People will become suspicious.” Beads of sweat stood out on his brow.
“You have to come with me, now,” Eddie said, louder than he had intended.
One of the men at the front looked towards them, but went back to his beer without making a comment.
“They’ve threatened to kill Gilbert,” Eddie hissed. “And the woman.”
Victor wiped the back of one hand across his sweaty brow. “Why did you have to interfere? You should have kept your noses out.”
“But we didn’t! And it’s too late to change that now. We have to do what they say.” Eddie glanced out towards the lorry. “And we can’t keep him waiting, he said to be quick.”
Victor took another look through the window. “And why do they want my car?”
“Just do as they say, Victor,” Eddie hissed. “Now!”
The café owner sighed heavily and nodded towards the staircase at the back of the long bar. “I’ll have to get Celine down. She won’t like it; she’s resting. Give me five minutes.”
Victor was married, but not to Celine who was upstairs in the flat above the café. Victor’s wife, Christine, had suddenly departed Lavelanet one summer night several years earlier. She told a friend that she was leaving because Victor bored her and bullied her and sometimes, when he was drunk, beat her. The drunkenness and the beatings were increasing in frequency and Christine had finally had enough. She disappeared that night and had never been seen or heard of since.
Victor waited a couple of years before moving in her replacement. But Celine was very different to her predecessor. She was a big woman, muscular and strong. Celine was immune to Victor’s boring conversation and she ignored his bullying ways and gave as good as she got in a fight. Celine would stand up to any man, and frequently did when there was trouble in the bar, and Victor had quickly learned not to tangle with her, even when he was drunk.
A few minutes after trudging up the stairs, Victor returned to the bar, with Celine plodding down behind him.
She was taller than Victor, and broader, and she looked ferocious. “How long will you be?” she growled. “I’m not standing here on my own all night.”
“I don’t know,” Victor grunted, equally sourly. “I’ll be back when I’m back.”
They glared at each other, then Victor gestured for Eddie to follow him from the café.
There was no one on the terrace; the earlier rain had soaked the tables and chairs and driven people indoors. And as evening approached the temperature was dropping. It was too cold for the terrace now.
Victor mumbled that he would meet the lorry at his lock-up garage a few streets away. As Eddie crossed the square and climbed into the cab, Victor plodded away, up a narrow lane to one side of the café. The lane was not wide enough for the lorry; Eddie would have to take a different route, but he knew the way.
The lorry pulled away, and as it turned the corner someone else emerged from behind one of the trees on the square and walked across to the lane.
Alain Noury had a score to settle with the café owner. He’d been waiting and wondering whether or not he should go inside. He really wanted to get Victor on his own. There was a loaded pistol in his pocket. Alain intended to give the café owner the fright of his life, along with a warning that if he messed with him again he’d end up with a bullet in his head. That was the plan. Then Victor had emerged from the café, but with one of his cousins in tow. He didn’t know which of his cousins – he could never tell from a distance – but he’d driven off now, anyway.
Alain was ready to grab his opportunity. As he entered the lane, he saw Vict
or up ahead and watched him turn left. Alain had warned him he’d be sorry. Victor had to learn his lesson, like others before him had.
Everyone needed to know that you didn’t mess with Alain Noury.
Victor’s temper was close to boiling point by the time he reached his lock-up garage. The uphill walk was hardly strenuous, but it had left him panting. Why did they want him to go to them in his own car? Victor’s car was the only thing that was precious to him.
He kept the highly polished black Peugeot 402 in immaculate condition. Only two nights earlier, he’d eased it extra cautiously along that long, bumpy track to the wood yard. It had left the vehicle mud-spattered and in need of a thorough cleaning, which had taken an hour. It would be even worse this time, after the rain. And the rutted track was murder on any car’s suspension.
Victor was always brave when he was alone. He told himself that he wasn’t going to ferry the Germans around in his car. He wasn’t a chauffeur or a taxi driver and he wouldn’t be at their beck and call.
He would go to the yard, answer their questions and offer what advice he could, but that was it. He wasn’t being paid enough to fight their war for them.
There was no one around; the quiet back street was deserted. Eddie’s lorry had not yet arrived.
Victor unlocked the double doors and slipped the key into a pocket. He pulled open one door and then the other. As he stepped into the darkness of the garage, he thought he heard someone running.
Then the lorry turned into the road.
Victor unlocked the car and slid into the driver’s seat. The vehicle started first time, as always, and he carefully eased the Peugeot from the garage onto the road. He stopped the car, pulled on the handbrake and switched off the engine.
In the lorry’s cab, Erich Steidle rolled his eyes and sighed as he watched Victor haul himself from the Peugeot. “What’s he doing now?” he said to Eddie.
“I think he’s going to lock the garage.”
“But why? It’s empty now.”
“Victor’s a cautious man.”
They watched as the café owner methodically closed the two doors. He was rooting in his pockets for the key to the lock when Steidle swore and thumped a clenched fist down on the dashboard. “Let’s go. He knows the way, he can catch us up.”
Eddie shrugged, shoved the lorry into gear and drove away.
His cousin, Alain Noury, had turned on his heels and run for cover when he heard the lorry approaching. He didn’t want to be seen by anyone, and particularly not by one of his cousins. He’d almost reached Victor when the lorry turned up.
What was going on? What connection was there between the twins and Victor Forêt? As far as Alain knew, they didn’t use his café very often, and Gilbert hadn’t mentioned their seeing Victor when they’d met on the plateau the previous day. He’d said they were busy in the yard. And Alain had just spotted a stranger sitting in the cab with the twin. Another stranger. What was going on?
Skulking around a corner, Alain was trying to make sense of what he’d seen. He heard the lorry move off again and waited. Was it really leaving this time, or just moving further down the street?
Alain was confused, and he became edgy and unpredictable when he was confused.
He listened as the rumble of the lorry’s diesel engine faded. Now, at last, Alain had his chance.
He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and his fingers gripped the cold metal. Victor was going to be very sorry for what he’d done. He had to learn. Alain took a step forward. He heard the Peugeot’s engine start. He turned the corner just as the shiny black vehicle pulled away.
Another opportunity was lost.
Victor was in no hurry; he would make the Germans wait. Always a careful driver, he never drove particularly fast, and certainly never drove dangerously.
The light was beginning to fade, so Victor switched on the Peugeot’s head lamps as he manoeuvred the car through the narrow backstreets and on towards the river.
The lorry had disappeared, but it was a cumbersome and slow vehicle. Even driving at his usual leisurely pace, Victor knew he would catch it up before he reached the lines of plane trees on the road leading into Bélesta. From there he would follow it to the forest.
There was no one about – it was nearing the hour when most people would be at home having dinner – but turning a corner, Victor caught a glimpse of three people entering the road he had just left. Two women and a man.
He drove on for a hundred metres or so, then jammed on the brakes, bringing the Peugeot to a skidding halt.
It was him! Max Bernard! He had the collar of his coat pulled up, but there was no hiding that lanky frame and wild shock of hair. It was him, with the Mazet girl and her grandmother. Victor was absolutely certain. Max Bernard was here in Lavelanet!
He stared up the deserted street. The lorry was long gone. Why hadn’t they waited? It could have been all over, there and then. Finished. And Victor would have been the hero. And paid, too.
But maybe he still could be. He would follow Bernard and the others, see where they went, then report back to the Germans. The road was tight; it would be easier to drive to the end, turn around and drive back.
He put the car into first and pulled away, driving much faster than usual. Just as he reached the end of the street, a man on a bicycle came suddenly around the corner, turning too wide. Victor braked, his heart in his mouth, as the bike lurched towards the car. He wrenched on the steering wheel and the Peugeot swerved. The bicycle wobbled and came to a standstill.
The rider was an elderly man. Victor knew him slightly. He glared into the car. “What d’you think you’re doing, going so fast? Are you in a race? You could kill someone driving like that!”
“You were too far out in the road!” Victor yelled back. “You should watch where you’re going, silly old fool!”
“Don’t you shout at me, Victor Forêt! I suppose you’re drunk on your own wine again! And I’ll ride my bicycle how I like, I’ve lived in this road all my life.”
“Well, it’s a miracle you’ve lived so long, then! Now get out of my way!”
Swearing under his breath, Victor drove on. He turned the corner, stopped, reversed, stopped again and drove back into the road he had just left. The man on the bicycle shook a fist as the car passed, and Victor mouthed another curse.
He’d lost time, but hopefully he would see Bernard and the others when he turned the next corner.
He didn’t. They were nowhere to be seen.
Victor drove slowly on, peering into lighted windows on both sides of the road.
He passed a turning on his right. Nothing. He reached a junction with roads going both left and right. Nothing.
Victor swore loudly. He’d lost them.
TWENTY-THREE
Odile Mazet had a way of making most people feel at ease. Inigo and Max were total strangers and from different worlds, but within minutes of being introduced they were talking comfortably.
Max was still frantic with worry about his wife and desperate for news of her, but Inigo had brought out a bottle of some sort of spirit, filled two small glasses and, after a toast to freedom, began telling his new guest about his own battles against fascism.
Odile and Josette refused the offer of a drink. They listened politely as Inigo spoke, but Josette’s thoughts were elsewhere. She was worried, too – about Paul and Didier. They’d been gone since early morning, leaving for Bélesta with Max’s friend, Antoine Granel, but now it was evening and they had not returned, and no word had come through.
They couldn’t telephone; Max had said there was no phone at either his or Antoine’s house. But they couldn’t possibly still be with Antoine, they must have gone somewhere else. But where? And why?
It was frustrating not knowing. And Josette wasn’t just worried; she was also highly put out that she wasn’t involved in the action. She didn’t want to babysit Max; she wanted to be out there on the front line, doing her bit. But when Paul and Didier decided to
go to Bélesta that morning, they had just assumed that it would be they who went, and not Josette.
She hadn’t argued at the time but she’d been getting more and more angry about it all day. It was always the same, just because she was a girl.
She was thinking that she would make her feelings perfectly clear to both Paul and Didier when they did get back, when there was an urgent knocking at the front door. Everyone in the room tensed.
Inigo was the first to react. “Out the back,” he said to Max. “In the privy. Lock yourself in and stay quiet.”
Max glanced anxiously at Odile, who nodded. Silently the scientist got to his feet and went out the back door to the small yard.
Inigo, Odile and Josette watched through the window and saw him go into the tiny wooden lavatory building.
The knocking on the front door resumed. Odile picked up the glass that Max had been drinking from and placed it on the table in front of her.
Inigo was on his feet. He opened the door of a tall, upright cabinet and pulled out a slim, sharp-bladed knife, which he slipped into the back of his belt.
“It might not come to it, but just in case,” he said to Odile. “I swore years ago that no fascist would ever take me. I meant it then and I mean it now. But I’m sorry you two are here.”
Odile and Josette said nothing, but as Inigo went through to the room leading to the front door, Odile took her granddaughter’s hand and held it tightly.
They heard the door swing open, and then Inigo’s voice. “Oh, it’s you! Come in, come in.”
Josette’s heart was pounding in her chest. Her father walked into the room.
“Papa!” she said almost angrily. “You terrified us!”
Henri looked bewildered. “I just knocked on the door. What was I meant to do? And where’s Max?”
Josette and Odile turned to look through the rear window at the tiny outside lavatory. Then they turned back and looked at each other. And for the first time that day, they laughed.
“I was thinking about what Paul said this morning,” Henri said when Max had returned to the room. “And he was right; if Antoine Granel has heard rumours about me running a Resistance group here in Lavelanet, then others have almost certainly heard them, too.”