Читать книгу Worrals on the War-path - W E Johns - Страница 9

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Worrals, who had slept the sound sleep that follows vigorous mental and physical exercise, was awakened by Lucien shaking her gently by the shoulder.

“Six o’clock, mademoiselle. In half an hour it will begin to get light.”

Worrals was wide awake on the instant. “Thanks, Lucien. We’ll be with you in ten minutes. You’ll find a tin of coffee in my bag.” She nudged Frecks. “On your feet, partner.”

In ten minutes they joined Lucien and Raoul in the gloomy candle-lit living-room, and sat down to a frugal breakfast of coffee and rye bread.

“Have you formed a definite plan yet?” Lucien asked Worrals, as he dipped bread into his coffee.

“More or less,” answered Worrals. “I presume you have told Raoul the object of our visit?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Our job then, is to establish a landing ground for aircraft. There is such a place, I think, on the western side of the Causse Méjean, close against the Gorge du Tarn, where I have a clear recollection of a fairly level plain, with no obstructions except some small pieces of loose rock that could easily be cleared away. The place is bounded on the Tarn side by some fairly big outcrops of stone, in which there is a fissure that leads to a cave. I happen to know of it because one day when I was out walking with my old guide, Louis Capelle, we were caught in a squall; he showed it to me and we took refuge there. You would never suspect it was there from the outside. If my memory is not at fault the spot should suit our purpose admirably. I propose to have a look at it right away. You’d better come with us, Lucien, so that you will know just where we are.”

“And Raoul?”

“He’d better stay here to keep an eye on things.”

“I think that would be wise,” agreed Lucien. “Are you coming back here afterwards?”

“No. It is my intention to fix up quarters in the cave, if it turns out as I hope. Not only shall we be on the spot to start work, but we shall relieve you of our presence, which, if we were seen, might become embarrassing. I shall take all our kit along, and as much food as you can spare. You can bring us more if you can get some. I have arranged for some to be brought in the transport plane, so we should be all right after its first visit.”

“You’ll find it cold, sleeping in the cave.”

“Can you spare us a couple of blankets?”

“Yes.”

“Then we shall be all right. We ought to be able to find brushwood near the gorge, and make a bed of it. After we are settled, you can, under the pretence of painting a picture, visit us every day, bringing us news—if there is any. When the plane arrives we shall need your help to stow the equipment.”

“When will the plane arrive?”

“Any time after we send the signal to say that we are ready.”

“You mean—radio?”

“Radio-telegraphy.”

“Dangerous.”

“There is no other way. A pre-arranged group of letters will signify that we are ready. We shan’t be on the air long enough for the enemy to pick us up.”

“I hope you are right. Will the pilot know where you are?”

“He knows we shall be on the west side of the Causse Méjean. We shall have to make a flare path with torches, which I have brought for the purpose, to show him the actual runway.”

“I see.”

Worrals finished her coffee. “And now, if everyone is ready, we had better be on our way. We must be clear of the village before dawn breaks. I am going to take the path that runs from the Plaine de Carnac to St. Prejet, leaving it just before we get to the elbow of the Tarn. If we hold south from there it will bring us to the place I have in mind.” Worrals picked up her bundle. “You had better make sure no one is about, Lucien.”

Lucien went to the door, opened it quietly, and surveyed the deserted track. “All clear,” he whispered. “Au revoir, Raoul. Should Duclos come along asking questions tell him that I am painting in the causse.”

“Oui. Au revoir.”

In a few minutes the little party, with Worrals leading, was striding along the mountain path that wound upwards through grey outcrops of weathered limestone towards the top of the causse. It was still dark, but the stars were being extinguished in the east by the first pale flush of dawn. The air, new-washed with dew, was clean and fresh, fragrant with the aroma of herbs that clung to wherever they could find a foothold—wild lavender, shrubby rosemary, and thyme.

For a little while they walked in silence. Then Worrals said quietly to Frecks, “When I last climbed this path I told Louis Capelle that one day I would come back. I meant it, but I little guessed what the conditions would be. It does something to me, this mountain air. I feel I could walk for ever.”

She halted at a great shoulder of rock and gazed down on the village that nestled in a secluded corner of the massif. Here and there a light showed, as though the cottages were opening their eyes for another day. A cock crowed. A goat bleated.

“This is where we leave the village behind us,” said Worrals, and continued on her way, still climbing towards the jagged ridge of rock that marked the skyline.

It was light by the time they reached it, the brilliant white light of southern France, and Frecks caught her breath at the scene that greeted her. In the foreground was the plateau of the causse, a comparatively level expanse that reminded her vaguely of some of the wilder parts of Dartmoor; only here it was more bleak; the herbage was sparse, and the rocks were on a grander scale. All around, some near, some far, mountains reared gaunt peaks into the turquoise sky.

Pointing, Worrals named some of them. “Mont Mezenc—Pic de Finiels—Gerbier de Joncs, and the wide-spreading Aigoual.”

“Wonderful,” breathed Frecks. “I feel that I am on top of the world.”

“You are on top of France,” answered Worrals, and went on, still keeping to the track.

After they had gone about a mile Lucien uttered a warning “Hist!”

The girls stopped. “What is it?” asked Worrals.

“A man.”

“Where?”

“He’s gone now.” Lucien was staring at a distant outcrop which, far over to the right, thrust into the skyline like a row of broken teeth. “I saw a movement. It might have been a straying sheep, but I feel sure that it was a man.”

“A shepherd, perhaps?”

“Perhaps.”

The little party moved on again in silence, marching at a steady pace for about twenty minutes, when Worrals, after a thoughtful reconnaissance of the landscape, turned sharply to the left.

“This is where we leave the track,” she announced. “I don’t think we shall see anyone—at least, Louis told me that no one ever came here.”

For some distance the causse was plentifully bestrewn with boulders, but these became smaller and smaller, and finally dwindled away altogether, leaving a wide expanse of level rock, from the crannies of which grew a short wiry grass.

“This is the place,” announced Worrals. “We are at least three miles from the nearest cottage, as the crow flies—farther, of course, by the track. If you look across to the far side of the causse, beyond the level area immediately in front of us, about half a mile away, you will see over to the right a jumble of big rocks, looking as though they had been thrown down carelessly by a giant. The entrance to the cave is among them. This open stretch is, of course, the proposed landing ground. Just beyond the rocks, the causse drops sheer into the Tarn, a matter of a thousand feet, so watch your step if you go wandering about at night. Let’s go across.”

“This is certainly a ready-made aerodrome,” declared Frecks, as they walked across the plateau.

“That’s what I thought when I put forward my suggestion,” replied Worrals. “No one who hasn’t been here would guess that such a place existed. That’s where travel is so helpful.”

They went on to the ridge of weather-worn rock that formed a barrier between the plateau and the Gorge of the Tarn. After hunting about for a little while Worrals found the cave, which from the outside looked like a mere crack in the limestone.

“Lucien, you sit here and keep guard, in case anyone should show up,” suggested Worrals. “It might be a good thing if you really started a painting; if you were questioned it would bear out your assertion that you are an artist.”

Lucien smiled. “Very well, but I won’t promise that my picture will prove me to be an artist.” He settled down on a boulder, and opening a box of oil colours began to paint.

Worrals led the way into the cave, which, after starting as a mere water conduit, quickly widened out to a cavity of considerable dimensions and unknown depth.

“How far does it go?” asked Frecks.

“I’ve no idea,” answered Worrals. “Louis and I merely took shelter here from the rain. I was already too wet to bother about exploring.”

“It seems to go right down into the heart of the causse,” declared Frecks, probing the darkness with a torch.

“What does it matter?” returned Worrals. “The part that we can see will be all that we shall need. It will hold a dickens of a lot of petrol.” She lit a candle.

The girls unrolled their bundles, spread their blankets, and for a time busied themselves in making preparations for a troglodyte existence. Worrals found a recess for her portable radio, and concealed it behind a stack of loose rock. Happening to turn, she saw Frecks staring fixedly into the dim recesses of the cave.

“What are you doing?” asked Worrals.

“I could swear I saw something move, down there,” answered Frecks nervously.

“Rot. If you’re going to start seeing things you had better go back with Lucien,” snapped Worrals.

Frecks said nothing, but she did not look convinced.

As soon as the preparations were complete Worrals turned to Frecks and observed: “Well, that seems to be as much as we can do, for the time being at any rate.”

“What are we going to do for the rest of the day?”

“Nothing in particular. There isn’t as much loose rock about on the runway as I expected.”

“How about exploring the cave?”

“I don’t see much point in it,” protested Worrals. “It would be better to have a good look round outside, and make ourselves thoroughly acquainted with the place from every angle.”

“When are you going to let headquarters know that we are prepared to receive the transport plane?”

“To-night, probably, when we are sure that we are really settled in. Once we send the message we must stick to the arrangement.”

The rest of the day passed without incident. Lucien finished his sketch, an impression of the causse, which was so good that it brought an exclamation of pleasure from Worrals. A runway was cleared of loose rock; there were only a few small pieces—a trivial task. As the sun fell towards the western horizon a chilly breeze came creeping down from the mountains to settle on the plateau.

“Autumn is in the air,” remarked Lucien, as he put his things together preparatory to departure. “I don’t want to be an alarmist, but unless I’m mistaken that wind has snow on its wings.”

A moment after he had said the words a gunshot crashed, shattering the silence and sending a cloud of rocks and ravens wheeling high into the air above the gorge. So unexpected was the sound, and so violent was the report in the thin air, even though it was obviously some distance away, that everyone jumped. Worrals, after a quick glance at Lucien, scrambled to the top of the rock outcrop, which she knew must command a view across the gorge. The others followed, and when they reached the crest, threw themselves flat to make a careful survey of the landscape beyond. But they saw no sign of movement—apart from the birds that drifted like autumn leaves to their ledges among the rocks.

“Now, what do you make of that, Lucien?” asked Worrals anxiously.

“Someone shooting a rabbit, perhaps.”

“But I thought the people of France were forbidden to possess firearms?”

“That is true, but this is the Cévennes. It would need more than a Nazi regulation to make them give up their weapons.”

“Just where did the sound come from, do you think?”

“It seemed to me to come from the direction of the village—just this side of it.”

“That’s what I thought,” put in Frecks.

“Well, it’s no use getting upset about it,” resumed Worrals philosophically. “It gave me a bit of a shock though. You’d better be getting back, Lucien.”

“Yes, I think so,” agreed Lucien. “If you want me let me know. If I don’t hear from you in the meantime I’ll be along to-morrow morning, with, I hope, some more food. Au revoir.” He set off on the return journey to the village.

As the girls made their way slowly to the cave, Frecks remarked, with a shiver, “Queer what a difference the light makes. In the broad light of day this place is really rather striking, but at this time of the evening there is something almost evil about it. It’s sort of—menacing.”

“You get that feeling anywhere, where it is desolate, lonely, as this is.” As she spoke Worrals turned her back on the plateau and went into the cave. Suddenly she stopped, and stooping quickly, picked up something from the floor.

“What is it?” asked Frecks quickly, taking alarm from Worrals’ manner.

Worrals did not answer—at least, not in words. Instead, she held out her hand, palm upwards. On it lay a small round object.

“It’s a button,” said Frecks.

“Yes—a button,” answered Worrals in a curious voice, peering into the cavern.

“It isn’t off me—or you,” said Frecks.

“Nor is it off Lucien’s jacket,” averred Worrals. “This button is made of horn—a home-made one, by the look of it.”

“You mean—you mean, someone has been here ... while we were out?”

Worrals thought for a moment. “Not necessarily. The shepherds must know of this place. It was probably here when we arrived.”

“If it had been, surely we should have seen it—just as you saw it a moment ago?”

“Perhaps,” agreed Worrals slowly. “Perhaps not.”

Frecks stared down the cave, then looked back at Worrals. “This place is beginning to give me the creeps,” she muttered, moistening her lips.

Outside, twilight was fast closing in. Worrals went to the mouth of the cave and looked out across the melancholy landscape. Suddenly she stiffened. “Someone’s coming this way,” she said tersely.

Frecks, looking over her shoulder, rapped out, “It’s Raoul. By the way he’s behaving something has happened.”

Raoul, running like a man who is nearly spent, was making his way along the foot of the rock barrier. From time to time he stopped to look about him.

“He’s looking for us,” declared Worrals, and running into the open she waved her hand.

Raoul saw her at once, and made an answering signal. In another minute, panting like a runner at the end of a race, he was with them.

“Lucien?” he gasped. “Where is Lucien?”

“He’s gone—didn’t you meet him?” asked Worrals tersely.

“No. I took a short cut. I was in a hurry to get here. Sacré Dieu! Have I missed him after all?”

“He will be back in the village by now,” said Worrals.

Raoul threw up his hands in a despairing gesture.

“What has happened?” asked Worrals.

“It’s Duclos,” panted Raoul. “He’s been shot—murdered.”