The Eagle Trail

by Robert Rigby

  “Yvette,” Henri breathed, almost to himself. “I never considered … not seriously.” He turned back to Didier. “You’re absolutely certain about this?”

  “There’s no doubt at all, Henri. I saw her as plainly as I see you now. And our eyes met; she knew I’d seen her.” He flinched slightly as a stab of pain shot through his arm and shoulder. “She’s always teased me that she knows the machines better than I do. And she was clever; disconnected the wires knowing I’d think they had come apart by accident. It’s happened before – someone snagging them, or the effect of the vibrations. She knew I’d spot it quickly and then lean over the drive belt to reconnect them.”

  Henri cupped both hands around the mug of steaming coffee Odile had placed on the table. “I can hardly believe it.”

  “She must have been watching from the corner,” Didier continued. “Once I reconnected the wires all she had to do was flick the ‘on’ switch and give me a shove. She could have been spotted, but she obviously thought it worth the risk.”

  The hot coffee almost scalded Henri’s throat as he swallowed. “I’ll go to see her now,” he said. “Confront her; find out who put her up to it.”

  Didier glanced quickly at Odile and Josette. “I’m afraid you’re too late, Henri,” he said.

  “Too late?”

  Didier nodded. “Yvette is dead.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Outside it was rapidly growing light. Didier’s words thundered around Henri’s mind, thudding and crashing against his ever-growing fears for Paul and Jean-Pierre.

  “Tell me,” he said to Didier. “Tell me, quickly.”

  Didier shifted awkwardly on his chair, clearly still in pain. He took a deep breath. “I went to her house, to confront her myself; try to find out why she did it. I always thought she liked me. She knew my mother—”

  “But what happened?” Henri urged.

  “Henri, calm down,” Odile said gently. “He’s still badly shaken.”

  Henri hesitated, afraid to explain his deeper fears to his mother and Josette. It was as though he held a tangled ball of string in his hands. Each newly unravelled strand took him a little closer to the truth, but not quickly enough, because with every passing second he grew more certain that Paul and Jean-Pierre were in danger.

  “I’m sorry,” he said to Didier. “Take your time.”

  “Her house is near ours and on a terraced street like ours,” Didier said. “I knocked at the front door; there were lights on but she didn’t come. I knocked again, but no answer.”

  “And then?”

  Didier took the glass of water Odile offered him, nodding his thanks. “The only access to the back of the house is by the passageway that runs behind the terrace; our street is the same. But to get to the passageway, you have to go to the end of the street and then around to the back. It took a few minutes. I couldn’t run, and anyway, I didn’t think there was any need to hurry.”

  He paused for a sip of water. Henri tried not to show his impatience.

  “It was dark at the back,” Didier continued, putting down the glass, “and I wasn’t sure which house was which; I’d never been along that passageway. But a light was on in one, and then I saw Yvette’s bicycle against the wall. She rides it to work – there’s a broken basket on the front.”

  “So you saw her?”

  Didier nodded. “Yes, I crept to the window and I saw her; in a chair, but slumped over the table with her head towards the window. Dead. Her eyes were wide open; staring. If I’d got there a little sooner, maybe…”

  “It would have made no difference, Didier,” Henri said.

  “But you don’t understand – it might have,” Didier said quickly. “When I saw Yvette, I also saw someone move behind her, the door to the room being pulled shut. It was the murderer; it had to be. I tried the back door but it was locked. He must have gone out through the front door, where I’d been a few minutes earlier. He would have heard me knocking.”

  Henri said nothing, his mind churning again. As soon as Didier mentioned Yvette’s murderer, he had once again thought of Gaston Rouzard. He was the obvious suspect, the only suspect. Henri’s suspicions kept returning to Gaston.

  But Gaston was in Chalabre. He couldn’t have killed Yvette, unless the camp guard Raymond Martel had been lying.

  “Papa,” Josette said, breaking into Henri’s thoughts, “what about Paul and Jean-Pierre? Did everything go as planned?”

  Henri sighed. “Not exactly. One of the original team had an accident with a gun, so another team have taken over. Andorrans.”

  “And you’re worried about it, I can see you are,” Josette said.

  “I don’t know, just something. It didn’t feel right.” He smiled wearily at his daughter. “Nothing feels quite right. I’m probably overtired.”

  Odile stood up. “Go home; get some sleep. All of you.”

  No one moved, so Odile shrugged her shoulders and went to the stove. “I’ll make some more coffee.”

  “You know,” Didier said after a few moments, “Yvette was from Andorra.”

  “What?” Henri said.

  “I remember my mother telling me. Yvette married old Armand Bigou; he died a few years ago. He was much older than Yvette, by at least twenty years.”

  “I don’t remember that,” Henri said frowning.

  “My mother told me there was a joke that went around for a while. The story was that Armand went to Andorra in search of a job but came back with a young wife instead. Then he sent her to work in the factory while he stayed at home doing nothing.”

  “Yes … yes…” Henri murmured, “I do remember now. I’d completely forgotten.”

  “I suppose she must still have family up there in the mountains,” Didier said. “Or friends.”

  Henri stared. And then he sprang to his feet.

  “Papa, what’s wrong?”

  “I’m going back.”

  “Back? Back where?”

  “I’m going after Paul and Jean-Pierre. I’ve felt it all along; they’re in danger. I should never have left them. This, all this, is connected in some way. I’ve got to help.”

  Didier stood up. “Then I’m coming with you.”

  “No, Didier, you’re in no condition for it. You’d only slow me down.”

  “Let me come,” Josette said. “If they’re really in danger—”

  “No!” Henri snapped. “You stay here, Josette, and that’s final, no arguments.”

  “But—”

  “I said no arguments!” Henri sounded and looked furious. And he was. Furious with himself, and furious at not trusting his own instincts. He turned to Odile. “Do you still have my father’s old shotgun?”

  “Yes, but it hasn’t been fired for years.”

  “I have a shotgun,” Didier said. “It works perfectly. Let me—”

  “No, Didier!” Henri snapped again. “Cartridges?” he said to Odile.

  “I think there’s a box. But they’re probably useless by now.”

  “Fetch them for me, please. And hurry.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Jean-Pierre was coughing uncontrollably, bent almost double with one hand against a tree trunk for support. Paul watched helplessly, while the three Andorrans looked on with openly hostile stares.

  They had been walking for just over two hours and progress was slow. It was a bright, crisp morning and the sun climbed steadily into a cloudless sky. But the thinning air seemed only to increase the vice-like tightness gripping Jean-Pierre’s chest.

  Finally, the coughing stopped. Jean-Pierre stood slowly upright and with a nod of thanks took the bottle of water Paul offered. He guzzled greedily, but too quickly, and the cool water in his raw, inflamed throat started another painful bout of coughing.

  Paul grabbed the bottle and waited, and gradually the coughing subsided. He offered the water once more.

  Jean-Pierre smiled weakly but shook his head. He wiped his face on the arm of his jacket. “I’m sorry about that,” he said, lo
oking towards the Andorrans. “I’ll be all right in a minute or two.”

  The Andorrans looked on without sympathy, puffing on fat, rolled cigarettes and muttering to one another.

  Jean-Pierre’s eyes flicked apprehensively towards the track. It was getting much tougher.

  For the first hour, the ascent had been gradual as they moved from woodland into open mountain valley. They saw no one, although the tinkling of bells heralded a meeting with a herd of twenty or more pale blond cows. One or two lifted their heads and cast baleful eyes on the passing walkers, but the rest ignored them and continued plodding on their way.

  They trekked across the valley, taking a well-trodden and clearly marked path, which then forded a crystal-clear mountain stream. Soon the climb became harder, rising steeply, and Jean-Pierre began to struggle. His next coughing fit came as they reached a plunging waterfall, deep in a forested area.

  After resting for a few minutes, a little of the colour returned to Jean-Pierre’s face. He gazed at the cascading water and smiled. “Beautiful, eh, Paul? And such a lovely day for a walk.”

  He took the water bottle and drank again, much more cautiously this time. Then he turned and grinned at the sour-faced Andorrans. “Lead on, please, but not too quickly. My friend and I are enjoying the scenery.”

  The Andorrans said nothing. Each one had lit another foul-smelling cigarette; they smoked almost constantly. At Jean-Pierre’s words, the leader tossed his spittle-stained stub onto the mud track and ground it into the dirt. He gestured to his companions and they picked up their shotguns, slung them across their shoulders and stalked quickly onward, ignoring Jean-Pierre’s request.

  The narrow footpath wound steeply upwards through a dense forest of birch, ash and beech, which shut out much of the daylight. Exposed tree roots spread like raised veins across the path, and more than once in the dim light both Paul and Jean-Pierre tripped and almost fell.

  Paul was tiring. He’d been awake for nearly twenty-four hours and the pumping adrenalin that had kept him going was finally running low. But he was fit and strong, and was coping physically, even though his hamstrings were tightening and beginning to ache, and his ankles were sore. He knew this was nothing compared to the pain and discomfort Jean-Pierre was enduring.

  For all his suffering, Jean-Pierre did not utter one word of complaint. He battled on bravely, every so often rushing into the trees and emerging a few minutes later, using some of the precious water to wash his hands.

  The Andorran leader complained that it was too soon for stops and that they must make up the lost time.

  “What’s the hurry?” Paul asked him testily as they waited again for Jean-Pierre. “My friend is ill, why can’t we go slower?”

  “Border guards and police,” the Andorran grunted. He had finally admitted to the name of José after Paul had asked him several times. “Sometimes soldiers patrol the marked path. When the trail ends, then we go slower and rest. Only then. Then it is safe.”

  Paul was struggling to understand José. He was certain the Andorran spoke much more French than he was letting on.

  And Paul wasn’t convinced that he and Jean-Pierre would be safer once the trail disappeared. Their guides looked resolutely hostile. Paul didn’t trust them.

  The climb became even more testing when they broke clear of the forest. The ground underfoot was treacherous, packed mud was replaced by solid but slippery rock and jagged splinters and fallen scree shifting dangerously without warning.

  But they were still following the marked trail.

  And while Paul and Jean-Pierre slithered and stumbled, the Andorrans marched effortlessly on, as surefooted as mountain goats.

  After another strenuous climb, Jean-Pierre came to a standstill, putting a hand on Paul’s shoulder to steady himself. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead, but he smiled at Paul and pointed skywards.

  Paul stared up. High above, a huge bird with a massive wingspan circled majestically in the blue sky.

  “A golden eagle,” Jean-Pierre said, struggling for breath.

  “Guiding us along the Eagle Trail,” Paul said as he watched the bird soar.

  Jean-Pierre managed a laugh. “Before the war, before this madness began, bird-watching was my interest. I know all the birds of southern France.” He glanced again at the eagle. “The eagle was always my favourite. How quickly life changes, eh, Paul?”

  The Andorrans had halted and were looking back.

  “I need to rest for a little while,” Jean-Pierre called to them.

  “Again?” shouted José. “We stopped fifteen minutes ago. You said you would not hold us up.”

  “Give me a little longer this time,” Jean-Pierre said. “I’ll eat a little and drink some water, then I’ll be all right.”

  “Look, if you want to get to Spain, you walk at our pace. I tell you, it is dangerous to stop now. Stop and start, it’s pathetic.”

  “We’ll walk at our pace!” Paul yelled in furious response. “You’re being paid plenty for this job, so you’ll do it the way we say!”

  José glared, his eyes narrowing, and for moment Paul half expected all three guides to turn and stomp off into the mountains. Paul didn’t notice as the leader’s eyes flicked down to the little suitcase he was carrying.

  The Andorran knew full well that the case contained much more than the remainder of their fee. He could be patient – he had to be while they were still in an area patrolled by guards. He shrugged his shoulders, nodded once to Paul and turned to his friends.

  Jean-Pierre sank gratefully to the hard ground, resting his back against a large rock, breathing hard. He watched as Paul took the remaining water and some of the food from the shoulder bag Odile had packed for them.

  Glancing quickly towards the Andorrans, Jean-Pierre leaned closer to Paul. “This isn’t fair on you, Paul,” he whispered. “My stomach is getting worse, and this cough… I’m very weak.”

  He sipped the water cautiously and sat back, suddenly looking completely drained and desperately tired. “I don’t think I can make it.”

  “Eat this,” Paul said, ignoring the comment and taking an apple from the bag. “It’ll give you energy.”

  “You must listen to me, Paul,” Jean-Pierre said urgently. “I don’t think I have the strength to go on.”

  “But you do,” Paul said equally forcefully. “I’ll help you!” He took some cheese from the bag, broke off a small piece and handed that to Jean-Pierre too. “And anyway, you have to make it, we’re going to see the Tower of London together, aren’t we?”

  Jean-Pierre smiled weakly and nodded. He took a bite of the apple and then leaned his head against the rock, staring into the sky, where the golden eagle continued to drift lazily.

  The café was open but deserted apart from the owner, Jacques, who was seated behind the bar, a newspaper in his hands. He looked up, startled, as Henri flung open the door and rushed inside.

  “Back again? Did you forget something?”

  “How long ago did they leave?”

  “Who?”

  “My two friends, of course, and the Andorrans?”

  The café owner shrugged. “A couple of hours; maybe a bit longer. That Jean-Pierre fellow didn’t look too good. You want a coffee?”

  “Where does the path start?”

  “Which path?”

  “The track leading to the Eagle Trail?”

  “It’s to the right of the café, about a hundred metres up the road.”

  “Is it easy to follow?”

  “Simple enough to begin with,” Jacques answered. “But once you get up high there’s no marked trail. It’s impossible to find the way unless you know it.”

  “I’ll find the way.”

  “But you can’t go up there without a guide. It’s suicide. Stay and have a—”

  But Henri had gone, leaving the door wide open as he rushed back to his car. He yanked open a rear door and pulled out the old shotgun, still in its canvas bag. He had already crammed the box of car
tridges into his jacket pocket.

  He slammed the door shut and hurried up the road.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Paul had refilled the bottles from a cool mountain spring. He was giving Jean-Pierre water as often as he could drink it, but it no longer seemed to help.

  After the break for food Jean-Pierre had revived a little – but the recovery was brief. For the remainder of the morning and into the afternoon they stopped and started more and more frequently.

  Now they had stopped again. Jean-Pierre was breathless and sweating, and Paul had reluctantly but silently accepted that his new friend could not walk for much longer.

  Even the Andorrans had ceased complaining. Now when Jean-Pierre or Paul signalled that they needed to rest, they simply shrugged their shoulders, leaned against the nearest rock and began rolling more cigarettes.

  They were high now, the autumn sun still warming but already descending towards the mountaintops. At another time Paul would have marvelled at the spectacular panoramic views: the sheer rock faces, the gigantic slabs of fallen limestone, the rugged crags and towering peaks. It was beautiful and breathtaking, and all so different to anywhere he had previously experienced. But he was too concerned about Jean-Pierre to enjoy the sights.

  And now he was very tired, so tired that he was starting to lose track of time. He couldn’t remember when he’d last slept; it was as though he’d been awake and walking for days.

  To combat his overwhelming feeling of fatigue, Paul concentrated on keeping Jean-Pierre going, forcing everything else from his mind. But he realized now that he was fighting a losing battle.

  Jean-Pierre looked terrible, exhausted and near to collapse. The most recent hike, past huge boulders and through a narrow pass, seemed to have sapped the last dregs of his strength, and when Paul offered him water and food, he could barely raise a hand to wave them away.

  And since the pass, Paul had noticed that the trail had finally disappeared. There was nothing now to show the way, no track, no trodden footpath, no markers of any sort. All Paul and Jean-Pierre had to rely on now was the knowledge and experience of their guides.