******
Half-an-hour later Carnac and I slipped out of the house on our way to the Deux Frères.
There were a lot of German soldiers in the streets, some sober, a lot tipsy and quite a number distinctly drunk: the Herrenvolk were busy celebrating yet another overwhelming victory for the Reich. The oldest profession was also enjoying the boom, and practically every other soldier who passed us had a very dubious looking fine de joie on his arm.
We paid no attention to these Teutonic revellers but walked on towards the centre of the town and after Carnac had asked the way once we found the Deux Frères tucked away in a side-street near the cathedral, a small café with a number of German officers outside sipping their drinks at tables under the striped awning.
“Well,” said Carnac cryptically, “we shall see.” And I followed him through the door.
Inside there were a lot more Germans, both officers and men, drinking the inevitable Pernod or champagne and generally inclined to be noisy and a little drunk. A few French civilians, silent, aloof, were playing cards in the corner.
The walls were painted cream and covered with mirrors, while on the shelves stood a whole range of aperitifs of all descriptions, their gaily coloured labels adding a dash of colour to the room. The atmosphere was thick with pipe and cigarette smoke and there was a steady hum of conversation broken by loud bursts of laughter from the Germans.
We walked up to the zinc, wedged ourselves in the corner and ordered “deuxdemis.” I waited till the beer was drawn, had a long drink and then glanced casually and yet thoroughly round the room, examining every face. We had drawn blank so far; there was no sign of Passy or anyone resembling him. I turned to Carnac and said quietly, “No good.”
He shrugged his shoulders and murmured calmly, “Well, we must wait.” We drank our beer, ordered two more, and settled down to desultory conversation about nothing in particular, all the time keeping a watchful eye on the door.
For some reason or other I was becoming extraordinarily jumpy and nervous. There was no cause for it as far as I could see; we were quite safe for the moment and nobody seemed to be paying the slightest attention to us, and yet the feeling grew on me that we were being watched. I think that sometimes I have a curious warning instinct of danger and it was too insistent now to be ignored.
I looked round again carefully. The Germans were still laughing and drinking and I couldn't see anybody there who was interested in us. The patron was leaning over the bar talking to the Germans, a heavy man with an enormous black moustache and massive paunch. The Frenchmen were still deep in their cards and the waiter moved briskly round the room with a tray of glasses.
Near the door a man was sitting at a table by himself, glass in front of him, evidently reading a paper. His face was partly hidden by the paper but I watched him in the mirror in front of me and noticed that he gave an occasional glance in our direction and then returned once more to his paper. He was a very ordinary looking man dressed in an ordinary suit and there was no obvious reason for thinking that he was any other than a French civilian, and yet I felt somehow that this man had not come to the Deux Frères either to have a drink or read the paper. Also, he had not been there when we arrived.
I kept watching him carefully in the mirror, noting his occasional lightning glances in our direction, and after a time was quite sure of it. I turned to Carnac, smiled as though amused by something and said softly, “There's a man by the door watching us.”
His reply surprised me. “I know,” he said, “reading a paper by himself. I saw him come in a moment after us. There is nothing we can do.” And he turned back to his glass.
I took another gulp of beer to moisten my dry mouth. It looked as though the hunters were becoming the hunted, though I couldn't for the life of me see how the enemy had picked up the scent again.
I turned to Carnac. “I don't like this at all.”
“Neither do I,” he said quietly. “Let's get out of here. It looks as though our friend won't be coming tonight.”
We said good night to the patron and made for the door. The watcher in the corner saw us move and stuck his head behind his paper again but made no attempt to move.
Outside it was still daylight and there was the same crowd of Germans and civilians in the streets. I glanced round once but there was no sign of the man and with so many people about it was quite impossible to tell whether we were being shadowed.
Carnac was walking beside me with his lithe, springy steps. His face was set and hard and his manner was curiously alert. He realised it too: something was wrong, very badly wrong.
“Do you think we're being followed now?” I muttered.
“I think so, but we can't be sure. It will be dangerous if we are followed back to Mendel, but we must be indoors by curfew. I think we'll have to go back and hope for the best.”
We walked on and reached the square which led into Avenue Neuilly. Carnac spoke again with the same low voice. “What do you think of it, Peter?”
“Lousy,” I said. “I just don't see how that man came to be watching us. It really did seem as if we were safe for the moment.”
“There’s only one way,” said Carnac after a pause. “We must take the risk and ask our friend the doctor for help. It is a risk but on the other hand he would be a useful ally. He must know many people in Laon who could help us. Do you agree?”
“Yes, I suppose so. We can't manage this business on our own while we are being watched like this.”
We reached Number 23 and looked round but nobody in the street seemed to pay any attention and Carnac knocked on the door, rat-tat—pause—rat-tat-tat.
He must have arranged the signal with Mendel because a moment later the doctor let us in. He was carrying a book in one hand and smoking an exceedingly strong cigar.
We followed him upstairs again into the room we had used earlier in the evening. It was a long room with a beautiful mahogany table at one end by the fireplace and a desk near the window. By Mendel's armchair a shaded lamp cast a round pool of light on the carpet. The doctor drew up two more chairs and we sat down.
“M. Mendel,” said Carnac, “we want to talk to you about our plans. You must forgive us for not telling you before, but the whole success of this operation depends on secrecy and therefore we have told nobody of our intentions—yet. However, something happened this evening that worries me very much. We were followed when we went out and somehow it looks as though the Gestapo are on our trail, though I can't see how they picked us up unless by our visit to your house.
“We came here in order to find a man. It's going to be very difficult to carry out our search if we are being watched all the time so we decided to ask your help, because probably you know many people in Laon and among them might be a man who would be useful.”
“I see,” said Mendel. He sat with his elbows on the arm of his chair, slowly rubbing his fingertips together. His glasses flashed as they caught the light and this made his face appear quite inscrutable. “I know many of my patients in the town. They are good Frenchmen, most of them, and I'm sure I could find one who would help you in whatever way you wish.”
He ended on a note of query, and Carnac went on. “Very good, monsieur, here is the story! Nobody in France knows it outside this room, and I need not tell you that it's absolutely secret.”
Mendel nodded and Carnac then told him the main facts of our hunt for Passy, our difficulties in finding him and our one and only clue, the Deux Frères.
The doctor listened carefully and when Carnac had finished he sat there, deep in thought. It was some little time before he spoke.
“That is a very interesting story, M. Prouvy,” he said. “I think it will be difficult to pick up this man Passy before he leaves for Germany and even more difficult if you cannot go out and look for him. Is he a native of Laon? Why should he come here from Abbeville?” I had been wondering the same thing myself but we had been given no explanation of this move.
“We don't know,”
I said. “He may know somebody here or the Germans may have sent him to the aerodrome at Laon Athies for some technical work. It's impossible to say definitely the reason.”
There was another long silence, and then Mendel spoke again.
“I think I know a man who will be able to help you. He is a good patriot and will do anything he can. I'll ask him to come round, and then you can meet him for yourselves.”
He walked across to his desk, lifted the telephone and dialled a number.
“Hallo, Jean,” he said softly. “This is Paul Mendel. Could you come round to my house now? There is a small matter I would like to discuss with you. Yes, that's right. Knock three times—I'll let you in.”
He replaced the receiver and turned to us. “M. Brouste is coming round now.”
“What about the curfew?” I said suddenly.
Mendel glanced at me sharply. “I hadn't thought of that,” he said. “However, Jean knows the city very well. He will be able to get here somehow, I think.”
Carnac seemed restless. He got up and walked round the room, running his finger along the bookshelf and picking a book out here and there to glance at it. I sat in my chair, depressed and badly worried. The more I thought of it the blacker it all seemed.
Perhaps five minutes later Mendel rose to his feet. “He should be here in a moment,” he said. “I’ll go down and be ready to let him in.”
He left the room and I heard his footsteps descending the stairs.
Carnac was still glancing idly through the books. His restlessness infected me too and I got up and walked over to the desk. Somewhere in the back of my mind a little red warning signal was beginning to flash again. All evening I had felt that something was wrong. I was quite convinced of it now, and yet could not for the life of me figure out what it was. There was just an impression, all the more sinister for being so vague and shadowy. My nerves must be getting lousy with this constant strain, I thought angrily.
I was just about to sit down again when Carnac exclaimed, “Jésu,” so violently that I jumped round in surprise.
He was holding a book in his hand and staring at it like a man transfixed. He turned towards me and bounded across the room like a tiger. “Regardez!” he said in a savage whisper. I grabbed the book out of his hand, wondering what on earth had happened.
In my mind I can still see every detail of it. It was the story of Verdun in 1916 written by some French general. Pasted in the front of the book was a photograph showing a group of officers standing in front of a ruined building, and underneath the photograph, written in brown faded ink, were the names. Evidently Mendel had fought at Verdun and stuck this old photograph in the book as a souvenir. His name was third along from the left, Lt. P. C. Mendel, but the man in the corresponding position was short and stockily built—certainly not our Dr. Mendel with his tall spare frame.
I glanced at the others; there were only six of them. Mendel was not there. Not by any stretch of imagination or passage of the years could the man we had been talking with be one of the group.
And then I saw it all in a flash, the whole black deception that instinct had warned me about.
“My God!” I exclaimed, “so this isn't Mendel at all. And we've told him—” I broke off suddenly. Footsteps were coming rapidly along the corridor outside.
“And that,” snapped Carnac, “will be our friend the Bache. Quick!”
He leapt across towards the door, perhaps with the intention of locking it, but he was too late. The door was thrown open violently and four or five men sprang into the room. For an instant I had an impression of a horde of grey-green uniforms advancing on me and then I was seized roughly and hurled backwards into a chair without time to draw my revolver or make any attempt to escape. It would have been hopeless anyway, these men all carried automatics.
Just as the door was opening I caught a glimpse of Carnac. He whipped behind the door in a flash as it was thrown open and the Germans poured straight into the room and made for me without seeing him. An instant later he jumped round from behind the door, cannoned into one man and knocked him over and then the door slammed and he was on the other side of it, the coolest and quickest bit of action I have ever seen.
The man by the door recovered from the surprise and was on his feet again immediately, opened the door and rushed out of the room after Carnac with a couple of the others on his heels. There were two loud reports in quick succession and a furious exclamation, and the two men jumped back hurriedly inside the door. Somewhere I heard a door slam and they ran out again. Lying with his feet across the threshold was the man whom Carnac had knocked over. They picked him up and carried him back into the room, his head lolling over in a ridiculous, helpless sort of way. They put him down on the floor and looked at him. He was dead; Carnac had hit him in the chest as he ran out into the passage.
There were peremptory orders given in German and two men left the room, probably to look for Carnac. The dead man remained on the floor by the door. Nobody paid any more attention to him.
That left three Germans in the room. Two of them were holding me down in the chair, and the third man who had given the orders now came over towards me. I saw in an instant that I was for it good and proper. If I had been able to get at the little capsules we had been given in London I would have taken one there and then without hesitation. It would have been an easy way out compared with the treatment that was coming. I only hoped I would pass out before it got too bad. Whatever happened I had to keep my mouth shut.
I looked at the man as he came across the room.
He wore the uniform of the Waffen S.S., with the same black collar patches that I had seen at Abbeville. Some words spoken in London came back to me—“the toughest thugs in the Nazi Party.”
Well this man certainly looked the part. I could well believe his prowess in torturing Jews or exterminating Polish villages to the last baby. He was a big powerfully built brute, a good six feet and sixteen stone of bulky strength, with long arms and great red fists the size of a ham.
But his face was more terrifying than his brute strength. The skin was pallid and smooth, tight drawn over the nose and cheek bones and rather blotchy as though he were a heavy drinker. The forehead and face were long and narrow with small eyes like little slits, and his mouth had hardly any lips at all—just a tight, thin, cruel line. When he opened his mouth the teeth enhanced the narrow impression of his head; they were long and peg-shaped and one eye tooth was broken and disfigured. Ever since then I have always thought of him as Hatchet Face. It seemed the best description.
He was in a raging temper. He rammed his revolver back in its holster, transferred his stick to the other hand and glared at me. Now for it, I thought. He's going to vent his rage at Carnac's escape on me.
“You swine of a Frenchman,” he said quietly. “When I've finished with you and your friend, I don't think you'll ever shoot another German.”
He swung his truncheon down with a vicious blow on my knee. God, it hurt. I bent forward sharply with the pain, but the two bastards who were holding me jerked me upright again and he gave me another swipe, this time across the face. I was half stunned and I felt the blood trickling down my chin in a warm stream.
Curiously enough, I felt half resigned now that the first shock was over. If only he gave me another couple of cracks like the last one I knew I'd pass out for a bit. But I wasn't so fortunate; he was an old hand at “interrogation” and knew when to stop and let the victim revive a bit before the next round.
He sat down in a chair opposite me and I became aware that the man who had impersonated Mendel was standing beside him. He must have slipped into the room quietly after the scrum had died down for I hadn't seen him since the Germans rushed in.
My brain was too shaken and confused to think clearly but I could see that we had been fooled from the very start. Worse still, we had told “Mendel” our purpose in coming to France. The Hun knew now that though Carnac had escaped for the moment he had no chance of success
now that the alarm had been given. The other side had won, hands down, and all that remained was to face the music.
I became aware that Hatchet Face was talking to Mendel (I call him Mendel now because I have always thought of him by that name).
Hatchet Face said, “Now, Schörnich, let's hear exactly what these two told you.”
Mendel stood respectfully at attention. From his attitude it was evident that he stood in considerable awe of Hatchet Face. His glasses still flashed as they caught the light. Somehow, now that I knew he was an imposter he looked so German that I couldn't see how we had ever been bluffed by him.
“Herr Major Roessing,” he said, “according to your orders I rang you up as soon as I found out what these men were doing. Unfortunately the man Prouvy who appears to be the leader is the one who escaped. This one calls himself de Buissy but I don't think that's his real name, in fact I don't believe he is a Frenchman at all because he speaks with a marked accent.”
Hatchet Face interrupted. “Search him,” he said curtly to the two men standing by my chair. Those two were certainly practised in the gentle art of “frisking,” and in less than a minute my wrist-watch, every single article in my pockets, carte d'identité, revolver and money-belt were arrayed on the table beside Hatchet Face. He glanced through them rapidly, seemed interested in the very large amount of money I was carrying and looked at the carte d'identité carefully.
He then glanced back at me. I think he was weighing me up and deciding the best line to take because after a slight pause he started his questions again, this time in a quieter voice.
“What is your name?”
“Pierre de Buissy.”
“Your unit?”
“61st Bomber Squadron, l'Armee de l'Air.”
“Where is your unit?”
“I don't know. I left them at the Armistice when they were south of Rouen.”
“You are not a Frenchman, are you?”
“Yes.”
“How do you explain your English accent?”
“My father was in business in London for many years, and I lived over there till the war.”
“You’re an Englishman, aren't you?”
“No.”
“Where did you get all this money?”
I did not reply. He regarded me in baleful silence. I found this quiet interrogation almost worse than the shouting and threats. Obviously he didn't believe a word I said, and he would soon take drastic steps to find out the truth.
One of the thugs standing by me was evidently getting a little impatient for he said, “Excuse me, Herr Major, but are we not wasting valuable time? This man's companion has escaped and he may know where he is hiding. If we start now we can have it out of him in a few minutes.”
“Wait a little, Brühl,” said Hatchet Face evenly. “The other man can't get far. We'll give the prisoner a little time to get his breath and realise how stupid he is being and then—” He looked at me significantly and then turned to Mendel again.
“Now, Schörnich, get on with your story.”
“These men told me, Herr Major Roessing,” said Mendel, “that they had come from England and been dropped near Amiens by parachute from an English aeroplane. They had to find a Frenchman called Passy who they believe is in Laon, and they had instructions to kill this man.
“They didn't tell me the reason for this except to say that he possessed very valuable knowledge which he was about to communicate to Germany, and the English Secret Service wished to prevent this. They seemed to think that Passy might be at the Café des Deux Frères and as you know they went there this evening.”
“I know,” said Hatchet Face, “but they didn't communicate with anybody there.”
So that was the explanation of the man who had watched us in the café that evening. Mendel had given the warning immediately we left the house and we had been followed there. Thank God we'd spotted that man and been so careful. They couldn't learn much from that episode, anyway.
Hatchet Face stared at me again.
“What have you got to say now?”
It was useless to reply. I kept my mouth shut.
“How did you learn that this man Passy was in Laon?” No reply.
“What other persons do you know in Laon?”
Silence.
“Who were the people who helped you to get here?”
I looked down at the carpet. My face felt as though it was broken in half and my collar and shirt were warm with the blood dripping down my face.
I could see that Hatchet Face's patience, like his Fuehrer's, was nearly exhausted. His pallid skin was white with anger and his little eyes glared viciously at me.
“You may have heard of our methods of interrogation,” he said. “You will find that they have not been exaggerated and I advise you to tell the truth without any further unpleasantness. Silence won't help for we know most of the facts already.”
That's an old gag, I thought. Do you, hell.
“I may tell you that Doctor Mendel was arrested as soon as our Army entered Laon and he told us that some English spies might be coming to him for help, so we arranged a suitable reception for them. You see, we even knew the recognition signal to be given. Now, are you going to tell us why you came to France or do we have to beat you till you're half dead in order to get the truth?”
No reply.
There was a knock at the door and a German N.C.O. entered the room and saluted Hatchet Face. “Beg to report, Herr Major,” he said, “the other man is not in the house, so we have notified the Town Kommandantur and a general search is commencing.”
“Very well,” said Hatchet Face. “You will inform the Kommandantur that I shall be at his office shortly. I have an important interrogation of this prisoner to complete first.”
“Jawohl, Herr Major.” The feldwebel saluted and left the room.
“Very well,” said Hatchet Face. I had never heard such a cold, cruel voice. I think he was only too glad for the excuse to beat up a prisoner. “You refuse to speak voluntarily. You will now be made to talk and you will wish that you had taken my advice. Your friend the doctor was equally stubborn at first, but after a few hours of Lieutenant Brühl's treatment he was just a screaming wreck of a man and only too glad to give us all the details we required. I saw him yesterday and hardly recognised him at first. He has changed a lot since his arrest. He is quite mad now.”
His voice rose to a shout. “You miserable fool! I have broken hundreds of stubborn men, Poles, Norwegians, Belgians, they all resisted at first and after we had beaten them and lashed them they talked—if they were still alive. And you think you can defy me!” He nodded at Brühl and leaned back comfortably in his chair.
The moment had arrived that I had half expected and dreaded ever since leaving England. Death, wounds, firing squads—none of these are pleasant but they are easy to bear compared with calculated and deliberate torture.
I was frightened in a way I had never known before, scared stiff at the prospect of the physical pain and even more scared at the idea that I might not be able to stand it and be forced to divulge the information they wanted.
Brühl and the other man seized me by the arms, took off my coat and ripped my shirt up over my head, and then Brühl kicked me viciously on the ankle and knocked me down. I lay on the floor struggling to get up, but they never gave me a chance. A perfect rain of blows fell on my arms, shoulders and back with their heavy rubber truncheons. There was nothing you could do; no way of avoiding this murderous attack. I rolled about desperately on the floor and then gave it up and lay there groaning and gasping for breath, for help, for mercy, for anything that would stop this frightful punishment. God, it was awful.
I don't know how long it went on but gradually I became aware that I was lying on the floor quite still and that the beating had ceased for the time being.
They hauled me up and, slung me back into the chair. Through a mist of faintness and sweat and blood I saw Roessing sitting opposite me, cold, sneering, vic
ious.
“That may teach you that I mean what I say,” he remarked. “Are you going to talk now? How did you know that this man Passy was in Laon?”
Even had I been willing I could not at that moment have given the information he required. I just wasn't capable of mustering in my battered head the long chain of events that had led to our mission to France. I said nothing and remained slumped in the chair, conscious that the whole of my body was one mass of sickening pain and hoping that I would soon pass out.
There was another knock at the door. Hatchet Face looked round and said sharply, “Come in,” and I heard the door open.
The next instant several shots cracked out in quick succession and the German standing by my chair crashed to the floor, while Brühl gave a startled cry of pain and fell doubled up and writhing in a chair. I turned my head round wearily, hardly caring any longer what happened.
A German N.C.O. was standing by the door, revolver in hand. Suddenly I realised it was Carnac. He advanced into the room just as Roessing recovered from his surprise and tried to grab his revolver from its holster. Carnac fired again and Roessing grunted sharply and bent forward clutching his knee.
I raised myself in my chair and staggered a few paces over to him, forgetting everything else in a mad, surging desire to strangle and tear the life out of this brute and revenge myself for the pain and terror he had caused me.
It is but a short step from acute fright to blazing anger and I had been very frightened indeed.
I seized his wrist and with both hands and he looked up at me suddenly, his face quite inhuman with pain and terror.
I swung his arm up to the right and over my head as I turned round. This twisted him clean out of his chair and he somersaulted over backwards with a crash on to the floor and lay there groaning. I think his shoulder was dislocated.
I half fell on to his back, seized him by the ear and twisted his face down to the carpet and then, remembering a stranglehold that somebody once taught me, I slipped my right forearm underneath his chin, grasped my left elbow with my right hand and threw all my weight forward on his head.
His great body heaved and struggled underneath me but under this frightful leverage his head was forced down, down, till it seemed something must give.
I eased off the pressure slightly to bring my knees up and exert greater force. His head came up again and he gave one strangled long drawn “Ah.” I like to think that Mendel and all the other men whom this devil had tortured to death may somehow have heard that scream and realised in what terror and agony he met his own end.
I made one last effort and leaned forward again with all my remaining strength and weight behind it. His head was forced down again, right down, and then suddenly there was a jerk and a sound as though a carrot had been snapped between the hands and the desperate struggling underneath me ceased abruptly. His neck had gone.
I rose shakily to my feet and collapsed into a chair. I was very nearly all in, and only my blind fury had given me the strength to kill him.
The next thing I knew Carnac had seized me by the hand and was saying urgently, “Claydon, Claydon, ah, mon pauvre, can you walk now? We must get away quickly or we shall be caught.”
I made a tremendous effort and got up. I was trembling so much that I could hardly stand or talk and Carnac helped me on with my coat.
I looked round. We were the only persons left alive in the room. Brühl was still doubled up in the chair where he fell, but his writhing had ceased, and Mendel lay a few feet away near the door. Carnac must have dealt with him while I was struggling with Roessing.
I remembered suddenly the possessions taken from me during the search and turned to get them off the table, but Carnac was already doing this. He stuffed them into his pocket, patted me encouragingly on the arm and guided me quickly out of that terrible room.
Pursuit of Passy Page 21