The Tin Snail

by Cameron McAllister

  But Engel shook his head. “As you know, Major, I never drink in the morning. Just a small black tea, please.”

  Victor nodded and headed away.

  “So, Angelo,” Keller continued, eyeing me. “Is it really true that your father hasn’t been working on a new car?”

  I went rigid with tension, and even Engel dabbed nervously at his forehead.

  The major patted me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, my little Michelangelo. Even if you don’t tell us, we’ll find out. It will be an enjoyable game.”

  I looked away, catching Engel’s eye briefly. The German designer sat squirming in his seat, evidently not enjoying this “game” much either.

  Suddenly I spotted something and froze on the spot. Over Engel’s shoulder, Dominique was drawing a large glass of beer from the pump—which, with a start, I recognized. It was the gearstick from one of the prototypes!

  I was terrified—and yet also just a little bit exhilarated. Here was a senior officer in the German army, about to enjoy a beer pulled by a gearstick from the very car he and his men were searching for.

  When Victor brought over Keller’s beer, it was all I could do to stop myself smirking. And yet…if Keller turned and saw the beer pump, surely the game was up?

  The major cast a long, calculating look around the room. “Tell me. The implements above the bar…”

  I glanced nervously up at the wall. Various old farming tools had been mounted for decoration.

  “What about them?” Victor asked evenly.

  “They are for plowing, am I right?”

  “They were here when I bought the place,” he replied dismissively.

  But Keller was already out of his seat, striding across the room to the bar, where Dominique was serving. “May I see one?”

  Dominique flicked a wary glance to her husband, and I suddenly realized that something was wrong. Engel had noticed it too. His gerbil eyes narrowed as he watched them closely.

  Victor calmly approached the bar and reached up to unhook the large plowing yoke. Now I too saw the danger: next to it was a piece of equipment rather different in origin—and rather more recent. It was a piece of the crankshaft from the Tin Snail, and beside it was the rudimentary starting handle for the engine.

  I held my breath as Victor passed the yoke to the major, who examined it, apparently fascinated.

  “Remarkable. If I’m not mistaken, this is at least a hundred years old.” He handed the wooden implement back. “And yet…the pieces next to it”—he craned his neck to peer at the wall—“seem altogether more modern.”

  If Victor was alarmed, he masked it perfectly. He leaned toward the officer and murmured conspiratorially, “Actually, they fell off old Benoît’s tractor. I thought they might look the part for any passing tourists.”

  Keller stared at him, before a smile spread slowly across his face. “Well, I’m afraid this particular tourist has not fallen for your little trick. But don’t worry,” he said, pressing a finger to his lips for comical effect, “your secret is safe with me.” With that, he sauntered back to join us at the table.

  I watched Dominique out of the corner of my eye. As he passed, Victor gently stroked her arm for reassurance.

  When I looked back, Keller was watching me searchingly.

  “Well, Angelo, I think it is time you and I had a full and frank discussion.” He wiped some beer froth from his top lip before continuing. “I can’t help feeling that you’re holding something back from me. If you told me everything now, you could save everyone—especially your father—a lot of unnecessary suffering.”

  I felt my stomach cramp. Just how long would I be able to keep up the pretense of knowing nothing?

  “Major Keller?” Engel interjected. “Perhaps the boy actually does know nothing. Would we not be better off concentrating on talking to the adults?”

  Keller considered the matter for a moment. “Perhaps you’re right,” he conceded. “Yes, in fact, I think the time has come to expand our little list of interviewees. We shall start interrogating everyone in the village—with immediate effect.”

  As his ominous words hung in the air, he raised his glass to both of us, then downed his beer quickly. A dribble trickled down the side of his mouth and dripped onto the butt of his pistol, just visible, gleaming inside its holster.

  Over the coming days Major Keller’s men systematically searched every living room, outhouse, barn, workshop and shed in the entire village. No pillow, turnip patch, wine barrel or liquor still was left unturned. But they found nothing.

  During this search, the soldiers, following Keller’s express instructions, took meticulous care not to make a mess. At one point, one overzealous storm trooper knocked a jug to the floor in Marguerite’s kitchen. She scolded the clumsy culprit, even threatening to beat him with a spoon. The hapless soldier, barely out of his teens, was humiliated by this tirade and things could easily have turned ugly. But Keller was quick to step in and tear a strip off the beleaguered soldier, who was then forced to scrub Marguerite’s floor for three hours by way of punishment. After that there were no more breakages.

  Two more days of searching passed, each as fruitless as the one before. Until, on the third, Keller and his men were passing the cemetery behind the church. Camille and I had been shadowing their movements most of the day, anxious to keep an eye on where they were searching while trying to appear as inconspicuous as we could. But as the Germans filed past the graveyard, Keller turned unexpectedly. His gimlet eyes surveyed it and suddenly found Camille, who was pretending to leave a few daffodils by a grave. I was standing next to her, desperately trying to look natural.

  “What’s he doing?” Camille hissed as I glanced at my upside-down school book.

  “Walking over here,” I hissed back. “Stop shaking.”

  “I’m not!” she muttered crossly, but her hands rattled the jam jar she was filling with flowers.

  Suddenly Keller was looming over us. “How nice to see young people showing such respect to the dead,” he purred. Suddenly one of the graves caught his attention. “This is most unusual,” he mused, studying the lie of the land. “The grass on this grave is much greener. Now, why would that be?”

  Of course, Camille and I knew exactly why: because, only a matter of months ago, we had excavated the grave and buried, amongst other things, a gearbox and carburetor there. When we had filled the hole in again, Marguerite had thrown in some of her prize pig fertilizer to help the grass regrow. Which was exactly what it had done—only far too well, it seemed.

  I felt my legs begin to buckle. Keller turned to his men and shouted something in German; it sounded like machine-gun fire. Before Camille and I knew what was happening, the men were crawling over the cemetery with pickaxes and spades.

  Seconds later, the first blade sank into the soft earth of the burial mound.

  Camille and I hardly dared look at each other. It was surely only a matter of time before Keller dug up the coffin and discovered exactly what lay underneath.

  After exactly twenty-three minutes, a dull thud emanated from the hole the soldiers had now dug. It was the sound of a spade hitting wood. Spotting the commotion, several of the villagers had rushed over to protest. Keller refused to listen to them, driving his men on to dig deeper. Now, as Victor himself approached, the major impatiently ordered his men to lift the coffin out of the grave.

  As they started to excavate around the box, Victor strode over. “What in the world is going on?”

  “Save your breath, Herr Mayor,” Keller snapped. “Your huffing and puffing will make no difference.”

  “This is sacred ground,” Victor thundered.

  “Then perhaps you can explain why you have dug it up so recently. Don’t try to deny it.”

  Victor took a deep breath to steady his nerves. “Yes, we dug it up.”

  “You admit it?” Keller asked with barely concealed glee.

  “Absolutely. And by all means let your men open up the box. But I would stand wel
l clear when they do.”

  Keller hesitated. “Why?”

  “The reason we dug it up was because we were so advised by the local minister for public interment. We were told we had to bury the body a couple of meters lower.”

  “And why would that be?”

  “So the corpse didn’t leak into the ground.” Victor smiled triumphantly. “You see, the person inside this box didn’t die in his sleep. He was poisoned by his brother-in-law to steal his inheritance. The arsenic still present in his body is enough to kill twenty men, we’ve been told. But if you don’t believe me, feel free to bring the coffin up. Just beware of the fumes.”

  One or two of Keller’s men had understood a smattering of what Victor had said and were now backing away warily. It was all I could do not to burst out laughing. Victor had called the major’s bluff magnificently.

  The muscles in Keller’s jaw tightened as his eyes searched Victor’s, then mine, for the truth. My mouth went dry as I waited for the outcome. Would he buy it?

  After what seemed an age, a hollow smile spread across his face.

  “Perhaps, after all, we should let the dead sleep a little longer,” he muttered, before snapping out a series of orders to his men. They began hurriedly refilling the grave—a lot faster than they had dug it. Meanwhile the major leaped back into his car and returned to the manor house to avoid any further public humiliation.

  That night, Keller left his troops playing cards and decided to pay another visit to Victor’s bar. I was sitting with my father at our usual table while Victor and Benoît entertained us with old ballads.

  As Keller took his seat, we shared an uneasy glance. Dominique, who was leaning against the bar, clapping in time to the music, took a deep breath before heading over to serve him. She stood mutely by his table, waiting for his order.

  “Beer,” Keller replied a little abruptly, before remembering himself. “Bitte.”

  Dominique nodded and turned to go.

  “The village is in fine spirits tonight,” he observed. “Maybe you think you have seen the back of me….”

  As he spoke, he studied Dominique closely, gauging her reaction. She blinked slowly before giving him a practiced smile. It was the kind she must have given a million times at Victor’s stuffy municipal dinners.

  “Your men have showered us with presents and food,” she told him. “Why would we be pleased to see you go?”

  Keller clearly suspected she was lying—was probably poking fun at him about the incident in the graveyard—but her performance was flawless. After a moment he returned her smile mechanically and she headed back to the bar.

  Keller now turned his attention to the musicians. Benoît was playing his serpent, Victor his accordion. Even Félix had a mandolin, his square, callused fingers plucking away remarkably tenderly.

  But as he looked closer, Keller’s eye came to rest on an unused piano behind them. Curious, he stood up and wandered over.

  Benoît’s playing immediately became less assured as his eyes followed the highly polished jackboots squeaking across the floorboards. As usual, Félix showed no emotion whatsoever.

  Keller waited patiently till they had finished their song, then clapped vigorously. “Bravo,” he cheered, full of false bonhomie.

  Victor smiled coolly and began to pack away his accordion.

  “Don’t tell me you are finishing already?” the major protested, pretending to look hurt. “I’ve only just got here.”

  “I need to change one of the barrels,” Victor explained.

  Keller nodded his understanding and, while Victor went behind the bar, he sauntered over to the piano. “Tell me. Why does no one play this?”

  Victor gave my father a cautious glance. “That old thing? It’s out of tune.”

  “Mind if I have a go?” Keller asked lightly.

  I felt a twinge of panic. A bead of sweat formed on Victor’s top lip as the major lifted the lid to look at the keyboard.

  “Strange,” he mused, glancing at the keys. “It looks in perfectly good condition.”

  By now, everyone in the bar was watching intently. Keller pulled back the stool and sat down, spreading his fingers across the keys in anticipation. After a moment he began to play.

  To our surprise, the tune was sweet and lyrical, almost yearning. I could feel myself being drawn under its hypnotic spell.

  Then, as abruptly as he had started, Keller stopped. “You lied to me,” he said, raising an eyebrow speculatively at Victor. “The piano is perfectly in tune. So why say it wasn’t?”

  For a moment Victor was speechless; then Dominique came to his aid.

  “Because of me.”

  Keller’s eyes flicked to her, surprised. “Because of you?”

  “Yes,” she confirmed. “The piano was a present from my father. He cheated on my mother and now I can’t bear to hear anyone play it. Victor was trying to protect me.”

  Keller’s eyes narrowed as he weighed up her story. “I’m very sorry to hear that,” he said eventually. “If your mother was half as beautiful as you, your father was a foolish man. I wonder, though, if I might take a look inside?”

  I closed my eyes, waiting for the inevitable. Keller was on to us, I was certain of it. Even the stony expression on Félix’s face was betraying a glimmer of fear. I saw one of his huge, muscular fists slowly clench into a fist.

  “Inside? Whatever for?” Victor murmured.

  “I am fascinated by pianos. I’d love to see how this one is strung. Do you mind?”

  “Only if you promise to play us another tune,” my father suddenly piped up.

  “Alas, that is the only one my mother taught me,” Keller replied, his lips curling into a smile.

  “Shame,” Papa sighed. “You have real talent.”

  But Keller was already on his feet and lifting the lid on the top of the piano. With a roomful of eyes out on stalks, he peered inside.

  Then, after a moment, he gently closed the lid again.

  The piano was empty—except for the strings, of course.

  “See anything interesting?” my father inquired innocently.

  Keller was clearly seething at being thwarted again, but he knew better than to show it.

  “On second thought,” he said, giving Dominique a tight smile, “I’ll leave that beer.” He clicked his heels in salute and strode out of the bar.

  Once he had gone, we sighed with relief.

  Fortunately Keller had failed to notice the piano’s rather unconventional foot pedals: three in a row…just like an accelerator, a clutch and a brake pedal….

  The following day my father and I were sitting outside the bar, enjoying some of Dominique’s delicious truffles. She’d used the last of the extra chocolate rations Keller had bestowed on the village when he first arrived. By now it had become blindingly obvious that he was going to get zero cooperation—or should I say collaboration—so the extra rations had suddenly dried up.

  I’d been toying with my dusted chocolate truffle for over an hour, picking around the edge in a desperate attempt to make it last as long as possible, when a truckload of Keller’s men swept through the village. Keller himself followed behind, riding imperiously in the back of his staff car, with Engel hunched beside him.

  “Now where are they going?” Victor groaned.

  Camille listened carefully. The roar of the truck’s engine suddenly died just round the corner, and her eyes widened with alarm. “Dad’s workshop!” she hissed.

  Within seconds I was chasing after her as we raced across the square.

  Sure enough, Keller’s men were in the process of filing into her stepfather’s forge.

  As his men began their search, Keller wandered through to the lock-up at the back. A large rusty padlock barred any further access. Félix was sitting quietly in the corner, sipping his early morning coffee.

  “I assume you have a key for this?” Keller inquired.

  If Félix was alarmed, he wasn’t showing it. In his usual unflappable man
ner, he carefully set down his coffee cup and began methodically working his way through a large bunch of keys till he found a small rusty one. He turned it in the lock and, after a good deal of fiddling, it creaked open. He tugged an old light cord and a filthy bulb flickered into life.

  Keller took a step forward, his eyes adjusting to the gloom. The lock-up was crammed from floor to ceiling with all the old odds and ends we had raided all those months ago.

  “Herr Engel, in your humble opinion, could any of these form part of the car we are looking for?”

  The frail little man edged forward until he could scan the Aladdin’s cave in front of him. I saw the tiny black pupils of his eyes swell to the size of saucers as he gazed from gearstick to steering wheel to fan belt.

  “Well?” Keller prompted him.

  “If you’re asking me whether some of these parts could be used in the assembly of a prototype vehicle, my answer would have to be y-yes,” he stammered.

  Keller’s back stiffened, and Camille threw a jittery glance at her stepfather. Was the game finally up?

  Félix, however, looked straight ahead, giving nothing away. Keller was about to bark an order to his sergeant when Engel cleared his throat again.

  “However,” he went on, “if you are asking whether, in my opinion, these really are the parts from the prototype we are looking for, I would conclusively say no.”

  For the second time in as many days, I saw the major’s jaw tighten with irritation.

  “May I ask why?”

  Engel lifted up a large rusty suspension spring. “As far as I can tell, most of these parts are from a German reconnaissance airplane, circa 1917.”

  It was all Camille could do to stifle a snigger, but Major Keller took the information in his stride.

  “A souvenir from the last war, it would seem,” he said, smiling coldly at Félix. Without another word, he tugged on his leather gloves and strode back out toward his staff car. Engel nodded courteously to Félix, and then to each of us, before scurrying after him. Seconds later, the two of them disappeared in a cloud of dust.