Читать книгу Worrals Flies Again - W E Johns - Страница 5

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Worrals, not without an effort, kept her head.

“Monsieur Mundier,” she said coldly, “let us remain calm. Where are the Germans now?”

“In the great hall, where they sleep on straw,” answered the old man.

“How many are there?”

“Fifty, with two officers.”

“Have they made any attempt to go into the cellars?”

“Yes. They went looking for wine, but there was none—nor has been for many a year.”

Worrals drew a deep breath, perceiving how narrow had been her escape. Had she arrived a day earlier the aircraft would have been in the cellars, and discovered.

“How long are these Germans staying?” she asked.

Monsieur Mundier shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “As if they would tell me.”

“Very well, we shall have to make the best of it,” declared Worrals.

“But you will not stay here now?” The old man looked aghast.

“Why not? I haven’t come all the way here just to go home again.”

Lucien—she realised that the youth must be he—again laughed his hideous laugh.

“I wish you’d ask your son not to make that unpleasant noise,” snapped Worrals irritably, for her nerves were on edge.

“He does it all the time,” answered the old man despondently.

“Where is the entrance to the cellars?”

“Some way from here.”

“Is it possible to put my plane in—I can’t leave it in the field?”

Monsieur Mundier thought for a moment. “It might be. The Germans have a sentry by the stables.”

“Listen, monsieur,” said Worrals firmly, “My plane is in the field in front of the house. At dawn it will be seen, so we can’t leave it there. We must put it in the cellar. Is it possible to do that without approaching too close to the sentry?”

“It might be.”

“I wish you’d try to be a little more definite,” muttered Worrals. “If once we can get the plane out of sight, I can change my clothes. We can then take our place here as your nieces who have called to pay our respects. My friend will be getting anxious.”

Monsieur Mundier started. “What? Are there two of you?”

“Yes.”

The old man groaned and threw up his hands.

“I can’t see that it makes any difference whether there are one or two,” snapped Worrals. “One thing is certain—I have got to put the plane away. And the sooner I get out of this uniform the better. Will you please show me the entrance to the cellars?”

“You must not use the engine.”

“That won’t be necessary. If you’ll help we can pull it—it is small and light.”

Madame Mundier now entered the conversation, and she did so with a firmness of purpose that gave Worrals new hope. Frenchwomen, she knew, were resourceful and practical—often more so than their male companions.

“Come, mademoiselle, I will show you,” said madame, taking off her apron and throwing it on a chair. “Lucien will help us. He is not as foolish as he looks.”

Lucien chuckled, a sound that made Worrals wince. “Yes, I’ll help. I know all the places,” he gurgled, rubbing his hands in joyful anticipation.

Worrals would rather have dispensed with his assistance, but she felt that already too much time had been lost in argument. “Come on, then,” she said tersely. “Let us go. And madame—and you monsieur—if I am to be your niece you had better start calling me Jeanne. Madame, you lead, and take the shortest way to the field beyond the elm trees. The aeroplane is there.”

“Entendu!” Madame Mundier strode to the door. Worrals followed. Lucien brought up the rear.

“You stay here Papa, in case the Boches come and want something,” said madame from the door. “We must keep them in a good temper.”

“That’s sound policy,” agreed Worrals.

In single file they went down the corridor to the door by which Worrals had entered. Closing this behind them, madame skirted the end wall and took a steep path downwards which Worrals would not have suspected was there, and would have hesitated to take had she found it. It was, said madame, the depression that once formed the moat. Hugging the wall, which was built of enormous blocks of stone, she touched in passing an iron grille beyond which yawned an inky cavity. “The dungeons,” said she.

Lucien caught up with Worrals. “I show them to you some day,” he babbled.

Worrals thanked him with a warmth that was entirely insincere. She had no love for places of horror at any time—certainly not with a half-wit for a companion.

Meanwhile, Madame Mundier went on and, climbing a bank near the fallen drawbridge, struck off across the overgrown gardens. She paused before an old stone seat, and touched a deep groove in the carved arm.

“They say,” said she, “that your English King Richard made that mark as he sat here sharpening the edge of his sword.”

“Richard? Not Richard Cœur de Lion?” whispered Worrals, remembering that the great king died in the year 1199.

“That is what they say,” replied madame calmly. “He was buried not far from here. It was a chapel then. Afterwards it was a prison for the military; now it is an internment camp. Times change.”

“As you say,” answered Worrals, “times change.” Horrified at the thought that so great an English king should find a last resting place in such a spot, she wondered vaguely what he would think could he return to life and see war in its modern, brutal form. But there was little time for such poignant reverie. Madame strode on like one who knew every inch of the ground—as, indeed, she had every reason to, and, traversing a glade, came to the edge of the field.

Worrals could just make out the indistinct outline of the aircraft. She now took the lead and walked rapidly towards it. As she approached, Frecks, who must have been on the watch, emerged.

“For the love of Mike!” she exclaimed angrily. “What on earth have you been doing?”

“Fixing things up,” answered Worrals. “There is an unexpected development.”

“What is it?”

“The Huns are in residence.”

Frecks nearly swallowed her chewing gum. She spat it out quickly. “What did you say?”

“I said the Nazis have parked themselves on us. However, it may not be for long—we hope not, at any rate. Let’s fold the wings. We’re going to put the machine in the cellars. You’d better get under the tail, Frecks,” went on Worrals, when they were ready to move. She then placed madame and her son in the best positions and gave the order to march. Madame indicated the direction. The work was not particularly heavy, but it was slow, and Worrals was glad when at last they halted at the base of the towering pile. She was anxious to see just what accommodation there was for the machine, how it was arranged, and how inconspicuous, or otherwise, was the entrance to the cellars. Madame Mundier was unbarring heavy double doors, and she made a good deal of noise about it. The hinges, when she dragged the doors open, positively screamed. “It is all right; the Germans are too far away to hear,” she said calmly. “This part of the château is all in ruins.”

“All the same, we’ll have a spot of oil on those hinges to-morrow,” declared Worrals.

No effort was required to move the aircraft into the cellar. Indeed, exertion was required to prevent it from running in too fast, for a stone ramp inclined downwards.

“In the great days of the wine harvest the horses, with their loads of grapes, came right in,” announced madame.

Once inside Worrals switched on her torch, and was amazed at what she saw. The vaulted chambers seemed to stretch away from the entrance in all directions for a great distance, so far that the extremities were lost in darkness. Old wine presses, and enormous vats, cobweb-draped and mostly fallen into ruin, spoke eloquently of the former importance of the château.

“If the ceiling was a bit higher you could park a dozen Halifaxes in here,” declared Worrals in an awed whisper. “What a place! It’s a bit too spooky for me, though.”

She spoke in English, but Lucien, standing some distance away, laughed his horrible cackle.

Frecks clutched Worrals’ arm. “What on earth was that?” she gasped.

“Only Lucien,” returned Worrals. “It’s a habit of his. You’ll get used to it.”

Frecks wiped imaginary perspiration from her brow. “Oh, no I shan’t,” she muttered. “Don’t ever leave me alone with him.”

“He’s harmless,” asserted Worrals with more assurance than she felt.

Lucien came forward. “Bon, eh?” he chuckled.

“Magnifique,” agreed Worrals, taking the suitcases out of the dicky seat. “That’s all we need do here to-night, madame,” she went on. “We’ll go inside now and change our clothes. By the way, is it possible to get down into these cellars from the château?”

“Yes,” Lucien answered. He chuckled. “I’ll show you.”

“Ah-huh,” grunted Frecks. “Not me, you won’t.”

They left the cellars by the outside doors, and, having closed these, the girls followed madame back to the room where Worrals had found the family. It was an enormous place, in proportion with the size of the building. Monsieur Mundier was stirring the soup with the wooden spoon. He glanced up as the others entered. “Is all well?” he asked anxiously.

“Yes,” answered his wife.

“Good. Now let the girls change their clothes and forget that they are English,” said the old man. “They must do it at once. The Boches may come in here.”

Madame Mundier nodded, and invited the girls to follow her across the kitchen to a narrow door beyond which a stairway of the type known as spiral wound upwards into darkness. It seemed to go up interminably, crossing several broad stone corridors, but eventually ended in a chamber furnished with antiques which Worrals did not doubt were genuine. The room was spotlessly clean, but most of the furniture was in a bad state of repair. Some tapestry work had crumbled to dust. A huge four-poster bed, in which six people could have slept, occupied about a third of the room. One tiny window, over which madame made haste to draw a curtain, for she was carrying a candle, overlooked the gardens towards the distant river.

“You will be comfortable here—yes?” enquired madame anxiously.

“Perfectly comfortable, thank you,” replied Worrals.

“Good. Then I will leave you to change. Put your uniforms where they will not be found should anyone come here. Afterwards, keep straight on down the stairs and they will bring you back to the kitchen. There will be soup waiting. Take no notice of my husband. He is upset, I think, because girls have come to do the work. Au revoir.”

“Merci, madame.” Worrals threw open her suitcase and from it took the clothes she proposed to wear during her sojourn in France. The two main garments were a well-worn skirt and blouse, of medium quality, both of which were, in fact, of French make, for she had bought them while on holiday in that country. They were precisely the garments worn by the majority of young middle-class French girls, and she had no fear of their being questioned. The fact that they were well worn was an added advantage, for she had no desire to appear smart. On the other hand, she dare not look slovenly, for the simple reason that no French girl, whatever her social position, turns out looking untidy—a characteristic for which instinctive skill with the needle may be largely responsible. She had lent to Frecks an ordinary cotton frock, bought at a French seaside resort; it fitted well, but had also seen better days. The change complete, uniforms were packed away, and the girls regarded each other, Frecks with a smile, Worrals in more serious mood. She had no delusions as to the danger of their occupation, and bore the weight of her responsibility with the gravity it demanded.

“I think we’ll do,” she remarked. “We may as well go down now and dig ourselves in with the family.”

“Isn’t it getting rather late?”

“No matter. We needn’t stay long,” Worrals pointed out. “We’ll just exchange references, so to speak, and have a bowl of soup.”

“I wish things were a bit more normal,” muttered Frecks. “I find it hard to feel at home with these people.”

“The old couple are all right,” declared Worrals. “They’re typically French. We shall soon get to know them. Lucien, with that crazy laugh of his, is going to be a pain in the neck, I’m afraid, but we can’t do anything about it. It isn’t his fault, anyway. No doubt, if we humour him he’ll be all right. He probably has bad patches—he seemed sane enough when we were towing the machine in. It’s unfortunate that these Nazi troops are here, but on a job like this, as we know only too well, the unexpected is always happening. The thing is to be ready for anything, and take it as it comes.”

“Suppose we bump into these Boches?”

“Just behave normally—there’s nothing else we can do. Maybe they won’t worry us. There’s a chance that we may pick up some useful information from them—information useful to our own people I mean. Come on, let’s go down.”

Taking the candle in her hand, Worrals led the way downstairs. “These stone walls are a bit grim,” she observed.

“You’re telling me,” returned Frecks sarcastically.

“We shall get used to them.”

“I hope so,” returned Frecks fervently.

“From now on we speak French,” reminded Worrals. “Don’t forget yourself and start babbling English. Also remember that we’re sisters, and that I’m a year older than you are. I’m Jeanne, and you’re Marie.”

As they descended the final flight of steps the faint murmur of voices reached them from the other side of the heavy door.

“Now for it,” muttered Worrals. “Behave naturally.”

So saying she pushed the door open and looked into the kitchen. She saw at once that more visitors had arrived. Half-standing, half-sitting on the edge of the massive refectory table with the confident assurance of conquerors, bowls of soup in their hands, were two German officers. They glanced up as Worrals approached. One raised his eyebrows in surprise. Then he smiled.

“Bon soir, mademoiselle,” he said in atrocious French—or rather, with an accent that could be cut.

Worrals smiled in turn. “Bon soir, monsieur,” she returned evenly, and stepped into the room.

“Entendu!” Madame Mundier strode to the door. Worrals followed. Lucien brought up the rear.

“You stay here Papa, in case the Boches come and want something.”