V for Vengeance

by Dennis Wheatley

  The boat had now gone right under and showed only as a wavy outline below the little lapping crests. Gregory and the sergeant had disappeared; the two other Germans were flapping about in the water. The one whose shoulder Kuporovitch had injured was already in difficulties. Yelling for help, he splashed his way to the side of the smack and thrust up his sound arm to grasp the small anchor which was dangling over the bow of the vessel. One of the fishermen near Kuporovitch grabbed a boathook, pushed it down towards the man, and hooked it into his uniform near the collar.

  ‘Danke, Danker,’ gasped the German, but his thanks were premature. When the boathook was firmly fixed the fisherman muttered something in patois to his companion. The other swung a mop-handle he was holding over the side and banged the German sharply across the knuckles with it.

  From hope and relief the young Nazi’s face suddenly changed to ungovernable terror. A second hard crack over his fingers forced him to let go of the anchor, then the man with the boathook, instead of hauling it up, thrust it down, forcing the German under the water. For two or three minutes he was held there, while the bubbles of his life’s breath caused little eddies upon the surface; then the two fishermen drew him up and threw his drowned body down into the hold as though it had been that of a dead rat.

  The other soldier had struck out strongly for the shore, but he was not destined to reach it. The second smack got under way again and gave chase. When it came up to within a few yards of him, one of the fishermen in it cast out a heap of fishing-net, which fell on the German’s head and unrolled in the water around him. Next moment he was enmeshed with his feet and arms caught in the clinging net, and unable to strike out freely any longer. For a moment he struggled wildly and almost got free, but another bundle of nets was thrown out, which half-buried him and carried him right under. The fishermen gave him time to drown, then he too was hauled on board, and his limp body flung face down in the hold.

  Meanwhile, Kuporovitch was hardly conscious of these things, owing to his acute anxiety for Gregory. It now seemed an age since the boat had sunk, yet neither he nor the Prussian had so far come to the surface.

  As Gregory went under he knew that he had not the strength to strangle his powerful opponent, and he did not mean to be dragged down with him if he could help it. With his left hand which was still sound, he grasped the sergeant by the collar, then he straightened his right thumb and with all his force plunged it into the brute’s left eye.

  There was no scream, since by that time they were both a good six feet under the water, but he felt the violent jerk of the Prussian’s body, and the great hand that was clutching at his shoulder suddenly lost its grip.

  For a full minute Gregory thrust and thrust with all the power of his strong right arm and rigid thumb, while they went down, down, down together, the Prussian squirming under him. Then there was a bump, as the man’s back hit the bottom. Had the water been deeper Gregory would have been able to get away, but his own impetus carried him forward right into the arms of his now stationary enemy.

  Although two of the fingers of Gregory’s right hand were useless, his instinct was to withdraw it, as his enemy’s arms closed about his body in a deadly hug. In another second he had realised that his one chance of escape now lay in paralysing his enemy before his own lungs burst, and that the only way for him to do that was to get the point of his thumb right into the Prussian’s brain. With maniacal force, and knowing that his life depended on it, he thrust and thrust again.

  Suddenly the man’s arms relaxed, slipping sideways from Gregory’s shoulders, and he was free. Pushing the corpse from under him, he stood up and, cleaving the water with his arms, strove to rise to the surface. It was only then that he became conscious of a new peril. His feet and legs were nearly buried up to the knees in the mud at the bottom of the creek.

  The deep breath that he had taken before going down after his adversary was now used up. His lungs were straining for fresh oxygen, but, flail his arms as he would, he could not jerk himself free from the clinging slime. For a moment he struggled violently, straining every muscle, but without result. Then he knew that he was trapped and must die there.

  10

  The Enemies of Antichrist

  For a few seconds Gregory went dead-still, gathering all his remaining force together for one last effort. In his early struggles to free himself he had dragged first at one foot, then at the other; but as one had come up a little the other had only gone down farther into the clinging ooze. Fighting off his panic, he strove to think clearly, knowing now that his strength could not save him, but his wits still might. Almost instantly it came to him that if only he could get one foot out and place it on the dead German’s body he might be able to drag the other free.

  Exerting his overstrained muscles to their uttermost and flinging his body sideways, he strove to wrench out his right foot, but the slime seemed a living thing, with the grip of a giant octopus. With despair creeping into his heart he knew that his strength was ebbing and that his effort had failed.

  His lungs were bursting. He could no longer control his jaws. A big bubble came out of his mouth, and the muddy water gushed down his throat.

  He had always heard that drowning was a pleasant death, but had no cause to think it so. The water brought no relief, and the pains in his chest were more agonising than ever. It was too late now to curse his own folly in preferring personal vengeance upon this brutish lout, who lay dead in the slime beside him, to life and all the glorious things it offered. The game was up. He would never again know the joy of Erika’s caresses, the thrill of a new adventure, the feel of a hot bath and a comfortable bed after a long hard journey, or the cool richness of a beaker of iced champagne. He was going to die there for the pleasure of having killed a stupid oaf and make food for fishes on the bottom of a little creek which was no more then twelve feet deep.

  At that thought his wildly whirling brain conceived the notion that the Breton fishermen had seen him go in and that when he did not come up would try to find him; but in a flash he knew that such a thought was only the wildest of wishful thinking. They would find him all right when the tide went out, but the water was too cloudy for them to see him standing there, and they might drag the creek with anchors and grappling irons for hours before there was any chance of one of them catching in his clothes; by then he would long since be drowned past all resuscitation.

  Although his lungs were rapidly filling with water he began to fight again, yet weakly now, and his efforts to free himself were no longer controlled, but just the spasmodic jerkings of a desperate dying man. It was dark down there, but through the turgid water he saw what seemed to be a darker patch slowly weaving its way towards him. The pain in his chest became unendurable, his head was splitting, stars whirled before his eyes, then blackness engulfed him, and he lost consciousness.

  Up on the deck of the fishing-smack Kuporovitch was half-crazy with anxiety. He knew that Gregory in his weakened state was no match for the hefty Prussian, and as neither of them had come up to the suface felt certain now that they must be locked in a death-grapple on the bottom. As soon as the two Bretons with the boathook had dealt with the German soldier who had tried to climb aboard, he gabbled out to them his desperate fears for his friend, and the younger of the two took a header over the side to see if he could find the missing Englishman.

  After a minute he came up gasping, dived again, came up again, swam back a little nearer to the place from which the smack had drifted, and went down twice more; but his efforts proved unavailing. He shouted that the water was so dark and muddy near the bottom that he could not see more than a yard in any direction.

  In the meantime, Kuporovitch had kept one eye on the other smack which was pursuing the unwounded German. He saw the fishermen cast out two bundles of nets which enmeshed the swimmer, causing him to sink and drown. He saw them haul in the first net and pull up the drowned man’s body; then they began to heave in the second net. That too was taut from a weight that
dragged it down, and suddenly a second body appeared on the surface.

  It was the trailing-net which Gregory had seen coming towards him as a dark patch through the murk. Even as his consciousness was leaving him it had wrapped round his body, while he instinctively thrust his fingers through the spaces, clutching at it with the fierceness of a dying man. His unconscious grip had held, and the way of the heavy boat going under sail through the water above had wrenched him from the muddy death-trap.

  As soon as the two boats could be brought together Kuporovitch boarded the second. The men had just cut Gregory clear of the net, and he lay there on the deck—a loose sodden heap, with water slowly trickling from his mouth. One of the bronzed Bretons, a tall bearded man, who appeared to be their captain, was examining him. He said that he looked pretty far gone, but they would do their very best for him, and turning him over on his stomach they set to work to give him artificial respiration.

  For a long time Kuporovitch sat there on a coil of rope while the fishermen worked on Gregory in relays. He was still far too anxious to know whether life could be restored to his friend to bother about future plans, but the bearded captain gave him an outline of what they proposed to do.

  The gravest penalties for all concerned in the sabotaging of the Germans could only be escaped if the affair was represented as a genuine accident. Therefore it must be reported at once. It was for this reason too that they had been careful not to disfigure the two German soldiers while they were in the water. Their drowned bodies were being sent back by one of the smacks to be landed with deep expressions of regret and handed over to the mayor of the commune until the German authorities could collect them. In the meantime, the rest of the fleet would proceed to sea, so that no one on shore should see the escaped captives; they could be landed when the fleet returned that night, and darkness would give them good cover.

  It was over an hour before the men working on Gregory could report that they had some real hopes for him, but his heart was strong, and soon after they announced that it was now only a matter of sticking to the job until they got him round. At last his eyes opened, and delighted Stefan was able to kneel down and give him a bearlike hug.

  Now that he knew Gregory would live the Russian became acutely conscious again of his own hurts and extreme fatigue, which in his great anxiety for his friend he had almost forgotten. Gregory was carried below to be wrapped in hot blankets, and Kuporovitch was helped down after him. The fishermen made up two bunks, a steaming mug of cognac toddy was brought to each of them, and no sooner had they swallowed it than they fell into the deep sleep of utter exhaustion.

  When they were roused it was night again. At first they were so stiff and ached so badly in all their limbs that they could hardly move, but the fishermen gave them another go of hot toddy, then helped them to dress and up on to the deck, where Gregory had his first chance of expressing his thanks to their captain and his concern that the Germans would take swift reprisals on account of the rescue.

  The bearded Breton smiled in the starlight. ‘That is a risk we must take, but I don’t think you need worry overmuch. Our greatest danger was that one of the Boches might escape to give a true account of what happened; but all three of them are dead, so there is no one to contradict our story, which will be that they handled their boat badly and that its sinking was entirely an accident. The two bodies, which were landed at mid-day, bore no marks of violence, and by the time the third is recovered it will probably be hardly recognisable.’

  ‘But what about us?’ Gregory hazarded. ‘They’re certain to want to know what happened to their prisoners.’

  ‘As far as we are aware, you were both drowned too. The currents in the creek are tricky, and, as you know yourself, it’s very easy for a man who goes under to get bogged in the mud at its bottom. Out of a boatload of five there’s nothing very remarkable in the fact that only two bodies should have been recovered.’

  ‘They’ll think it odd, though, that not one of the five was rescued or managed to swim ashore.’

  ‘Yes, I fear they may, but as they cannot possibly prove anything it will be difficult for them to formulate a charge against us. At all events, that is a risk that I and my friends take willingly for the pleasure of having snatched two of Henri Denoual’s friends out of the clutches of these swine.’

  ‘What happened to Denoual?’ Gregory asked.

  ‘They arrested him when they first came to the island about ten days ago. I saw him when they brought him ashore, and the fiends had beaten him even worse than they beat you. His poor face was almost unrecognisable, and one of his arms was broken, but his torment was not over, as word reached us that they had taken him into Dinan and handed him over to the Gestapo.’

  ‘You know the work upon which he was engaged?’

  ‘Yes. A number of us used to help him in it by smuggling his visitors ashore at night and taking them to the old farmhouse where we are going to send you.’

  ‘How did you learn that they had caught us?’ Kuporovitch enquired.

  The brown-faced Breton smiled again. ‘We saw the lights and heard the shooting on the island when we were out fishing last night, so we knew that somebody must have fallen into the trap. This morning I arranged with my friends that we should have our little fleet standing out in the creek all ready to intercept their boat when they came ashore, if they had any prisoners in it.’

  As they had been talking the smack had been nearing the land under a gentle breeze, and now the sail was lowered, bringing her to rest in a small bay. A rowing-boat, which she had been trailing behind her stern, was pulled up alongside. Having thanked the captain and his crew from the bottom of their hearts, Gregory and Kuporovitch got into the boat with two of the fishermen, who rowed them ashore. On reaching the beach one of the Bretons remained with the boat while the other showed them the way to a steep track which led upwards through the darkness.

  The going was slow, as Kuporovitch could not put any weight on his left foot, but the other two supported him. After ten minutes’ climb they reached flat, grassy ground on the top of the cliff, and turning east a little, headed inland. It took them over half an hour to cover about a mile, but they then struck a winding single-track road, and having made their way along it for a further five minutes they reached a lonely coppice, at the side of which a big hay-wagon could be vaguely seen in the starlight.

  Their guide and a farm hand who was with the wagon exchanged a few brief sentences in Breton patois; then the fisherman handed over his charges, wished them luck and left them to return to his boat.

  The farm hand pulled aside some of the hay in the back of the wagon and showed his two passengers a large hole that had been hollowed out at the bottom of the great sweet-smelling mound of fodder, all ready for them. When they had crawled into it, feet first, he covered the entrance with enough hay to conceal them, but lightly packed so that they could get sufficient air to breathe through it. Then he climbed up on to the seat of his wagon, and set off at a slow but steady pace down the hill.

  Enough hay had been left on the floor of the wagon to make a comfortable couch, and although Gregory and Stefan had slept all through the afternoon and evening they were still far from recovered from their terrible ordeal of the preceding night. The gentle jolting of the wagon proved soothing rather than irritating, so after it had covered a mile or two they both dropped off to sleep.

  They were wakened by its halting with a slight jerk, and for a moment they wondered where they were. Then, as memory flooded back to them, anxiety came with it as they heard a guttural German voice and guessed that the wagon had been pulled up at some control-post, where any rigorous examination must result in their discovery.

  During the next few moments they remained very still, not daring to move a muscle. The scent of the hay gave Kuporovitch an almost uncontrollable desire to sneeze, but he managed to suppress it. After what seemed an interminable time, but was actually no more than sufficient for a few questions and answers between the Ge
rman sentry and the farm hand, the wagon-wheels creaked, and they moved on again.

  For a further three-quarters of an hour they lay, rocking gently in the close, scented darkness, then the wagon halted once more; but this time they heard a cheerful shout from the wagoner, which was answered by other genial French voices. The screen of hay was pulled aside, and they saw that it was still full night, but a big red-faced man in corduroys was standing there holding a lantern, so that they could see to scramble out.

  The red-faced man was accompanied by a plump apple-cheeked woman and a lad of about sixteen. They were evidently farm people, and as Gregory’s eyes got accustomed to the light he saw that the wagon had pulled up in a farmyard, three sides of which were enclosed by house and barns. The farmer introduced himself as Jacques Queraille and, with the wagoner helping Kuporovitch, led them over to one of the farm buildings. The lower part of it was a big barn, but the upper part, which they reached by a steep wooden stairway, proved to be an apple-loft, where the year’s crop was in process of being sorted, the larger fruit to be sent into market and the smaller to be made into rich red Brittany cider.

  On both sides of the loft there were long tiers of what looked like shallow bunks, made of wire-netting, supported on frames of wood. It was on these that the apples had been laid out to dry, and in several places the bunk-like wire shelves were screened by pieces of sacking.

  Mère Queraille exclaimed in horror when she got a proper sight of the battered faces of her two guests, which were still caked in dried blood, and she hurried off with her son to fetch basins of hot water and bandages. Meanwhile, her husband produced straw palliasses, coarse pillows and blankets from a small room at one end of the loft, and, pulling aside some of the sacking screen, proceeded to make up two beds on the wire-netting.