The Avion My Uncle Flew (26 page)

I said, “Oh!” and for an instant, it was like being up in that avion again, and having it drop suddenly. Almost, I could see Monsieur Simonis, standing solitary and evil on the edge of that high cliff, concentrating with all his might on me and the avion, stepping forward, one step, another step, aiming his long pistol—and just one more step—

I said, “Oh.” That was all I could say.

Mon oncle changed the subject. He said Monsieur Joubert wanted to see me a minute before he took le maire and Albert to Tulle, where a jail was waiting for them. While the doctor did what he could to my arm, and we waited for the detective to free himself from the crowd, mon oncle told me about Monsieur Joubert. The government had sent him here secretly, convinced someone in le village was aiding the escaped Nazis—but not knowing who it was. The detective had revealed himself to mon oncle, asking for assistance, pledging mon oncle to remain silent about him.

And the detective had heard Charles and me steal out of the hotel last night, not knowing it was us. He tracked us as far as the graveyard before losing us. After that, he'd gone up the montagne to awaken mon oncle and warn him, telling him something was occurring in le village—he didn't know what—but to remain on guard. After awakening mon oncle, Monsieur Joubert had climbed higher in the montagne, circling to the east, hoping to find traces of someone hiding in the forest, returning to le village about the time I made my unexpected flight in l'avion.

Now Monsieur Joubert approached.

But before he had time to question me, Dr. Guereton rapidly said something. Mon oncle said, “We will take you to the hotel first, Jean. You can answer questions later on.…”

I don't know, but I think I must have passed out. My arm hurt a lot. Probably I ought to add here, they did find what was left of Monsieur Simonis; parts of him, I understand, were spread over quite a distance.…

By the following day, Dr. Guereton had set my arm in splints, and I was allowed to come down to the main floor of the hotel. Charles and Suzanne were there, dressed in their best clothes. Madame Meilhac was with them, smiling, her cheeks redder than ever. I'd never seen anyone so happy.

Mon oncle informed me the gold and silver had been located. The men from the banks were up at the meadow right now, loading it into trucks. The banks would be opened. From now on, the Meilhacs wouldn't be poor.

I don't suppose St. Chamant ever had as much excitement as it did during the next week. By that second day, the news of what had happened had spread all over the country. In the big cities the papers carried accounts of it. A thing happened that neither mon oncle nor I had counted on. The reporters learned from the village people that I had flown the avion—a boy. At least, that's the account that was printed. The newspapers seemed to believe it was an extraordinary thing, a perfect miracle, for a boy who'd never before in his life been in an avion, to fly all that way down and almost make a perfect landing. It evidently caused talk all over France, because by the third day, the town was filled with reporters and tourists coming in from as far away as Toulouse and Brive and Marseilles and Bordeaux. Madame Graffoulier's hotel was packed.

When people asked him how a boy could fly his avion, mon oncle would snap his fingers and say in French, “Pouf! It was simple. I built the avion to be flown by anyone. Am I not a Langres?”

Albert and le maire had been taken to Tulle and jail by Monsieur Joubert, who wasn't simply a detective, but chief of police there. After putting them in jail, he took a train to Paris to explain everything that had taken place to the police in charge of French security. He sent his assistant, a sharp-eyed little fellow, back to St. Chamant to interview mon oncle, the Meilhac twins and me. He was supposed to obtain the whole story of what Charles and I had done, to make everything official. Well, I didn't understand enough to do any talking. Charles did all the explaining.

Come to think of it, I guess this was the first time mon oncle had heard Charles' complete account of our adventure, except for what Charles had briefly told him up on the montagne. Now mon oncle's face became more and more puzzled. “Quoi?” he said. “
Quoi
?” He looked at me, blinking.

By and by this assistant to Monsieur Joubert gravely got up. He walked to me. He shook hands with me and made a long speech. It was all beyond me. After he finished, the two policemen accompanying him did exactly the same thing. All the time, Charles looked on and grinned, and acted as if this was the proudest moment of his life. When the police had finished with me, they shook Charles' hand, and seemed to be complimenting him, too. I wondered what on earth he'd told them.

And when all
that
was done, Monsieur Niort came to me. He said, “Un brave garçon!” which means, “A brave boy!” and
he
shook my hand. So did the doctor. So did about ten other men listening to what Charles had told the police. Every time they shook my hand I could see Charles visibly inflate with pleasure, as if he were basking in some sort of glory I'd acquired, I didn't know what. At last mon oncle said hoarsely, perplexed, astounded, bewildered:

“But Jean. Tell me.
How
did you happen to suspect the mayor was a Nazi accomplice? How, Jean? You must tell us. We are all ears to know how you managed such a stupendous thing.”

I said, “What?”

Mon oncle said, “Monsieur Joubert was told by Charles, up on the montagne, what you had done.” He added crossly, as if slightly vexed, “I wish someone might inform
me
now and then what my nephew does. Now, Monsieur Joubert has given specific instructions to his assistant to learn how you first suspected the mayor. Monsieur Joubert was unable to ask you when we were all on the montagne. Well?” finished mon oncle, giving me a peculiar look.

I swallowed. “You mean Monsieur Joubert believes
I
suspected the mayor of being a Nazi?”

“Yes,” said mon oncle, baffled. “Charles has just told us. He has explained everything, how you told him that night he stayed with you that you'd discovered Mayor Capedulocque was a Nazi and how you showed him German money you'd found in the mayor's house as proof the mayor was a traitor.”

I just sat there, with my one arm hanging limp, and my other arm in the sling, and my legs stuck out straight in front of me. I noticed Charles was smiling at me. He believed I'd discovered the truth about Mayor Capedulocque long before anyone else, and was pleased because at last he'd given me what he thought was the credit I'd earned. And the fact was, it never had entered my head that Mayor Capedulocque—le Maire Capedulocque, I mean—was a Nazi. My scheme hadn't considered him as a collaborationist. All I'd wanted was to make le maire think a Nazi was in hiding! When all along le maire
knew
a Nazi was in la montagne and was doing his level best to keep that fact hidden.

That's what comes of trying to explain a scheme to someone like Charles in a language you can hardly speak. Charles never had gotten my scheme at all in his head. Now I understood why he'd jumped up that night when I was saying, “Le maire—Nazi.” I'd expected he'd realize what I was driving at—that we counted on frightening le maire by
pretending
to be Nazis!

Mon oncle asked me again, perplexed, how on earth I'd discovered le maire's secret when no one else had suspicioned it. The police were looking at me as if they wanted to know, too. A couple of reporters from Tulle came in closer.
They
were waiting for the mystery to be cleared as well. I simply slumped down and fortunately, Dr. Guereton entered and said I'd been questioned enough for today. So I escaped.

That night, I learned from mon oncle, he'd sent off a cable to my parents to inform them I was well and safe in case they'd seen any of the newspaper accounts of our experience. He was tremendously excited. He said le village had voted Monsieur Niort to be the new mayor. After that, le village had voted for a festival for the avion next Sunday. Invitations had been sent to everyone of importance in the district. I asked, “But isn't the avion cassé?”

“Ah,” he said, mighty cheerful. “Only one wing. Six of the best carpenters in Corrèze are working on it night and day to have it repaired—réparé—for Sunday. Besides, I do not design airplanes that break, airplanes that remain cassé permanently. I design good airplanes. Pouf!” He snapped his fingers. “It is simple to have it ready to fly by Sunday. Am I not a Langres?”

By Saturday morning there must have been nearly two thousand people camped around St. Chamant, or crowded into the maisons and hotel, for the festival—for la fête. The weather was warm, with sunshine. Charles, Suzanne and I went to the workshop and saw the avion, with mon oncle explaining how by tonight the repairs would be completed. He drew me to one side and whispered, “Ah, Jean—” and seemed a shade embarrassed. “Between us, hein? Just
how
did you suspect the mayor?”

I didn't have time to tell him I hadn't ever suspected le maire, because the postmaster ran in at that moment with a cable he said had come all the way from London. It was from my father. He'd read in the Scottish papers about what had happened and had received mon oncle's cable, assuring him I wasn't harmed except for a broken arm. He had cabled to tell us he and my mother were leaving London Sunday and would arrive Monday.

We cabled back to try to tell them to leave at once, to be in time for la fête, Sunday. But evidently the cable didn't reach them in time. They weren't there, Sunday morning. Dr. Guereton took me as far up the montagne as his car would go. I walked the rest of the way, with Monsieur Niort—now le maire—on one side, and Suzanne and Charles on the other. Behind us came Madame Meilhac, Madame Graffoulier and the Graffoulier kids, and all the rest of le village—tout le monde—everyone, camera men, the people from the surrounding towns and villages. It was like being on a great vast picnic. They had the band playing in the meadow. Monsieur Niort made a speech. He called Charles and Suzanne and me to the platform on the runway, the avion—now repaired—right behind us. Mon oncle was there, too. All of us had to be photographed. It was the most wonderful day I'd ever seen, le ciel blue and clear, the wind blowing gently.

Suzanne wore a new dress, bought in Tulle. Her hair was curly, done up, and she was pretty as a picture. I couldn't hardly believe she was the same Suzanne I'd seen way early in the summer playing at “peau-rouge,” until she gave me a quick pinch when nobody was looking. “Bon jour,” said she, smiling.

“Bon jour,” I said, pleased to see that same friendly smile. Actually, she and Charles had deserved the credit, all of it. Monsieur Niort finished his speech and turned to distribute the reward of ten thousand francs—about four hundred dollars—between the four of us, mon oncle, the Meilhac twins, and myself. They helped me down; the band played again. Monsieur Niort thundered to everyone that the moment was now here when Monsieur Paul Langres would this time himself voler in his avion.

I looked up at mon oncle Paul. I looked at the avion. Ah, I thought, the avion is grand—is big. The avion is ready to fly. Oncle Paul bent down at me and grinned and said, “Bon jour, Jean,” as if we were together on a joke or secret. I asked, “Are you ready?” and he said he was prêt; he wished to fly very far this time, to make a record. “Très loin,” he said gaily.

Seeing him up there must have reminded Suzanne of that other time when the avion was ready to fly. She became a trifle nervous. She called up, “The airplane isn't broken?”—that is, l'avion n'est pas cassé?

Mon oncle said, “It's repaired, don't worry, Suzanne. It's ready to depart.” He said all that in French, but I understood that much. Suzanne said, “Good, but please don't fly too far,” and everybody around laughed. By now, mon oncle entre—entered into l'avion. He called, “An revoir!” and Monsieur Niort chopped the rope and poussed—pushed the avion and away it slid, down the runway and into the air. I heard people in the crowd shouting, “Bonne chance! Bonne chance!” which was their way of saying, “Good luck!”

Mon oncle didn't voler right down across le village as I'd done. No, he gave all that crowd a show. He soared in the wind. The avion lifted higher and higher until it was no bigger than a bird. It swooped down low over our heads and we thought for sure it was going to land on the meadow—but no! It caught the draft of air rising from the face of the cliff, soaring once more. Oh! I tell you, it was wonderful to watch mon oncle in his avion that jour de la fête! By and by he soared toward le village. Monsieur Niort, the doctor, the Meilhacs and I went down the montagne in the doctor's car. We roared to the cow field, the others coming along behind. A big black limousine passed us on the lower road, went ahead and was waiting at the cow field by the time we arrived.

We saw mon oncle land, very gently, the wings hardly fluttering. Three men from the black limousine ran to him. Then the crowd surged into the field. I waited in the car. I saw Dr. Guereton and Monsieur Niort lifting the avion on their shoulders—portant l'avion sur les épaules—and carrying it above the crowd, so it wouldn't be broken a second time.…