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and the woman caught it between them in a flurry of exclamations and curses. The infant was hanging upside down when its fall was eventually arrested. The mother began shouting at the policeman above the baby's howls. The man protested that it was not his fault. Ormerod, left unattended, walked away.
Outside the station they hurried through the dusk. Marie-Thérèse
's face was white. 'No signature,' she cursed under her
breath. 'For God's sake!'
Ormerod realized he was still trembling. They had reached
a newspaper-seller's kiosk outside the station enclosure. A man
reading a magazine touched the arm of Marie-Thérèse and she
put her hand out to stop Ormerod.
'I am Raymond,' said the man quietly. He was thin and studious. His face stooped towards them. 'Is there trouble?'
'Some trouble,' replied Marie-Thérèse.
'We will leave quickly,' said Raymond. Two bicycle-taxis
were at the kerb. Raymond called to them and they pedalled
towards the trio.
'Take that one,' said the newcomer. He was careful and calm.
Ormerod and Marie-Thérèse climbed into the odd cart. Ormerod had a quick vision of getting into one of the cars of
the big wheel at a fairground. The bicyclist began to pedal
laboriously. Raymond was in the
velo-taxi
in front. 'Follow him,' Marie-Thérèse said to the driver.
It was a strange, slow-motion journey. It had rained and the
city was damp and cold. Ormerod wondered if the policeman at the Gare St Lazare would have searched for him, raised an alarm, or just dismissed the matter as a minor occurrence. He felt like the slowest fugitive in the world.
The bicycle rider puffed in the moist air as they travelled through the almost vacant city. Few people were on the pave
ments. There was a light in the door of a church and the
Sunday afternoon worshippers were coming out, turning their
collars up as they left. An occasional military vehicle, the stark
black cross on its flank, moved through the gloom.
The journey ended in the Rue des Plantes, a street in a district afterwards renowned for its resistance activities. The
adjoining Avenue Jean Moulin was named, in later times, after the most effective and dauntless underground agent of all those
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dangerous years, a man who died in triumph at the hands of
the Gestapo. The Avenue du Général Leclerc, re-named after
another hero of the Free French, is in the same vicinity.
In a third floor apartment in the Rue des Plantes, Ormerod
and Marie-Thérèse once more found themselves in the company
of Jean Le Blanc. The two men who had gone to Moulin-en-Ceil from Paris were also there, and three others, excluding Raymond. As Ormerod came through the door after Marie-TheYese he smiled wryly at Le Blanc. 'Had a nice day?' he said.
'An excellent day,
Monsieur l'Anglais'
said Le Blanc with
his own cleft smile. 'Twenty-three Nazi soldiers killed, accord
ing to our information, and eighteen more wounded. They will
play no more tunes in that band.'
'What about the French children?' said Ormerod, sitting down. 'They got clear?'
'Every one. They were not harmed.'
'No thanks to you, mate.'
'We did not know they were there,' shrugged Le Blanc bluntly. 'In any case, French parents should not let their children run along with the occupier's forces.' He looked around the room. 'It was a good victory,' he said in French. "The best so far against the Boche.' He turned to the tall Raymond. 'The trains are running well, Raymond,' he said. 'The Germans make them run on time.'
'It is as well,' replied Raymond. 'Moving about in France
today, and especially moving quickly, would be impossible
without them. You had no trouble?'
'Nothing,' smiled Le Blanc. 'They just checked papers at the
Gare St Lazare. I even sat in a compartment with three Nazi
airmen. We travelled together from Chartres. I smiled at them
all the way.'
Ormerod sat looking at the group. The three additional men did not look like the nucleus of a guerrilla group. One was young and staring through heavy spectacles, a second had the
premature roundness of a grocer and the third kept picking his
nose nervously. For his part, Ormerod, while not encouraged by the aspect of the company, felt suddenly more assured himself. In a city, once more in surroundings with which he
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somehow felt familiar and comfortable, he began to feel like a policeman again. It was as though he had abruptly grown a new coat. He had gone through all the death in the countryside and all the running and now he was there in Paris. And in Paris was also Albert Smales.
'We have a committee of action in each
arrondissement,'
said the stooping Raymond, looking at him and speaking in English. He seemed anxious to establish their credibility. 'Each college and factory has its committee. I am a tutor at the university and I know that the students are planning a demonstration in the Place de L'Etoile and the Champs-Elysees - on Armistice Day next month. The Germans are nervous. They have some foolish hope there will be no trouble in Paris. We are planning a newspaper to be circulated secretly. Acts of sabotage are to be co-ordinated. There is a supply of weapons and ammunition which is growing each day. Yes, our conquerors are very anxious.' He laughed quietly. I think they have us just where we want them.'
The girl and the others were watching him closely. But Ormerod was impatient. When Raymond paused and looked around Ormerod interrupted. 'I find all this very interesting, monsieur,' he said with his finger raised like a schoolboy. 'But I would like to ask a question.'
Raymond raised his scholarly eyebrows. He was not used to being interrupted. 'Monsieur?' he said a little testily. Marie-Thérèse looked impatiently towards Ormerod. A sneer wriggled across the face of Le Blanc.
I am looking for a man called Albert Smales,' said Ormerod in his best police manner. I have reason to think you know where he is.'
Raymond looked at him over the top of his spectacles. Just as formally he said: I am aware, monsieur, that you have an interest in Albert Smales. This has been transmitted to me. He has been here in Paris working with us for some time. At one time we considered he would be a valuable member of our group.'
Ormerod felt the hair on the back of his head twitch. 'Smales,' he said slowly, 'is wanted for questioning in connection with a murder in London.'
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The men all smiled at that. Raymond's smile was of exag
gerated patience. Marie-Thérèse looked embarrassed. Raymond
glanced at the others, then made his own decision.
'Monsieur,' he said, 'we are aware that this man Smales is a criminal. We are also aware of something we did not know before - that he is a risk to our security. He is a man who, if
the circumstances were right, if he were in a trap or if he were offered enough money, would betray us. We have needed to watch him very carefully. So we are not, as you say, very fond
of him.'
Ormerod sniffed. 'He's a difficult man to like.'
'Exactly. But for the moment we need him. You see, in this district as in all districts of Paris, we are just beginning to be
organized. And to be organized and to carry out the warfare
that we want to carry out against the Nazis, we need money. In the future we hope that our friends in England and other places
will provide it. But for the present we must find it ourselves. And the only way we can obtain enough money for our needs is by robbery.' He watched Ormerod's reaction. The English policeman regarded him sternly. Raymond smiled and continued. 'We plan to take some cash from a French bank in the next few days and for this we need your friend Smales. We
need an experienced criminal, monsieur. We are from several
professions, but none of us is in the profession of crime. Smales
is. Already he has planned the raid in detail for us. After it is all over and we have the money - then you can have him, monsieur. He will be all yours.'
Ormerod took it all in. Eventually he said: 'Well, you couldn't have a better villain than your friend. I must say I never thought I'd be told the details of an armed robbery before it happened. That's war does that, I suppose.'
'War changes many things,' agreed Raymond. He looked hard at Ormerod and said, to the Englishman's surprise, 'I can arrange for you to have a conversation with Smales if you like.'
'Oh, can you?' beamed Ormerod. 'Now that would be very nice. I'd like that. Where is the bastard?'
'I will take you to him. It will be expected that you leave your gun behind.'
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Ormerod shrugged. 'That's all right. I've never questioned a
suspect with a gun yet. Will he have his?' 'No. We will make sure of that.' 'Good. All right then. I'll look forward to it' 'And there is one more thing, monsieur. You said a few
moments ago that you had never been told of a robbery before
it happened. As a policeman, are you worried about your
attitude to a criminal act like this?'
'Well you must admit, it's a bit odd. It's civil crime, even if
it is a good cause. I'm not sure what my position ought to be.' 'When the time comes,' smiled Raymond without humour,
'we will tell you your position. You will be taking part.'
On the following afternoon, when it was getting towards the early dusk, Raymond called at the apartment in the Rue des Plantes. 'Monsieur Smales will be able to see you in half an hour,' he said.
'Very good of him,' said Ormerod. 'Was it difficult to get an
appointment?' He had slept in a small room in the company of four rabbits in a cage. Raymond smiled.
'You had plenty of friends last night.'
'You're not joking,' grumbled Ormerod. 'I didn't realize rabbits made so much noise. God knows what they were up to in the dark. And they smell a bit too.'
Raymond shrugged. 'Many houses and apartments have
rabbits now,' he said. 'Or even chickens. In this apartment we
hope to have them breeding. Before very long they may be our
meat for Christmas dinner and other special days.'
'I suppose I should be grateful it's not goats,' said Ormerod. He followed Raymond from the door and they descended the straight staircase to the street.
They walked together studiously through the misty district.
'Smales is in an unusual place,' said Raymond quietly. 'Not a
very pretty situation. But very safe. You will see.'
They reached the circus of the Place Denfert-Rochereau,
ghostly with all the traffic gone. A few bicycles wheeled slowly
around it and there were pedestrians moving like shadows on
the pavements. 'This was once called the
Place d'Enfer,'
said
Raymond. 'The Place of Hell.
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Moments later Ormerod understood why. From the damp street they descended some leaf-thick steps into a dark and gloomy passage. Raymond opened an iron grille door and a strange smell assailed Ormerod's nostrils. He had smelled it before but not in that particular bouquet. It was the smell of death.
'Where's this?' he said in a seemly whisper. 'A graveyard?'
Raymond produced a torch and led the way down a long, ominous passage sloping below the ground. The Frenchman
kept the torch just ahead of his feet but after a few minutes he stopped Ormerod with a touch of his hand and then turned the
torch and swung it around the walls. Ormerod jumped. They
were in a galleried chamber, and everywhere, grimacing down,
were skulls, row on row on row, each with their attendant
crossed bones. 'Bloody hell,' breathed Ormerod. 'Where's this?'
'Hell, as you say,' replied Raymond, sweeping the torch about
the grisly ranks. 'The Catacombs. All the ancient dead of Paris.
It is quite a population. This is going to prove a useful place for the resistance movement. Here we are to make our headquarters.'
'Smales is down here?'
'Yes. You will need to find him. But he is somewhere. We
brought him here today to meet you.'
'Appropriate place,' sniffed Ormerod, still looking around. 'Are you staying to hold my hand?'
Raymond laughed dryly. 'No, I shall leave you with the
torch and with Monsieur Smales. You must become acquainted.
But, please remember, there must be no violence. We need him.'
'The British copper doesn't do that,' said Ormerod smugly. 'We don't believe in roughing people up. Not all that much anyway. Not generally.'
Without a further word the torch was placed in his hands.
Raymond muttered a casual
'au revoir'
and walked away from
him up the macabre passage. Eventually, in the distance, the
iron grille door closed. Ormerod was surprised to find himself
sweating. He swung the torch around the great grinning gallery
of skulls. 'Evening everybody,' he recited.
He began to walk slowly, deeper into the ossuary. His
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clothes felt damp inside. The skulls and the bones went on and on like some nightmare wallpaper. It was amazing how alike everyone looked after a few years of death. 'Smales!' he sud
denly shouted. "Where are you, Smales?'
The echo seemed fragmented as if it were jumping in and out
of the thousands of human crevices. There was no reply. He stepped a few more paces. He attempted to console himself by
grinning back at the skulls as they came into view. 'Smales,
lad,' he called again with professional mock-persuasiveness.
'Come on out. It's the police.'
Abruptly there was a movement like the brush of a shoe on the ground. Then another. 'Just a few routine questions, Smales!' he called again as he paused. 'Nothing to worry about. Just routine.'