World War II Thriller Collection (66 page)

Flick said, “This is Sergeant Bill Griffiths, one of the instructors.” She did not like Bill. An army PT instructor, he showed an unpleasant relish in physical combat and never seemed sorry enough when he hurt someone. She had noticed that he was worse with women. “We're just about ready for you, Sergeant, so why don't you begin?” She moved aside and leaned against the wall.

“Your wish is my command,” he said unnecessarily. He took her place at the head of the table. “Landing with a parachute,” he began, “is like jumping off a wall fourteen feet high. The ceiling of this kitchen is a bit less than that, so it's like leaping into the garden from upstairs.”

Flick heard Jelly say quietly, “Oh, my gordon.”

“You cannot come down on your feet and stay upright,” Bill continued. “If you try to land in a standing position, you will break your legs. The only safe way is to fall. So the first thing we're going to teach you is how to fall. If anyone wishes to keep their clothing clean, please go into the boot room just there and put on overalls. If you will assemble outside in three minutes, we will begin.”

While the women were changing, Paul took his leave. “We need a parachute training flight tomorrow, and they're going to tell me there are no planes available,” he said to Flick. “I'm going to London to kick ass. I'll be back tonight.” Flick wondered if he was going to see his girl as well.

In the garden were an old pine table, an ugly
mahogany wardrobe from the Victorian era, and a stepladder fourteen feet high. Jelly was dismayed. “You're not going to make us jump off the top of that bloody wardrobe, are you?” she said to Flick.

“Not before we show you how,” she said. “You'll be surprised how easy it is.”

Jelly looked at Percy. “You bugger,” she said. “What have you let me in for?”

When they were all ready, Bill said, “First we're going to learn to fall from zero height. There are three ways: forwards, backwards, and sideways.”

He demonstrated each method, dropping to the ground effortlessly and springing up again with a gymnast's agility. “You must keep your legs together.” He looked arch and added, “As all young ladies should.” No one laughed. “Do not throw out your arms to break your fall, but keep them at your sides. Do not worry about hurting yourself. If you break an arm it will hurt a hell of a lot worse.”

As Flick expected, the younger girls had no difficulty: Diana, Maude, Ruby, and Denise were all able to fall like athletes as soon as they were shown how. Ruby, having done it once from the standing position, lost patience with the exercise. She climbed to the top of the stepladder. “Not yet!” Bill shouted at her, but he was too late. She jumped off the top and landed perfectly. Then she walked off, sat under a tree, and lit a cigarette. I think she's going to give me trouble, Flick thought.

Flick was more worried about Jelly. She was a key member of the team, the only one who knew about explosives. But she had lost her girlish suppleness some years ago. Parachuting was going to be difficult for her. However, she was game. Falling from the standing position, she hit the ground with a grunt and cursed as she got up, but she was ready to try again.

To Flick's surprise, the worst student was Greta. “I can't do this,” she said to Flick. “I told you I'm no good at rough stuff.”

It was the first time Greta had spoken more than a
couple of words, and Jelly frowned and muttered, “Funny accent.”

“Let me help you,” Bill said to Greta. “Stand still. Just relax.” He took her by the shoulders. Then, with a sudden strong motion, he threw her to the ground. She landed heavily and gave a gasp of pain. She struggled to her feet and, to Flick's dismay, she began to cry. “For God's sake,” Bill said disgustedly. “What kind of people are they sending us?”

Flick glared at him. She did not want to lose her telephone engineer through Bill's brutishness. “Just go easy,” she snapped at him.

He was unrepentant. “The Gestapo are a lot worse than me!”

Flick would have to mend the damage herself. She took Greta by the hand. “We'll do a little special training on our own.” They went around the house to another part of the garden.

“I'm sorry,” Greta said. “I just hate that little man.”

“I know. Now, let's do this together. Kneel down.” They knelt facing one another and held hands. “Just do what I do.” Flick leaned slowly sideways. Greta mirrored her action. Together, they fell to the ground, still holding hands. “There,” Flick said. “That was all right, wasn't it?”

Greta smiled. “Why can't he be like you?”

Flick shrugged. “Men,” she said with a grin. “Now, are you ready to try falling from a standing position? We'll do it the same way, holding hands.”

She took Greta through all the exercises Bill was doing with the others. Greta quickly gained confidence. They returned to the group. The others were jumping off the table. Greta joined in and landed perfectly, and they gave her a round of applause.

They progressed to jumping from the top of the wardrobe, then finally the stepladder. When Jelly jumped off the ladder, rolled perfectly, and stood upright, Flick hugged her. “I'm proud of you,” she said. “Well done.”

Bill looked disgusted. He turned to Percy. “What the hell kind of army is it when you get a hug for doing what you're bloody well told?”

“Get used to it, Bill,” said Percy.

AT THE TALL
house in the rue du Bois, Dieter carried Stéphanie's suitcase up the stairs and into Mademoiselle Lemas's bedroom. He looked at the tightly made single bed, the old-fashioned walnut chest of drawers, and the prayer stool with the rosary on its lectern. “It's not going to be easy to pretend this is your house,” he said anxiously, putting the case on the bed.

“I'll say I've inherited it from a maiden aunt, and I've been too lazy to fix it up to my taste,” she said.

“Clever. All the same, you'll need to mess it up a little.”

She opened the case, took out a black negligee, and draped it carelessly over the prayer stool.

“Better already,” Dieter said. “What will you do if the phone rings?”

Stéphanie thought for a minute. When she spoke, her voice was lower, and her high-class Paris accent had been replaced by the tones of provincial gentility. “Hello, yes, this is Mademoiselle Lemas, who is calling, please?”

“Very good,” said Dieter. The impersonation might not fool a close friend or relative, but a casual caller would notice nothing wrong, especially with the distortion of a telephone line.

They explored the house. There were four more bedrooms, each ready to receive a guest, the beds made up, a clean towel on each washstand. In the kitchen, where there should have been a selection of small saucepans and a one-cup coffee pot, they found large casserole
dishes and a sack of rice that would have fed Mademoiselle Lemas for a year. The wine in the cellar was cheap
vin ordinaire,
but there was half a case of good scotch whisky. The garage at the side of the house contained a little prewar Simca Cinq, the French version of the Fiat the Italians called the Topolino. It was in good condition with a tank full of petrol. He cranked the starting handle, and the engine turned over immediately. There was no way the authorities would have allowed Mademoiselle Lemas to buy scarce petrol and spare parts for a car to take her shopping. The vehicle must have been fueled and maintained by the Resistance. He wondered what cover story she had used to explain her ability to drive around. Perhaps she pretended to be a midwife. “The old cow was well organized,” Dieter remarked.

Stéphanie made lunch. They had shopped on the way. There was no meat or fish in the shops, but they had bought some mushrooms and a lettuce, and a loaf of
pain noir,
the bread the French bakers made with the poor flour and bran, which was all they could get. Stéphanie prepared a salad, and used the mushrooms to make a risotto, and they found some cheese in the larder to finish off. With crumbs on the dining room table and dirty pans in the kitchen sink, the house began to look more lived in.

“The war must have been the best thing that ever happened to her,” Dieter said as they drank coffee.

“How can you say that? She's on her way to a prison camp.”

“Think of the life she led before. A woman alone, no husband, no family, her parents dead. Then into her life come all these young people, brave boys and girls on daredevil missions. They probably tell her all about their loves and their fears. She hides them in her house, gives them whisky and cigarettes, and sends them on their way, wishing them luck. It was probably the most exciting time of her life. I bet she's never been so happy.”

“Perhaps she would have preferred a peaceful life, shopping for hats with a woman friend, arranging the flowers for the cathedral, going to Paris once a year for a concert.”

“Nobody really prefers a peaceful life.” Dieter glanced out of the dining room window. “Damn!” A young woman was coming up the path, pushing a bicycle with a large basket over its front wheel. “Who the hell is this?”

Stéphanie stared at the approaching visitor. “What shall I do?”

Dieter did not answer for a moment. The intruder was a plain, fit-looking girl in muddy trousers and a work shirt with big sweat patches under the armpits. She did not ring the doorbell but pushed her bicycle into the courtyard. He was dismayed. Was his charade to be exposed so soon? “She's coming to the back door. She must be a friend or relation. You'll just have to improvise. Go and meet her, I'll stay here and listen.”

They heard the kitchen door open and close, and the girl called out in French, “Good morning, it's me.”

Stéphanie went into the kitchen. Dieter stood by the dining room door. He could hear everything clearly. The girl's startled voice said, “Who are you?”

“I'm Stéphanie, the niece of Mademoiselle Lemas.”

The visitor did not bother to conceal her suspicion. “I didn't know she had a niece.”

“She didn't tell me about you, either.” Dieter heard the note of amiable amusement in Stéphanie's voice, and realized she was being charming. “Would you like to sit down? What's in that basket?”

“Some provisions. I'm Marie. I live in the country. I'm able to get extra food and I bring some for. . . for Mademoiselle.”

“Ah,” said Stéphanie. “For her . . . guests.” There was a rustling sound, and Dieter guessed Stéphanie was looking through the paper-wrapped food in the basket. “This is wonderful! Eggs . . . pork . . . strawberries . . .”

This explained how Mademoiselle Lemas managed to remain plump, Dieter thought.

“You know, then,” said Marie.

“I know about Auntie's secret life, yes.” Hearing her say “Auntie,” Dieter realized that neither he nor Stéphanie had ever asked Mademoiselle Lemas's first name. The pretense would be over if Marie found out that Stéphanie did not even know the name of her “aunt.”

“Where is she?”

“She went to Aix. Do you remember Charles Menton, who used to be dean at the cathedral?”

“No, I don't.”

“Perhaps you're too young. He was the best friend of Auntie's father, until he retired and went to live in Provence.” Stéphanie was improvising brilliantly, Dieter thought with admiration. She had cool nerves and she was imaginative. “He has suffered a heart attack, and she has gone to nurse him. She asked me to take care of any guests while she's away.”

“When will she come back?”

“Charles is not expected to live long. On the other hand, the war may be over soon.”

“She didn't tell anyone about this Charles.”

“She told me.”

It looked as if Stéphanie might get away with it, Dieter thought. If she could keep this up a little longer, Marie would go away convinced. She would report what had happened, to someone or other, but Stéphanie's story was plausible, and exactly the kind of thing that happened in Resistance movements. It was not like the army: someone like Mademoiselle Lemas could easily make a unilateral decision to leave her post and put someone else in charge. It drove Resistance leaders mad, but there was nothing they could do: all their troops were volunteers.

He began to feel hopeful.

“Where are you from?” said Marie.

“I live in Paris.”

“Does your aunt Valérie have any other nieces hidden away?”

So, Dieter thought, Mademoiselle Lemas's name is Valérie.

“I don't think so—none that I know.”

“You're a liar.”

Marie's tone had changed. Something had gone wrong. Dieter sighed and drew the automatic pistol from beneath his jacket.

Stéphanie said, “What on earth are you talking about?”

“You're lying. You don't even know her name. It's not Valérie, it's Jeanne.”

Dieter thumbed the safety lever on the left of the slide up to the fire position.

Stéphanie carried on gamely. “I always call her Auntie. You're being very rude.”

Marie said scornfully, “I knew from the start. Jeanne would never trust someone like you, with your high heels and perfume.”

Dieter stepped into the kitchen. “What a shame, Marie,” he said. “If you had been more trusting, or less clever, you might have got away. As it is, you're under arrest.”

Marie looked at Stéphanie and said, “You're a Gestapo whore.”

It was a wounding gibe, and Stéphanie blushed.

Dieter was so infuriated that he almost pistol-whipped Marie. “You'll regret that remark when you're in the hands of the Gestapo,” he said coldly. “There's a man called Sergeant Becker who is going to question you. When you're screaming and bleeding and begging for mercy, remember that careless insult.”

Marie looked poised to flee. Dieter almost hoped she would. Then he could shoot her and the problem would be solved. But she did not run. After a long moment, her shoulders slumped and she began to cry.

Her tears did not move him. “Lie facedown on the floor with your hands behind your back.”

She obeyed.

He put away the gun. “I think I saw a rope in the cellar,” he said to Stéphanie.

“I'll get it.”

She returned with a length of washing line. Dieter tied Marie's hands and feet. “I'll have to take her to Sainte-Cécile,” he said. “We can't have her here in case a British agent comes in today.” He looked at his watch. It was two o'clock. He had time to take her to the château and be back by three. “You'll have to go to the crypt on your own,” he told Stéphanie. “Use the little car in the garage. I'll be in the cathedral, though you may not see me.” He kissed her. Almost like a husband going to the office, he thought with grim amusement. He picked Marie up and slung her over his shoulder. “I'll have to hurry,” he said, and went to the back door.

He stepped outside, then turned back. “Hide the bicycle.”

“Don't worry,” Stéphanie replied.

He carried the bound girl through the courtyard and into the street. He opened the trunk of his car and put her inside. Had it not been for the “whore” comment, he would have put her on the backseat.

He slammed the lid and looked around. He saw no one, but there were always watchers in a street such as this, peering through their shutters. They would have seen Mademoiselle Lemas being taken away yesterday and would have remarked the big sky-blue car. As soon as he drove away, they would be talking about the man who had put a girl into the trunk of his car. In normal times, they would have called the police, but no one in occupied territory would talk to the police unless they had to, especially where the Gestapo might be involved.

The key question for Dieter was: Would the Resistance hear of the arrest of Mademoiselle Lemas? Reims was a city, not a village. People were arrested every day: thieves, murderers, smugglers, black marketeers, communists, Jews. There was a good chance that no report of
the events in the rue du Bois would reach the ears of Michel Clairet.

But there was no guarantee.

Dieter got into the car and headed for Sainte-Cécile.

THE TEAM HAD
got through the morning's instruction reasonably well, to Flick's relief. Everyone had learned the falling technique, which was the hardest part of parachuting. The map-reading session had been less successful. Ruby had never been to school and could barely read: a map was like a page of Chinese to her. Maude was baffled by directions such as north-northeast, and fluttered her eyelids prettily at the instructor. Denise, despite her expensive education, proved completely incapable of understanding coordinates. If the group got split up in France, Flick thought worriedly, she would not be able to rely on them finding their own way.

In the afternoon they moved on to the rough stuff. The weapons instructor was Captain Jim Cardwell, a character quite different from Bill Griffiths. Jim was an easygoing man with a craggy face and a thick black mustache. He grinned amiably when the girls discovered how difficult it was to hit a tree at six paces with a .45-caliber Colt automatic pistol.

Ruby was comfortable with an automatic in her hand and could shoot accurately: Flick suspected she had used handguns before. Ruby was even more comfortable when Jim put his arms around her to show her how to hold the Lee-Enfield “Canadian” rifle. He murmured something in her ear, and she smiled up at him with a wicked gleam in her black eyes. She had been in a women's prison for three months, Flick reflected: no doubt she was enjoying being touched by a man.

Jelly, too, handled the firearms with relaxed
familiarity. But Diana was the star of the session. Using the rifle, she hit the center of the target with every shot, emptying the magazine of both its five-round clips in a steady burst of deadly fire. “Very good!” Jim said in surprise. “You can have my job.”

Diana looked triumphantly at Flick. “There are
some
things you're not best at,” she said.

What the heck did I do to deserve that? Flick asked herself. Was Diana thinking of their schooldays, when Flick had always done so much better? Did that childhood rivalry still rankle?

Greta was the only failure. Once again, she was more feminine than the real women. She put her hands over her ears, jumped nervously at every bang, and closed her eyes in terror as she pulled the trigger. Jim worked with her patiently, giving her earplugs to muffle the noise, holding her hand to teach her how to squeeze the trigger gently, but it was no good: she was too skittish ever to be a good shot. “I'm just not cut out for this kind of thing!” she said in despair.