The doorway of the nursing-home stood open and was now empty except for Nurse Yolanda. The inspector and his men had all come out of the house and stood grouped together on the edge of the pavement. Kuporovitch had stepped up to Madeleine and, taking her by the arm, drawn her back a little. The Russian did not want to start anything himself, but he was determined to put up a fight rather than allow Madeleine to be arrested. With his right hand he firmly grasped the automatic in his pocket, which had its safety-catch off and was ready for instant use.
Night had come now. The light from the doorway of the nursing-home lit the scene, but the ends of the street were obscured in darkness. The infringement of the black-out regulations, the hearse, the S.S. men, and the French police had attracted the attention of numerous passers-by. They now formed a small crowd at either side of the doorway but some way back from it, consumed with curiosity yet fearful of being involved.
Gregory had followed the inspector out of the house, and he now stepped forward off the pavement. He had heard Major Schaub’s order to the mutes that the coffin was to be carried into the home and opened, and he knew that all other considerations must be disregarded in an attempt to prevent that.
He had seen the small groups of police posted further down the road, but in the immediate vicinity there were only the inspector, the three agents de ville and the three S.S. men. As the four mutes were not really mutes at all, but Lacroix’s people, Gregory felt certain that they would be armed. There were also himself, Kuporovitch, and the driver of the hearse, so the odds were exactly even—seven against seven.
He knew that if a fight started it would be a desperate business, since all fourteen would be firing at one another at pointblank range. It was a certainty that several of them would get killed, and probably some of the bystanders would be injured. Madeleine and the other inmates of the home would also have to be sacrificed, as in any attempt to get the hearse away there would be no time to get them away with it; so they would be arrested afterwards. But it had not taken Gregory two seconds to sum up the situation clearly and form his decision.
Lacroix was the very heart and soul of this great and growing conspiracy which in time might break the Nazi stranglehold on France and thus play a huge part in bringing the war to a successful conclusion. That was the thing that mattered above all else. If Lacroix was captured, even if the whole movement were not broken up entirely, it would set it back by many months. At all costs that must be prevented. Whoever else fell a victim to shots or capture, an attempt had to be made to save the all-important brain of the movement.
Stepping off the pavement, Gregory walked quietly up to Major Schaub and said in excellent French: ‘Monsieur le Major, if you will think for a moment you will realise that you can’t do this sort of thing.’
‘Why not, monsieur?’ said the Major icily, staring at him in surprise.
‘Because it’s not decent,’ Gregory replied firmly. ‘How can you expect us French people to collaborate with you if you insult our dead?’
‘I do not insult your dead!’ retorted the Major. ‘I simply require that this coffin should be opened in order that I may inspect its contents before it is despatched to the cemetery—or wherever they propose to take it at this late hour.’
Gregory glanced round at the four mutes, endeavouring as best he could by his glance alone to warn them that he meant to make trouble; then he said: ‘Am I not right, messieurs? To disturb the newly dead by wrenching off a coffin-lid is to insult them.’
Before any of the men could reply Major Schaub cried angrily: ‘To hell with that! We’re wasting time. I intend to have this coffin opened. Come on, you men! Get that coffin back into the house, or there’ll be trouble for you!’
Gregory had purposely come up very close the the Major while he was speaking to him—so close that he was not only within easy striking range, but the German had no room to use his gun. Suddenly, without the slightest warning, Gregory brought his left knee up with all his force into the Major’s crutch. An instant later, as the Major’s mouth opened and he swayed forward slightly, Gregory hit him with all his force under the chin; he fell crashing into the roadway.
The sight of the assault acted like a signal. The four mutes, the inspector, the agents de ville, the two remaining S.S. men and Kuporovitch all jerked their guns from pockets or holsters.
As the Major fell Gregory sprang into the open back of the hearse alongside the coffin, yelling at the top of his lungs: ‘Drive on! Drive on!’
His shout was half-drowned by a ragged burst of firing. Kuporovitch shot one of the S.S. men through the head. Bullets from the guns of two of the mutes hit the other in the body, but not before the shots from his automatic had brought one of them, gulping blood, to the ground.
The inspector and his men came late into action. They knew it to be their duty to support the Germans, but had a natural reluctance to fire at the Frenchmen who were gathered round the hearse. Their indecision gave Kuporovitch his opportunity. His one concern was to save Madeleine. Thrusting aside one of the agents de ville who stood in his path, he dragged her back through the open door of the nursing-home and slammed it to.
Next moment shots crashed out again. The inspector knew that he would pay for it with his own life if he allowed Gregory and the mutes to get away with the murder of the Nazis. The hearse was now in motion, and the three remaining mutes, clinging on behind, were twisting themselves up into it. Raising his old-fashioned revolver, the inspector fired at them. Two of his men followed his example. The other had run to the door of the nursing-home and was banging loudly on it. One of the mutes was hit and let out a yell of pain. The glass in the side of the hearse was shattered and came clanging down among its struggling occupants. Gregory was underneath, but he wriggled free and pulled his gun.
As the hearse sped away they returned the fire of the agents de ville, and one of them fell reeling into the gutter, Major Schaub lay stretched out where he had fallen, still unconscious. The two other Nazis and the dead mute made ugly twisted heaps beside him.
The agents de ville were now giving chase, firing as they ran. The bystanders were shouting and scurrying for the nearest cover, fearful of being wounded, but a brawny workman thrust out his foot and tripped the inspector before diving into a nearby alleyway. As Gregory’s swift glance took in the scene he searched anxiously in the semi-darkness for Madeleine and Kuporovitch, but he could not see them. He could only hope that they had managed to make good their escape in the confusion.
At the far end of the street the group of police were now coming into action. A sergeant bravely stood right in the centre of the road, calling at the top of his voice on the hearse to halt. Its driver drove straight at him, and he only managed to leap aside just in time. His companion sent a ragged volley at the hearse as it sped past them. A flying splinter of glass cut Gregory’s cheek, but next minute, almost on two wheels, the hearse hurtled round the corner.
For a few moments the hearse raced through the darkened streets that Gregory did not recognise. Then it roared past a tall archway outside which there was an empty sentry-box, and he realised that beyond the dark courtyard lay the Elysée Palace, the official home of France’s Presidents. Swinging to the right the hearse dashed down a side turning into the Champs-Elysées. Here it turned right again and headed up the broad thoroughfare towards the Arc de Triomphe, ignoring all traffic lights and speed limits. Three minutes later they rounded the arch and careered wildly down the Avenue Foch, until at its end they entered the Bois de Boulogne.
Only then did the driver begin to moderate his pace. A few hundred yards farther on he turned off the road down one of the thickly wooded rides of the great park, the use of which is prohibited to motor traffic. Then, when the hearse was well screened by the trees, he pulled up.
Without a moment’s delay two of the mutes began to unscrew the coffin-lid while the third held a torch. As soon as the lid was removed Lacroix scrambled out of the satin-lined shell. He had heard the shooting through the ventilation holes concealed in the sides of the coffin, which had been specially constructed for him, and he asked at once what casualties his men had sustained.
‘They got Alexandre,’ replied one of the mutes, ‘and Raoul here is wounded in the shoulder; but the rest of us are all right.’
‘How about the people in the home?’ asked Lacroix.
‘The Matron and the thickset man who was with her got back into it and slammed the door.’
‘Thank God for that!’ murmured Gregory. ‘The inspector said the house had been surrounded, but Kuporovitch is a cunning old fox. With luck he may be able to get them out through the garden.’
‘Anyhow, your friend got one of the Nazis,’ commented the mute. ‘Poor Alexandre and I accounted for the other.’
‘Good!’ said Lacroix. ‘Things might be worse then, but we have no time to lose. Already a general call will have been sent out from Police Headquarters for this hearse to be halted wherever it may be seen. We were lucky to get as far as this without being held up, but on all the routes leading out of Paris the Germans have strong road controls armed wih machine-guns. We must abandon the hearse at once and disperse in the hope of getting through separately on foot.’
‘Where will you make for?’ asked Gregory.
‘For Vichy. Once we can reach the frontier of Unoccupied France there are a dozen places in which we can cross it unknown to the authorities. For myself and my men I have few qualms, but about you, Gregory, I am anxious. It is important that you should get back to England as soon as possible. If you proceed with one of us to Vichy you may meet with grave delays. It is better, I think, that you should go home by the direct route that I had already planned for you.’
‘That’s all right by me,’ Gregory agreed. ‘You have only to give me directions. But before we part you must let me have those particulars about shipping arms and your man in Lisbon.’
Lacroix glanced round his bodyguard. ‘I wish to talk alone with my friend here. You will leave us for a few moments. Take up your positions about fifty yards away; so that we are not surprised if one of the police cars which now must be searching for us happens to turn in along this drive.’
When the men had scrambled out of the hearse Lacroix produced a small pad and fountain-pen from his pocket. While Gregory held a torch the Colonel wrote swiftly upon the paper, then he tore off the sheet and handed it over, as he said:
‘It would be a bad business if you were captured with that on you, so you must memorise these particulars at the first opportunity, then destroy them.’
Taking a cardboard covered booklet from another pocket he handed that to Gregory, as he went on: ‘That is the passport I had faked for you. It is in the name of Lucien Rouxel. Now, about your journey: you’ll go tomorrow morning to the office of Dormey, Jamier et Fils in the Rue de la Roquette, which is near the Cimetière du Père Lachaise. They are haulage contractors who are working for the Germans. Ask for Monsieur Adolphe Dormey, show him your passport and tell him that you are a night watchman who seeks employment. He will then arrange for you to be smuggled through in one of his lorries either to Boulogne or Calais. At whichever place you arrive I now have good arrangements. The lorry-driver will put you in touch with someone who has managed to conceal a motor-boat under a deserted wharf in one of the small harbours along the coast. German troops are now thick as flies in that area, but, thank God, the women of France do not lack courage, and many of them are becoming very skilful at distracting the attention of sentries when required to do so for their country’s sake. Fortunately, the moon is in its dark period, so with the help you’ll be given you should have no great difficulty in getting away from the coast. The boat will put you aboard the first British ship that it meets and return either the same or the following night. Is that all clear?’
‘Monsieur Adolphe Dormey of Dormey, Jamier et Fils, Rue de la Roquette,’ Gregory repeated. ‘Yes. Then with any luck I’ll be back in London early next week.’
Time was precious if Lacroix and his men were to be well away from Paris before morning. To each of them the little Colonel gave the number of the underground route they were to take; then, having shaken hands all round and wished one another luck, the little group of conspirators abandoned the hearse, striking out in different directions through the night-enshrouded woods.
Gregory was by no means certain in what part of the Bois he was, but he kept as straight a course as possible between the trees, and through the little glades where in happier times thousands of Parisian families were wont to picnic on fine Sundays, and countless pairs of lovers have lingered far into warm summer nights, until he came out in an open space at the edge of the lakes. There he recognised the silhouette of a building which was thrown up against the night sky as the Pré-Catalan Restaurant.
He had often dined there in the old days and danced within the circle of coloured fairy-lamps that hung from tree to tree in the garden, or enjoyed one of the shows at the open-air theatre, but now the laughter and the music were still, the whole place dark and deserted.
Having found his bearings he headed south-west, and after a quarter of a mile’s walk came out of the Bois at the gate opposite the junction of the Boulevard Suchet and the Boulevard Lannes. Pausing there for a moment under the shaded traffic-lights, he took out the passport that Lacroix had given him and had a quick look at it. The Colonel had evidently gone through hundreds of photographs, as the one selected was of a man not at all unlike himself, and it was certainly as good as the average passport photograph, which in nine cases out of ten is little more than a caricature of its owner. Noting that he was supposed to have been born at Montélimar and had been given the occupation of commercial traveller, he put the passport back in his pocket, crossed the road and proceeded at a brisk pace down the Avenue Henri Martin, until he reached the Palais du Trocadéro.
One of the now infrequent buses was just getting under way there, and he hopped on to it. The bus carried him across the Pont d’Iéna, past the Tour Eiffel and the Invalides, into the upper part of the Boulevard St. Germain. At the corner of the Boul Mich he got off and walked through several side streets until he found one of the many small inexpensive restaurants which abound in the Latin quarter. It was still only just on eight o’clock, so he ordered himself a modest meal from the meagre bill of fare and a carafe of Vin Rosé to wash it down.
He was acutely anxious about Madeleine and Kuporovitch, but he knew that it would be an extremely risky proceeding to go back to the nursing-home in the hope of finding out what had happened to them, and that in any event he must not do so before he had thoroughly mastered the notes that Lacroix had given him, in case he was caught with them still on him.
The little restaurant, which in better days must have known generations of jolly students making merry with their girls, now had a sleepy, half-dead atmosphere, as though it were in a small provincial town. The great University of Paris was closed, and the studios were empty except for a handful of half-destitute French artists. On this evening the restaurant’s entire clientèle consisted of three woebegone-looking diners besides Gregory, so he was in no danger of being overlooked. When the waitress had served his food he was able to study Lacroix’s notes at leisure, reading them over again and again and photographing them upon his brain; by the time his meal was finished he felt quite certain that every detail of them was firmly fixed in his mind.
Having finished his wine, he screwed the paper upon which the notes were written into a squill, lit a cigarette with it and let it burn out on his plate, afterwards breaking up the ashes. He then paid his bill and went out into the street.
As the night was moonless it was now very dark, but the slope of the ground gave him his direction, and he headed north. On reaching the Seine he walked along the quay where the second-hand booksellers hold their street market from open boxes set up on the stone balustrade, crossed the river by the Pont Neuf and made his way past the Louvre along the Rue de Rivoli until he reached the bottom of the Champs-Elysées. Having proceeded up it a short distance he turned left into the maze of narrow turnings beyond the Elysée Palace, in one of which he knew the nursing-home lay.
After a quarter of an hour’s search he found it, and looking neither to right nor left walked rapidly along the side of the street opposite to the home as though he were in a great hurry to get somewhere. As far as he could see, no one was about, but that was no guarantee that watchful eyes were not peering from some darkened window. Halting abruptly at a house that was actually facing the home, he pressed the bell and waited anxiously, praying that it would be answered quickly.
After a moment the doorchain rattled, and the door opened a crack. With a quick ‘Pardonnez-moi!’ Gregory gave it a strong push, which almost sent the person behind the door off their balance; then stepping into the entrance, he shut the door firmly behind him.
In the dim light of the hall he saw that a neatly dressed elderly woman had answered his ring, and her eyes were now full of fear, as she crouched back against the wall.
‘Please don’t be afraid,’ he said gently, in the voice that he could make so charming when he wished. ‘I shan’t keep you a minute, but I should be most grateful if you could give me a little information.’
The woman recovered her composure and said: ‘What is it you wish to know, monsieur?’
‘I want to hear all you can tell me about the trouble which occurred at the nursing-home opposite this evening.’
Again the fear came into her eyes. She shook her head quickly. ‘I am sorry, monsieur, I cannot help you. I saw nothing.’
‘I’m afraid that won’t do,’ Gregory said more firmly. ‘The sound of the shooting must have brought you to your window. I’m not a police officer, so you needn’t be frightened that I’ll cart you off to the police-station and force you to act as a witness. I just wish to know what happened for my own reasons.’
The woman continued to shake her head and repeated tremulously: ‘I know nothing, monsieur—nothing.’
Gregory was loth to threaten anyone so frail and un-protected, but he positively had to find out what he could for his own peace of mind and in case he could still be of assistance to his friends. Taking out his pistol he just showed it to her, as he said:
‘Come, madame! Either you or someone in this house must have seen what happened, and I am determined to learn all you know. Perhaps it will encourage you to talk if I tell you that I am one of those who are fighting to restore freedom to France; but now I have told you that you must understand that should you attempt to betray me by shouting for the police it will cost you your life, and you see that I am armed.’
A new expression came into the woman’s eyes, and she drew herself up. ‘In that case, you may put away your pistol, monsieur. I will willingly tell you all I can.’ She then described the fracas much as Gregory had witnessed it himself, and went on to tell that after the hearse had driven away the police had smashed in the door of the home and raided the building.
He asked anxiously if they had come away with any prisoners, and she nodded. ‘Yes, monsieur. I cannot say exactly how many, but they took the young Matron whom I know by sight, two of the nurses and three men.’
Gregory described Kuporovitch as well as he could, but the woman would not identify the Russian from his description, and there was no more information that she could give.
Having thanked her he went out into the street and walked swiftly away in the opposite direction to that from which he had come; but something of the spring had gone out of his step, since he now knew beyond doubt that poor Madeleine was in the hands of the Gestapo, and as it was quite unbelievable that Stefan would have deserted her, he, too, must either have been captured or killed.
For a time he walked the dark streets at random, wondering if there were anything he could do about it, but he at last came to the conclusion that any attempt at rescue would take many days, if not weeks, of cautious investigation and skilful planning, while it was of the utmost urgency that he should return to London with as much speed as possible in order to secure for Lacroix the money and arms upon which the salvation of the whole of France might depend. There could be no question as to his duty, so with great reluctance he tried to put the thought of his friends out of his mind, and began to search for a small hotel where he could spend the night.
Finding himself in the Rue la Boétie, he suddenly remembered that there was a cheap hotel in it which he thought was called the Britannique, where once long ago he had spent a night after a terrific week in Paris that had left him almost on the rocks. After ten minutes’ search he found it, paid for his room in advance as he had no luggage, and went straight up to bed. It was still early, but his long walk had tired him, and he was extremely depressed about Madeleine and Stefan, so he undressed right away; then, to take his thoughts off his friends, he began to recite over and over again in his mind the particulars that had been written out on Lacroix’s page of notes, until he fell asleep.
The room was stone-cold, and the bedclothes were not sufficient to keep him really warm, so he passed an uneasy night, and there was no hot water available for him to have a bath in the morning. Having disposed of an unappetising breakfast of coffee, made mainly from chicory, and brownish-looking rolls, he left the hotel and got himself shaved at the nearest barber’s. He then walked as far as the Madeleine and took a bus along the Grands Boulevards to the Père Lachaise cemetery. Soon after nine o’clock he had found the rather dingy office of Dormey, Jamier et Fils.
On going in he found himself facing a seedy-looking clerk, who peered at him from round the corner of a frosted glass partition. Politely removing his hat, Gregory asked for Monsieur Adolphe Dormey.
The clerk gave him a strange look, and without replying moved away. A moment later he came back with a big, fair, florid man, who gave Gregory an ingratiating smile and asked what he could do for him.
Gregory did not much like the look of the man, but he smiled in reply, and said: ‘I have the pleasure of addressing Monsieur Dormey?’
‘But no, monsieur,’ replied the big man. ‘I am his partner. Jules Jamier. If you will tell me your business I shall doubtless be able to attend to it for you.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Gregory, ‘but I wish to see Monsieur Dormey on a personal matter.’
The florid Monsieur Jamier shrugged his shoulders. ‘I regret, monsieur, but my partner is down at our works at the moment. However, if you will come in I will send for him.’
Having ushered Gregory through a door in the glass partition into an untidy office where a pretty fair-haired girl was typing at a table, Monsieur Jamier waved him to a chair and said: ‘Be seated, please. It may take us a little time to get Monsieur Dormey from the works. But perhaps you will tell me your name so that the messenger I send can give it to him.’
‘My name is Lucien Rouxel, and I come from Saint-Denis,’ Gregory replied, sitting down.
With a brief nod Monsieur Jamier walked out of the office and into another beyond it, closing the door behind him. A moment later Gregory could hear him telephoning, but not sufficiently clearly to catch what was being said.
Suddenly it struck him as strange that Jamier should be telephoning when he said that he would send a messenger for his partner, and that special instinct that had often served Gregory so well before warned him now that he was in danger.
He shifted uneasily in his seat, uncertain for once what course to take. If he had fallen into a trap there was still time for him to escape from it; but if his suspicions were groundless, and he left the office precipitately, how would he be able to contact Monsieur Dormey? And without Monsieur Dormey’s help he would be stranded in Paris, not only with no means of reaching the coast but with no knowledge of whom to try to contact when he got there. It was a most unpleasant predicament, and he had just made up his mind that he must stay there and face matters out when he noticed the fair girl looking at him curiously over her typewriter.
On a sudden impulse he leaned forward to speak to her, intending to ask if Monsieur Dormey was really down at the warehouse, but she stopped him by placing a finger quickly on her lips. Then she thrust into his hand a slip of paper upon which she had just been typing something.
With fresh perturbation Gregory glanced swiftly at the slip, and read: ‘Three days ago the Germans took Monsieur Dormey away, and Monsieur Jamier is now ‘phoning for the police.’
Gregory put all his gratitude into one of his most charming smiles and, handing the slip back, stood up. At that moment the powerfully built Monsieur Jamier marched back into the office, and still wearing his false ingratiating smile took up a position between Gregory and the door to the street.