Читать книгу Worrals on the War-path - W E Johns - Страница 8

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The girls continued on their way, cautiously, keeping to the track, which was little more than a depression worn into the rock by the feet of travellers and sheep through centuries of time. On one hand, three thousand feet below, lay the broad plain of the Rhone valley, a vague panorama that rolled away into the infinite distance. On the other hand was the terrifying Gorge of the Tarn, a sheer drop into the depths of the plateau whence came at intervals the babble of water rushing over a boulder-strewn bed. The moon climbed up for its nightly toil across the heavens, but only served to emphasise the stark loneliness of the scene.

“Well, we’re on the Cévennes. What do you think of it?” asked Worrals.

“It’s terrific—so terrific that to tell the truth it rather frightens me,” answered Frecks.

“It is pretty grim, I must admit,” agreed Worrals. “Apart from the appalling solitude one can somehow feel the relentless march of time. At home, whether we notice them or not, we see changes, but up here the years roll on barely leaving a mark. The river cuts its bed a little deeper, perhaps, and the rain wears another inch, maybe, from the faces of the cliffs. That’s all. If it looks like this now, think what it must be like in winter, with storms tearing through the gorges and the wind howling over the open plateaux.”

“I’d hate to be caught up here in dirty weather,” murmured Frecks.

“There’s a certain amount of cover—if you know where to look for it.”

“I don’t see it. Where?”

“Under our feet. I don’t know about this particular causse, but most of them are honeycombed with caves which, if my old guide, Louis Capelle, is to be believed, have never been properly explored.”

“Why not?”

“Say, rather, why should they be? A stranger would be a fool to venture in without a good reason, and the local people have something else to do beside poking about in the rocks, on what, to them, would be a profitless task. But that looks like the fork ahead, where the ground begins to drop away. Lucien is due to show up at midnight. We may as well find a seat on the rock, and wait.”

“I hope he isn’t late,” said Frecks. “It’s getting chilly. Suppose he doesn’t turn up?”

“We shall have to wait until he does,” replied Worrals imperturbably.

“What a place to make a date,” observed Frecks. “Who’s idea was it?”

“Mine. Where would you have us meet—in Paris, under the noses of the Nazis? Hark!” Worrals laid her hand on Frecks’ arm as somewhere not far away a piece of rock clattered. “Someone’s coming; we’ll keep out of sight until we’re sure it’s Lucien.”

A moment later a voice began to sing, in a low tenor voice, the famous old French refrain:

“Sur le pont d’Avignon

L’on y danse, l’on y danse ...”

“It’s Lucien,” said Worrals with intense satisfaction, as the singer came into sight. “That’s our password.” She took up the song:

“Sur le pont d’Avignon

L’on y danse tout en ronde.”

The newcomer stopped dead for a moment, and then came on quickly.

“Bon soir, Lucien,” greeted Worrals.

Lucien stopped again. “Name of a name!” he gasped. “Mademoiselle Worrals—Et Frecks aussi. Je suis très content!”

“You seem surprised,” commented Worrals. “Weren’t you expecting us?”

“But no.”

“Then who were you expecting?”

“I don’t know.” As he spoke Lucien shook the girls’ hands. “My instructions were to find accommodation in the village, and be here to-night, at midnight, for further orders.”

“The chief was too wise to mention names, I suppose, in case of accidents,” went on Worrals. “But this is no place to stand talking. What about the accommodation?”

“I have found a pigsty of a house in Carnac. I came a week ago, on a bicycle.”

“Was it wise to take a house? Surely that will excite local curiosity?”

“Perhaps not. I am posing as an artist—and the people here are used to artists.”

“Good. Then I hope you can fix us with a bed for to-night. We’ve been sleeping rough for four days, and a good rest, before we start operations, seems indicated.”

Lucien hesitated. “I am hardly in a state to receive guests.”

“Any roof is better than none. How do you get on for food?—we may be here for some time.”

“Potatoes, potatoes, and then potatoes,” sighed Lucien. “Sometimes there is a little bread.”

“Looks as if my waistline is going to suffer,” put in Frecks.

“Well, let’s go down to the house,” suggested Worrals. “We have a lot to talk about.”

“How’s your friend, the Marquis?” asked Frecks as they walked on down the track.

“Raoul is very well,” answered Lucien. “But I am afraid for him. He is too fond of pulling the noses of the Boche. One day he will be caught.”

“Where is he?” asked Worrals.

“Here, with me.”

“That wasn’t in orders.”

“No, but we have worked together so much, annoying the Boche, that he refuses to leave me. It pleases him to think he is—how do you call it—a bodyguard.”

“Well, he may be useful,” said Worrals. “We have a difficult job ahead.”

The village came into sight, a mere cluster of primitive cottages as drab as the rocks among which they were built. For the most part they consisted of small square buildings, composed of roughly shaped pieces of rock, with the cracks plastered with mud.

“Quietly,” warned Lucien, and led the way to one that stood a little apart, a mere box, or rather, two boxes, set one upon the other. A ladder of rough timber, leaning against the outside wall near the door, gave access to the upper room.

“The people here don’t exactly wallow in luxury,” observed Frecks.

“They are content in their own way. They have never known any other conditions. I think they prefer it like this,” answered Lucien, as he opened the door.

“A bit of a change from the Château Delarose,” murmured Worrals.

“Nevertheless, a good deal healthier at the moment,” returned Lucien, smiling. “The Boches are in occupation at the château.” He closed the door behind them and lit a crude tallow candle.

Worrals was now able to see that he wore the untidy clothes so often affected by French artists. The furniture, she noticed, such as it was, was as primitive as the building. Most of it seemed to be home made. She remarked an easel, some canvases, and a box of paints, on a bench near the door. An iron bowl, presumably for anyone who cared to wash, stood on a cheap deal table. Exploration revealed a tiny kitchen, and what had evidently been a goat pen, side by side. Some empty sacks lay on the floor.

“At the moment this is my bed,” explained Lucien. “It is rather more agreeable than the loft, which has been taken over by birds—too many birds. I’m sorry I can offer nothing better, but this is typical of all the houses here.”

“We shan’t be here long enough to get uncomfortable,” asserted Worrals.

“What do you mean?” asked Lucien.

“As soon as we have found the right spot we shall roost in the hills,” announced Worrals. “Where is Raoul?”

“Outside. He keeps watch.”

“At this time of night?”

“In France to-day, mon ami, it is at night that things happen,” returned Lucien seriously. Then his eyes went round with wonder as Worrals unfastened her raincoat, revealing the uniform beneath. “Do you walk about France in a British uniform?” he breathed. “Is that wise?”

Worrals shrugged. “We are engaged in a military operation,” she explained. “I see no reason—yet—to adopt a disguise. It may be necessary later on, but I hope not. We shall see. How are we going to dispose of ourselves in this rabbit hutch?”

“Raoul and I had better take the loft—with the birds,” replied Lucien smiling. “The kitchen is not as uncomfortable as it appears. What have you brought in your bundle?”

Worrals told him.

He grimaced when she mentioned the portable radio. “It’s death to own such an instrument in France. Was it necessary?”

“How else could we let the people at home know that we were ready to receive ... but, of course, you don’t know anything about the scheme. I had better explain it right away, or else we shall be talking at cross purposes.”

There and then Worrals gave him an outline of the operation.

“The sooner we get things fixed up the better,” she concluded. “As soon as we have settled on a location, and cleared the ground, the transport machine can come down with the equipment.”

“But this is wonderful!” cried Lucien. “You don’t know how it pleases me that the soil of France should once more feel the tires of British aircraft. I have done some walking on the causses. Which one do you propose to use?”

“The Causse Méjean. Unless my memory is at fault there is a flat area in the elbow of the Tarn, not far from here, where the river turns sharply to the east. There are some crags on the westward side, but they should serve as a shield to hide our activities from people below. There is also, I remember, a cave, so the place should suit us in every way. But we shall know more about it when we have made a thorough examination.”

“When do you propose to do that?”

“To-morrow, starting just before dawn. In that way we should be clear of the village before people are about. Our only risk, then, of being seen, would be an occasional shepherd.”

“Most of them have already brought their animals down for the winter.”

“So much the better. We’ve no time to lose because the weather may break any time in October, and we’re in September now. Are you coming with us, Lucien?”

“I should like to. I will bring my paints; that will give an excuse for the party in case we are seen.”

“And Raoul?”

“He had better stay here to watch things, and scout for food. It is not easy to get, although with money one can still buy things. Anything is welcome, believe me, in France to-day.”

“So I imagine.” Worrals stood up. “Well, give our compliments to Raoul when he comes in. If we are going to start early we had better try to get some sleep. We have had a long tramp, and we’re both a bit tired.”

Lucien moved sharply as footsteps crunched outside on the stony path. An instant later there came a furtive double knock, twice repeated, on the door.

“It’s Raoul—that is our signal,” said Lucien, advancing quickly to the door, and opening it to admit Raoul, Marquis de Lur Saronceau.

One glance at his expressive face and Worrals knew that danger threatened.

He wasted no time in salutations. Looking at Lucien he said crisply, “Duclos is coming this way. He walks like one on a definite errand. There are few houses at this end, so he may be coming here.”

Lucien moved quickly. He pushed open the kitchen door. “Inside, and remain still,” he told the girls quickly but calmly, throwing their bundles in after them.

“Who is Duclos?” asked Worrals tersely.

“The local gendarme. We think he is a Vichy man.”

There was no time for further explanations. Footsteps crunched again on the path. They were followed by a peremptory knock on the door.

Lucien closed the kitchen door, but did not fasten it, as he returned to the living-room, leaving the girls in darkness except for a narrow slit of yellow light that came through the crack between door and doorpost.

They heard the outer door opened, presumably by Raoul.

“Bon soir, messieurs,” said a thick voice.

Lucien answered. “Bon soir, Monsieur Duclos.”

“You keep late hours,” said Duclos, speaking, of course, in French.

“We have been reading, and did not notice that it was so late,” replied Lucien carelessly. “What can we do for you, m’sieur? A glass of wine perhaps?”

“Merci.”

There was a brief interval, and Worrals could imagine the gendarme surveying the room.

“What are you doing in these parts?” he asked.

“I thought everyone knew,” answered Lucien. “It is no secret. I came here to paint.”

“And this other?”

“He is my friend. He has been ill, and has come here for the air. We have not broken the regulations, I trust?”

“Why did you not report to me with your identity card?”

“I called twice, m’sieur, but you were not at home.” Lucien’s tone of voice was respectful.

“I’ll see them now.”

There was a rustle of paper.

“Monsieur Jean Lasalle ... and Pierre Sabatier,” murmured the gendarme, evidently reading from the identification cards, which Worrals guessed were false ones supplied by the British Intelligence Service.

“Our papers are in order, I trust, m’sieur?” said Lucien.

“Yes,” acknowledged Duclos—somewhat grudgingly, Worrals thought.

His next question startled her.

“Have you had visitors to-night, Monsieur Lasalle?”

“Me? Visitors? Here?” Lucien laughed. “The thought, if I may say so without offence, is fantastic.”

“Two strangers were seen making their way across the causses by—er—someone at Florac. He tried to follow, but lost them in the hills.”

Frecks nudged Worrals. She was shocked and disappointed that in spite of their efforts not to show themselves, they had been seen.

“I shall be in the hills, painting, to-morrow,” said Lucien. “If I see any strangers I will report to you immediately.”

“You would be well advised to do so,” said Duclos, gruffly.

“Who could they be, these strangers?” asked Raoul.

“That is no concern of yours,” replied Duclos, arrogantly.

“Spies, maybe?” suggested Lucien. “Is it possible that there would be spies in these parts, Monsieur Duclos? I am told you are the best informed man in Carnac, so if anyone should know, it would be you.”

“Little goes on that I do not know about,” declared Duclos smugly. “You would do well to remember that,” he added.

“We shall not forget, m’sieur,” said Lucien.

“Bien. Get to bed you two. Bon soir.”

“Bon soir, m’sieur.”

The door closed. For a little while silence persisted, then Lucien slipped quietly into the kitchen.

“You heard that?”

“You bet we did,” declared Worrals.

“You were seen, near Florac.”

“That was careless of us.”

“Not at all. There are eyes everywhere in France, by day and by night, watching. We shall have to be careful.”

“Was he suspicious, do you think?”

“It’s not easy to say, but I don’t think so. His manner stinks of Vichy. Like some others, he is all puffed up with his importance.”

“You don’t know for certain that he is a Vichy agent?”

“Little goes on that I do not know about,” declared Duclos smugly. “You would do well to remember that.”

“No. No one would dare to say it, but we were guided by the attitude of the village people. They avoid the man like the plague. They would know; their instinct would tell them, even without definite information. Remember, these people were persecuted on account of their religion for three hundred years. They were hunted like wild animals. There is nothing like persecution to make people shrewd judges of their fellow men, m’selle. They can be as close as oysters, too. Duclos, if he is a Vichy agent, won’t get much out of them. He hasn’t been here long. I trust he doesn’t try to—how do you say—throw his weight about, among the people here.”

“What would happen if he did?”

“I wouldn’t like to tell you. I will only say that the people of the Cévennes know how to deal with traitors.”

“Apart from the attitude of the people, is there anything else that makes you think that Duclos is concerned with Vichy?” inquired Frecks.

“No,” admitted Lucien. “But there are several things about this place that are not easy to understand. For many years the local gendarme has been one of the people. Until only six weeks ago it was a man named Lescure. He was known to everyone, and liked. Then came an order from Vichy calling for Frenchmen to work in Germany. Here, the order was ignored—it was certain to be. Lescure was called to Vichy. He went. He did not return. No one knows what became of him. Instead, there arrived in his place this fellow Duclos, who is known to no one. As a stranger he would in any case be distrusted for a long while, but he courts unpopularity by his official manner. That is all I know, except ...” Lucien hesitated. “There are no young men in this village. If there are, I have not seen them.”

Worrals frowned. “What are you suggesting?”

Lucien shrugged his shoulders in the expressive French manner. “Nothing. I only say what I have observed. One day I went to Drigas, on the other side of the Causse Méjean, and it was the same there. No young men—and very few old ones. Only women, who looked at me under their lids with eyes full of suspicion. It is strange. I feel that something is going on, but I could not even guess what it is.”

“I gather you’re not popular here?”

“No stranger is popular in the Cévennes. But what about you? You have been here before——”

“In the Cévennes, but not in this village.”

“Even so, are you not afraid of being recognised as the English girl who once came here?”

Worrals pondered the question, which had, in fact, already occurred to her. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “It was four years ago. I saw people, of course, but I doubt if they would remember me—except perhaps my old guide, Louis Capelle, who at that time lived in La Malene. He would recognise me if he saw me, but we were good friends and I don’t think he would betray me. He hated the German tourists, even in those days.”

Lucien smiled. “Probably because they did not tip him.”

“That may have had something to do with it,” admitted Worrals. “I suppose you haven’t tried to find out what has happened to the men of this place?”

“Name of a dog! Do you think I am mad? In the Cévennes a man would be crazy to walk about asking questions, trying to find out anything about anybody. They trust no one, these peasants, and they are handy with their weapons. It would be easier to get into your Bank of England than to see what is in their hearts. That is why I am afraid for Duclos. If he tries to find out——”

“Why should you be afraid for him?”

“Because if he starts poking his nose into things he will come to a bad end; and if, as we suspect, he is a Vichy man, we don’t want that to happen while we are here. You know what the Nazis do in a case like that?”

“Yes, I know,” said Worrals quietly. “But the hour grows late, Lucien. We really must get some sleep.”

“Yes. I am sorry that this should have happened on your first night. Bon soir, mademoiselle. A demain.”

“Goodnight Lucien—goodnight Raoul.”

Lucien went out and closed the door.

“We’re going to have trouble with that fellow Duclos,” prophesied Frecks as she stretched herself out on the sacks.