V for Vengeance (11 page)

It had no doubt been chosen on account of its many luxury hotels, which in times of peace accommodated the great numbers of wealthy people who came from all over Europe to do the cure, as these lent themselves readily for conversion into Ministries and as quarters for the more important officials, but they housed only a comparatively small portion of the swarms of bureaucrats, police, soldiers, diplomats and refugees who now thronged the little town.

The great thermal establishment, where in pre-war days the ailing had received their massage or strolled about to the music of the band while sipping their mugs of tepid water, had now been taken over by the Forces, as, although under the terms of the armistice the French Army was to be reduced to a purely token force, its disbandment had not yet been completed, and this entailed enormous work upon the military authorities. Even shops and garages were being used as sleeping quarters, but the accommodation was still insufficient, and during the fine weather which still prevailed, many of the less fortunate were dossing down each night in the two parks and the gardens which ran along the east embankment of the river.

As the car entered the town it was compelled to slow down to a walking pace, because the people were so numerous that they overflowed from the pavements into the roadway. One of Kuporovitch's captors pointed out the Hôtel du Parc to him as the new seat of the French Government; then they drove slowly on until they reached the Hôtel International in the
Rue Maréchal Foch, which had been requisitioned as Police Headquarters.

There, Kuporovitch was taken up in a lift to the sixth floor and put into what had obviously been a bedroom. A basin with running water was affixed to one wall, and the room still contained a wardrobe and chest-of-drawers, but the bed had been removed, and by the recent placing of heavy bars across the only window the room had been converted into a cell. At midday a meal of thin soup and bread was brought up to the Russian, and shortly afterwards a bearded police inspector appeared, carrying in his hand the documents which had been despatched from Paris with the prisoner.

The inspector ran swiftly through the brief dossier, reiterating here or there a question which had already been asked and receiving the same answer that appeared in the report; but this visit seemed more a formality than anything else, and he displayed little interest in the business. Just as he was about to go Kuporovitch pointed out that there was no charge against him and asked when he might expect to be released.

‘When you reach your destination, I suppose,' the inspector replied promptly.

‘My destination, eh!' Kuporovitch repeated in a puzzled voice. ‘So you are sending me somewhere else. But why, and where to—may one ask?'

The Frenchman gave a bored shrug. ‘Since you are a Russian you will naturally be repatriated to Russia.'

‘What!' exclaimed Kuporovitch. For nearly a week he had been living for the hour when, free in Vichy France, he would be able to set about recrossing the frontier in secret to rejoin Madeleine. This was shattering—utterly devastating. The very suggestion threatened his whole world with ruin. He might never see his adorable Madeleine again. Hurriedly he broke into a storm of protest.

‘But you can't do that! It's impossible—unthinkable! I'm a White Russian—an ex-Czarist who has quarrelled with the régime.'

The Frenchman shrugged again. ‘That is unfortunate, monsieur, but what can we do? It is everyone for himself in these days. In Unoccupied France we already have nearly ten million refugees from the North. We cannot turn our own
people out, yet the territory which we control is no longer big enough to support them. As it is, the shortage of food and fuel will create the most appalling misery in the coming winter. Therefore we are getting rid of everybody we possibly can who has no proper claim to be domiciled here.'

‘But to send me back to Russia would be as good as condemning me to death!' expostulated Kuporovitch.

‘That would be hard indeed,' the Frenchman sighed. ‘If you have friends here with influence it is possible that they might secure you a permit to remain.'

‘Unfortunately that is out of the question. I know no one in Vichy. But surely
Monsieur l'Inspecteur
, an exception could be made in my case?'

The inspector shook his head. ‘It would be wrong to encourage you in that hope. The orders regarding aliens are definite and urgent. You have my sympathy, but unless you can bring influence to bear it seems that your only recourse will be to endeavour to make your peace with the Soviet Government when you arrive in Russia.
C'est la guerre, monsieur
, and life is hard on all of us these days.'

When the man had gone Kuporovitch sat down gloomily to consider his position. He was intensely averse to going anywhere, even to regain his freedom, which would place many more miles between himself and Madeleine; but, had he been given a choice of evils, he would far rather have remained in prison in Vichy than be deported to his own country.

It was not even as though he was in reality a White Russian who had spent many years in exile. Had he been, there was at least a good chance that if he was prepared to give assurance of complete acceptance of the Soviet régime on reaching Russia he might have reaped the benefit of some form of amnesty, which he knew vaguely was now open to returning exiles. The fact was that up to some six months before he had been a Bolshevik General, and he had then deserted his command and fled the country. In consequence, there was no doubt about it that once he set foot on Soviet soil he would be summarily court-martialled and handed over to a firing-party the moment he was recognised.

In something nearer panic than he had felt for many years he began to consider the possibilities of escape. The bars across
the window prohibited any attempt in that direction, even had he been prepared to risk his neck in a highly perilous endeavour to climb, spreadeagled like a fly from any projections which offered in the face of the building, up on to its roof; and having examined the lock of the door he found it to be a stout one, which he had no means of either picking or forcing.

At the best of times Vichy is a depressing place, as it lies at the bottom of a hollow ringed by hills, and for the next hour he sat brooding miserably in the partly furnished bedroom on this frightful decree, that would carry him a thousand miles from the woman he loved, and at the same time place his life in extreme peril. In vain he racked his brains for some ingenious story which he might spin to his captors in the hope of causing them to reverse their decision; he could think of nothing.

His agonised thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of a warder and a kittenish young man with a tripod and camera. He was told that he was to be photographed for a
carte d'identité
which would be sent with him, and this news brought his spirits down to a new low level. The journey by ship from Marseilles round to a Soviet Black Sea port was certain, in these days, to take some weeks. The French police only knew him as Ivan Smernov, and he had hit on the idea that if he thinned down his heavy black eyebrows and grew a beard on the voyage he might escape recognition by the Soviet officials when he landed and succeed in disappearing once more after they released him. But if a photograph of himself as he appeared at present was to be hung like a millstone round his neck his identification was certain. Nevertheless, it was useless to resist, so he submitted to being taken with the best grace he could muster.

Dusk was falling when the inspector came to him again and announced briefly that as a matter of routine his chief wished to see the prisoner before he was removed to the quarters where other aliens who were being deported had been confined. With surly kindness he added: ‘If you've got any story to put which might induce them to let you remain in France you'd better tell it to the Colonel.'

As he was taken downstairs in the lift to the first floor Kuporovitch's brain was racing overtime. All the afternoon
he had cudgelled his wits without result, and now it seemed that the sand in the hour-glass of his fate was about to run out without his being able to make use of the little time left to him.

Only one thought that might possibly provide an avenue of escape offered itself. He still had over four thousand francs in French money on him. In Russia, provided one could satisfy their price, many officials were fairly readily bribable. That was a custom of centuries, which had survived from the old days, and even Stalin had found it impossible entirely to eradicate. Kuporovitch had always heard that French officials, too, were often susceptible to reason if their palms were properly greased. Four thousand francs was not a fortune, but in these difficult times it was quite a useful sum.

The inspector led him along a corridor, and having knocked on the door beckoned him forward into a spacious sitting-room that had now been converted into an office. The curtains had not yet been drawn or the lights lit, so the dusk obscured the features of the man who was seated at a big desk with his back to one of the tall windows.

As Kuporovitch advanced towards him he prayed to all the gods he had never worshipped to aid him now, as he felt convinced that in this interview lay his last and only chance of escaping deportation, and death at his journey's end.

‘This is the man that you wished to see,
mon Colonel
,' said the inspector, saluting, and at a nod from his superior he saluted again and left the room.

Kuporovitch heaved a sigh of relief. He had feared that the inspector would remain, and he knew very well that no senior officer would accept a bribe in the presence of his junior, but now that he had been left alone with the police chief his hopes rose that he might yet be able to buy his freedom.

His eyes were now more accustomed to the dusk, and they swiftly took in everything which could be assimilated about the officer in whose hands his fate lay. The Colonel was a small man who sat with downcast head, apparently staring at his hands, which were clasped over his stomach. Then he looked up, and even in the twilight it could be seen that his face was wrinkled and monkey-like, with a pair of very quick dark eyes, as he rapped out by way of interrogation: ‘Your name is Ivan Smernov?'

‘
Oui, mon Colonel
' replied Kuporovitch promptly.

Suddenly the little man chuckled and waved one hand towards a chair. ‘Sit down, please, General Stefan Kuporovitch. I am so sorry that I have had to put you to so much inconvenience to get you here.'

With a gasp of surprise Kuporovitch stared anew at the small figure behind the desk. Gone were the silver curls and the black cassock, but the voice, the wrinkled face and the piercing black eyes were those of the little priest.

For a moment the Russian could hardly believe his eyes,
although he continued to strain them in the gathering darkness, but the little Colonel chuckled again:

‘You recognise me now, eh?'

‘Indeed I do!' muttered Kuporovitch. ‘But what the devil are you doing here?'

The Colonel stood up abruptly. In a series of swift jerky movements he pulled the blinds and switched on the lights, then he replied:

‘When I was asked that question in Paris the other night by one of my ex-subordinates who had gone over to the enemy I found it so embarrassing that it cost him his life; but here I do not find it embarrassing at all. This is my own office, and everybody in this building takes his orders from me. I am Colonel Lacroix.'

‘Lacroix!' Kuporovitch repeated with a great sigh of relief. ‘Then you are the famous Chief of the
Deuxième Bureau
and must have the power to prevent my being deported to Russia?'

‘Of course.' The Colonel sat down again and pushed forward a box of cigarettes. ‘I am sorry that you should have been distressed by the idea that we meant to do so, but you will appreciate, General, that my position here is one of extreme delicacy. When the collapse came I decided that I could serve the cause which we both have at heart far more effectively by remaining as a high official under the Government that had betrayed France than by going into hiding. Everyone here believes me to be entirely loyal to the Pétain Administration. That is why I could not risk having you brought straight from the frontier to my office. I had to allow matters to take their normal course in order to provide an excuse for an interview with you, such as I always have with all foreigners who are about to be deported.'

‘You knew that I was being expelled from Occupied France, then?'

‘Certainly. There was much that I still wished to say to you when our talk at the Vieux Logis was so regrettably cut short. It was obvious that both Mademoiselle Lavallière and yourself would be taken to the
Sûreté
for questioning, and I was anxious that no harm should come to either of you. In consequence, I arranged matters with Lieutenant Ribaud, who is entirely loyal and one of my most trusted agents.'

‘Aha!' grinned Kuporovitch. ‘I remember—the short dark fat man. It was he who suggested to the German major that Mademoiselle Madeleine should be released and that I should be put over the frontier.'

Lacroix nodded. ‘He did that on my instructions. Had he not, they would almost certainly have detained you, whereas, as it is, they sent you here, which enables me to continue the conversation which I was anxious to have with you. But we will not talk further here, as one cannot be too careful. May I take it that you are prepared to accept my orders and follow such instructions as I may give you for the furthering of our mutual interests?'

‘
Certainement, mon Colonel
,' Kuporovitch bowed. ‘I should consider it an honour to serve under you.'

‘Good! In that case, we will leave at once. You must be in Lyons by tomorrow morning, and there is someone that I wish to see tonight who is staying in an hotel no great way off the direct road there. My car is below, so you shall come with me, and we will dine and sleep at the hotel.' Lacroix picked up the telephone on his desk and asked for the inspector who had brought in Kuporovitch to be sent along to him.