Night Sky (66 page)

Julie felt the boat move under her and grabbed at the side. She felt sick. It was a nightmare. She didn’t understand the first thing about any of it – not the first!

Michel was calling, ‘Come here!’

Lurching unsteadily across the deck she reached his side. ‘Now, listen very carefully. We’ve only got a few minutes. So
listen
! There’s a torch here just behind me in the bo’sun’s box. There are the waterproofs I told you about. Here—’ He placed her hand on the tiller, ‘– here is the tiller. You push it the opposite way to the one you want to go in. You’ll get used to it …’

Julie stared into the darkness, her throat constricted and dry.

‘And now listen
very
carefully. The course …’

After a while Julie realised he had stopped speaking and was moving away from the tiller, leaving it in her hand.

‘Best of luck, Julie!’

‘
But
—’

Then he was untying something – the rope holding the dinghy – and climbing over the side.

She almost screamed.

The next moment he was gone.

V
ASSON REACHED OUT
and touched the painting. A tractor, bright red and crudely painted. Not bad, considering. Then it occurred to him – the mother probably gave the child some help with it. He imagined them sitting on the floor together, engrossed and happy in their task. The picture irritated him. He turned away.

There was a model plane hanging from the ceiling, a second picture and some posters of Paris. Angrily he yanked the cover off the bed; it was unmade, the blankets neatly folded, the calico bolster without a pillow case.

There was a wooden chest under the eaves. He pulled it out and, raising the lid, emptied the contents over the floor. Toys, clothes, old fabrics.

Rubbish.

As he moved towards the stairs his head brushed against the model plane. He pushed it impatiently aside. The fine thread holding it to the ceiling broke and it fell to the floor, one wing bent and broken. Vasson kicked it out of his way.

He went down the narrow stairs to the room below. The woman’s room. It was clean and tidy, the bed neatly covered like the boy’s.

She was expecting to be gone a long time, the bitch.

He pulled open the drawers of the dresser. The top one contained underwear, carefully folded. Scattered between the clothes were sachets which smelled of herbs. He pulled everything out on to the floor.

He leant down. In the next drawer were blouses, woollens – more rubbish. He threw them onto the floor as well. Impatiently he jerked open the bottom drawer. Papers. A ration card. Some letters. An old photograph.

He leafed through the letters. They were in English. They were signed ‘Your Mother’. He stared at them, frowning. He didn’t understand English. He threw them back in the drawer. The photograph showed two people sitting on a beach. One was the girl, much younger, maybe fourteen or fifteen. She was very slim, her angular body clad in an unbecoming, old-fashioned swimming costume. She was looking straight into the camera, her eyes screwed up against the sun. Beside her was a woman, much older, rather fat, dressed in a tight frock with a floral print on it. The mother.

Vasson flipped the photograph over and stared. There was some writing: English again. It said: Mummy and me. Cawsand. 1929.

Cawsand. It must be a place in England. The girl was not Breton at all then, but English. A worse thought – she was probably an agent, planted in France to spy. The thought made Vasson angry and uneasy. He had the unpleasant feeling that he’d been cleverly and ruthlessly deceived.

If Baum found out it would mean more stick and Vasson had had enough over the scientist. Vasson decided it would be best if Baum never found out.

He slid the photograph inside his jacket. It offered no clues as to where the bitch was now. And
that
was what he needed to know.

She had to be the key. She’d been with the scientist at the cliff. Now they were both missing. The girl must be hiding him.

Suddenly, he jumped.

A terrible cry came from the next room. Vasson shuddered and, bracing himself, stood up and went towards the door. He hesitated, half-revolted, half-fascinated by what he might see, then, his heart thudding, opened the door and walked through into the kitchen.

Baum was leaning against the mantelpiece, examining his nails. To the left, three of his men were huddled round a chair. Vasson moved across the room, his eyes on the backs of the men, until he could see between them into the chair. He swallowed hard and stared, fascinated. The figure lay inert. The face was a mess, the nose a pulp of blood and bones, and the eyes reduced to slits between the purple-red swellings of cheeks and eyelids. Apart from the hair, the old woman was unrecognisable.

Vasson glanced at Baum and raised his eyebrows. Baum made a face of disgust which indicated: Nothing.

Turning his eyes back to the monstrous sight in the chair, Vasson lowered himself on to a seat in the corner. One of Baum’s men put his face down to the old woman’s and chanted, ‘Where is the girl?’

The old woman’s mouth moved, as if to say something, then dropped open. With distaste Vasson saw that the gums were bare and devoid of teeth. She started to moan loudly.

The man standing directly in front of the chair turned to his companion and said something in German. The other nodded and, reaching into his pocket, pulled out some cord. It was in two sections. They took one piece each and tied the old woman’s hands down to the arms of the chair. Vasson saw that they hadn’t tied her by the wrists but across the width of the hands. Vasson moved his tongue around his mouth to remove the dryness.

The chant again. ‘Where is the girl?’

The moan again.

They leant forward and each took a forefinger. Slowly they bent the forefingers backwards. The old woman’s bloody eyes stared in disbelief, then she cried out, a loud shriek that filled the room. Suddenly she convulsed, her body arching upwards, straining against the cords, and she screamed, a long long, shrill, piercing scream. Vasson put his hands over his ears. The scream ceased. For a split second there was silence. Then there was an audible snap, quickly followed by another, and Vasson stared curiously at the two fingers. Though the men had moved away the fingers were still upright, at a strange angle to the hands.

The old woman’s head had fallen back against the chair and she groaned, a long, low moan of despair.

‘
Where’s the girl?
’

The mouth dropped open again and tried to speak. Nothing happened. The old woman began to shake her head from side to side, first slowly then more rapidly until the movement became frenetic, like a mad animal’s. Vasson felt uncomfortable and looked away. Suddenly the old woman’s head dropped forward and he realised she was unconscious.

Baum shifted his weight and leant the other elbow on the mantelpiece. He said something in rapid German then turned to Vasson. ‘We’re getting nowhere.’ The muscles in his jaw fluttered under the unnaturally pink skin. He said with irritation, ‘What’s so sickening is to think that this whole business need never have happened!’

Vasson snapped, ‘But if your men had covered the beach properly, they would never have got away!
And
—’ He stood up ‘– if the scientist had been properly guarded by the Navy, then he would never have escaped in the first place!’

Baum glared at Vasson and whispered, ‘Don’t get clever with me, you little pimp!’ He raised a forefinger. ‘And don’t go spreading dirt behind my back. Just try,
just try
– and I’ll carve you into little pieces, little pimp!’

Vasson smiled briefly. ‘Don’t get yourself in a state, my friend. We’ll just have to find a way. What about the old man? The woman’s husband?’

Baum rolled his eyes with exasperation. ‘Yes! Yes! But
where
is he now? Eh? I do not see him here, do I?’ He put a hand over his eyes and rubbed his forehead.

Baum was right. They had nothing. Personally Vasson didn’t care a damn – he was fed up with the whole job – but there was bound to be a scapegoat and he had the unpleasant feeling that Baum would try to nail the whole mess on him.

Wearily, Vasson sat down and lit a cigarette, thinking: It’s all that bitch’s fault; it’s she who’s fouled the whole thing up.

The old woman groaned. Baum nibbled at one of his nails, roused himself, and nodded to his men. They moved in towards the chair.

Simultaneously, there was the sound of boots crossing the front room. The door opened and a soldier appeared. He saluted and spoke to Baum in rapid German. The men looked quickly at Baum, their faces worried. Baum turned pink and looked apoplectic. There was a long silence, then Baum said very slowly in French, ‘I thought you had
caught
these people!’

Vasson shifted on his seat and said carefully, ‘Most of them, yes.’

Baum almost choked. ‘Why, then, are my men being murdered?’

Vasson said sharply, ‘Where? Where were your men killed?’

‘One man. On the clifftop. Those filthy murdering swine … !’

Vasson sat up and thought: Good God, why would they want to get down to the beach again …? What on earth? Then he closed his eyes and swore quietly. There could only be one reason. Oh hell. He said out loud, ‘
Merde!
’

Baum looked at him quickly. ‘What is it?’

‘They were there all the time. On the beach.’

‘Impossible—’

‘They were there!’

Baum looked at him sourly. ‘I don’t see how—’

‘Shut up!’ Vasson thought quickly. He tried to imagine where the girl’s friends would have taken her. He said, ‘If they’ve escaped from the beach that means they must have gone into hiding again, somewhere nearby …’

‘Ha!’ Baum exclaimed contemptuously. ‘But
where
!’ He shook his head. ‘I tell you, there’s only one way to find out. We take hostages and we shoot them tomorrow. Twenty. No! Thirty. The families of these murderers. That’s the only way!’

As Baum began to give orders, Vasson knew it would take too
long! Too long!
If only he’d got the old woman’s husband. It was much more likely that
he
would know. Damn, damn. So
nearly
there. He clenched his first and swore under his breath.

There was a shout outside and the back door opened. A soldier came in, pulling the figure of a short, stocky man behind him. The man was sixty-ish and dressed in peasant’s clothes.

As soon as the man saw the bent, bloody figure in the chair he threw himself at it, crying, ‘Marie! Marie!’ The old woman moaned and the man cried out, ‘No! No!’

Suddenly, Vasson realised who the man was and laughed out loud. His prayers had been answered. That’s what came of being lucky.

The old man was sobbing violently. Vasson wished Baum would put a stop to it.

Baum jerked his head at his men and they hauled the old man to his feet. ‘Please, please!’ The old man was still sobbing. ‘Please, leave my wife alone! Please! She knows nothing! Nothing!’

Baum leant against the mantelpiece and waited.

‘Please – I am giving myself up because she knows nothing, nothing … Please leave her alone!’ The old man was panting, shaking his head from side to side.

Baum said calmly, ‘And you know something?’

The old man nodded slowly, his eyes tightly closed. Then he stopped moving, his body sagging between the two men. ‘Yes – I will tell you what you want to know.’

‘Excellent.’ Baum looked at his fingernails again, smiling slightly. ‘Is the girl with the scientist?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where are they?’

‘On a fishing boat.’

There was a pause. The smile had vanished from Baum’s face. ‘Where is this fishing boat?’

‘At sea. But I don’t know where it’s going.’

‘You don’t know where it’s going.’

‘No, they didn’t tell me.’

‘I see,’ Baum said stiffly. ‘You realise we will extract the information from you one way or the other.’

The old man nodded furiously. ‘Yes, yes. Please, it’s the truth, they didn’t tell me. I suppose England, but I don’t know where exactly …’

Vasson said, ‘Of course England! Where else would they go!’

The old man looked at Vasson for the first time, trying to understand who he was.

Vasson said, ‘The girl, she used to live there, didn’t she?’

The old man nodded again.

‘Of course England!’ Vasson snorted. ‘Who else was on the boat?’

‘I’m not sure …’

‘The scientist, Freymann?’

There was a pause. ‘Yes.’

‘And the boy?’

The old man whispered, ‘Yes’, and began to weep.

‘No-one else?’

‘I don’t know. I only heard about those three. That’s all I know. Please believe me. And please, leave my wife alone. Please!’ He looked at Tante Marie and, sobbing bitterly, tried to reach her again, but they held him back.

Baum came up to Vasson. ‘If it’s not the truth I’ll get it out of him.’

‘But suppose it is.’

Baum clenched his teeth and said unhappily, ‘I will have to notify High Command and alert the coastal units. They can’t have got far!’

Vasson thought: I hope you’re right.

Baum turned away but Vasson caught his sleeve. ‘The old man. He’ll be shot, won’t he?’