by Pirate Irwin
Broglie instead told his dozen or so men, mainly middle aged and overweight and dressed in sad looking suits in comparison to the Brigades Spéciales, to fan out and hide behind the several cars parked in the non–descript street, with the aim of arresting anyone who exited by the door.
It wasn’t a bad tactic but Lafarge thought it was the worst one for him as it negated him being able to at least gain access to the house and the garden and see if de Chastelain was indeed there.
They were also in a total state of ignorance as to what was going on inside the grounds, the only sounds alerting them to what could be taking place was machine gun fire and the occasional grenade explosion.
Unless Lafarge was mistaken not even the Brigades Spéciales were supplied with grenades, machine pistols yes, so the peaceful lawyers and doctors were certainly putting up a fight with ammunition that had not been part of Guillemot’s informant’s information.
Suddenly, the side door opened with a shout coming from inside of not to shoot, and with Broglie yelling to his motley group to hold their fire out stumbled one of de Blaeckere’s bloodhounds, Etienne Castelnau.
He was not a pretty sight, one side of his face and body was streaming blood, but he somehow managed to stagger over to where Broglie and Lafarge were hiding and gasp some information to them.
“You’ve got to come, de Blaeckere demands it!” said Castelnau, showering Broglie and Lafarge with specks of blood that exited his mouth as he spoke.
“We’ve taken a real beating in there and we need your back up, if only to get our wounded out,” he added, his words faint and Lafarge could see there was little point in running to get him medical aid for this young man was not due to see his next birthday.
Broglie shook his head, prompting Lafarge to lose his patience.
“For pity’s sake Broglie, we’ve got to do something, or at least I have to!
“If they eventually take the house, de Blaeckere is not going to stand on ceremony and he more likely than not is going to shoot all the prisoners he takes in revenge.
“If de Chastelain is in there, then the only hope he has got is me, and indeed the only hope I have of saving my case is to get him out alive,” said Lafarge, his tone underlining his frustration with his obstinate colleague.
Broglie looked at him and then down at the dying Castelnau and bit his lip.
“Ok Gaston, you go, but I am under orders to hold the line here and that is what I am going to do until I hear otherwise from Guillemot,” said Broglie, who was sweating even more than usual and Lafarge ventured it wasn’t just because of the heat in the air.
Lafarge nodded his thanks and jumped to his feet, then ran in crocodile fashion across the street and hurled himself through the open doorway. What greeted him was a fusillade of machine gun fire from one of the second floor windows. Thankfully it hissed past him and hit the wall, showering him with little pieces of shrapnel that tore into his suit jacket.
He rolled over on to his back and withdrew his gun, cocked it, and then rolled over again so he could survey the scene. He could see five bodies lying scattered across the garden, difficult to tell whether they were de Blaeckere’s men or their opponents, whilst from the bushes and from behind trees there emanated a constant volley of gunfire at the house.
The house itself was scarred by the incoming fire, the white walls pockmarked with rounds of ammunition that had failed to hit its human targets but destroyed a once attractive façade.
He scanned the garden, desperately seeking de Blaeckere or Caulennec, and saw that they were not so far away from him, skulking down his side of the garden behind a rosebush.
Aha two extra pricks to watch out for in that bush then, joked Lafarge to himself, as he made his way carefully down to them.
Truth be told, the gunfire coming from the house appeared to be less intense than a few minutes before but that wasn’t much comfort for their targets, as hidden from sight, the cell members were perhaps saving their ammunition for when the police emerged from their hiding places.
After much crawling and jousting with various plants and other barriers he reached the two chiefs and found both to be untouched physically but mentally in shock at the ferocity of opposition they had met.
It was one thing to cut some powerless fellow’s tongue out and another to have to fight to catch their prey. At this precise moment, however, Lafarge needed them both to come to their senses and organise a counter–attack, for his own safety counted on it.
For the first time since they had met, de Blaeckere actually looked like he was genuinely pleased to see Lafarge, slapping him on the shoulder amicably as if they were long lost comrades. Caulennec couldn’t even muster that gesture as he lay slumped against the brick wall, useless to all.
“Where’s Broglie and his men?” asked de Blaeckere, staring desperately over Lafarge’s shoulder, his eyes wild with fright, his normally neat swept back blond hair an untidy mess and his immaculate pin stripe suit covered in earth and reeking of sweat and urine.
Good business to be had for the tailors of Limoges, mused Lafarge, after this mess is over, before focusing himself on the task in hand. He had been handed a great opportunity, if he gained access to the house, of seeking out de Chastelain on his own. For de Blaeckere and Caulennec were clearly in no state to launch a fight back, let alone keen to go anywhere near the house.
“They’re not coming, I’m all you’ve got. As for Guillemot, I have no idea whether he will change his plan and come to our aid but for the moment we have got to make do with what we have and draw up an alternative plan,” said Lafarge authoritatively, hoping this might at least provoke de Blaeckere into some form of clear thinking.
De Blaeckere simply shrugged his shoulders and pointed at Caulennec as if to say what could they possibly do just the two of them, Lafarge and himself, to turn the tide. Lafarge tended to agree but knew he had to take a risk in getting into the house rather than trying to save his skin.
“Look, all I’m asking is for you to give me covering fire while I try to enter the house. I need to if only to resolve whether de Chastelain is there or not. I need you also to transmit that message to whoever is left of your men, although, I can see that will be difficult,” said Lafarge.
“What the hell do you think you are going to achieve if you do find this bloody de Chastelain in the house? They’re not going to let you walk out of there with him. You’d be better off going back and telling Broglie and Guillemot to bloody well come and rescue us!” pleaded de Blaeckere, spittle covering Lafarge’s face.
“I tell you Lafarge, Guillemot is finished if I get out of here alive. His informant sold him out or perhaps he even knew that, hence why he is outside and we are here, it was a plot to destroy us in a little power game. He will regret this,” added de Blaeckere viciously.
Lafarge shook his head in wonderment at how conspiracy theories about in–house betrayal could cloud a man’s mind when they were in such mortal danger. He repeated he was going in and if de Blaeckere wanted to survive his only hope was for him to cover him and then lie low until he had either come out or the gunfire stopped completely.
“You’re a fucking lunatic Lafarge! Always seeking a cross to crucify yourself on aren’t you! Ok then go on I will provide covering fire, but only until you get inside the house. You will be lucky if I am still here when you come back out,” said de Blaeckere, the look of fear in his eyes not reassuring Lafarge that he was even capable of firing at all.
Regardless of that, Lafarge preferred to choose his own place of death and with whom he died and it was surely not with these loathsome scoundrels. He turned his back on de Blaeckere and crawled on all fours back to his original starting point and surveyed the house for potential weak points.
The side of the house was the answer, for whilst there was obviously someone at the second floor middle window, if he managed to unleash a burst and then ran for it he could make one of the lower windows. Then either he could throw himself through one or for
ce it open, which was obviously the preferred option.
Hesitating no longer he stood up and fired off five bullets at the second floor while some covering gunfire also protected him. He made ground fast enough to pin himself against the side wall of the house, which eliminated any possibility of being shot at, though if there was a grenade to hand he was in a whole load of trouble.
He twisted round and tried the window to his left, but it wouldn’t give, so he used the butt of his gun to break the panes either side of the lock. He looked into the room and saw no sign of life, opened the window and climbed into what was the reading room of the house.
It was certainly well stocked, a tranquil and comforting room to retire to in happier times he ventured. However, now was not the time to idle and admire the collection the owner of the house had acquired and probably would never enjoy again.
He gently opened the large wooden door and listened out for any sound of movement in the passageway or sign of people and registered neither. He stepped out cautiously and inched his way along the right hand side towards the front of the house meeting no opposition along the way.
He could hear bursts of fire from above and some shouting, though it was incomprehensible what was being said. He himself hadn’t really worked out what he was going to do when he came across one of the gun toting lawyers, if indeed they really were the so called professional resistants cell.
For de Blaeckere had been right about one thing and that was Guillemot’s information had been woefully inaccurate.
Lafarge had the time to reload his gun, although he would prefer not to have to actually shoot someone, given his mixed feelings about the present political state in France and who was right and who was wrong, but the people above him were probably not thinking about the complexities of that at the moment as they were just thinking of fighting their way out of the dire situation they found themselves in.
He edged his way into the hall and saw there were a couple of corpses lying either side of the main door, both young but definitely not de Blaeckere’s goons. He looked up the central staircase and onto a balcony overlooking the hall and saw it was deserted.
All that changed suddenly as three men and a woman emerged from a room or perhaps a corridor to the right hand side diagonally across from him and all were easy targets to take out should he wish to.
All the incoming fire had ceased and the quartet were keen to take advantage of this by making an exit, but from where, Lafarge had not an earthly idea. They may have successfully fought off the assault but if they showed their faces outside they would either be shot or arrested on the spot.
He decided to bluff it out with them, for as far as he could ascertain they were not aware of his presence.
“I’ve got you covered! Put down your weapons and come down the stairs slowly,” yelled Lafarge in as authoritative a manner as he could manage.
He heard derisory laughter aimed at his direction, which hurt almost as much as if bullets had come his way, so he decided to show them he was not joking. He launched himself out of the shadows and fired three bullets which hit the man on the right full in the chest, sending him toppling over and down the stairs.
The three remaining resistants stood stock still, but one of them made the idiotic move to go to his jacket for what Lafarge could only imagine was a gun and he too took the full force of a bullet.
The other two were now in no doubt that their attacker was deadly serious.
The woman and the man, both of them young, good looking and well dressed and under any other scenario could have been mistaken for a loving couple about to go out for a romantic walk round town, raised their hands and walked carefully down the stairs.
There was still shooting coming from upstairs, but Lafarge was not interested in that. For it suited him as it meant he had time alone with the couple and to ask them questions without having the sudden arrival of colleagues who had miraculously rediscovered their courage. He addressed them civilly and calmly after having taken them down the corridor back to the reading room.
“Listen, I have only one real interest in this whole affair and that is whether Pierre–Yves de Chastelain is among you, and if he is, is he still alive?”
Both the girl and the man looked at each other nervously and then the man looked back at Lafarge and answered.
“Yes, he is on both counts and we can take you to him. That was where we were going when you murdered our two friends,” he said coldly.
Lafarge ignored the latter remark, neither side it appeared had sole rights on lying, and ordered them out of the room.
This time round they turned left and walked to the end of the corridor, which Lafarge noted admiringly had what looked like some original prints or paintings of Napoleon and his troops at various battles. Not all of them were victories as some were of scenes from the retreat from Moscow and the Emperor brooding on the ship carrying him to St Helena after Waterloo.
So they had invaded a house and property belonging to a proud patriot, well one that had been so until the Germans came to pay their respects to France for the third time in 70 years and this time found enough French people to see things their way.
How truly surreal things had become that the situation now had patriot fighting patriot. It was a dreamlike scenario for the Nazis but a true nightmare for the French and however things turned out globally Lafarge thought to himself it would be years before France made peace with itself.
The couple indicated to Lafarge to take the stairs down to the basement and the detective nodded and told them to go ahead of him in case he was being led into a trap.
They progressed slowly, aided only by a bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling half way down the steps, and aside from the smell of damp, Lafarge had to cover his nose with his free hand because of the sickly sweet smell of death emanating from below.
Once they got to the bottom, there was barely any light at all, just the half–moon windows giving some illumination and in the half darkness, Lafarge could make out several bodies lying with their backs propped up against the wall.
The couple paused briefly by them before walking along the passage towards the far end of the house. Lafarge wanted to know whether they had been killed in the assault or had been hidden there for a few days, victims of some other resistance activity, but realizing that time was pressing and impatient to set eyes on de Chastelain, he followed them without mouthing a word.
Once they came to the end, they stopped at the door and then knocked twice.
There was the sound of two bolts being withdrawn and then the door swung open revealing in the light that shone from behind the figure who greeted them that it was indeed Pierre–Yves de Chastelain. His look of surprise when Lafarge stepped forward was a moment of sheer unadulterated pleasure for the policeman.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Lafarge, Lafarge!” yelled Broglie as he slapped his Parisian colleague’s face in an effort to rouse him.
Lafarge opened his eyes to discover Broglie and his stained teeth bending down over him, and fearing he might be given the kiss of life by his rustic partner, blinked three times to show he was alive if not fully compus mentus.
His head hurt like hell and as he glanced around him, he could see that he was lying inside the room where he had come across de Chastelain.
He had asked de Chastelain not to hit him too hard. Whether the lawyer turned fugitive had misheard him or else had put all his pent up frustration and fear into the one punch, it had been worthy of Germany’s former heavyweight champion of the world Max Schmelling.
Cursing de Chastlelain under his breath, he groggily raised himself onto one elbow and managed to ask Broglie in a reedy voice how long he had been lying there.
Broglie looked rather shamefaced as he prepared his answer.
“About 90 minutes I would say. When the shooting eventually died down, de Blaeckere came stumbling out and muttered that you were in the house but he thought you must be dead,” said Broglie.
Lafarge nodded his thanks and was also satisfied that such a length of time would have allowed de Chastelain and the other two to make their escape.
He was happy too that Broglie had come for him, because if he had been relying on de Blaeckere, he could have lain here for days or as was the Brigades Spéciales habit, might have been burnt to death when they punished Resistance fighters by burning down their houses in revenge.
“Erm I know that you are a bit shaken but what happened to you?” asked Broglie.
Lafarge replied saying he had escorted two of the ‘terrorists’ down to the basement to see if there were any more down there. In the gloom, he had not noticed another figure come up behind him and pin back his arms while one of the other two, he took it to be the man not the woman, had slugged him.
Evidently, in order to hide evidence of him being down there, they had dragged him along the passageway and dumped his body behind the door where Broglie had found him.
“Did you find anyone else alive?” asked Lafarge.
Broglie shook his head.
“No, we found eight bodies upstairs and three in the passageway down here. However, I have my men searching the tunnel that seems to lead from this room to god knows where, just in case there are others hiding or trying to escape,” he said.
“Tunnel?” asked Lafarge hoping he sounded convincingly surprised.
“Yes, it seems that this cell have been very busy. They have been planning for such a day to come and there is a tunnel stretching for rather a long way. Given the time it took us to find you I would imagine there is little chance of finding them if there were any survivors,” he said.
“Yes, they seem to have been well prepared. Here, lift me up will you Broglie, I can’t spend the rest of the day lying prone staring at your cherubic features,” said Lafarge.