by James R Benn
“Vite alors,” I shouted, pulling an ammo belt off a Kraut corpse. They needed to hurry up if they wanted to be back behind the barricade when the fire started cooking off all the ammo in that half-track. I pointed to the crackling flames and hoped they got the idea.
I moved on to the next body, grabbed a rifle, and rolled the boche over, ready to unbuckle his belt.
He groaned and murmured something in German. His eyelids fluttered as he raised his hand and grasped my sleeve. He had a chest wound below the right shoulder, and with each breath blood bubbled up. There was an exit wound low on his side, and by the angle it looked like he may have taken a slug from the rooftop. It was messy as hell but at least it had missed his heart.
I told him it was going to be okay, checking him for any hidden weapons as I spoke soothingly and removed his helmet. I never liked prisoners wearing helmets—the damn things were basically a steel bludgeon—but I checked his helmet liner, and there it was. The usual photograph of a girl, this one holding a baby. I stuffed it inside his tunic pocket and grabbed him by the leather straps attached to his cartridge belt, then pulled him to the barricade. He winced in pain, which was a good thing. If you’re conscious enough to feel pain, the shock might not kill you. Loss of blood was another thing. He bled the whole way, leaving a glistening red trail behind.
Explosions rocked the half-track, grenades probably. Then the ammo went off, lethal firecrackers of machine gun rounds in the turret popping off in all directions.
“He’s alive,” I said to the girl in the white coat who came running to help lift him over the barrier. We got behind cover just as the gas tank went up, a fierce fireball mushrooming up and settling into a column of black smoke. “Vivant.”
“Oui,” she said, pulling his tunic open to check the wound. I recognized her from yesterday, or last night, or whenever the hell that was, when I helped with the wounded kid. “Let us keep him that way.”
Two other medics ran up with a stretcher, and I backed away as they went to work, cutting away his shirt, cleaning the wound, and applying a compress. The Kraut’s eyes opened, and he gaped in fear at the French civilians leaning over him. His hand went to his head, looking for the helmet. I took his hand in mine and patted his pocket with it.
“It’s here,” I said, then explained to the girl. “A photograph of his wife and child.”
“Dein Foto,” she said, packing another compress on top of the first. “Deine Frau und dein Kind.” The wounded German relaxed, his hand cupped over his tunic pocket. The medics wound bandages over his wounds and lifted him onto the stretcher and dashed off.
“Think he’ll make it?” I asked.
“Oui, if he has not lost too much blood. We have a hospital set up in the Louvre Metro station. He will be brought there with our wounded,” she said. “Roger is being taken there as well. Come, we must wash.”
“You can’t use a real hospital?” I said, glancing at my hands, sticky with drying blood.
“There are too many boche patrols and roadblocks,” she said. “But we have decent facilities there, and it is safe underground. The Germans have left it alone since they know we help all the wounded.”
“So that Metro station is the closest hospital to this area?”
“Oui, monsieur. Is there someone you seek?” She led me inside the café, which seemed to serve as the headquarters for this block.
“Yes,” I said. I introduced myself as we cleaned up in the kitchen. Her name was Suzette, and she was a second-year medical student. I told her I was looking for a friend and that we became separated yesterday not far from here. “If he’d been hurt, that would have been the closest place to find medical care?”
“Certainement,” Suzette said, wiping her hands dry. “If he was injured badly. I hope you find him.”
I thanked her and wandered into the main room with the map, where Roger had shown me the local layout. I ran a skittering finger across the map, spotting the nearby opera house and the barricaded rue Volney. The Louvre was close to the river, and I traced a shaky line from where I was to the Metro stop by the museum. It was only a few blocks from the Jardin des Tuileries, where I was due to meet Jarnac in a few hours. It looked close, but it didn’t look easy. The Resistance held the Louvre while the Germans maintained a strongpoint at the Hotel Meurice, opposite the gardens.
General von Choltitz himself could watch me walk along the road, if he could spare a moment from thinking about turning this city into a fancy pile of marble and granite.
“Do not take the avenue de l’Opéra.”
I jumped, not realizing Suzette had followed me into the room. I felt my heart rocket and the zing rip through my brain.
“Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in,” I said, working to calm myself down.
“Are you not well? You are perspiring.”
“It’s been a long night, that’s all,” I said. “What’s the best route?”
“The boche let our vehicles go, for the most part,” she said. “But a man alone would be stopped, or perhaps shot without warning. You would be easily seen on the avenue, so take to the side streets. Here. And here,” she said, pointing to the map. “Then take the rue de Montpensier. It is very narrow and not much used by the Germans. It will bring you to the Louvre Metro station. Ask for Docteur Durand and tell him I sent you.”
“Thanks, Suzette,” I said. I took the tin of chocolate out of my pocket and opened it, nearly spilling them as I twisted the cap. “Here, take these. They’re supposed to keep you alert.” I took one and bit into it.
“They have much caféine, perhaps too much for you, yes?” Suzette said. “But thank you. I hope you find your friend. Au revoir.”
There couldn’t be too much as far as I was concerned. I had a lot to do and not much time to do it. I was running on fumes, and I needed to stay sharp. Plenty of time to sleep later. I studied the map, trying to memorize the streets I’d take to avoid the main thoroughfare. I finished the chocolate and ran my finger along the route one more time. My hand shook so much my fingernail beat a staccato rhythm on the wall.
Damn. The shakes still went into hiding when the shooting started, but I had no idea how long that was going to last. If my luck held, there wouldn’t be much more shooting and the Fritzes would all march out of Paris, and there’d be a helluva party while we waited for Leclerc’s cavalry to show up.
I laughed out loud, and I can’t say why. I went into the kitchen, scrounged some stale bread and washed it down with a glass of water, fast, before the liquid sloshed over the side. I drummed my fingers on the zinc counter while my leg tapped out a beat. It would have been nice if there was any music playing.
I downed another Pervitin. I had the shakes, okay, but I was still feeling tired in my bones and like I had cobwebs strung across my brain. I couldn’t risk a cloudy mind over the next few hours, so what the hell. I needed to be sharp. I needed more zing.
The lights flickered and then went out.
I decided to follow suit, and left by the rear door, laughing at my own joke. It wasn’t that amusing, I knew, but I was beginning to find everything damn funny. I followed the alleyway to a side street and darted across the avenue. The sun was working its way over the horizon, sending out advance scouts of red rays to brush away the darkness. Dampness from last night’s rains rose from the pavement, tiny swirls of fog burning off around my legs. I ducked into a deep doorway as I heard vehicles approaching in the distance. I had time to cut down a side street off the avenue de l’Opéra, but I was curious.
A half dozen trucks escorted by a couple of motorcycles sporting sidecars rolled down the road. The vehicles were muddy and worn, the canvas covers on the trucks tattered and flapping in the wind. More fugitives from Normandy. Krauts in the sidecars held machine guns at the ready, searching for an ambush.
I backed up deeper into the shadows, not wanting to put the old line about cats
and curiosity to the test. The convoy passed me. The last truck had its canvas cover rolled down, and the Germans crammed in the back had their rifles pointed at the buildings.
A single shot echoed in the street. One of the Krauts in the last truck fell back, struck by a bullet. His pals grabbed him before he tumbled out, and then the shooting really got going.
I tried the door behind me. Locked. I pounded on it, but no one came to open up, a wise precaution with the lead flying everywhere. I peeked around the corner and saw soldiers getting out of their trucks, rifles leveled at windows and aimed at rooftops. There was no more return fire, only the angry crack of rifles from soldiers sick of being shot at.
I couldn’t stay in the doorway; they’d be on to me in a minute if they headed this way. And I couldn’t run away from them since the end of the block was half a football field distant. So, I did the only logical thing. I ran at them.
There was a zip in my step as well as in my head, but even so a few bullets hit the granite wall near my head as I rounded the corner, only a few yards away. I took it so fast I almost fell, but righted myself and ran like hell, hugging the side of the building as I made for the next street. More shots rang out and the thrum of bullets flying by my ear told me I needed to hustle before these guys improved their aim.
I skittered around the corner, arms flailing and lungs gasping as I put solid stone between my backside and the swarm of angry Krauts. I kept running, not wanting to waste a second looking back to see if anyone was following. After a few twists and turns, I stopped in a narrow side street and caught my breath. Which took a while. I could feel my heart slamming against my ribcage as if it wanted to be set free.
There were no shots or footsteps, so I leaned back against the cool granite stone and gulped in fresh morning air. Across the way, lights glowed in windows as early risers dressed and made their breakfasts.
The lights blinked out all at once, the electricity killed along the whole block. No warm breakfast for these folks. I pushed off and made for the next street. I didn’t recognize the name. I checked the road I’d just left and drew a blank on that one. I’d run too far or in the wrong direction, and now I was all mixed up. I thought about knocking and asking for help, but I’d probably sound like a crazy man. Which might be the case, the way thoughts were bouncing around inside my head. I had to be nuts to think this scheme would work. But then again, if I was nuts, then it might work.
Made perfect sense to me.
I kept walking. I found myself on the rue Saint-Honoré, a boulevard that made me nervous. Too open. I ran to the next street, passing a café where the proprietor was sweeping the sidewalk. He took one look at me and scampered inside. I heard the click of a lock, and figured I looked like trouble. Probably the blood from the wounded Kraut on my blue shirt. Or the smell of my sweat. I almost knocked to beg for directions, but then I thought maybe he was a collaborator, and he might be telephoning the Germans right now. So, I moved along, taking the next turn.
There it was, a blue enamel plaque telling me I was on the rue du Louvre. But which way to go? Dumb luck had brought me here, but I couldn’t tell if I should take a left or a right.
Then the light dawned. As in light bulb. The electricity came back on and illuminated a green neon sign hanging above blue double doors. The neon flickered a few times and finally settled down, spelling out Leduc Detective.
A sign from heaven. A detective had to be a kindred spirit. If he was at work yet, he’d help. He had to.
I ran to the doors, glancing over my shoulder to see if I was being followed. No sign.
I rapped on the door. Nothing. Harder. Still nothing. I felt naked standing still, making a racket out in the open. I craned my neck to look up at the windows on the second floor, hoping for a glimpse of a friendly face.
“Qui êtes-vous?”
I jumped, not for the first time today, as someone snuck up on me. Well, he’d walked from across the street, but it amounted to the same thing. “Who are you?” I countered, caught off-guard. I knocked on the door again, ready to give up.
The guy facing me was well dressed in a light gray summer suit with a white snap-brim fedora. He was about my age, with thick black hair, a strong chin, and dark, glinting eyes that darted up and down the street.
“Américain?” he asked, his eyes wide at this early morning surprise.
“Yes,” I said. “Do you speak English?”
“Come, you fool,” he said, demonstrating a good grasp of the language and my situation at the same time. He grabbed me by the arm and opened the door with an old iron key. Inside, he locked the door behind us and pushed me up the stairs.
“Are you Monsieur Leduc?” I asked as we entered his office.
“Sit there and be quiet,” he said, going to the arched windows and checking the street. “Were you followed?”
“I was chased by the boche for a while, but that was several blocks away,” I said, taking a chair opposite his desk. “They weren’t following me, exactly. More like using me for target practice. Almost hit me too.” I tried to be quiet, but the words just spilled out until I finally zipped it.
“Very well,” he said, after another minute of watching at the window. “What are you doing in Paris? Why have you come to my office?”
“I can’t say what I am doing here. But I am an American officer, and I need your help,” I said. “I know this sounds strange, but I’m a detective myself. I was a cop before the war. A flic. I thought a fellow detective would give me a hand.”
“A hand? Ah, yes, I understand. But how am I to know you are who you claim to be? You sound like an Américain, but why should I trust you? You could be working with the boche, or the flics.” He tossed his hat on his desk, sat, and studied me over steepled fingers.
“Aren’t the police fighting the Germans?” I asked.
“Now they are, yes. But mere days ago they were doing their bidding. They are fighting hard, indeed, but it will take much blood to wash away the memory of what they have done to those French men and women who have resisted boche rule. Not to mention the roundup of the Jews.”
“Are you with the Resistance?” I asked.
“That is a dangerous question to ask,” he said. “What is your name?”
“Captain William Boyle,” I said, extending my hand to him. “You can call me Billy.”
“Claude Leduc,” he said, grasping my hand. “You may call me Monsieur Leduc. Now, tell me what you require.”
“I have to get to the hospital the FFI has set up in the Louvre Metro,” I said. “I’m looking for a friend who may be injured.”
“Another Américain?” Leduc asked.
“No, he’s—not American,” I said, my brain catching up with my mouth as I realized I still didn’t know which side this guy was on. No sense telling anyone I was looking for a Pole. “I was on my way there and got lost running from Fritz. I tried to talk to a guy opening his café, but he got spooked and locked his door. Probably didn’t like the bloodstains on my shirt. German blood, but how could he know? Then I saw your sign, and figured it was worth knocking and asking for directions.”
“Are you nervous, Captain Boyle?”
“No, not at all. Why do you ask?”
“I could feel the unsteadiness in your hand, you talk too much, are perspiring, and seem uncomfortable. These are the things which betray a liar,” Leduc said. He opened a drawer and withdrew a revolver. A nicely polished French army model 73. It made me embarrassed to be carrying a cap gun in my pocket. “Now place your pistol on the desk. Do so with great care.”
“Sure, sure,” I said, taking out the little .32 and setting it before him. “I’d be glad to trade.”
“Very amusing,” he said, taking my piece and giving it a sniff. “It has not been fired recently.”
“Thank God,” I said. “I’d be outclassed by a good stone if I had to use that
thing.”
“Now you are telling me the truth,” Leduc said, almost laughing. “Please continue with more of it. Why have you come to me?”
“First, I’m not lying. But I am a little jumpy, you’re right. It’s the Pervitin. I took a couple of pills to stay alert. It’s been a while since I slept. I had the shakes already, just not as bad. I’ll tell you this, it’s doing a damn good job of keeping me wide awake.”
“Slow down, Captain Boyle. Where did you get the Pervitin?”
“From a guy,” I said. “At a black-market joint.” True enough. I didn’t want to admit the guy was an Abwehr officer and the joint was a collaborationist brothel. There was an innocent explanation alright, but I didn’t have time for that.
“Pervitin is a German drug, issued to their troops. They call it the Stuka-Pille, since their pilots use it. Or the Panzer-Pille, in the case of their army.”
“Yeah, I can see why. I feel like I could fly,” I said. “So, will you help me get to the hospital?”
“One thing I find interesting is that a fellow like you, who evidently does not speak much French, found Pervitin on the black market in the first place. It is quite rare, for two reasons. First, the boche love it, at least until they stop taking it. And secondly, there is very little market for it among Parisians. We are too hungry to waste money on such a drug. So, before I help you, tell me more about this mec who sold it to you.”
“Listen, I’m sorry to have wasted your time,” I said. “I’ll just pick a direction and take my chances.” I stood, only to see my little pistol aimed right at me.
“Sit down,” Leduc said. “This little Ruby automatic is a nice accessory for a lady’s purse, but it is capable of causing a good deal of pain. And it is not terribly loud, unlike my revolver. So, take a seat, speak the truth, and let us avoid bloodstains on my Aubusson carpet.”
“Okay,” I said, sitting down again and grasping the arm of the chair. That quieted the tremor in my hand, but it shifted to my leg which started doing the jitterbug on his fancy rug. “I’m an Allied agent. Two of us were sent into Paris to track down a killer. My partner is missing and I’m trying to find him. We had a contact who provided the Pervitin, but I’m not going to tell you any more than that.”