Stranger at the Gates by Evelyn Anthony

languages but for nuances of accent.
    He watched the soldiers moving lazily round their road block. He had a survey map of the district and he got it out and studied it carefully. He knew all the main routes into the village. The one he could see through his glasses led in from the north. If that one was blocked then for a certainty so were all the others. The bastards had put a net round the area. They had cut off the roads as an escape route, and that meant they were getting ready for a patrol sweep through the fields and around the smaller wooded hills. It was eight o’clock in the morning. At any moment the first group would be setting out. He turned back to the map. The railway line was a very small branch line of the Paris to Chartres route which was heavily marked. St. Blaize was a community big enough to merit a small sub-station. Few trains would be running. The line was marked to the west, about three-quarters of a mile away. It was hidden by a belt of silver birch trees. He crawled backwards to the irrigation ditch, dragged the bicycle upright and keeping in the shelter of the ditch, began wheeling it away towards the birches. He came out of the shelter of the dip, focused on the patrol once more, and saw no sign of anyone sweeping the area with glasses. He jumped on the cycle and pedalled quickly over the edge of the field towards the trees. When he reached them, he dismounted, walked out to the other side and reconnoitred again. There was no sign of German military presence. There was no road, only the undulating fields and the thin ribbon of railway track. He pushed on, using the cycle when the terrain was possible, but moving as fast as he could. He slid down the slight embankment to the track, dragging the bicycle with him. He mounted, carrying the suitcase tied on his back; inside were a change of clothes, the ground sheet folded very small, the handsome leather briefcase embossed with his initials and a radio transmitter set. He carried his gun stuck in the waistband of his trousers. The L pill, that release from torture above bearing, was concealed in his left cuff link. He was a brave man, but he wouldn’t hesitate to take it.
    He cycled along the edge of the track for a mile and three-quarters. It wound and twisted in the way of branch lines. Sometimes he glanced back, listening for the rumble of a train, looking for a pencil of smoke. Nothing came. The morning grew warm, and he hummed to himself, his nerves calm. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. The old tag came into his thoughts and he changed it. Sufficient unto the hour; the minute. The sun shone and the way was downhill. And his mission had begun. By nine-thirty he had reached the outskirts of the station at St. Blaize. He pulled the cycle up the incline and wheeled it slowly towards the first group of sheds and outbuildings. Further on the slope became a platform, with the ticket office and waiting room. He tried the first shed, but the door was locked. He could see nobody about. The second building was a store room of some kind. The door was open and it was empty inside. He slipped in with the bicycle and a moment later came out without it, closing the door. It could be weeks before anyone looked in there.
    He walked slowly up the platform and stopped at the timetable board. A printed sheet with pencilled alterations showed that there was a train due in thirty minutes. He recognised his own good luck. It was the only train that day. He went into the waiting room, and then stopped. Two young women were sitting inside, one of them was knitting. They both stared at him. He smiled.
    â€˜Pardon,’ he said. ‘I’m looking for the toilets.’
    â€˜Through there,’ one of the girls said. Her companion smiled back; she showed an interest he didn’t find flattering. He went through to one of two doors, marked with a vague male silhouette. Inside the smell was urinous and stale. He unpacked his bag, and quickly