Liquidate Paris (29 page)

'Forgeries,' he said, grimly. 'We've been on the look out for you for the past two months. Now that we've found you we shall be able to demonstrate in some detail the way we treat deserters... You must have had help! Who helped you?'

I imagine he did not seriously anticipate an answer. I think most people in the room were astonished when one of the girls at the table immediately sprang to her feet and claimed the honour.

'Is she mad?' whispered Little John, in his usual audible fashion.

Malinowski turned to regard us. Barcelona aimed a vicious kick at Little John's shin and Heide hissed angrily between his teeth. This was not the time to be provoking a man in Malinowski's position.

Our warning came too late. Malinowski was a creature of instinct. His senses told him that there might, after all, be more to find in this particular bistro than a mere deserter and his girl-friend, and leaving a couple of his men busy with the handcuffs he led the rest of the dogs away with their tails in the air and their noses once again pressed into the ground. I guessed that Little John's whispered comment and our immediate reactions had set the Stabsfeldwebel off on a search that could continue throughout the night if he felt really vindictive. It was known that he loathed soldiers who had been on active service at the front, and there was a rumour that only two days previously he had actually arrested an Oberleutnant who had been decorated with the Iron Cross.

'That's it,' muttered Heide, gloomily. 'That's done it. I said it would happen. And all for a bloody Jew!'

'I think we shall try the kitchens again,' said Malinowski.

Redcoat moved anxiously to his elbow, protesting volubly about burnt soup and ruined dinners, but Malinowski, with a faint smile, pushed him out of the way.

'This is more important than burnt soup.'

'But my customers----'

At that moment, more customers arrived. Everyone turned instinctively to the door. The man who first entered seemed at a quick glance, to be wearing a stocking mask over his face, hideously distorting his features. Closer attention revealed that he had no features, to be distorted. His eyes were slits, his nose little more than two slight indentations, his mouth a fringed and gaping hole. He had no eyebrows and the colour of his skin was mottled purple. Round the neck, which was supported by a stiff leather collar, hung the Knight's Cross.

'Well?' said Gunther, out of his parody of a mouth, 'Have you given up the habit of saluting, Stabsfeldwebel?'

Malinowski clicked his heels together and slowly brought his right arm up to his forehead. There was little else he could do. He might be Stabsfeldwebel Malinowski and he might have a Knight's Cross of his own, but a soldier with Gunther's disfigurement could make what demands he liked. If Gunther cared to bring out his revolver and shoot Malinowski dead, subsequently claiming that the man had insulted him, no one would hesitate to believe in the justice of his cause.

'Fahnenjunker!' Malinowski's tone just managed to be respectful. 'We are patrolling the 18th arondissement according to orders. We've just picked up a deserter we've been searching for for two months, together with the woman who assisted him.'

'Good,' said Gunther, encouragingly. 'Thank you, Stabsfeldwebel. I take it you have now concluded your business here?'

Malinowski hesitated. Gunther turned casually away, as if there were an end to the conversation. Both his legs, from the knees down, were made of tin, but it was hot immediately noticeable. It had taken him several weeks of superhuman energy and determination to learn to walk again, and also to cope with a left arm that was composed of four pieces of steel. He had wanted to die, at first, and no one really knew what it was that now gave him the will to go on living. He could have become an officer in the Waffen S.S., it was offered to him when he left hospital, but he had always served with the black hussars and it was to us that he returned when passed once more as 'fit for duty'. He felt at home with us. Not only were we his friends, but we were possibly the only people in the world who could look upon him with the same degree of detachment as we looked upon each other.

Again there was silence in the bistro. Everyone tense. Everyone staring at Gunther.

Calmly he drew out his cigarette case, extracted a cigarette and place it in his lipless mouth. Malinowski was no longer staring at Gunther, but rather at the cigarette case. It was gold, ostentatiously decorated with the red star of Russia and the hammer and sickle. Gunther held it out to him.

'Pretty, don't you think? A souvenir of Stalingrad, as
you
probably guessed.' He dosed the case with a snap and pushed it back in his pocket, 'Were you ever in the trenches, Stabsfeldwebel? Three hundred thousand German soldiers died at Stalingrad, did you know that? Those of us that survived'--he spoke the words in quotes--'are entitled to some little bauble as a souvenir, don't you agree?'

Malinowski was seen to swallow, but he said nothing. Gunther's tone suddenly changed.

'If you've finished your business in here, I should be very glad to see the back of you!'

The Stabsfeldwebel really had no alternative but to leave. The doors closed on the last of his men and an audible sigh of relief swept the bistro.

'Looks as if we got back in the nick of time,' remarked the Legionnaire, dryly, as he left his post by the door and strolled over to our table.

'It's ridiculous,' said Heide. 'It's the height of lunacy. He should have been at the other end of France by now.'

No one took any notice of Heide. We were too busy filling Gunther with congratulatory drinks.

'Ah well,' he said, modestly. 'One has to make use of one's disadvantages or where's the point of them?'

The girl with the accordion came out of the shadows and began to play a dance tune. Porta took up his violin and Redcoat began to smile again. Gradually the tension died away. Heide happily drank himself into a near stupor and was incapable of doing more than grunt. Little John roamed about the room pinching girls' bottoms and telling dirty jokes to anyone who looked as if he might be even remotely shocked, and Gunther, full of strong red wine, stole a little girl in a yellow dress from under Barcelona's nose and began to dance with her.

'Vive la France!' shouted Porta, deliriously.

The Legionnaire was drinking steadily. He would soon join Heide in his stupor. Gunther was fast going the same way, and the little girl in yellow had stopped closing her eyes to avoid his face and was sitting on his lap giggling. There were occasional interruptions from the world outside, the sound of rifle shots, muffled explosions, the roar of aeroplanes overhead, but they were steadfastly ignored. The war had been going on too long for anyone to be bothered with it any more. Barcelona suddenly dug me in the ribs.

'Watch out. Door's opening.'

We stiffened automatically, half expecting it to be Malinowski returning. But this time it was Jacqueline, the girl I had met among the flowers in Normandy and who had given me real coffee to drink. There had been other things as well, of course, but somehow I always primarily connected her with the scent of flowers and the fragrance of fresh coffee.

I had seen a fair bit of her since we had come to Paris. These last weeks I had been meeting her in secret almost every day, but this was the first time I had dared make an open rendezvous with her here, in the cafe, and the moment she stepped through the door I regretted it Porta, of course, recognized her immediately. He eyed her up and down as she, never doubting her welcome, walked towards our table. She was wearing a soft green muslin thing that made her look very pale and beautiful, but I wished I hadn't told her to come.

'So, you been having it off with that bird from Normandy?' said Porta, slyly. 'How long's that been going on, then? Some time, by the looks of things. You want to get rid of her, mate, before you get really tied up. That bird's in love, and women in love can be dangerous.'

'You don't know what you're talking about,' I said, coldly.

'Oh no?' jeered Porta. 'Remember how she blarted her eyeballs out that time in Normandy?'

'And what's that to do with you?'

'Everything!'

It was Heide, now, emerging from his stupor and joining in the battle. He glared across at Jacqueline, seized me by the collar and began breathing all over me, his small, bloodshot eyes staring with fixed maliciousness into mine.

'It's everything to do with us! You and your French tart! You can knock the arse off it all day and every day as far as I'm concerned, but
don't bring it in here!'
He took himself off my chest and pulled out his revolver. 'Porta's quite right, women like that are dangerous. They get jealous, they get emotional, they get too interested in what's going on. And worst of all, they talk.'

'What's happening?' demanded Gunther, from the far end of the table.

Barcelona whispered something to him. I saw Gunther staring across at Jacqueline, taking in every detail of her face and figure. Barcelona looked at me, and shook his head disapprovingly. The Legionnaire leaned back in his chair and began casually cleaning his nails with the point of his knife. Jacqueline smiled at me.

'What's up with you today? You're behaving very oddly.'

I took her across to the door and explained the situation. It was my fault entirely. I should have known better than to meet her in such a place. Paris was dangerous. Spies were everywhere and you had only to make one mistake and you could count yourself as dead. Jacqueline understood me perfectly. She asked no questions, raised no objections. We simply arranged a different meeting-place for the following day and she slipped quietly away down the darkened street. It was a relief to see her go.

Slowly the bistro began to empty, until at last we were alone. The doors were locked, Redcoat produced a map of Paris and we spread it out on the table.

'Obviously,' said Porta, 'the thing is likely to be bloody heavy----'

'I hope so,' said Redcoat. 'I shall be disappointed if it isn't.'

'How are we to get it over the bridge?'

'Carry it,' said Little John, brightly.

'Tell it to swim across the river.'

'They don't swim----'

'Course they do, don't be so bleeding stupid!'

'But it is a valid point,' said the Legionnaire, seriously. 'All the bridges are closely guarded.'

'Perhaps if you went in daytime?' suggested Redcoat 'There'd be more people about. You could slip over unnoticed.'

Barcelona shook his head.

'No can do. I couldn't get the necessary passes.'

Porta suddenly jabbed a filthy finger on to the map.

'Here! We'll go right now and pick it up.'

'And how do we get over the bridge?'

'No idea until we get there. Can't be bothered with making plans all the time. That's what the flaming Prussians do, and see where it's got them. Eight days after the last war ended they all put their heads together and started plotting for the next one. It ain't worth it. Let things take their course, that's what I say.'

'And I say we ought to have a plan,' said Heide, obstinately.

'We don't need a plan. I've got a couple of rubber stamps in my pocket with "Top Secret" written on them.'

'What the hell good are they?'

'You'd be surprised,' said Porta. 'I can work miracles with a rubber stamp.'

'You make me sick,' grumbled Heide. 'You all make me sick. All this damn fool nonsense. If it's not Jews, it's----'

'Suppose they fire on us?' interrupted the Old Man, who had so far sat silent and frowning. 'Suppose we run into a patrol?'

'What sort of a patrol?'

'Malinowski's crowd, for a start! ' snarled Heide. 'Rubber stamps won't be much help with those boys, no matter how top secret they are!'

'That's simple,' said Porta. 'We just make damn sure that we fire first.'

'Yes, and you've only got to let one of them get away and the game's up.'

'None of 'em won't get away! ' Little John leaned forward with a belligerent expression on his face. 'We'll take bazookas with us.'

'Walk round Paris at the dead of night carrying bazookas?' sneered Heide. 'They'll think we're a load of bloody Commies!'

The Legionnaire stood up.

'I'm sick of talking,' he said, abruptly. 'We'll play it by ear.'

'Just what I said,' said Porta.

'So when do we go?' demanded Little John, eagerly. 'Right now?'

The Legionnaire raised a cold eyebrow.

'Certainly not. We'll go tomorrow night.'

The first of them appeared at the window. Climbed out on to the narrow ledge and balanced precariously for a few seconds, searching above and below for some kind of handhold. He found none. A sudden shot rang out and the man plummeted head-first into the void.

A second man appeared. He also climbed out on to the narrow ledge, then swung across like a cat and wrapped himself round a water pipe that ran the length of the wall. Cautiously he began to lower himself groundwards. Another shot ran out. The second man joined the first on the asphalt courtyard so far below.

The third man did not wait to be shot. His silhouette appeared briefly at the window; hung for a moment in space; then hurtled downwards in a swallow dive to share the fate of his companions.

But the incendiary bomb had done its work well, flames poured forth from every window save for two small ones right at the top of the high building. Already a crowd of men could be seen up there. Two of them jumped at the same time and a hail of machine-gun bullets accompanied them all the way to the ground. The Gestapo were taking no chances.

It was at this point that we left our hiding-place and walked away. We had seen enough of the slaughter. It was the Gestapo revenging themselves upon a nest of Resistance workers for the recent death of fourteen secret police. But they were doing more than just revenge themselves: they were having a ball.

When the massacre was over they returned to their vehicle. Both the driver and the man left on guard were lying down in pools of their own blood, with their throats slit almost from ear to ear.