by JJ Zep
“Yes?”
“Would it be possible to be executed to the south side of the obelisk?”
“Absolutely not. I already have my men lined up.”
“It is customary for the condemned to have a last request, you know.”
“Within reason, yes. But I’ve just got my men lined up, they’ll be most upset if I ask them to move now.”
“What’s the hold up?” Schicklgruber shouted.
“The prisoner has a last request, Herr Schicklgruber.”
“Well give it to him, what’s the problem?
“The prisoner requests to be shot from the south side, sir.”
“He what?” Schicklgruber said, walking quickly towards us with his coat tails flapping.
“He wants me to move the firing squad to the other side of the square, Herr Schicklgruber.”
“What difference does that make?” Schicklgruber demanded.
“I want the last thing I see to be the magnificent Eiffel Tower,” I said.
Schicklgruber thought about that for a while then said to the squad commander, “Just do it.”
“The men aren’t going to like this,” the commander grumbled.
“I don’t give a strudel for what they do or don’t like. Just get it done. I have other executions scheduled today, you know. We have a timetable to adhere to. The Reich does not synchronize itself around the petty complaints of enlisted men.”
“Yes, Herr Schicklgruber,” the commander said, and trotted off to break the bad news to his men.
“There, it’s done.” Schicklgruber said with a grin. “Never let it be said that the Gestapo lacks compassion.”
The firing squad was now being shifted to its new position, and several of the men cast venomous looks in our direction as they passed. Eventually, they were formed up in a single rank facing us. Behind them, I could see the fountain, with Jitterbug poised like a water sprite on top of it, framed by the Eiffel Tower. A small crowd of onlookers had formed behind the fountain.
The squad commander barked out a command and the firing squad hoisted their rifles into a firing position.
“Ready! Aim!”
“Vive le France!” Duval uttered beside me.
“Hey, Nazis!”
The squad commander looked quickly left and right, then towards Schicklgruber.
“Who said that?” Schicklgruber demanded. “Find the man who said that! I want him in front of the firing squad with these two.”
“Hey Adolf! Yes, you dummkopf! Up here!”
Schicklgruber looked towards the fountain where Jitterbug was now doing a little jig, looking like Puck from ‘A Midsummer’s Night Dream’.
“There’s the miscreant now! Grab him!” Schicklgruber shouted. “No shooting. I want him taken alive! Move you idiots!”
The firing squad laid their rifles down and swarmed towards the fountain.
“Come on!” Jitterbug shouted. “I dare ya. A knockwurst to the first man who can kick the imp’s ass.” He waited until all of the firing squad were thrashing around in the fountain before executing a neat dive, doing a double somersault and landing in a crouch on the cobbled surface of the square.
“Come on, Dexter,” he shouted, “let’s quit this time zone.”
“Mon deiu!” Duvall said. “It’s that highly persistent demon.”
“Come on, Claude,” I said and made a dash for the turnstile.
“Get out of the water, you idiots,” Schicklgruber screamed. “They’re getting away, do I have to do everything around here!” He produced a Luger and pointed it at Jitterbug, but the little imp simply melted into the sidewalk before reappearing right in front of Schicklgruber and wrenching the gun from his grasp.
“Ten says you can’t catch me,” Jitterbug said, and made a dash for the turnstile with the Gestapo man hot on his heels. He reached the portal just after Duvall and I had stepped through. Schicklgruber, unable to stop, plunged through after him.
“Devil or not,” Schicklgruber shouted. “I’m placing you under arrest. No-one escapes the Gestapo!”
“Put a lid on it, Kaiser,” Jitterbug growled. “You’ll make me loose count. Rats!”
“Lost the count again, haven’t you?” I said.
“Blame the Nazi,” Jitterbug said.
“By god I’ll make you pay. I’ll have you beaten with a rubber truncheon, I’ll have you tied up with piano wire, I’ll…”
“Yeah, yeah let’s jump here, Dexter. This guy’s stinking the joint up.” He stepped through the wall and I followed, pulling Duvall with me.
“Enjoy the Big Bang, Herman Goring,” Jitterbug shouted as he left the turnstile.
vingt et un
We stepped from the soothing white light of the turnstile straight into the midst of a seething crowd. I searched quickly for my bearings trying to pick out the obelisk, but it wasn’t there. In its place stood a platform, and on it the guillotine, its blade glistening crimson in the early morning light.
For a moment the crowd was deathly silent and then someone shouted, “It’s Count Le Noir! Seize the royalist scum!”
Immediately hands grabbed at my clothes and I was jostled and pulled left and right. Spit rained down on me and I was pinched and slapped.
“Put him on the scaffold,” somebody shouted.
“Off with his head!” another cried, and then a chant went up from the throng.
“Off with his head!” Off with his head!”
I felt myself being lifted and carried to the platform where the eager hands of the executioners received me. A huge cheer went up from the masses as I was pulled onto the scaffold.
“What shall we do with him?” one of the executioners shouted.
“Shave him! Shave him! Shave him!” the crowd responded.
I looked out into the sea of angry faces, men, women and children with bloodlust in their eyes, only held at bay by the soldiers standing at the front of the platform. About forty feet back on a raised podium I saw a group of women, seemingly oblivious to the carnage around them, gossiping and knitting. There was no sight of Jitterbug, of course. He’d have merged into the background the minute we stepped through. But I did see Claude Duval, standing to one side, a coy little smile on his face. Duval looked directly at me, gave me a little wave and disappeared into the crowd.
Meanwhile, the executioners had bound my hands and now marched me towards the guillotine. I was forced to lie, stomach down, on a rough board, while my head was placed into a sort of yoke. A drum roll started up and I braced myself for the blade.
“Stop!” a voice suddenly commanded, and the drummers fell silent. “Get that man up!” the voice said. I felt the yoke released from my neck and I was lifted to my feet. A small, dapper man stood on the platform in front of me, and I recognized him immediately as my old friend, Robespierre.
“Boo!” the crowd jeered. “Off with his head! Royalist scum!”
Robespierre held up his hands and the crowd felt silent. “Citizens,” he said. “Would you execute an innocent man?”
“He’s not innocent,” someone in the crowd shouted. “He’s a royalist scum.”
“Perhaps so,” Robespierre said. “But we won’t know that for sure until we try and convict him, will we? First we’ll give the Count a fair and reasonable trial, and then we’ll give him a shave with the National Razor.”
“Shave him now,” someone shouted.
“I’m afraid, such an outcome is not possible,” Robespierre said. “Citizen Le Noir is innocent until we prove him otherwise. Besides, executing him now would cause a backlog. We have thirty heads to roll today.”
“Let’s get on with it then,” a voice shouted and the crowd cheered and quickly lost interest in my execution.
If I expected any comradely compassion from Robespierre though, I was sorely disappointed. “Take this man into custody,” he barked and I was dragged from the platform and thrown into a prison cart.
vingt-deux
I expected to be carted off to the Basti
lle or the Conciergerie or some other prison. Instead I was taken to a luxury apartment on a leafy Parisian street. I was greeted by a concierge, and taken to a suite of rooms where a hot bath had been run and a fresh suit of clothes was laid out. After I bathed and changed I was fed a breakfast of pastries, ham and various cheeses and then taken to an elegant salon where my host awaited.
Despite his rhetoric when facing the Paris mob, Robespierre greeted me like a long lost friend.
“My dear boy,” he said. “Delighted to see you. And what an improvement. Now that is more befitting a man of your stature. I had your old rags burned by the way, hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” I said.
“What a happy day,” Robespierre continued. “What a joyous reunion. You remember, of course, your fellow inmates from the Conciergerie, Citizen Danton, Citizen Roux, and Citizen Herbert?” He swept a hand towards the three men who I’d once shared a cell with.
“Of course,” I said. In reality two of men were barely recognizable. Danton, of course, with his huge frame, was easy to spot. But Herbert had taken to dressing like a dandy, and Roux while trying to emulate him, looked awkward in his fine clothes.
Danton stepped forward and embraced me before planting a kiss on either cheek. Herbert’s greeting was less enthusiastic. He took my hand in a limp grip while regarding me suspiciously. Roux didn’t even bother shaking.
“Right, now that the formalities are concluded, I wonder if we might impose on you, Citizen Le Noir, for some information?”
“Of course,” I said. “Any information I have is at your disposal.”
“Excellent, excellent,” Robespierre said. “What we are particularly interested in is, where you’ve been these past four years?”
“I’m sorry?”
“These four years past, where have you been hiding yourself?”
“I’ve been away for four years?”
“Four and a bit actually.”
“What year is this?”
“Quit stalling,” Roux suddenly barked out, “This is year one of the glorious French Republic. That would be 1793 to you and your old royalist buddies. You disappeared in 1789. Where have you been for the four intervening years hey, hey?”
“Forgive Jacques,” Robespierre, said, “Full of spit and vinegar as always.”
“He’s been abroad,” Roux continued. “Plotting with our enemies. Immigration is a crime you know, punishable by death.”
“Ah,” Robespierre said, “On that point, Citizen Roux is correct. I must press you for an answer, old chap.”
“I…I’ve been in Provence,” I blurted.
“Liar!” Roux shouted. “We’ve looked for you there. We’ve confiscated your estates. If you’d been there, we’d have found you.”
“Once again,” Robespierre said, “I must regretfully side with my esteemed colleague. No monsieur, wherever you may have been, you most certainly have not been in Provence.”
They had me on that one. There was no way I could explain away the four missing years. So I did something unorthodox, something you definitely won’t find in the SPAA manual. I told the truth.
“Okay,” I said. “I confess I haven’t been in Provence these past four years…”
“Now we’re talking,” Roux growled.
“…and I’ve decided to come clean, and reveal everything.”
“We’d be most appreciative,” Robespierre said.
“I’m not Jacques Le Noir at all. My name is Dexter Blackwell, although I use the alias Johnny Black when working for the SPAA. That’s the Soul Pursuit and Apprehension Agency, in case you were wondering. We chase down runaway souls you see, and I’m in Paris at the moment trying to track down Commodus, the second century Roman emperor. By the way, just a heads up for you gentlemen, you all end up in hell. Except you Monsieur Danton, but you can expect a long spell in purgatory.”
It was dead quiet in the room for what felt like a whole minute and then Roux exploded. “What absolute poppycock!” he screamed. “I’ve never heard such absolute rubbish in my entire life. How dare you mock the deputies of the republic? I’ll see your head on a spike by the end of the week, boyo! Consider yourself lucky we are no longer permitted to use the wheel.”
“You really have been rather foolish, Jacques,” Robespierre said. “This will not sit well with the Committee of Public Safety. I’m afraid you’re for the chop old boy.”
vingt-trois
I was getting quite used to being ferried around Paris in various police and prison vehicles. This time though, the journey was relatively short. We’d just rounded the first corner when a horseman appeared in front of us. He was dressed all in black and wore an ill-fitting mask.
“Stand and deliver!” Claude Duval shouted. “Your money or your…No, wait a minute, that’s not right. Hand over your prisoner!”
“Out of the road you scum. Do you know who I’m working for?”
“Of course not,” Duval said. “I should hope you would know that yourself.”
“Ha, bloody, ha,” the coach driver said. “Everyone’s a comedian these days. Now move along, I don’t have all day.”
“I demand that you hand over your prisoner.”
“Or what?” the driver said.
“Or I shall have to shoot you. And I must warn you monsieur, I am an excellent shot.”
“Go on then.” the driver said.
“You insist that I shoot you?”
“Go on then, let’s see what you’ve got.”
“Very well, monsieur. Don’t say I didn’t warn…merde!”
“Problem?” the driver said.
“Regrettably, it appears I have misplaced my musket.”
“Oh well,” the driver said. “I’ll be off then. Let’s do this again some time. I enjoy a good laugh on occasion.” He geed the horses and the coach started to roll.
“Stop!” Duval said.
“What is it now?” the driver said. “This really is becoming tedious.”
“I don’t wish to be alarmist, monsieur, but there is a demon seated beside you.”
“Go on with you. You don’t expect me to fall for the old ‘demon beside you’ trick do you?”
“I assure you it is not it trick. Look for yourself.”
The driver turned to his right and saw Jitterbug looking at him with the sweetest smile a red-faced imp could muster.
“Mon dieu! Le Satan!” the driver screeched and leapt from the box seat. He took off down the road as if the hounds of hell themselves were on his trail.
“Good work, Commie,” Jitterbug said.
“My name is Claude,” Duval said. “One might expect a red faced devil to be informed of such things.”
“Yeah, yeah, delude yourself all you want, Roman. Just get us the hell out of here before the frogs come hunting for old Dexter back there.”
“I regret, I cannot.”
“Why not?”
“It would be unseemly for a Christian man to be seen driving a carriage in the company of a demon.”
“What demon?” Jitterbug said and disappeared swiftly into the woodwork.
Duval nudged his horse cautiously towards the carriage.
“I think you’d better get us out of here, Claude,” I said. “Before Robespierre’s men arrive.”
“The demon?” Duval said nervously.
“Gone back to hell, I expect. What demon would want to cross swords with the French Dick Turpin, hey?”
“Indeed,” Duval said seriously. He dismounted his horse, tied its reins to the carriage and climbed into the seat. We set off through the streets of Paris at a reasonable clip, arriving eventually at a building with a large gate. Duval banged on the door and after a while it swung open. We entered a small courtyard and he brought the coach to a halt, then came around to the back, and tried the door. When it wouldn’t open he raced off, returning a few minutes later with a small man carrying a hammer and chisel. The man applied three blows to the lock and the door swung open.
&
nbsp; “This is my uncle, Gilles Corday,” Duval said. “He’ll hide you from the Jacobins.”
I followed Duval and Corday across the courtyard and into a small workshop, where three other men and a woman were huddled around a pot-bellied stove.
“Come, come,” Corday said. “Join us. Claude has told us about your many exploits.”
“He has?”
“Oh yes,” Corday said. “How you helped him to rob the coach of some Marquis and how you saved him from the guillotine.”
“He didn’t say anything about demons, did he?”
“He did mention something in that regard, as well as some fantastical tale about growling beasts and birds of iron, but then again, the boy’s never been too quick on the uptake. Nonetheless, we think you might be just the man we’re looking for.”
“Just the man you’re looking for, for what exactly?”
“To assist us in the murder of Jean-Paul Marat.”
“And why would I want to do that?”
“Any Frenchman would consider it an honor to put an end to that diseased parasite,” Corday insisted. “Sitting in his bath, writing edicts, stirring up the people’s bloodlust…”
“Yes, I understand that killing Monsieur Marat might be considered a great honor, but why do you want me to do it, exactly?”
“You misunderstand, monsieur,” Corday chuckled. “We do not require you to do the actual deed. No, my niece, Charlotte Corday from Caen shall have that honor. We merely want you to provide some sort of diversion, to distract the guards, so that Charlotte may slip in and execute a swift justice.”
“But monsieur, participation in a murder, the slaughter of an innocent man…”
“Innocent!” Corday blurted. “Only a Jacobin would regard Marat as innocent. He has more blood on his hands than every French king since Louis I. Who do you think insists that the carts keep rolling towards the guillotine? Who do you think keeps the mob baying for blood? Who do you think was behind the execution of the king, the queen, the Duke of Orleans…”
“The queen is dead?”
“The king, the queen, Madame du Barry, the Duke de Mariny, all of them and more. And who do you think is behind it all, egging Robespierre and his minions on. No sir, Jean-Paul Marat must die! Now, will you help us on not?”