Liquidate Paris (28 page)

It seemed that the finger of light was on them again almost immediately. The Legionnaire pressed his gun hard into his shoulder.

'This is it,' muttered Gunther.

The light swung over them and across the wall. They trained their machine-guns upon the spot where the fugitive was fumbling for the rope. At the precise moment when the light reached him, the boy disappeared from sight, slipping down the rope as if it were a greased pole and doubtless ending up with hands that were raw to the bone. But he had made it.

The Legionnaire casually replaced the safety catch and slung the gun over his shoulder. the patrol continued imperturbably on its way.

'Well, the Old Man will be pleased,' remarked the Legionnaire, a few paces further on. 'It was his lunatic idea.'

'Lunatic's the word,' grumbled Gunther. 'Where's the point of it all?'

'I'm not sure that there is any.'

'So why the hell do we do it?'

'Haven't the faintest idea,' said the Legionnaire, with a smile.

'Well, neither have I,' said Gunther. 'And I swear before God that's the last time anyone's taking
me
for a mug again!'

Half an hour later, the guard was relieved. And from all over the prison our voices came in chorus :

'Nothing to report.'

The commanding officer of the 103rd Cavalry, Colonel Relling, had of late been enjoying a general run of luck, which culminated in what was perhaps the greatest triumph of his career: the double arrest of Colonel Toumy, the head of the French Resistance, and of Yeo-Thomas, the British Secret Service agent. Thanks to the capture of these two men the Germans were able to set in motion an avalanche of arrests throughout the whole of France.

The man who succeeded Toumy was General Jussieu, and it was a toss-up whether the French general or the German colonel should receive the final accolade for general cruelty, brutality and total lack of scruple when it came to the taking of human life.

A wave of terror swept the country. People were knifed, shot, strangled, murdered in every conceivable way and in quite a few that were so bestial as to be almost inconceivable. Administrative offices were blown up, supply columns butchered, sentries killed in their dozens; bridges and trains were such common targets as no longer to cause any comment. A well-drilled group under the command of French officers launched a successful attack on the Gestapo headquarters at Bourg-en-Bresse and dispatched everyone they found with a bullet in the back of the neck.

And inevitably, after a time, organized gangs of criminals jumped on the bandwagon, attached themselves to the Resistance, and under their umbrella committed an appalling series of thefts, rapes and murders. They were soon being hunted down not only by the Germans but by the French as well. It was later maintained that the majority of the crimes could be laid at the door of deserters from the German Army or from the Italian Fifth Army, of Spanish Communists and of foreign agitators. Be that as it may, whatever their nationality they were shot without trial as soon as they were caught and their bodies buried without ceremony.

WITH 'REDCOAT' IN MONTMARTRE

'It's out at Malakoff,' explained Redcoat, earnestly. 'Getting hold of the thing is no problem. It's how to get it over here that bothers me. I've got to the stage where even just thinking about it gives me a belly-ache... Yet there must be a way of doing it.'

'Why not borrow a truck and bring it over in that?' suggested Barcelona. 'We could always forge a transport pass.'

Heide shook his head.

'Far too risky. Never get away with it.'

'The best way is the easiest way,' announced Porta. 'And the easiest way is simply to walk it here.'

We looked at him dubiously.

'You must be raving mad!' gasped Heide. 'Some interfering busybody's only got to catch sight of us and ask us what we're doing and we wouldn't have a leg to stand on.'

The Old Man scratched behind his ear with the stem of his pipe.

'Julius is quite right. It's far too dangerous.'

'It's a shitty idea,' added Little John, to clinch matters.

Redcoat left us to attend to some new customers. He strode across the room with his long white apron flapping about his legs, his hair and his beard floating gently about his face. His body was short and round, incredibly balanced on two dainty feet. His face, in comparison, was large and heavy-jowled, tomato in colour, full moon in shape. It beamed with fat good humour and was usually glowing with grease.

The bistro, with its well-worn tables and chairs, its greasy walls and torn oilcloth, stank of revolution; of informers, deserters and black marketeers. Porta, who had led us there originally, was in his element.

Redcoat settled the new arrivals and made his way
back
to our table, carried along on a strong smell of burning that came from the kitchens.

'I tell you what! ' Little John greeted him. 'It's all a lot of hot air about nothing. Look here'--he picked up
a
salt cellar--'we take the thing--we bash it on the head'-- he slammed the salt cellar on to the table, and it immediately shattered--'and we carry it away. Quite simple. I don't see why you're making all the fuss.'

Porta frowned.

'Are they armed?' he demanded.

'If not, they're bigger fools than I take them to be,' retorted Redcoat.

'So what?' Little John shrugged. 'Mere amateurs. We'll clobber anyone who draws on us.'

'Why don't you give your arse a chance?' said Heide, irritably. 'You've got no more brain than a flaming pea! There's already enough commotion about this damned Communist that escaped, don't let's stir up another hornets' nest for Christ's sake! I tell you, we haven't heard; the last of that affair. The Gestapo's going over the whole of Paris with a fine tooth comb trying to get hold of the people responsible for it. Any moment now someone's going to sit down and put his brains to work and discover just what did happen.'

Porta gave one of his disgusting guffaws.

'The Hauptfeldwebel hasn't tumbled to it yet. He still swears blind it's his signature on the exit permit, even though he can't remember doing it. Then there's that fool of an N.C.O. who swears he saw the prisoner going off in the afternoon transport!' He cackled again. 'I could tell 'em different, if they asked me... When the transport left, he was down in the bogs playing dice with me! Still, I should worry. They want to think he escaped somewhere between Fresnes and Gestapo headquarters, then let 'em. All the better for us! '

'Crap!' said Heide, angrily. 'They're not as bloody stupid as you seem to think. That boy had already been tried and found guilty and sentenced to death. He didn't even have any right of appeal. There was less than fourteen hours to go before he was due for the chopper. So sooner or later some clever Dick's going to ask why the hell the Gestapo wanted him for further questioning. And once they start asking themselves that, it's only going to be a short step to discovering that the bloody Gestapo never did want him for further questioning. And then what happens?'

'The war'll be over by then,' said Porta, imperturbably. 'What've you done with the kid, anyway?'

'In the kitchen,' said Redcoat, simply.

'In the kitchen!' roared Heide. '
Here?'

'Where else?' said Redcoat, simply.

'My God, that just about puts the tin lid on it!'

Heide made an agitated movement of disgust and banged the table with a clenched fist. On the whole, I sympathized with him. I must admit I wasn't too happy about the arrangement myself.

'What's up with him?' asked Little John, staring at Heide.

'I'll tell you what's up!' panted Heide, by now thoroughly over-excited. 'The Gestapo have got about nine million men scattered over Paris looking for that worm, that's what the matter is! And when they look for someone, believe me they really look! And once they've picked him up it's only a question of hours before the sod talks. My God!' He shook his head, violently. 'The idea of a rope round your neck might appeal to you, but it certainly doesn't do anything for me!'

Redcoat smiled kindly at Heide.

'No need to get worked up about it. They'd never recognize him in a month of Sundays... Hang on and I'll show you.'

The transformation was remarkable. I certainly should never have recognized this cretinous country bumpkin of a kitchen hand as the bright, alert youth who had escaped from Fresnes. The black hair was now unpleasantly red; the smooth upper lip had suddenly burst into bloom with a wild moustache; heavy spectacles cut his face in half. He wore clumsy boots and trousers that ended way above his ankles.

'How's that?' said Redcoat, proudly.

'Bloody awful,' muttered Heide. 'He should have been got right away from Paris by now.'

'Easier said than done, my friend.'

'Here!' said Porta, suddenly thrusting out a hairy wrist and looking at his watch. 'Where the devil have the others got to?'

'Christ knows,' said Heide, eagerly seizing upon the opportunity for another mournful tirade. 'They should never have gone off in the first place. Gallivanting about Paris when the whole place is stiff with Gestapo. They're probably being interrogated even as we sit here----'

'Keep your hair on,' said Barcelona, with a grin. 'The Legionnaire knows Paris like the back of' his hand, and in any case they've got Gunther with them. His face is an Ausweis (exit permit) in itself. Not even the Gestapo would have the nerve to stop Gunther.'

'That's all you know,' said Heide, bitterly.

Other customers were clamouring for Redcoat's attention. Some of the more vociferous were demanding a song, and Redcoat lumbered into the centre of the room, his face awash with grease and good humour, and prepared to oblige. Accompanied by Porta on an old violin and a girl with an accordion, he flung back his head and roared forth, in lusty tenor, a song in praise of Paris. His voice was not unpleasant and most of us had had a fair amount to drink. Even Heide so far forgot himself as to join in a chorus or two. The bistro was soon a riot of noise. The fat black cook, Janette (whom we knew to be an active member of the Resistance) stood shouting and clapping at the entrance to
the
kitchen. Feet stamped in unison, glasses and cutlery were thumped on table tops.

It was a shock when, about half an hour later, the doors were kicked open and through the gloom we saw the glinting badges of the Feldgendarmerie. They burst inside with their usual lack of manners, their heavy boots crashing on the floors, their inevitable guns at the ready.

The atmosphere changed on the instant. Janette fled back to her kitchen and we heard the sounds of frenzied activity, saucepans clashing and taps running. The rest of us fell suddenly silent. Men buried their heads in their glasses or became intensely interested in their fingernails or blank sections of the floor. If by chance you caught anyone's eye you saw nothing but fear, suspicion, hatred, and you both looked away in a state of confusion. Porta Stood sullenly with the violin dangling from one hand. The girl with the accordion scuttled to a far corner of the room like a spider suddenly exposed to the light.

The leader of the patrol, a Stabsfeldwebel, stood for a moment by the doors, coldly staring round. He finally fixed his eyes upon Porta.

'You! Obergefreiter!'

He stalked across
to
him, and Porta watched him come, a brooding expression on his face.

'What are you doing here? Do you have a permit to be out at night?'

Reluctantly, Porta straightened up and produced his pass. We knew he was reluctant. It was not in Porta's nature than to be other than insolent to men such as the Stabsfeldwebel. But he knew, as well as the rest of us, that our position was far from secure. It was not the time to be drawing attention to ourselves, and Porta was no fool. Besides which, the Stabsfeldwebel was no ordinary Stabsfeldwebel. We knew him both by sight and by reputation. For four years he and his commandos had spent their nights in scouring every bar, every dub, every brothel in Paris, and never a night passed by they hauled in some poor devil for questioning. And to be hauled in by Stabsfeldwebel Malinowski was virtually a death sentence. His success could be measured by the Knight's Cross that now hung round his neck.

'Who are you with?' he demanded, thrusting the permit back to Porta.

Porta waved a hand towards the rest of us, and we sat demure and upright at our table doing our best to look like model soldiers. Malinowski glanced contemptuously at us, nodded and passed on.

They searched the bistro from top to bottom. A young girl who was using the toilets and knew nothing of their arrival was commanded to open the door and show her papers. The kitchen was ransacked. Every box and every tin was opened and examined. The stove came under particular suspicion and they spent a good ten minutes raking out the ashes, while Janette looked on with arms akimbo and the nearest she could get to a sneer on her plump face. The boy was given one cursory glance and then ignored.

The whole of the top floor was searched. Clothes were pulled out of chests and cupboards and tossed to the ground. Blankets and sheets were ripped off the beds, mattresses and eiderdowns were prodded and poked, exploratory hands dived into storage tanks and cisterns.

At the end of an hour they gave up the search, but it seemed unlikely that they would leave the bistro without picking on someone as a scapegoat for the night's work. Malinowski stood by the bar, his gaze flickering from table to table. His men stood attentively by his side, waiting for the master to pounce. We all sat silent, wondering where the axe would fall.

Slowly, the Stabsfeldwebel pulled from his pocket a bundle of photographs. Slowly he looked through them; very deliberately he made his selection. In two strides he was across the room, standing before a group of young people who had been quietly drinking together most of the evening.

'Deutsche Feldpolizei. Ausweis, bitte.'

'(German Police. Your papers, please.)'

He was addressing an insignificant-looking boy, whose clothes were grey and crumpled and whose features were totally unmemorable. The papers were closely examined by the Stabsfeldwebel.