World War II Thriller Collection (86 page)

DIETER'S MIGRAINE BEGAN
shortly after midnight, as he stood in his room at the Hotel Frankfort, looking at the bed he would never again share with Stéphanie. He felt that if he could weep, the pain would fade, but no tears came, and he injected himself with morphine and collapsed on the counterpane.

The phone woke him before daylight. It was Walter Goedel, Rommel's aide. Groggily, Dieter said, “Has the invasion begun?”

“Not today,” Goedel replied. “The weather is bad in the English Channel.”

Dieter sat upright and shook his head to clear it. “What, then?”

“The Resistance were clearly
expecting
something. Overnight, there has been an eruption of sabotage throughout northern France.” Goedel's voice, already cool, descended to an arctic chill. “It was supposed to be your job to prevent that. What are you doing in bed?”

Caught off guard, Dieter struggled to regain his usual poise. “I'm right on the tail of the most important of all Resistance leaders,” he said, trying hard not to sound as if he was making excuses for failure. “I almost caught her last night. I'll arrest her today. Don't worry—by tomorrow morning we'll be rounding up terrorists by the hundreds. I promise you.” He immediately regretted the pleading tone of the last three words.

Goedel was unmoved. “After tomorrow, it will probably be too late.”

“I know—” Dieter stopped. The line was dead. Goedel had hung up.

Dieter cradled the phone and looked at his wristwatch. It was four o'clock. He got up.

His migraine had gone, but he felt queasy, either from the morphine or the unpleasant phone call. He drank a glass of water and swallowed three aspirins, then began to shave. As he lathered his face, he nervously ran over the events of the previous evening, asking himself if he had done everything possible.

Leaving Lieutenant Hesse outside Chez Régis, he had followed Michel Clairet to the premises of Philippe Moulier, a supplier of fresh meat to restaurants and military kitchens. It was a storefront property with living quarters above and a yard at the side. Dieter had watched the place for an hour, but no one had come out.

Deciding that Michel intended to spend the night there, Dieter had found a bar and phoned Hans Hesse. Hans had got on a motorcycle and joined him outside the Moulier place at ten. The lieutenant told Dieter the story of the inexplicably empty room above Chez Régis. “There's some early-warning system,” Dieter speculated. “The barman downstairs is ready to sound the alarm if anyone comes looking.”

“You think the Resistance were using the place?”

“Probably. I'd guess the Communist Party used to hold meetings there, and the Resistance took over the system.”

“But how did they get away last night?”

“A trapdoor under the carpet, something like that—the communists would have been prepared for trouble. Did you arrest the barman?”

“I arrested everyone in the place. They're at the château now.”

Dieter had left Hans watching the Moulier property and had driven to Sainte-Cécile. There he questioned the terrified proprietor, Alexandre Régis, and learned within minutes that his speculation had been off target. The place was neither a Resistance hideout nor a
communist meeting place, but an illegal gambling club. Nevertheless, Alexandre confirmed that Michel Clairet had gone there last night. And, he said, Michel had met his wife there.

It was another maddeningly near miss for Dieter. He had captured one Resistance member after another, but Flick always eluded him.

Now he finished shaving, wiped his face, and phoned the château to order a car with a driver and two Gestapo men to pick him up. He got dressed and went to the hotel kitchen to beg half a dozen warm croissants, which he wrapped in a linen napkin. Then he went out into the cool of the early morning. The towers of the cathedral were silvered by the breaking dawn. One of the fast Citroëns favored by the Gestapo was waiting.

He gave the driver the address of the Moulier place. He found Hans lurking in a warehouse doorway fifty meters along the street. No one had come or gone all night, Hans said, so Michel must still be inside. Dieter told his driver to wait around the next corner, then stood with Hans, sharing the croissants and watching the sun come up over the roofs of the city.

They had a long wait. Dieter fought to control his impatience as the minutes and hours ticked away uselessly. The loss of Stéphanie weighed on his heart, but he had recovered from the immediate shock, and he had regained his interest in the war. He thought of the Allied forces massing somewhere in the south or east of England, shiploads of men and tanks eager to turn the quiet seaside towns of northern France into battlefields. He thought of the French saboteurs—armed to the teeth thanks to parachute drops of guns, ammunition, and explosives—ready to attack the German defenders from behind, to stab them in the back and fatally cramp Rommel's ability to maneuver. He felt foolish and impotent, standing in a doorway in Reims, waiting for an amateur terrorist to finish his breakfast. Today, perhaps, he would be led
into the very heart of the Resistance—but all he had was hope.

It was after nine o'clock when the front door opened.

“At last,” Dieter breathed. He moved back from the sidewalk, making himself inconspicuous. Hans put out his cigarette.

Michel came out of the building accompanied by a boy of about seventeen, who, Dieter guessed, might be a son of Moulier. The lad keyed a padlock and opened the gates of the yard. In the yard was a clean black van with white lettering on the side that read
Moulier & Fils—Viandes.
Michel got in.

Dieter was electrified. Michel was borrowing a meat delivery van. It had to be for the Jackdaws. “Let's go!” he said.

Hans hurried to his motorcycle, which was parked at the curb, and stood with his back to the road, pretending to fiddle with the engine. Dieter ran to the corner, signaled the Gestapo driver to start the car, then watched Michel.

Michel drove out of the yard and headed away.

Hans started his motorcycle and followed. Dieter jumped into the car and ordered the driver to follow Hans.

They headed east. Dieter, in the front passenger seat of the Gestapo's black Citroën, looked ahead anxiously. Moulier's van was easy to follow, having a high roof with a vent on top like a chimney. That little vent will lead me to Flick, Dieter thought optimistically.

The van slowed in the chemin de la Carrière and pulled into the yard of a champagne house called Laperrière. Hans drove past and turned the next corner, and Dieter's driver followed. They pulled up and Dieter leaped out.

“I think the Jackdaws hid out there overnight,” Dieter said.

“Shall we raid the place?” Hans said eagerly.

Dieter pondered. This was the dilemma he had faced yesterday, outside the café. Flick might be in there. But
if he moved too quickly, he might prematurely end Michel's usefulness as a stalking horse.

“Not yet,” he said. Michel was the only hope he had left. It was too soon to risk losing that weapon. “We'll wait.”

Dieter and Hans walked to the end of the street and watched the Laperrière place from the corner. There were a tall, elegant house, a courtyard full of empty barrels, and a low industrial building with a flat roof. Dieter guessed the cellars ran beneath the flat-roofed building. Moulier's van was parked in the yard.

Dieter's pulse was racing. Any moment now, Michel would reappear with Flick and the other Jackdaws, he guessed. They would get into the van, ready to drive to their target—and Dieter and the Gestapo would move in and arrest them.

As they watched, Michel came out of the low building. He wore a frown and he stood indecisively in the yard, looking around him in a perplexed fashion. Hans said, “What's the matter with him?”

Dieter's heart sank. “Something he didn't expect.” Surely Flick had not evaded him again?

After a minute, Michel climbed the short flight of steps to the door of the house and knocked. A maid in a little white cap let him in.

He came out again a few minutes later. He still looked puzzled, but he was no longer indecisive. He walked to the van, got in, and turned it around.

Dieter cursed. It seemed the Jackdaws were not here. Michel appeared just as surprised as Dieter was, but that was small consolation.

Dieter had to find out what had happened here. He said to Hans, “We'll do the same as last night, only this time
you
follow Michel and I'll raid the place.”

Hans started his motorcycle.

Dieter watched Michel drive away in Moulier's van, followed at a discreet distance by Hans Hesse on his motorcycle. When they were out of sight, he summoned the three Gestapo men with a wave and walked quickly to the Laperrière house.

He pointed at two of the men. “Check the house. Make sure no one leaves.” Nodding at the third man, he said, “You and I will search the winery.” He led the way into the low building.

On the ground floor there was a large grape press and three enormous vats. The press was pristine: the harvest was three or four months away. There was no one present but an old man sweeping the floor. Dieter found the stairs and ran down. In the cool underground chamber there was more activity: racked bottles were being turned by a handful of blue-coated workers. They stopped and stared at the intruders.

Dieter and the Gestapo man searched room after room of bottles of champagne, thousands of them, some stacked against the walls, others racked slantwise with the necks down in special A-shaped frames. But there were no women anywhere.

In an alcove at the far end of the last tunnel, Dieter found crumbs of bread, cigarette ends, and a hair clip. His worst fears were dismally confirmed. The Jackdaws had spent the night here. But they had escaped.

He cast about for a focus for his anger. The workers would probably know nothing about the Jackdaws, but the owner must have given permission for them to hide here. He would suffer for it. Dieter returned to the ground floor, crossed the yard, and went to the house. A Gestapo man opened the door. “They're all in the front room,” he said.

Dieter entered a large, gracious room with elegant but shabby furnishings: heavy curtains that had not been cleaned for years, a worn carpet, a long dining table and a matching set of twelve chairs. The terrified household staff were standing at the near end of the room: the maid who opened the door, an elderly man who looked like a butler in his threadbare black suit, and a plump woman wearing an apron who must have been the cook. A Gestapo man held a pistol pointed at them. At the far end of the table sat a thin woman of about fifty, with red hair threaded with silver, dressed in
a summer frock of pale yellow silk. She had an air of calm superiority.

Dieter turned to the Gestapo man and said in a low voice, “Where's the husband?”

“He left the house at eight. They don't know where he went. He's expected home for lunch.”

Dieter gave the woman a hard look. “Madame Laperrière?”

She nodded gravely but did not deign to speak.

Dieter decided to puncture her dignity. Some German officers behaved with deference to upper-class French people, but Dieter thought they were fools. He would not pander to her by walking the length of the room to speak to her. “Bring her to me,” he said.

One of the men spoke to her. Slowly, she got up from her chair and approached Dieter. “What do you want?” she said.

“A group of terrorists from England escaped from me yesterday after killing two German officers and a French woman civilian.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” said Madame Laperrière.

“They tied the woman up and shot her in the back of the head at point-blank range,” he went on. “Her brains spilled out onto her dress.”

She closed her eyes and turned her head aside.

Dieter went on, “Last night your husband sheltered those terrorists in your cellar. Can you think of any reason why he should not be hanged?”

Behind him, the maid began to cry.

Madame Laperrière was shaken. Her face turned pale and she sat down suddenly. “No, please,” she whispered.

Dieter said, “You can help your husband by telling me what you know.”

“I don't know anything,” she said in a low voice. “They came after dinner, and they left before dawn. I never saw them.”

“How did they leave? Did your husband provide them with a car?”

She shook her head. “We have no gas.”

“Then how do you deliver the champagne you make?”

“Our customers have to come to us.”

Dieter did not believe her. He felt sure Flick needed transportation. That was why Michel had borrowed a van from Philippe Moulier and brought it here. Yet, when Michel got here, Flick and the Jackdaws had gone. They
must
have found alternative means of transport and decided to go on ahead. No doubt Flick had left a message explaining the situation and telling Michel to catch up with her.

Dieter said, “Are you asking me to believe they left here on foot?”