The Cyclist (27 page)

Minutes passed, he realised he was shivering, not with cold but a more basic emotion. He was scared. Then he heard it. It was a whimper. A cry of pain but low in volume, short of strength. Auguste stood then and made his way towards the sound. The moon emerged from behind a cloud and scarcely visible, he saw a shadow on the ground, beside the old pine. It looked as if someone had dumped a sack of waste. He knew what it was.

He approached the body with caution. His eyes, used to the gloom, sought his assailant’s hands. The man lay face down. He began to stir. Auguste groped in the dark around the injured man. His heart leapt when he found the gun. It was a Luger. German SD issue.

Reaching for the man, he turned him over.

The pale face, almost indistinguishable, seemed familiar. It puzzled Auguste.

‘Who are you?’ he said.

The man groaned.

‘Who are you? Auguste said, but louder this time and he shook the man’s shoulder.

‘Where am I?’ the man said.

‘Claude? What in Heaven and Hell, are you doing here? You fired at me.’

‘I... I remember now. My head...’

‘Here let me look.’

Auguste lit a match. Claude’s head was drenched in blood. The bullet, by luck not design, had creased his skull, leaving a long gash at the side above his ear.

‘Can you sit up?’

He propped Claude against the tree. He wondered what the boy knew.

‘What are you doing here?’

He had to lean close to hear.

‘I... I followed you. Watching your house for days. I saw you with the partisan.’

‘Why follow me?’

‘Orders.’

‘I give you your orders. Who ordered you?’

Silence.

Auguste shook his injured colleague.

‘Who ordered you?

‘Brunner.’

‘Brunner? But why?’

‘He knows you are linked to the Maquis.’

‘He’s wrong.’

‘I saw you.’

‘It was an old friend, nothing more.’

‘You can tell it to Brunner soon enough. He’s coming for you.’

‘What?’

‘He’s... coming...’

Auguste tapped Claude’s face with impatience.

‘When? When is he coming?’

Claude said nothing.

‘We had better get you out of here,’ Auguste said.

Claude made no response. He realised he could neither leave Claude where he was, for fear of his freezing to death, nor could he easily take him to his home. He opted for the latter, determined to keep him prisoner until the family and he were safe and away.

He lifted Claude’s left arm onto his shoulder and stood up. Claude stumbled to his feet. His right arm hung limp at his side.

‘Can you hear me?’

Claude said, ‘I know, I know, I know.’

He stopped then, seemed to swallow and began again, ‘I... I... know.’

‘Make sense man,’ Auguste said, supporting him and half dragging him along the path. Claude became heavier.

‘Come on. You have to help me.’

‘I... I...’

‘Damn it man. Talk sense.’

Auguste stopped after ten minutes. It was as if he was carrying his lieutenant. He eased his burden to the ground by the thick trunk of an oak tree and propped him, head hanging, against it.

‘Claude.’

The man seemed unresponsive.

‘Claude.’

This time he slapped Claude’s face.

‘Wake up.’

Claude, despite the stimulation, remained with his head lolling to the right. He made an odd movement with his left arm and leg. They went out straight, the hand twisted outwards at his side. Auguste lit a match and held it to the young man’s face. His eyes remained closed. He opened the lids and the pupils were widely dilated, like cat’s eyes on a dark night.

In desperation, he shook him. Nothing. He shook him again, calling his name and Claude lay still. The moon came out again, its baleful light illuminating the scene to Auguste.

He felt Claude’s pulse. Nothing. He felt again at the man’s throat. No neck pulse. It dawned upon Auguste this was a corpse. He had killed him.

He stepped away. He stared as the fact of it stabbed his mind. He had killed Claude. Auguste knelt again. Desperate, he tried to find some sign of life, but there was none, not even detectable breathing. No pulse in the neck revealed even a faint spark of life. He had been right first time. What to do now?

He had killed his subordinate; it was a fact. He stumbled backwards and tripped, ending sitting on a pile of leaves. He stared at the moonlit form before him. Emotion stirred. He felt a tightness in his throat. Here was a man. A man he had known. Claude had done nothing wrong as far as Auguste could see. Yes, he was a little ambitious but all young men are like that. He would no more have wished him dead than he would have informed on him to Brunner.

Yet, Claude had reported to Brunner. He had betrayed Auguste and he had followed him tonight and tried to arrest him. Monique said she saw a black car. Perhaps it was Claude in an SD vehicle. Perhaps the SD picked him up on the day when Auguste had left him to get statements in Bernadette’s street. No wonder he got back so fast. Brunner himself might have picked him up and ordered him to keep the witnesses quiet.

He felt as if he was beginning to understand the depths of what had happened. His folly and the machinations of the SD Major. Pieces in a jigsaw puzzle. If Claude worked for the SD behind Auguste’s back then Édith was right. Auguste should never have trusted him. He felt foolish then. It was because he wanted to trust someone, anyone and he had fooled himself into doing it. As a police officer who had seen the worst of humanity, he should have known better.

He felt stupid then.

What had Claude said? Was Brunner coming for him? Was he going to arrest him? When would he come? Was it true or just a dying man’s spite? If Claude had tried to unnerve him he would have been delighted at the effect it of it.

Auguste began to panic. Would he find the SD vehicles parked outside the house when he returned? Was Brunner really coming for him?

He knew he had to hide the body. He checked a third time for signs of life but of course, there were none. He puzzled over how Claude could have woken and then died. Perhaps the Judges’ brother could have told him but it did not matter now.

He dragged Claude’s body to a hollow fallen tree trunk. Memory thrust a picture in his mind of Pierre crawling out of it, shouting, ‘I win, I win.’

It was like living a nightmare. Good things mixed with horror. The memory made him shudder. His nerves were on edge and he knew it. He shoved Claude’s body into the hollow trunk. It was an impossible task, because the feet stuck out and he had to gather fallen branches and armfuls of leaves to hide them. Anyone walking the path in daylight might have spotted the corpse otherwise.

Within ten minutes, he had buried the evidence. Gone but not forgotten, he said to himself and he laughed a small laugh then realised he was becoming hysterical. He shut himself up with difficulty. The nightmare of Claude’s death seemed to follow him somehow and he tried to focus on what to do next. It became a struggle with his sanity. He felt alternately like laughing and crying all the way to his back door.

Standing at the door, he took a deep breath and opened it. He stopped in his tracks. Uncomprehending, he said, ‘What for the love of Christ, are you doing here?’

Chapter 23

1

It was Juliette; she sat, nursing a cup of some hot beverage in her hands. She stared at her brother. Auguste could see a look of horror on her face.

  ‘Juliette? Why have you come?’

‘I...’

Juliette’s mouth worked as she regarded her brother.

Odette said, ‘Auguste. Are you hurt? Your shoulder.’

He thought she looked frightened. She stepped towards him, the speed of her steps betraying her urgency, as he looked where the two women stared.

His shoulder was a mess of red and dark crimson. He pictured at once the bleeding wound on Claude’s head and he shuddered.

‘No. I’m alright. It isn’t my blood.’

‘Whose is it? Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure. I would know if I’m hurt or not, wouldn’t I?’

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Odette said, ‘but whose blood is it?’

‘Juliette, what are you doing here?’

‘I came to warn you.’

‘Warn me?’

‘You must get away. Brunner is going to arrest you.’

‘I heard.’

‘You knew?’ Odette said.

‘Well, I heard.’

‘How would Pierre get such information? He is hiding in the woods. He can’t...’

‘Never mind who told me,’ Auguste said, sitting down at the table, ‘let’s just say a little sparrow whispered in my ear. The same little bird whose blood sits on my coat.’

‘Whose blood?’

‘Someone was hurt, I’ll tell you later, nothing to worry about.’

Juliette said, ‘Auguste, this is no joke. I heard Judge Dubois and Brunner talking in the Judge’s office.’

‘The Judge called him?’

‘Yes. Brunner wants you out of the way. He called you troublesome. He said as he left, he would deal with you tomorrow.’

‘When was this?’

‘Before I went home.’

‘Well, you’ll get your hands on mother’s house then won’t you?’

Odette said, ‘Auguste. What are you saying?’

‘Oh, nothing. I’ve had a bad evening. Sorry, Juliette.’

His sister stared at him. An uneasy silence seemed to fill the kitchen.

Odette broke it.

‘If Brunner wants to arrest you, won’t he have to have some kind of evidence? He has none does he?’

Auguste said, ‘A man like Brunner requires no evidence. He can arrest and question anyone he wants. Look at poor Arnaud. Brunner said he died of a heart attack. Well I can imagine what brought it on. Filthy sadist. Well he won’t get us.’

‘He could be on his way,’ Juliette said.

‘No, these things happen in the small hours. It is a technique. People are at their least aware between four and five in the morning. He will come then.’

Odette said, ‘What are we to do?’

‘Hush now my love,’ Auguste said, ‘I must think for a moment.’

Minutes passed. The two women stared at Auguste and he, for his part, stared at the table. He reached out a flat hand and felt the scratched and pitted surface. It reminded him of so much. He recalled his mother and wondered what she would have said. She had always been pragmatic like Odette and Auguste often wondered whether men marry women who are like their mothers or whether they seek similarities in their partners to justify their marriage. Somehow, his mind refused to cooperate. It was blank apart from memories of his childhood, his home and his parents.

‘Auguste,’ Juliette said, ‘you have to leave and quickly. That filthy German will come soon. You have to hide.’

‘Yes, I know, but I told Pierre it would be tomorrow. If it is tonight, I will miss the Maquis guide Pierre was arranging.’

‘Pierre? He was arranging something?’ Juliette said.

‘The less you know, the less they can get out of you, my sister.’

‘Yes, I’m sorry. I should go.’

Auguste stood and scrabbled in the drawer by the range where Odette had hidden his cigarettes. He noticed with satisfaction there was another packet of Gitanes. He took them out and pocketed them. Presently, his hand emerged holding a set of keys.

‘Here,’ he said to Juliette. ‘Take these. They are the spare keys to the house. When we are gone, you can live here. Protect it; you know.’

‘No, I cannot, mother willed it to you.’

Auguste slammed his fist on the table, overwrought, he cried, ‘Damn it woman, those things don’t matter anymore. We might be back, but I have a feeling we won’t. At least if you live here, it is still in the family.’

‘Auguste...’ she said. Her hand reached out for the keys and she gripped them, not in triumph but shedding tears as if they were some kind of holy relic to which she had prayed over long years.

Odette said, ‘Juliette, you have done a great thing by coming tonight, but you had better go, before the Germans come. I have much to do if we are to leave tonight.’

‘Yes. I understand. Auguste...’

They stood and Auguste looked at his sister. He felt for an inexplicable reason it would be the last time he would see her. He crossed to her and took her in his arms. She could not respond at first but in a moment, she hugged him back.

‘Juliette, all this time.’

She said, ‘I know. It has all been foolish pride.’

‘My sister, if only we could have those years back, but we can’t. We leave tonight, for a better life somewhere where the Germans and their Nazi doctrines won’t harm anyone. Pray for me. I will pray for you.’

Juliette had no answer but tears. She pushed him away and made for the door.

Odette said, ‘Goodbye Juliette.’

She did not turn or speak but walked with rapid determined steps, her high heels clacking on the wooden boards.

Auguste and Odette heard the door close and they looked at each other. It was time to talk, to plan and perhaps to cry.

2

It took an hour before they finished loading the old Citroën. Auguste packed four canvas backpacks and enough food to start a journey but he knew it would not be enough.

They roused the sleeping girls and Odette explained what was happening as well as she could. Both children stood, half awake, rocking on their feet awaiting instructions.

Auguste said, ‘Now girls, we are going on a journey. You must each take your favourite toy, one each and we will set off very soon.’

‘But I was sleeping. Are the Germans coming?’ Monique said.

‘Soon.’ Odette said.

Auguste said, ‘There is something I must do first.’

‘But what about us Papa?’ Zara said.

‘I will take you to the edge of the woods and you will hide. I will be back very quickly.’

Odette said, ‘Auguste. Can we not just go?’

‘No. We discussed it fully, you know that.’

‘But what if...What if you don’t come back?’

He smiled a strange smile.

‘If I don’t come back then you will have a long walk. You have the papers and the money?’

‘Yes, but I wish you wouldn’t go.’

‘I can do nothing else. If I leave him behind me, he will come after us. Besides, you know what I feel.’