1950 - Mallory (16 page)

‘That’s right,’ he said quietly. ‘They think I did it. I was with her. She fell downstairs.’

He saw fear and distrust on her face.

‘But they say she was murdered,’ she said. ‘Then there was this man, Crew. You were with him also, weren’t you?’

‘That’s right.’ He took out a packet of cigarettes, offered it, but she shook her head, and he noticed she was edging away from him, trying to put as much space between them as the cramped little compartment would allow. Without showing he had noticed her growing alarm, he lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. ‘I know what you’re thinking. Well, that’s all right. I can’t help it if you feel that way about it. I know it looks bad, but that’s something else I can’t do anything about. It doesn’t matter anyway.’ And here he knew he was lying. It did matter.

He didn’t want her to regard him as a murderer. ‘You and I are parting. I was a thoughtless fool to have mixed you up in this mess in the first place. Take my advice and get a train back to London when we reach Dunbar. Keep away from me. I’m going to your island. I believe your brother’s there, and I must talk to him. If you’ll take my advice, and if you want to help your brother, you won’t say anything to the police about where I’m going.’

‘There’s something behind all this, isn’t there?’ she asked sharply. ‘I’ve felt all along you’ve been concealing something. What is it?’

And because it was suddenly essential to him at this parting for her to have a good opinion of him he decided to tell her the truth.

‘Yes, there is something,’ he said curtly. ‘I don’t like telling you, but it’s necessary. You remember there were originally nine members of Gourville’s saboteurs? Gourville, Charlotte and Georges were shot by the Gestapo. Your brother disappeared. That left five of them, who all thought your brother had betrayed them, Harris and Lubish, discovered clues that took them to your brother. They both died violently. One of them fell out of a train. The other was drowned in a pond. I went to see Rita Allen to get information about your brother. While I was in the house someone threw her downstairs and broke her neck.’ He leaned against the wall, his body swaying to the movement of the train, his eyes on her face. ‘Lubish, Harris and Rita died because they either knew something about your brother or else they had run into him unexpectedly. Who killed them? It’s not hard to find an answer to that one, is it?’

She said very quietly, ‘I don’t think I know what you’re driving at. Are you suggesting my brother killed these three?’

‘I don’t believe in coincidences; anyway, not three of them in a row. One, yes; two, perhaps, but three, no.’

‘So that’s why you want to find Brian?’

‘That’s right. Naturally you must take sides. The best thing for you to do is to leave this to me and go home. If you tell the police where I am you may also be telling them where your brother is.’

‘You have a lot against Brian, haven’t you?’

He studied her pale, set face.

‘I think I have. You see, unless I can prove he or someone else killed Rita Allen I’m for it. The police won’t hesitate to charge me with her murder. I must see your brother.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

‘The general idea was to find him through you.’

‘Then why have you suddenly changed your mind?’

He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair.

‘I suppose it’s because I’ve come to know you. Before, you were just a girl who might be useful. Now, you’re something else.’

‘I see.’

‘Well, now you know. Go back to your seat. When we reach Dunbar, go home. Forget about me. I’ll give your brother a square deal. I promise you that.’ He controlled the sudden impulse to take her in his arms, and said with unconvincing indifference, ‘Well, so long. It’s been nice while it lasted.’

He opened the door, shook off her restraining hand and walked
quickly away down the corridor.

T
he long line of goods wagons came to a shuddering stop, their buffers hammering together, one after the other in a long continuous series of sound, and the train whistle screeched impatiently at the red light of a distant signal.

Jan woke with a start, and raising his head, stared into the inky darkness. The rhythmic sway of the wagon had lulled him to sleep, but now the train had stopped he was immediately awake, his ears pricked for danger, his eyes trying to pierce the solid blackness before him. He became aware of a gnawing pain in his arm that felt hot and swollen, and a pounding in his temples as if someone was beating his head with a rubber hammer. He had never felt so ill, and he was afraid.

‘Jeanne—’ His voice was a hoarse croak, a sound he did not recognize and that frightened him. ‘Jeanne - are you there?’

‘Yes, I’m here,’ she said out of the darkness, and he heard the scrape of her shoes on the floor of the wagon as she sat up.

‘My arm’s bad,’ he said gritting his teeth as the throbbing suddenly turned into a vicious stab of pain, like a flame against his flesh. ‘There’s nothing to drink, is there?’

‘No.’

He waited for her to come to him, for a word of sympathy, but she remained where she was. For several minutes he lay still, his fingers pressing his temples, trying to stop the pounding that was going on inside his head. He knew without moving that while he had slept his strength had drained out of him. It was as if his muscles, hands and sinews had melted in the fever that now gripped him, and yet his mind was surprisingly clear, and he realized that unless a miracle happened he would not leave this stinking wagon except on a stretcher.

‘It is suffocating in here,’ he said suddenly. ‘Can you let in some air? Where are we? Have a look, Jeanne.’

He heard her get up and grope her way across the wagon.

She began to fumble at the door. There was a sudden clank of metal as she pulled the bar out of the sockets. The top half of the door swung outwards, letting in the faint light of the dawn and he could just see Jeanne’s outline, a sharp silhouette against the sky, as she peered along the permanent way.

He struggled to sit up, but immediately pain laid hold of him, making him catch his breath sharply. The hammer inside his head increased its violence, and it seemed as if his head would burst under the pressure of its blows.

‘The signal’s against us,’ Jeanne said calmly. She peered at her wristwatch. ‘It is just after four.’

‘Where are we, Jeanne?’ he asked painfully. ‘Have you any idea?’

‘I am not certain - Chantilly, I think.’ She again leaned through the opening, staring intently at the almost invisible countryside. ‘West of Chantilly I would say.’

Chantilly? What was she talking about? The effort of thinking was too much for him and he closed his eyes, suddenly not caring where they were or what was going to happen to them.

He lay still for what seemed to him to be a long time, then suddenly the train jerked forward, the whistle screeched again and the coupling began their reverse clattering.

The violent jerk jarred him back to consciousness. What had she said? Chantilly? But Chantilly was in France. They were in England; at least, he assumed they were in England; but were they? He gritted his teeth, feeling cold sweat running down his face as he tried to remember exactly what had been happening.

He remembered the escape from Cheyne Walk and the church.

He had lost a lot of blood in the church. He remembered feeling deathly ill. Jeanne had said they must get to King’s Cross station. They had gone there in a taxi. The driver had been an old man; tired, wet and indifferent. He had given them one quick, unseeing glance as they had bundled into the stuffy cab, and they were sure he wouldn’t know them again. He remembered too that he had fainted in the taxi, and Jeanne had had a frantic time bringing him round, a moment or so before the cab had pulled up outside the station.

How he had found the strength to leave the cab and to walk into the goods yard he would never know. He had been dimly aware that Jeanne had supported him on the long, nightmare walk over acres of railway lines, past stationary wagons into what seemed to him to be a whirligig of white, green and red lights. Every so often a train would let off a deafening screech of steam, making his skin crawl and his knees tremble. He kept imagining that a train was rushing at them to rend them and tear them into bloody tatters as they moved slowly from sleeper to sleeper to an unknown and hopeless destination. How Jeanne had known which train to board defeated him. She had left him sitting on an oil barrel beside the permanent way, and had gone off into the darkness. She had been away a long time, although by then time meant nothing to him. He was content not to move, to nurse his aching arm and to let his mind go blank, thankful that she could take over the responsibility and leave him to his suffering.

He remembered feeling her strong hands on his sound arm, pulling him to his feet, supporting him while he dragged one leg after the other, intent only on keeping moving, leaving the direction to her.

He remembered the overpowering smell of fish, and the sound of an iron bar grating in its socket as she opened the truck door. She had great difficulty in getting him into the truck.

Without her aid it would have been an impossibility. As it was he suffered excruciation while she hoisted him by his coat into the smelly darkness.

But he remembered nothing more until now. He had rolled over as she had pulled him into the wagon and had laid with all his weight on his wounded arm. The pain had taken hold of him like the blast from an explosion and had hurled his mind into a screaming, horrible blackness, and his consciousness had snuffed out as if he had died.

And now she was talking about Chantilly. Had they crossed the Channel? How could they be west of Chantilly? Perhaps he had misunderstood her. Perhaps she had named some English town that sounded like Chantilly. His mind wandered into the past. Chantilly! Their old headquarters. Gourville’s last hiding place. Where Charlotte had been buried. He wondered with a feeling of suffocating excitement whether by some miracle Jeanne had managed to get him out of England. But common sense asserted itself. He must have misunderstood her.

‘What did you say, Jeanne? Where did you say we were?’

‘Chantilly,’ she retorted sharply, looking over her shoulder.

‘Get up and see for yourself. Why are you lying there? Get up! The train will be stopping in a moment.’

‘But how did we get there?’ he asked, bewildered. ‘We were going to Scotland. What’s happened? How did we make the crossing?’

‘Oh, be quiet! You’re raving!’ she said fiercely and again leaned out of the truck. The dawn light was strengthening, and he could see her more clearly. Her hair flew like a flag in the rush of wind as the train rattled along.

He hid his face and wept. They were going home. Somehow a miracle had happened. He didn’t care now what happened to him. If he could die in Chantilly he would be content. If he could be buried near Charlotte he would accept death gladly. But again his common sense jarred him alert. They could not be in France. It was an impossibility.

‘Jeanne - come here, he called, raising his voice above the noise of the train. ‘Jeanne—’

‘Wait!’ she cried, and glanced back over her shoulder, the outline of her head sharply visible against the grey sky. ‘I’m looking for Pierre. He said he would meet us.’

‘Jeanne! Why are you talking like this?’ He struggled up, supporting himself on his sound arm, ignoring the pain that pounced on him as soon as he moved. ‘Jeanne! Come here!’

But she paid no attention. With a long blast of its whistle and with a surge of increased speed, the train tore past a small station, lit by gas lamps; dirty, deserted and greasy with rain and oil.

‘They’re not stopping!’ she cried frantically. ‘We’ve gone past! We’ve gone past Chantilly!’

For a horrible moment he thought she was going to throw herself out of the truck. She was leaning far out, precariously balanced, her hair streaming in the wind, trying to catch a last glimpse of the station as the long line of wagons swept round a steep bend and pounded on with steadily increasing speed.

‘They’ve gone past!’ she cried, turning. ‘What will Pierre think? What are we going to do?’

‘Come and sit down,’ he said, certain that she was out of her mind. For some time now he had suspected that her experience at the hands of the Gestapo, the loss of Pierre and the long months of illness, had undermined the foundation of her reason. The strange brainstorms she had had, the violent, aggressive tempers that had taken hold of her at the slightest provocation, the sullen silent moods and the odd glitter that periodically appeared in her eyes had all been warnings of her mental deterioration. And now, just when he had the most urgent need of her, the thin, worn thread of reason must have snapped.

‘This is no time to sit down,’ she exclaimed furiously. ‘We’re being carried on to Paris. We must do something.’

‘There’s nothing I can do,’ he returned. ‘I’m badly wounded. Don’t you remember? I was shot in the arm.’

Lurching to the sway of the train, she came over to him and knelt by his side.

‘How did you get hurt? Why didn’t you tell me? When did it happen?’

It was too dark to see her face, but he fancied her eyes were glittering and he could hear her laboured breathing.

‘You’re not well,’ he said, gripping her arm. ‘You must pull yourself together. I need you. Now listen, Pierre’s dead. Mallory betrayed him. We are on an English train going to Scotland to find Mallory. Don’t you remember?’

She knelt in silence at his side for a long time. He could feel her arm trembling in his grasp.

She said at last, ‘Yes. I remember. It seemed so real just now. I thought we were going to meet Pierre, but, of course he is dead.’

Had he dragged her back to sanity? he wondered, wishing he could see the expression on her face. If he had, could he keep her sane until he was well enough to look after himself? He felt sure now that her recovery could only be a temporary one.

‘You mustn’t worry,’ he said. ‘It’s a long time since we travelled in a truck. It’s the association of ideas. I thought for a moment when I woke that I too was back in the past. Can you tell where we are?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said sullenly. ‘My head hurts. Don’t ask me anything.’

She got up and went listlessly to the door of the wagon and peered into the semi-gloom.

Useless! he thought in despair. Now what was going to happen? Once again the responsibility of finding Mallory rested with him. His determination wavered. He couldn’t go on. The difficulties were too great. Weakly he decided to admit defeat and give in, and as soon as he had made the decision a lethargic peace crept over him. Even the pain in his arm seemed to lessen, and after a time he drifted into an uneasy sleep. The long, screaming blast of the whistle as the train rattled and banged over the complicated set of points that switched the train on to the northbound route, did not
waken him.