The Resistance Man

by Martin Walker

  Jofflin’s car would be the closer of the two. There was no discreet place nearby for J-J to park and no proper roads, only dirt tracks that would challenge even his own Land Rover. Bruno had hunted around here, ridden over the land on horseback with Fabiola and Pamela and even come through this forest looking for mushrooms with the baron. The nearest road in the other direction was two or three miles away, and J-J’s car could not handle the rough forest tracks. Bruno would have to assume he was on his own.

  He got to the concrete stand and waited, Crimson’s disposable phone in his hand. Paul would be expecting the English accent that he already recognized and that Bruno could not possibly hope to impersonate. That would make for a difficult moment.

  The phone rang. He put it to his ear and began working his mouth as though saying “Hello” again and again but keeping silent. He heard a male voice speaking English and carried on miming his response. He took the phone from his ear, looked at it, shook it, returned it to his ear and began once more miming his “Hello.” Faking a bad connection was his only chance.

  Across the clearing perhaps two hundred yards away he saw a flash of movement through the woods. Then he saw it again, farther along through the trees, and realized it was someone on a mountain bike, wearing a cycling helmet and shorts. Very clever, he thought. Nobody could catch a mountain bike in these woods, and someone riding one could avoid all the roads. Cyclists were so common that Paul could probably risk the gendarme patrols and go cross-country again if he had to.

  There was a sound behind him, and he turned to see another mountain bike coming slowly down the slope from the woods toward him. The cyclist in helmet, shorts and a long-sleeved cycling vest in green stopped, perhaps thirty yards away, feet on the ground but poised to pedal away swiftly. From a waist pouch, the cyclist took an automatic pistol and pointed it at Bruno. It was big and flat, an automatic, probably the Browning.

  No matter how good his training or how thoroughly he had tried to think through this moment, Bruno learned anew that there was nothing quite like the adrenaline shock of a gun being aimed at him. He told himself that the vest was designed to stop a nine-millimeter round and tried to repress the thought that an untrained shooter usually fired high and there was no vest to protect his head.

  The file in one hand, the phone in the other, Bruno ignored the tremor in his legs and raised his hands above his head as Balzac wagged his tail and trotted up to the bike to sniff at the cyclist’s feet.

  The second cyclist came out of the woods to Bruno’s right and paused, perhaps twenty yards away. He took off a small backpack and removed a slim black weapon, its magazine sticking out sideways from the barrel. Bruno recognized it was a Sten gun. After he’d learned that it was missing from Fullerton’s collection, Bruno had looked it up. It has thirty-two rounds, nine-millimeter bullets, a tendency to rise when fired and very prone to jam. The cyclist held the butt in his right hand, finger on the trigger, and his left hand on the magazine. That meant he didn’t know the gun well. Holding it there meant pressure on the magazine, which could alter the angle at which the bullets were fed into the chamber and cause a jam.

  “It’s not him,” shouted the first cyclist, the one holding the automatic. It was a female voice. “I know this guy, he’s a cop from St. Denis. It’s a trap.”

  “Bonjour, Yvonne—bonjour, Paul,” Bruno said, his arms still high and his eyes fixed on the gun that threatened him. He was conscious that his voice was a notch or two higher than usual, and there was a chill lump of fear in his belly. “I’ve come to ask you to give yourselves up before anybody gets hurt.”

  “Did you see any cars, anybody else following him?” Paul asked his sister. His face was covered in fashionable stubble. The sleeve of his cycling vest had ridden up enough for Bruno to see the beginning of the Maori warrior tattoo.

  “No, but it’s got to be a trap.”

  “The bikes are a good idea,” said Bruno, straining to keep his voice calm. He settled back on his heels to stop the quivering in his legs. “Even if there were any cars, you can get away again. I’m hoping you won’t do that. There are no charges against Yvonne. Think of her future.”

  “Go back up the hill and keep watch,” Paul told his sister. He pulled back the bolt to cock the Sten, holding it steady and aiming low. Bruno’s heart thumped as he realized that he was now one pull of the trigger away from all thirty-two rounds of the magazine hitting him in less than three seconds. “You expect me to believe that you came just to tell me to give up? Have you got the documents?”

  As Yvonne stood on her pedals to cycle back up the hill, Balzac trotted across to Paul and made a friendly bark of greeting. Paul ignored him, not taking his eyes away from Bruno for a moment.

  “There are no documents, Paul. We cooked up that page as bait to get a chance to talk to you. I knew about your grandfather’s war record, about the Neuvic train, about his suspicions.” The words came out in a rush, and he knew that he was not sounding persuasive, even to himself.

  “They aren’t suspicions. He spent half his life trying to find out what happened to that money. What about the contents page you sent me from the archive? Was that faked too?”

  “Not entirely,” he said, straining his ears for the sound of a helicopter or even a car engine, for some indication that he was not alone facing a submachine gun. He had seen how the bullets could stitch their way up a human body. “Most of the documents exist, they’re just not declassified yet. But I’m told they don’t provide much evidence for your theories. The British really didn’t know what happened to the Neuvic money.”

  “Crimson probably told you that, the guy the papers call the spymaster. So he’s in on this as well.”

  Paul’s voice was even, not carrying any tone of anger or frustration. Bruno hoped he would stay this calm.

  “Crimson got involved when you burgled his house. But we got all the stuff back from Fullerton’s place in the Corrèze. We very nearly caught up with you both there.”

  Paul nodded. “So what brings the St. Denis policeman into this?”

  “Apart from the burglaries being on my turf, I was at your grandfather’s deathbed. He had one of the Neuvic banknotes in his hands as he died. I’m keeping his Resistance medal for you and the photos he had of himself in the Groupe Valmy.”

  Bruno’s legs had stopped trembling, and he felt the first glimmer of relief that this encounter was turning into a dialogue, just as the book on hostage negotiations said it should.

  “One of the photos was of the Neuvic operation. And after he died I found some photos of you and him together. I’ve got one in my shirt pocket. I thought you’d like to have it. Can I get it out and show you?”

  “Just keep your hands in the air. Does that mean you were the one who organized the funeral?”

  Bruno nodded. “Your grandfather got a good send-off. Half the town was there with a military honor guard and we sang the ‘Chant des Partisans.’ Did you get close enough to see anything of it?”

  “Not as close as I’d have liked. But I heard the music.”

  “I went to see your aunt Joséphine.”

  “So I heard. You bought a couple of my pictures, got them cheap, just as you did with the Neuvic banknotes.”

  “I paid what I was asked.”

  Paul considered that and nodded. He glanced down at Balzac, who was sniffing around his ankles. “That’s a nice basset, what’s his name?”

  “Balzac.”

  Paul smiled, that same smile Bruno had seen in the surveillance photo at the printing shop. Bruno understood why the shopgirl had been charmed.

  “Tell me, why did you bring Balzac?”

  “Because I know you like animals.”

  Paul laughed. He looked calm and self-possessed, with none of the nervous stress Bruno had expected. Bruno found that at last he was able to swallow as his own tension began to ease.

  “You’re a strange kind of cop. What’s your name?”

  “Bruno, Bruno Courrèges. I�
�m the town policeman at St. Denis, as your sister said.”

  “Bruno, I’ve heard that name before. I seem to remember seeing something in the papers about your pulling a Chinese kid out of a fire, and that thing in the big cave, was that you?”

  Bruno nodded. Paul eyed him curiously.

  “How did you get onto me?”

  “A postman remembered the van and the France-Chauffage sign you faked, so I went to the sign shop, where they had a security camera. Then I took your picture to the zone industrielle in Belvès and met one of your admirers, a woman called Nicole. She recognized you from the security photo. So then I had a name, and we began to check known addresses and went to see Joséphine and began looking for Yvonne.”

  Paul laughed. “I haven’t thought of Nicole in a while. So it was all because a postman saw the van. Would that have been somewhere near the place where Francis was killed?”

  “On the road up to the house. He was leaving after delivering some mail; you were heading toward it. I presume Francis was still alive then.”

  “Assume all you like.” He paused and then cocked his head as if remembering something. “How long have you had this job?”

  “Eleven years, and yes, I was the cop who came to investigate the attack on that vacation place eleven years ago when you and Édouard Marty were beaten up with the older English guys. You were the one with the broken nose who was taken to the clinic where you gave a false name and address. Either Francis Fullerton drove, or he was the one with the broken arm.”

  Paul nodded slowly and studied Bruno without speaking. The Sten did not waver. “Are you armed?” he asked.

  “I have a small gun in an ankle holster. A snub-nose revolver. It couldn’t reach you at this range. I wouldn’t have worn it, but senior colleagues insisted. They think you’re a murderer. I’m not so sure.”

  “Why do you say that?” Paul sounded genuinely curious. “The papers and the radio are all saying I’m guilty.”

  “Partly it’s the hospice where you volunteered, partly it’s your paintings, but it’s mainly because I can’t bring myself to believe you killed Francis in a crime passionnel. I think you loved him, but I can’t see you being jealous in that way. And I can’t see you beating him to death like that, so brutally.”

  “Well, you’re right about that.” He gave a short laugh. “All of it.”

  “Tell me what happened, Paul. If you didn’t do it, who did? Give yourself up and come with me and we can find out what really happened. You haven’t got much time. We know about the British credit card and we’re blocking it. You’ll have no more money. There’s a helicopter nearby with a team of Gendarmes Mobiles aboard. You know how they’re trained. They’ll take one look at that Sten and they’ll shoot first and ask questions later. Think about Yvonne; do you want them gunning her down alongside you?”

  “It needn’t be like that,” Paul replied. “Thanks for the warning, but this isn’t over.”

  “So what now?”

  Paul looked at Bruno thoughtfully. “It’s a pity there are no documents. That story needs to come out.”

  “Gilles from Paris Match is a good reporter. Once he gets his teeth into something, he keeps on chewing.”

  “You know him?”

  “We’ve been friends for a long time. We met in Sarajevo during the siege. He was a reporter. I was in the army.”

  “Interesting, Grandpa would have approved. Now since I don’t want to make more trouble by shooting you, I’d like you to put that phone down and take your shirt off. Leave the photo in the pocket.”

  “I’m wearing a flak vest and a wire.”

  “That’s what I expected, so take them off. I imagine you’ve got a cordon forming around this area while you engage me in friendly chitchat.”

  Bruno complied, wincing as he ripped off the tape that held the transmitter to his back, and laid them on the ground in front of him. He opened the button on the shirt pocket and slightly withdrew the photo so Paul could see it.

  “Now, sit down on the ground. Keeping your hands well away from that ankle holster, take your shoes off. Use your feet to get them off, that’s right. Now take off that ankle holster. If you try to open it I’ll shoot you. Don’t get up. Just raise your arms and put your hands on your head and keep them there. Now start shuffling back on your bum and call your dog to join you. Keep on backing away.”

  Bruno called Balzac from sniffing at his abandoned shoes and wriggled back down the slope. Paul kept the Sten gun aimed at him as he stepped off the bike and put Bruno’s shoes, phone and the transmitter into his rucksack. He left the gun in its holster on the ground. Finally he took the photo from Bruno’s shirt pocket and then remounted his bike.

  “Good luck, Bruno. Sorry your feet are going to get a bit torn up, but stay in touch with Gilles. I may have something to communicate, and I’ll do it through him.”

  “Can you at least tell me who killed Francis?” From far in the distance, Bruno could hear the first, faint chattering of a helicopter.

  “It wasn’t me. I was there, but I didn’t kill him. I couldn’t have, despite what he was doing to us.” Paul cocked his head, hearing the rotor blades.

  “That’s the Gendarmes Mobiles.” Bruno said. “For God’s sake, think of your sister. This doesn’t have to end with you both dead.”

  Paul shook his head, looked up the hill and whistled. After a moment his sister appeared. He stuffed his gun into his rucksack, shouldered it and rode off along the side of the hill, disappearing into the woods, his sister following close behind.

  Bruno lowered his arms at last. They felt so light they seemed to want to rise again of their own accord. His body was sending waves of relief through his frame that the danger was over while his mind felt disappointment that he had failed to bring Paul in. He took a deep breath and stretched. The gendarme chopper was still too far away to be seen.

  He retrieved his shirt, flak vest and the ankle holster, wincing as the sharp pebbles bit into his stockinged feet. Feeling a curious mixture of elation and humiliation, he hobbled very carefully down the motocross circuit to the track that led back to where Jofflin’s car was waiting. When he saw it, he waved and then heard the engine start up. He’d held the suspect in place for more than twenty minutes, which should have been long enough for whatever plans J-J had prepared for an ambush.

  30

  J-J had not been happy. His car had gotten stuck on a trail in the woods far behind the motocross circuit and required a tow truck to come and drag it out. His phone couldn’t get a signal, and the helicopter with the Gendarmes Mobiles had beaten its way back and forth along the ragged edges of the woods, and they had never seen a soul, let alone two cyclists. He grudgingly accepted the return of his revolver and flak jacket, listened to Bruno’s account of the conversation with Paul and only smiled when he saw Bruno’s bare feet. The ruined socks had been thrown away, but Balzac had gleefully rescued one and carried it dangling from his mouth.

  Jofflin drove Bruno and Crimson back to Crimson’s house, where Bruno borrowed a pair of socks and put his own shoes back on. Thanking Crimson for his trouble, he drove to his office to report to the mayor, who warned him that Delaron was asking questions about unusual police activity.

  “You met this young man, Paul?” the mayor asked.

  “Yes, and we had an interesting conversation given that he was holding me at gunpoint. He wouldn’t explain what had really happened, just that he was at the scene but hadn’t killed Fullerton, despite ‘what he was doing to us.’ That’s the bit I don’t understand. I’ve no idea what Fullerton was doing, or who Murcoing was referring to when he talked of ‘us.’ But he was very self-confident, as though he knew it would all work out for him. I never saw anyone who looked less like a hunted man on the run.”

  “What happens now?”

  “I tried to tempt him out of hiding and bring him in and it didn’t work. I suppose now it’s up to J-J and the mobiles, which means there’s a strong chance that Paul gets killed a
nd we never learn the truth.”

  “It’s out of your hands now. And I imagine you haven’t heard the news. The minister of the interior has resigned, pleading reasons of health, a very unusual development this close to the election. Jacqueline is delighted and called to say she’s putting some champagne on ice to celebrate. Gilles will be joining us, since she now sees him as a worthy fellow conspirator. She made a point of saying that you were also invited along with Balzac and what she called your various womenfolk. I think that was meant to be a joke.”

  “I suppose you can never be sure with a woman like Jacqueline.”

  “Bien entendu. It makes life much more interesting.”

  Back in his office, where a full in-box and a pile of unopened mail awaited him, Bruno opened his computer and groaned as he saw screen after screen of unanswered e-mails. It would take him days to clear the backlog. He looked out of his window. The cars at the roundabout had stopped for a line of cyclists to pedal through. They were all on racing bikes, rather than the sturdy mountain bikes Paul and his sister had been riding, and none of them was wearing a green vest. He studied them anyway, wondering how far away Paul and Yvonne could have gone by now.

  J-J had made it clear that Bruno was off the case, now that his ploy to smoke out Paul with the forged papers had run its course. Murcoing was henceforth the concern of the gendarmes and the Police Nationale. Bruno was back in his usual routine, taking care of the affairs of St. Denis. It was a job he much enjoyed, but he was aware of a sense of letdown, of unfinished business.

  His desk phone rang, and he looked at it glumly. What would it be this time? A lost cat, or a denunciation of some unemployed guy working for cash, perhaps a complaint about the new parking restrictions.