The Avion My Uncle Flew (25 page)

We rocketed through la rue de St. Chamant, careening at the crossroads, past the church, past the cemetery, past la maison de Monsieur Capedulocque, the donkeys braying at us, the chickens and ducks clacking and screeching. In the rear, all the men de St. Chamant trailed after us, on foot, on horse, in carriages, in carts, with muskets they'd picked up from their homes, or with pitchforks and rakes and clubs.

“Vite! Vite!” thundered le forgeron, leaning over, holding me against the man sitting in the seat, as the automobile pounded up the narrow road.

Dr. Guereton turned it into the montagne path. After that, the automobile labored. It groaned. Finally, it stopped. I hadn't paid any attention to who was riding along with us, but as the men jumped out—for a second, I was startled. Plain as life, I saw that blind peddler get out, too, and go hurrying up the montagne ahead of all the rest, as if his life depended on it. And he wasn't wearing the dark glasses. I began yelling! That blind peddler wasn't blind. He was a fraud.

Le forgeron thought I was telling him not to leave me behind. I was afraid that blind peddler was one of Monsieur Simonis' gang and I kept trying to tell le forgeron, but it wasn't any use. I didn't have the French to do it. Le forgeron hoisted me to his shoulders—épaules. I wrapped my legs around and under his arms, with the one hand clinging to the black bushy beard. I was in a sweat to reach mon oncle. I was dead certain the peddler had streaked up there to help Monsieur Simonis. You can't imagine what terror I had as le forgeron carried me up that path on his épaules.

Halfway there, we heard somebody above us shouting in mortal fear. Next moment, out from around a turn leaped Albert, running as if a pack of tigers were after him. He saw us—dug his feet into the terre in an attempt to stop—and mon oncle appeared, right behind him. Mon oncle gave one leap. He landed on Albert's épaules. He slung him to the ground, slammed him on the head a couple of times, jumped off, picked him up, hit him, and let him loose. Albert slumped to terre, eyes streaming tears, all the dye leaking from his moustache. It was the most awful, cowardly spectacle you ever saw.

Mon oncle noticed us. “Hola!” he said.

Le forgeron advanced, with me riding high on his épaules. “Qu'est-ce que c'est que ça?” asked le forgeron, the doctor and the other men from the car following. Two of the men picked up Albert and held him.

“Where's Monsieur Simonis?” I asked. “Did that peddler try to hurt you? Where's Suzanne? Where's Charles? The Meilhac twins aren't dead—are they?”

“No. The Meilhac twins—they—” he said, with peculiar emphasis, “
they
are very much alive. They are all right. Where is mon avion?”

“Ton avion,” said le forgeron, “est cassé.”

“Cassé?” said mon oncle, not a muscle moving on his dark face. He glanced up at me. He told me, “Never mind. I shall make another one. Are you hurt?”

By now, more people from le village were arriving.

Mon oncle was explaining to them in French. I saw the men holding Albert grip on to him more tightly. Albert was shouting, “Kamerad! Ich bin ein guter Mann!” which wasn't French at all—I knew that much—but German. Mon oncle wanted to take me, but at that le forgeron laughed. You see, of all those people, mon oncle was the smallest. I still don't see how he had the courage to leap on Albert who was nearly twice his size, or why Albert didn't stand and face him instead of running away. I guess that is the difference between someone who's brave, as mon oncle is, and someone like Albert who gives up and quits the minute he knows
his
game is ended.

The blacksmith—le forgeron, I mean, he told mon oncle, “Jean reste ici, sur mes épaules!” and he held me on his shoulders. Mon oncle half smiled. “Viens!” he told tout le monde, proud and fierce, as if he'd elected himself the general of them all. In about ten more minutes we reached the meadow.

Charles was sitting on le maire's head. Every time le maire moved, Charles thumped him and told him, “Silence, traître!” Standing in front of le maire was Suzanne, holding the ax.

And over to one side, leaning on the wooden framework of the runway was—the peddler. He was smoking a cigarette, hands in pockets, and seemed to be enjoying the spectacle. Monsieur Simonis wasn't anywhere in sight. I was perfectly dumbfounded. I was overcome.

“Voici, Jean,” said Suzanne cheerfully when we arrived.

I yelled at mon oncle, warning him that the peddler was a fraud and dangerous and to take him quick. Mon oncle didn't appear to hear me. He stood in the center of the crowd and made a little speech in French. Then he called to that peddler who came forward, easy and careless. He said, “Monsieur Joubert—” and more words in French, as if he was introducing the fellow.

Mon oncle caught sight of me. He called, “Oh, Jean. Meet Monsieur Joubert. He is the detective. He stayed at the hotel, perhaps you saw him?”

Perhaps I saw him?

Monsieur Joubert waved at me. “Ah, Jean,” said the detective. “Bon jour! Ça va?” He laughed.

Things were coming too fast for me. I simply stayed where I was and gawked and tried to listen.

The detective pulled Albert free from the men holding him. Albert staggered forth and saw le maire, who had been lifted off the ground. The detective prodded Albert, evidently ordering him to talk and to talk quickly, if he knew what was good for him.

Albert began accusing le maire. I gathered he was claiming le maire had worked in cahoots with him and Monsieur Simonis, the German who had been the local governor of this part of France during the war. I wanted to ask mon oncle why they wasted time here, questioning the two men, instead of hunting for Monsieur Simonis—but mon oncle was too busy to hear me.

Le maire didn't have any more heart left in him than a chicken might have. To save his neck, he was willing to confess everything. Of course, I didn't understand more than every tenth word, but I knew enough of what had gone on to obtain the general drift.

With fifty or sixty of the men from le village around him, more coming sur la montagne every minute, le Maire Capedulocque confessed all he'd done. Perhaps he wouldn't have been quite so eager, but every time he hesitated Charles sort of stepped toward him, grinning—and, I noticed now, somehow, Charles had in his hand the ax that Suzanne had been holding. At the sight of that sharp ax le maire would shudder. He'd choke. He'd step back, lifting his hands. He'd blurt out more of what he and Monsieur Simonis had schemed to do.

During the time the Germans took over this part of France, le maire stayed here in le village, pretending to be a patriot. In secret, he had worked with Simonis. The German had raided the banks of St. Chamant and the nearby town, Argenta, getting all the gold and silver the people had stored there, all the money that had belonged to the Meilhacs, to Dr. Guereton, and to anyone else who had attempted to do any saving. However, that Simonis had been disloyal to his own people, just as le maire was to France. Between them, they'd kept the money, Simonis making some sort of excuse to his German superiors in France that the local banks hadn't had any gold.

Then, Simonis and Capedulocque had packed up the gold one night, getting Albert to do the real work. Albert had been an orderly—that is, a German soldier assigned to act as Simonis' servant. With Albert helping, they'd taken the gold and silver in a cart up to the Langres maison, dug a place to hide it in the cellar, and to conceal what they'd done, deliberately blown up the cellar, setting fire to the maison. They planned to lie low until the war was ended and everything was peaceful. Afterwards, Albert and Monsieur Simonis were to return, disguised as Frenchmen, just as they'd done.

From le maire, they'd understood mon oncle, Paul Langres, had been killed during the war. Of course, le maire hadn't heard correctly—mon oncle had only been severely wounded, but they didn't know that. Also, from the same source, they were informed the other owner of the Langres place was ma mère. She was supposed to be thousands and thousands of miles away, in the United States, so loin—so far—she wouldn't ever come here, and would be willing to sell. They'd counted on buying the land cheaply, setting up there in the maison, melting the gold and silver, and escaping safely, all three of them, with their stolen fortune. It was a good plan, I guess, and simple in the details; but, like mine, it got complicated toward the end.

First, they discovered mon oncle hadn't died. He was recovering from his wounds. Monsieur Simonis didn't want to take the gold and silver coins from the maison, as they were, because other Germans in other parts of France also had stolen French money and now the government had the police and special agents on the lookout for all such money thefted from French banks. By melting the money into gold and silver bullion, it could be taken out of France and resold in Spain without much difficulty. But to melt all that money down into bullion meant that they had to have time and be undisturbed in the maison. Consequently le maire, acting under orders from Simonis, attempted to buy the land from mon oncle. Mon oncle refused to sell.

Secondly, as you know, my family arrived in Paris. That upset all three thieves. Monsieur Simonis planted Albert in Paris, at the hotel at which we were staying, to spy on us. Albert was lucky enough to get the chore of pushing me in the wheel chair, which played smack into the hands of Monsieur Simonis. As you know, Monsieur Simonis learned mon oncle and I meant to come to St. Chamant. He had to prevent this at all costs. He made the effort to buy the land. That failing, he determined to scare me from coming, to get rid of one of us, trusting he could handle mon oncle later. He failed when mon oncle rescued me in le parc.

Well, Monsieur Simonis took the same train we were on—got off that one—followed us, right behind us, snuck up to our maison and for a time lived there in the cellar until I happened upon the hiding place. I guess, by then, he was nearly crazy with worry, blaming mon oncle and me for all his misfortune.

Later on, when they'd put Albert in jail, Albert admitted to a few things le maire had forgotten. Albert was ordered to drive me out of le village. He'd hummed under my window. He had thrown stones at my window, to make me nervous. He swore he hadn't ever attempted to climb in, though. Maybe he was telling the truth about that. Possibly, at that time, I was already so nervous and scared, my imagination ran away with me, and I merely thought someone actually was climbing in to get me.…

Anyway, when le maire finished his part of the whole miserable scheme, le village might have strung him up right there, if le forgeron hadn't stepped in and taken charge. He reminded them France had laws for collaborationists. That was what the mayor was—a collaborationist. He would be punished, perhaps beheaded, or at least stuck in prison for fifty years or so, the rest of his life, as payment for all the suffering he'd caused. The people didn't have as much hate against Albert as they did for le maire. Almost, I pitied that maire. He resembled a balloon with all the air drawn out from it. Monsieur Joubert, the detective I'd thought was a peddler, clamped handcuffs on the two prisoners.

The people milled around the mayor and Albert, Monsieur Niort thundering, mon oncle watching, smiling, his eyes shining. I still felt shaky. I sat near the framework of the runway, in the sunshine, thinking that it was fine to have le maire and Albert caught, but wondering how Monsieur Simonis had managed to escape. That didn't cheer me, at all. With Monsieur Simonis free, he'd never rest until he'd repaid mon oncle and me for all we'd done. My broken arm started hurting, too. Nobody seemed to notice me any more—not that I blamed them. They were too busy with le maire and Albert, keeping the two talking, explaining. I thought of mon oncle's avion, cassé, wrapped around that oak tree. It seemed to me as if about everything had gone wrong.

I happened to look up. I saw Suzanne and Charles in front of me. Suzanne reached down, and gently touched my arm. “C'est cassé?” she asked. I nodded. She ran to mon oncle. She spoke to him. He jumped around. Both of them ran back to me. He knelt in front of me. “Jean!” he exclaimed. “Why did you not say you were hurt?” He called to Dr. Guereton.

I didn't care about my arm as much as I cared that Monsieur Simonis had escaped. Maybe, after all that had happened this morning, I was a little out of my head. I remember, between them, mon oncle and Dr. Guereton carried me, planning to take me back to the automobile. I was shouting not to waste time, to go after Monsieur Simonis. Charles and Suzanne ran along beside me. Suzanne had practical sense, always. She saw I wasn't going to be satisfied or quiet until I knew how mon oncle and the twins escaped, and where Monsieur Simonis was. Very quickly, mon oncle explained how Suzanne had helped. He said, “Albert and the mayor guarded us while Monsieur Simonis ran to the edge of the cliff to shoot at you. Albert had a revolver. I zink we would right now be dead, maybe, in the cellar if Suzanne had not been so quick. When Simonis was shooting at you, all of us except Suzanne watched. Suzanne ran for the ax. The mayor ran at her. Charles tripped the mayor. Albert forgot me and pointed the revolver at Charles and I—” He snapped his fingers. “I jumped upon Albert and—voilà! That is all. You see the rest.”

I guess I gaped at him. “How did you ever dare to tackle him when he had a gun?”

You know how vain mon oncle is. I guess it's born in him; he can't help it. For an answer, he simply snapped his fingers again, said, “Pouf! Am I not a Langres, hein? It was simple.”

And I asked, “But where is Monsieur Simonis?”

“Oh,” said mon oncle, his face changing. “I zink this afternoon we will send men to the bottom of the cliff and we will find him there.”

“He got away by walking down—”

“Walking?” Mon oncle lifted one eyebrow. He rubbed his big nose. “Not by walking. No. I zink he was more interested in shooting at you than seeing where he was going. For a man who does not take care, it can be very dangerous to stand on the edge of a cliff. The rock crumbles.” He eyed me. “You understand?”