Velvet Waltz [An Inglourious Basterds fic]

Pursuit

Hans was beginning to sweat in his leather driving gloves. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and scanned the crowd pouring into the Gare du Nord train station.

What was taking that foolish boy so long? His heart beat a violent staccato. They were rapidly losing time.

At last, the lanky figure of Alain Fournier appeared, brochure in hand, and hopped into the Standartenführer's passenger seat.

"Have a pleasant stroll?" Hans snipped.

"Running would attract attention, and some of us aren't SS." Alain calmly replied. "Drive. I'll read the timetables."

Bristling at this impertinence, Hans loudly peeled out of the station.

Alarm raised his eyebrows, then, clearing his throat, opened the brochure.

"Three stops before Soissons: Saint-Mard, Crépy-en-Valois, and Villers. Their train left 10 minutes ago. I reckon we can beat them to Saint-Mard if we avoid traffic."

"How long do we have?"

"Sixteen minutes."

Another burst of speed inspired Alain to grab the door handle for dear life.

With most ordinary French forbidden to drive, occupation traffic was considerably lighter than it had been, the faintest of silver linings. The little Mercedes wove in and out of lanes, engine droning aggressively with every lurch.

Alain swallowed and glanced over several times before speaking. "Herr Landa."

"Yes?"

"As you can imagine... Well. I haven't been in a vehicle since I arrived in France." He was rather pale.

"Young man, if you're going to vomit in my car, you'd better lift your feet and aim with care." Hans never took his eyes off the road. "We are not stopping for your gastrointestinal discomfort."

Alain settled back against the leather seat and breathed deeply.

Hans ran a thousand calculations against his knowledge of Paris motorways. Not one route was a sure shot, not this time of day. Damn.

"Ten minutes."

"How on earth could you know that without a watch?" Hans demanded.

Alain shrugged. "I can do more than wash dishes and sell magazines. You don't know much about me."

"Yes, but I understand you're quite an exceptional man." Hans' tone was that of a door opening.

The young man sized him up for a second. "Is that what you've heard about me?"

"I've heard nothing, Monsieur Fournier. I'm merely a thorough observer. I am a detective, after all."

"Ah." Alain sighed. "And here I was, in a fast car, feeling so very butch."

A beat.

"You won't..."

"Certainly, I won't." Hans meant it.

Here the boulevard curved around the bottom of a hill and to both men's immediate dismay, a train crossing. And the striped guard arm was lowering into place.

"Ironic," Alain chirped. "It's not our train, is it?"

"No," Hans resigned. "Freight."

"Oh, freight."

A few tense seconds. There were some trains that left Paris these days with a particularly terrible cargo. One-way passengers, in cattle cars.

As the engine slowly hauled itself into view, every car laden with coal, neither spoke their immense relief.