V for Vengeance

by Dennis Wheatley

  ‘Monsieur Adolphe Dormey of Dormey, Jamier et Fils, Rue de la Roquette,’ Gregory repeated. ‘Yes. Then with any luck I’ll be back in London early next week.’

  Time was precious if Lacroix and his men were to be well away from Paris before morning. To each of them the little Colonel gave the number of the underground route they were to take; then, having shaken hands all round and wished one another luck, the little group of conspirators abandoned the hearse, striking out in different directions through the night-enshrouded woods.

  Gregory was by no means certain in what part of the Bois he was, but he kept as straight a course as possible between the trees, and through the little glades where in happier times thousands of Parisian families were wont to picnic on fine Sundays, and countless pairs of lovers have lingered far into warm summer nights, until he came out in an open space at the edge of the lakes. There he recognised the silhouette of a building which was thrown up against the night sky as the Pré-Catalan Restaurant.

  He had often dined there in the old days and danced within the circle of coloured fairy-lamps that hung from tree to tree in the garden, or enjoyed one of the shows at the open-air theatre, but now the laughter and the music were still, the whole place dark and deserted.

  Having found his bearings he headed south-west, and after a quarter of a mile’s walk came out of the Bois at the gate opposite the junction of the Boulevard Suchet and the Boulevard Lannes. Pausing there for a moment under the shaded traffic-lights, he took out the passport that Lacroix had given him and had a quick look at it. The Colonel had evidently gone through hundreds of photographs, as the one selected was of a man not at all unlike himself, and it was certainly as good as the average passport photograph, which in nine cases out of ten is little more than a caricature of its owner. Noting that he was supposed to have been born at Montélimar and had been given the occupation of commercial traveller, he put the passport back in his pocket, crossed the road and proceeded at a brisk pace down the Avenue Henri Martin, until he reached the Palais du Trocadéro.

  One of the now infrequent buses was just getting under way there, and he hopped on to it. The bus carried him across the Pont d’Iéna, past the Tour Eiffel and the Invalides, into the upper part of the Boulevard St. Germain. At the corner of the Boul Mich he got off and walked through several side streets until he found one of the many small inexpensive restaurants which abound in the Latin quarter. It was still only just on eight o’clock, so he ordered himself a modest meal from the meagre bill of fare and a carafe of Vin Rosé to wash it down.

  He was acutely anxious about Madeleine and Kuporovitch, but he knew that it would be an extremely risky proceeding to go back to the nursing-home in the hope of finding out what had happened to them, and that in any event he must not do so before he had thoroughly mastered the notes that Lacroix had given him, in case he was caught with them still on him.

  The little restaurant, which in better days must have known generations of jolly students making merry with their girls, now had a sleepy, half-dead atmosphere, as though it were in a small provincial town. The great University of Paris was closed, and the studios were empty except for a handful of half-destitute French artists. On this evening the restaurant’s entire clientèle consisted of three woebegone-looking diners besides Gregory, so he was in no danger of being overlooked. When the waitress had served his food he was able to study Lacroix’s notes at leisure, reading them over again and again and photographing them upon his brain; by the time his meal was finished he felt quite certain that every detail of them was firmly fixed in his mind.

  Having finished his wine, he screwed the paper upon which the notes were written into a squill, lit a cigarette with it and let it burn out on his plate, afterwards breaking up the ashes. He then paid his bill and went out into the street.

  As the night was moonless it was now very dark, but the slope of the ground gave him his direction, and he headed north. On reaching the Seine he walked along the quay where the second-hand booksellers hold their street market from open boxes set up on the stone balustrade, crossed the river by the Pont Neuf and made his way past the Louvre along the Rue de Rivoli until he reached the bottom of the Champs-Elysées. Having proceeded up it a short distance he turned left into the maze of narrow turnings beyond the Elysée Palace, in one of which he knew the nursing-home lay.

  After a quarter of an hour’s search he found it, and looking neither to right nor left walked rapidly along the side of the street opposite to the home as though he were in a great hurry to get somewhere. As far as he could see, no one was about, but that was no guarantee that watchful eyes were not peering from some darkened window. Halting abruptly at a house that was actually facing the home, he pressed the bell and waited anxiously, praying that it would be answered quickly.

  After a moment the doorchain rattled, and the door opened a crack. With a quick ‘Pardonnez-moi!’ Gregory gave it a strong push, which almost sent the person behind the door off their balance; then stepping into the entrance, he shut the door firmly behind him.

  In the dim light of the hall he saw that a neatly dressed elderly woman had answered his ring, and her eyes were now full of fear, as she crouched back against the wall.

  ‘Please don’t be afraid,’ he said gently, in the voice that he could make so charming when he wished. ‘I shan’t keep you a minute, but I should be most grateful if you could give me a little information.’

  The woman recovered her composure and said: ‘What is it you wish to know, monsieur?’

  ‘I want to hear all you can tell me about the trouble which occurred at the nursing-home opposite this evening.’

  Again the fear came into her eyes. She shook her head quickly. ‘I am sorry, monsieur, I cannot help you. I saw nothing.’

  ‘I’m afraid that won’t do,’ Gregory said more firmly. ‘The sound of the shooting must have brought you to your window. I’m not a police officer, so you needn’t be frightened that I’ll cart you off to the police-station and force you to act as a witness. I just wish to know what happened for my own reasons.’

  The woman continued to shake her head and repeated tremulously: ‘I know nothing, monsieur—nothing.’

  Gregory was loth to threaten anyone so frail and un-protected, but he positively had to find out what he could for his own peace of mind and in case he could still be of assistance to his friends. Taking out his pistol he just showed it to her, as he said:

  ‘Come, madame! Either you or someone in this house must have seen what happened, and I am determined to learn all you know. Perhaps it will encourage you to talk if I tell you that I am one of those who are fighting to restore freedom to France; but now I have told you that you must understand that should you attempt to betray me by shouting for the police it will cost you your life, and you see that I am armed.’

  A new expression came into the woman’s eyes, and she drew herself up. ‘In that case, you may put away your pistol, monsieur. I will willingly tell you all I can.’ She then described the fracas much as Gregory had witnessed it himself, and went on to tell that after the hearse had driven away the police had smashed in the door of the home and raided the building.

  He asked anxiously if they had come away with any prisoners, and she nodded. ‘Yes, monsieur. I cannot say exactly how many, but they took the young Matron whom I know by sight, two of the nurses and three men.’

  Gregory described Kuporovitch as well as he could, but the woman would not identify the Russian from his description, and there was no more information that she could give.

  Having thanked her he went out into the street and walked swiftly away in the opposite direction to that from which he had come; but something of the spring had gone out of his step, since he now knew beyond doubt that poor Madeleine was in the hands of the Gestapo, and as it was quite unbelievable that Stefan would have deserted her, he, too, must either have been captured or killed.

  For a time he walked the dark streets at random, wondering if there were anythi
ng he could do about it, but he at last came to the conclusion that any attempt at rescue would take many days, if not weeks, of cautious investigation and skilful planning, while it was of the utmost urgency that he should return to London with as much speed as possible in order to secure for Lacroix the money and arms upon which the salvation of the whole of France might depend. There could be no question as to his duty, so with great reluctance he tried to put the thought of his friends out of his mind, and began to search for a small hotel where he could spend the night.

  Finding himself in the Rue la Boétie, he suddenly remembered that there was a cheap hotel in it which he thought was called the Britannique, where once long ago he had spent a night after a terrific week in Paris that had left him almost on the rocks. After ten minutes’ search he found it, paid for his room in advance as he had no luggage, and went straight up to bed. It was still early, but his long walk had tired him, and he was extremely depressed about Madeleine and Stefan, so he undressed right away; then, to take his thoughts off his friends, he began to recite over and over again in his mind the particulars that had been written out on Lacroix’s page of notes, until he fell asleep.

  The room was stone-cold, and the bedclothes were not sufficient to keep him really warm, so he passed an uneasy night, and there was no hot water available for him to have a bath in the morning. Having disposed of an unappetising breakfast of coffee, made mainly from chicory, and brownish-looking rolls, he left the hotel and got himself shaved at the nearest barber’s. He then walked as far as the Madeleine and took a bus along the Grands Boulevards to the Père Lachaise cemetery. Soon after nine o’clock he had found the rather dingy office of Dormey, Jamier et Fils.

  On going in he found himself facing a seedy-looking clerk, who peered at him from round the corner of a frosted glass partition. Politely removing his hat, Gregory asked for Monsieur Adolphe Dormey.

  The clerk gave him a strange look, and without replying moved away. A moment later he came back with a big, fair, florid man, who gave Gregory an ingratiating smile and asked what he could do for him.

  Gregory did not much like the look of the man, but he smiled in reply, and said: ‘I have the pleasure of addressing Monsieur Dormey?’

  ‘But no, monsieur,’ replied the big man. ‘I am his partner. Jules Jamier. If you will tell me your business I shall doubtless be able to attend to it for you.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Gregory, ‘but I wish to see Monsieur Dormey on a personal matter.’

  The florid Monsieur Jamier shrugged his shoulders. ‘I regret, monsieur, but my partner is down at our works at the moment. However, if you will come in I will send for him.’

  Having ushered Gregory through a door in the glass partition into an untidy office where a pretty fair-haired girl was typing at a table, Monsieur Jamier waved him to a chair and said: ‘Be seated, please. It may take us a little time to get Monsieur Dormey from the works. But perhaps you will tell me your name so that the messenger I send can give it to him.’

  ‘My name is Lucien Rouxel, and I come from Saint-Denis,’ Gregory replied, sitting down.

  With a brief nod Monsieur Jamier walked out of the office and into another beyond it, closing the door behind him. A moment later Gregory could hear him telephoning, but not sufficiently clearly to catch what was being said.

  Suddenly it struck him as strange that Jamier should be telephoning when he said that he would send a messenger for his partner, and that special instinct that had often served Gregory so well before warned him now that he was in danger.

  He shifted uneasily in his seat, uncertain for once what course to take. If he had fallen into a trap there was still time for him to escape from it; but if his suspicions were groundless, and he left the office precipitately, how would he be able to contact Monsieur Dormey? And without Monsieur Dormey’s help he would be stranded in Paris, not only with no means of reaching the coast but with no knowledge of whom to try to contact when he got there. It was a most unpleasant predicament, and he had just made up his mind that he must stay there and face matters out when he noticed the fair girl looking at him curiously over her typewriter.

  On a sudden impulse he leaned forward to speak to her, intending to ask if Monsieur Dormey was really down at the warehouse, but she stopped him by placing a finger quickly on her lips. Then she thrust into his hand a slip of paper upon which she had just been typing something.

  With fresh perturbation Gregory glanced swiftly at the slip, and read: ‘Three days ago the Germans took Monsieur Dormey away, and Monsieur Jamier is now ‘phoning for the police.’

  Gregory put all his gratitude into one of his most charming smiles and, handing the slip back, stood up. At that moment the powerfully built Monsieur Jamier marched back into the office, and still wearing his false ingratiating smile took up a position between Gregory and the door to the street.

  13

  A Friend in Need

  Gregory knew he dared not waste a moment. Evidently Jamier was a French Quisling who had either betrayed his partner or, when Dormey’s activities had been discovered, willingly agreed to co-operate with the police by detaining any stranger who might ask to see Dormey on private business. The unpleasant smirk on Jamier’s florid face was enough to show that he had not been forced to undertake the betrayal of his partner’s associates through threats to himself, but was thoroughly enjoying the business. As he stood there with his feet planted wide apart, it was clear that he meant to prevent any attempt which Gregory might make to leave the office, and by now the police cars and Gestapo men must already be on their way to collect the fish which had blundered into the net.

  As Gregory had a loaded automatic strapped under his left armpit he knew that as a last resort he could shoot his way out, but he was most loth to do so unless it became absolutely necessary. The sound of the shots would rouse the neighbourhood and make him the instant quarry of a general hue-and-cry. His wits were working overtime for some means of getting out of the trap with the speed that was essential, while at the same time creating as little commotion as possible.

  Producing his cigarettes, he lit one, then half-turning, he dropped the lighted match behind his back into a waste-paper basket that stood beside the typist’s desk.

  ‘How long do you think Monsieur Dormey will be?’ he asked Jamier calmly.

  ‘Five minutes—ten at the outside,’ replied the bull-necked Frenchman. ‘I’m sorry I have had to ask you to wait even for so long.’

  ‘Oh, not at all!’ Gregory shrugged. ‘I’m in no hurry.’ But he was anxiously wondering now if the lighted match had caught the paper in the basket, or just gone out, and he dared not turn round to see if his ruse was working. If it was not he was now only wasting precious seconds; but half a minute later he saw the expression on Monsieur Jamier’s face alter.

  ‘Something is burning!’ the Frenchman exclaimed. ‘It is there, behind you! I can see smoke!’

  ‘Mon Dieu!’ cried Gregory, whipping round to find that the contents of the wastepaper basket were well alight.

  Picking it up, he turned with it belching flame and smoke, towards the Frenchman—then held it out with an expression of consternation, as though he did not know what to do with it.

  ‘Water!’ cried Jamier. ‘Water!’ And made to dive for his inner office, but Gregory shouted:

  ‘No, no! open the door so that I can throw it into the street.’

  Taken off his guard, the Frenchman stood aside and pulled the door open. Gregory dashed through it, still carrying the flaming basket, but when he reached the entrance of the building, instead of hurling the blazing mass into the gutter, he ran straight on with it down the two steps, and turning left headed towards the cemetery. Having covered ten yards, he threw the basket into an ashcan, which was standing on the corner of an alleyway. Jamier had reached the doorstep of his office, but he made no attempt to follow Gregory, expecting him to come back. Instead, once Gregory was rid of his fiery burden, he dived into the alley, having obtained a
good twenty yards’ clear start.

  He heard a faint shout behind him as he raced on towards a maze of narrow courts. Twisting swiftly in and out among them, he was soon able to pull up into a walk with the gratifying knowledge that he had already eluded any possibility of successful pursuit.

  Nevertheless, as he walked on he was extremely worried. The life-line by which he had hoped to reach England in the course of the next few days was now cut. For the second time Lacroix’s arrangements had unexpectedly broken down. Gregory did not blame the little Colonel for that, as he understood the immense difficulties with which Lacroix was faced. In Europe the war was no longer a question of Frenchmen fighting against Germans, so that one might reasonably count upon the aid of any Frenchman that one met. As Father Xavier had so logically pointed out, the Second World War was not a national war at all—it was a civil war, being waged between two great groups of people, each of which wished to force the ideology that it favoured upon the other; and a good half of the French, particularly in the towns, had now gone over to the enemy.

  Even families were divided against themselves, and in a business such as that of Dormey, Jamier et Fils there was nothing astonishing about the fact that two partners should have taken opposite sides, and one be prepared to betray the other. In the France of these days no one could be trusted with any certainty, because so many of the French were now seeking preferential treatment for themselves by helping the Gestapo. On the other hand, there were equally large numbers, particularly among the poorer people, who were still willing to take big risks if they could assist the Nazis’ enemies, and Gregory was highly conscious that, had it not been for the little typist who had so gamely tipped him off, he would by this time have been either dead as the result of a shooting affray, or on his way to prison.