Mayhem

by J. Robert Janes

  ‘I am not a homosexual,’ said Ackermann evenly. ‘The very thought of such a thing is abhorrent to me.’

  ‘Then why the crime of passion, General, in the death of Jérome? If the boy hadn’t taken another lover, Brother Sebastian would not have flown into such a rage and killed him.’

  ‘The brother merely misinterpreted my meetings with Jérome.’

  ‘Perhaps, but had he not seen a little more than that – down by the river perhaps, or when the two of you sat in your car on the road beneath the monastery? Jérome, I think, would also have talked – he’d have told Brother Sebastian in no uncertain terms that the affair was finished and why it was finished.

  ‘You were lovers, General. Yvette knew only too well what was going on, so, too, the abbot and Brother Michael, and I think also Mademoiselle Arcuri and the countess. But they were afraid of you. Isn’t that right? After all, you had the upper hand, the last laugh, the use of the boy’s body and what he knew about the Family Thériault and the whereabouts of Charles Maurice.’

  ‘You can prove none of this. My name’s not mentioned in the diary.’

  Did she cry that out to you before you shot her? Did she say it after you had thrown her to her knees? You killed her, General. You murdered that poor girl.’

  Ackermann drew his pistol. ‘There is little you can do about it, Inspector. The diary, please, and the other things you have in those pockets of yours. “Von Schaumburg’s private safe …” Did you really expect me to believe that?

  ‘Countess? Gabrielle? René Yvon-Paul?’ He pointed the gun their way. ‘A short walk. Some exercise and a little relaxation after all that grief. Please don’t think I’ll hesitate to use this. If I don’t kill you, my men will.’

  ‘A last clue, General, for which I must say I’m grateful,’ said St-Cyr. ‘Had you been so certain of your innocence in Paris and Berlin circles, you would have come with far more men.’

  ‘Even though there was only yourself and Kohler to deal with? Don’t make me laugh, Inspector.’

  ‘But you did not know that, General. You thought Mademoiselle Arcuri’s husband was alive. And surely the countess and she could be counted on to cause trouble, eh? Oh, by the way, my friend. I take it that you sent Mademoiselle Arcuri and her maid those little black coffins and that you like plum brandy?’

  The Frenchman would keep on trying to antagonize until a bullet shut him up. It was a pity the Resistance hadn’t got to him.

  ‘The brandy?’ asked St-Cyr.

  ‘A taste I acquired during the Polish Campaign. The girl drank it like water. I told her it would help to calm her nerves.’

  ‘She spilled a little,’ said St-Cyr with a far-off look. ‘Did you shriek at her to be more careful, General? Presumably her hands had not been tied at that time and you were being friendly.’

  ‘She deserved to die. All vermin deserve to die.’

  Kohler knew his only hope lay in antagonizing the man. He had to get him close enough to kick but so far, the bastard had refused to budge.

  ‘Jensen … That’s Norwegian?’ he asked, pleasantly enough.

  ‘Pure Teuton. Now be quiet.’

  ‘Are you bent like your boss? He’s a faggot, friend Klaus. A queer and an SS general. A war hero. Gott in Himmel, no wonder the Reichsführer-SS Himmler was pissing his britches!’

  Jensen smirked. He’d let the remark pass. Time enough to deal with it later through the proper channels. Of course there was no substance to it, and the Bavarian would get what he deserved.

  He took out a small square of white felt and began to polish the blueing on the barrel of his Luger.

  Kohler snorted. ‘Keep it nice and tidy, eh? Hey, tell me something, does it shoot better if there’s no dust on it? That thing’s from the war that was supposed to end all wars. They’re inclined to jam, my friend. Even the tiniest grain of sand and, Gott in Himmel, nothing up the spout.’

  Jensen pointed the gun at the Bavarian’s forehead. ‘Be quiet.’

  ‘Hey, I’ve finally got it!’ shouted Kohler, grinning hugely and startling the horses. ‘You two are as bent as your boss. It’s a ménage-à-trois. No wonder there are only three of you. Three SS queers! Do you … well, you know … Do it in the you-know-where?’

  The man lunged for the whip. The rawhide snapped back. Kohler had a sharp spasm of panic but he wouldn’t beg, he wouldn’t …

  There was a crack! No pain yet, only shock as the shirt Gerda had sent him four weeks ago split apart at the right shoulder and opened to the belt.

  Blood erupted all along the fissure. As the pain rushed in, he bit his lower lip and clamped his eyes shut. ‘In the ass, you faggot!’ he shrieked. Ah, Jesus … Jesus, the thing was on fire.

  The rawhide came back and tore his left cheek open. Beads of fear broke out on his brow.

  Jensen caught a breath. ‘I thought I told you to be quiet?’

  ‘Do faggots often like to whip people?’ shouted Kohler angrily.

  The man leaned the whip against a stall and went to calm the horses. The General Ackermann is a hero. He’s no more bent than you or I. The girl was pregnant and had accused the general of being the father. He had to deal with the matter. She was French and a whore, so it didn’t matter, did it? Besides, she’d threatened him.’

  ‘With marriage? You’ve got to be kidding. Are Oberg’s boys over on the avenue Foch so goddamned dumb they can’t read? The autopsy on the girl showed she was a virgin, you idiot!’

  ‘A virgin … but… but that is not possible?’

  Kohler laid it on thickly even though his cheek was on fire and the blood ran freely down over his chin. ‘Hey, listen, my friend. These days, every girl in gay Paris lifts her skirt and drops her drawers, eh? But that one … Ah! It was for real. I saw the body. Prayers with her brother – that novice monk, that friend of the general’s, the one who was buried. Yeah, that’s the one. But never the real thing. They’ve the proof and it can’t be denied. Von Schaumburg even had a look.’

  Jensen threw a doubting glance towards the stable door. Kohler struck. ‘What did he get you to tell her on the telephone, eh? That you were a French friend of the general’s and that he’d asked you to intercede? A little meeting, eh? Everything would be fine. No problems, no more worries? Just a quiet little talk in the car? In Fontainebleau Woods, my friend. Did the two of you hold the girl while Ackermann tied her wrists?’

  ‘We weren’t there. He … he took her himself.’

  ‘“He took her.” You make it sound like a battery of Russian field guns. Mein Gott, for heroes we’ve got piss! Her brother was the General Ackermann’s lover, you idiot!’

  ‘Silence!’ shrieked Jensen. ‘No more talking.’

  ‘Then get my handkerchief … in my pocket. At least have the sense to try to stop the bleeding, otherwise there’ll be no duel.’

  As the last of their steps rang hollowly in the tower, St-Cyr unlocked the door and pushed it open.

  The casket was clear enough. Ackermann and the man called Helmut Bocke herded them into the room. The countess was pale and badly shaken. Mademoiselle Arcuri threw a glance at the window, at freedom and the sky. Her son was very afraid, yet was there not something else?

  ‘Open it,’ said Ackermann. ‘It won’t hurt the boy to see what death does.’

  ‘I have no screwdriver,’ said St-Cyr.

  ‘Hans …’ began the countess.

  ‘General, my dear cousin. It’s time you started addressing me by rank.’

  ‘Is this really necessary? At least let René …’

  ‘The boy stays.’

  ‘Then let him face the wall. He mustn’t be made to look. It isn’t fair. Not at his age. Please, I beg you.’

  ‘Bocke, use your pocket-knife. Give it to St-Cyr.’

  ‘Jawohl, Herr General.’

  The knife, an SS version of the Swiss Army’s constant companion, was produced and laid at one end of the casket. The man then stepped back a pace.

  St-Cyr glanced apologetical
ly at the countess and at Mademoiselle Arcuri whose gaze he could not read except that something really was wrong and the boy knew of it. Had she lied to him? Had he been such a fool as not to have seen it?

  She was standing well to one side of her son. About as far from the boy as she could get.

  ‘René, please do as your grandmother has asked, eh?’ said St-Cyr.

  ‘I give the orders,’ said Ackermann, motioning with his pistol. ‘The boy looks at the corpse, just as all of us will.’

  St-Cyr heaved a sigh. ‘As you wish, General. I’m sorry, Countess, but …’

  ‘Get on with it!’ said Ackermann, raising his voice.

  St-Cyr felt the tension in the room, the terror that was suppressed but lay not just in himself and the others, but in the general.

  ‘Is it that you are fascinated by death, my friend?’ he asked.

  ‘Only that I must have the proof.’

  The screws were tight and took considerable effort. It was Mademoiselle Arcuri who said, ‘René, come here. Let me hold you by the hand.’

  The boy did as he was told. That was good, so good. She’d remained standing as close to the door as possible.

  ‘Hans, please, I beg you,’ began the countess. ‘It isn’t necessary. I swear to you Charles is dead.’

  Ackermann said nothing. As the last screw came gradually out of the wood, he watched it intently.

  Bocke, standing a little to one side and behind St-Cyr, kept his eyes on all of them.

  Jeanne Thériault took a step. ‘Countess, please,’ warned Ackermann, not looking up at her. ‘Stay where you are.’

  She had to try. ‘Hans, you’re a soldier. You’ve seen war at its worst. Charles was as good as dead when we got him. He’d received a piece of shrapnel in the head. No doctor could have operated. He was in a coma, mumbling in his sleep and crying out for me.’

  Ackermann looked up at her. ‘That has no bearing on this. None whatsoever.’

  ‘But it has!’ she implored. ‘When he had recovered sufficiently to walk about a little, he wasn’t the same. He said so little, it was as if he hardly knew us. Distant … he was so distant not just from me, but from Gabrielle. He began to wander. I’d find him in the maze, in the tower here, in the cellars … René and I had to watch him constantly. One day in summer we … we found him down by the river, hiding from you and hiding from us.’

  St-Cyr paused. Was she trying to distract Ackermann? He’d have to say something. ‘Renè, he was so good that first day I met him, Countess. I knew he must have had some practice when he led me completely astray.’

  ‘He’s a good boy and knows what has to be done. He’s … he’s exactly like the son I lost.’

  Ah, Mon Dieu, of course she wanted to encourage the boy, but did she want sympathy as well? If so, it was of no use but …

  Under cover of the exchange, Mademoiselle Arcuri had moved the boy to her left and now her hand rested lightly on his shoulder. She’d push the son away and scream as the lid was removed. She’d take the first shot, would sacrifice herself.

  René would make a run for it.

  As the last screw came out, St-Cyr put it in his pocket with the others. ‘Renè, there will be nothing much left of your father. Just the hair, the teeth, the skin perhaps but dried and old, withered as if by the sun. The uniform, it will be stain …’

  ‘Stop it! Stop it!’ shrieked the countess.

  Ackermann lunged and flipped the lid off. ‘Bags … Bags of stone!’ he swore. He lashed out at the countess and she fell back against the wall and to the floor.

  ‘He’s dead! I swear he’s dead!’ she cried.

  ‘The boy! Get him, Bocke, or pay the price!’

  ‘Jawohl, General.’

  St-Cyr moved to help the countess to her feet. Blood trickled from a split in her lip. The dark eyes were filled with hatred as she looked past him to the general. ‘You call yourself a man, my cousin, but you are nothing,’ she spat. ‘Nothing! Compared to my son.’

  ‘Where is he?’ demanded Ackermann, jamming the muzzle of his pistol against the back of Mademoiselle Arcuri’s neck and forcing her to bow her head. He had her by the wrist. He was hurting her …

  Jeanne Thériault looked at her daughter-in-law. Was it to be the last time they’d see each other alive? Suddenly there was so much to say and no time in which to say it. ‘I don’t know what’s happened to him, Hans. I really thought his body was here.’

  *

  Out of the corner of the only eye that wasn’t swollen shut, Kohler caught a glimpse of the boy. The little nipper was down at the far end of the stables, over by the far wall. One minute he was there, the next he wasn’t. He was making his way stealthily along the wall by climbing from stall to stall.

  He had a kitchen knife clenched in his teeth, was scared stiff and yet determined.

  ‘Water,’ muttered Kohler. ‘In the name of Jesus, give me something to drink.’ Every effort to get away had failed.

  Jensen wrenched open the door to the nearest stall and took the mare’s trough from it. ‘Water, eh? Then water you shall have!’

  Sputtering, Kohler gasped then bellowed, ‘Bastard! I’ll see you in hell for this.’

  ‘You’ll see nothing if you don’t shut up,’ shouted Jensen, reaching for the whip. ‘I’ve had enough from you.’

  ‘Some duel I’m going to fight, eh? Blind in one eye and cut to ribbons. Weak from loss of blood –’ He kicked out fiercely and lost his balance, giving a scream of anguish as his wrist was wrenched.

  A breathless Bocke appeared on the run. ‘Klaus … Klaus, the boy has escaped. Help me to find him.’

  Jensen looked to Kohler and then back to Helmut. ‘Help me to tie his feet, otherwise I can’t leave him.’

  One of the mares whinnied and began to stamp excitedly about her stall, tugging on the halter rope. Again Jensen went over to the door and yanked it open. Straw on the floor, dung, oats … nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing. The boy? he wondered.

  They tied Kohler’s ankles together and ran the rope up behind him, bending his head back so far that if he moved, he’d break his neck.

  ‘Rest easy,’ snorted Bocke. ‘We’ll be back.’

  The one good but bloodshot eye closed in pain rather than look at them.

  The boy … where was the boy? These guys, they knew every angle. They’d let the boy show himself and then they’d come back and take him. The kid didn’t have a chance.

  *

  Ackermann twisted Mademoiselle Arcuri’s arm behind her back and forced her to her knees. ‘One false move and she dies, St-Cyr,’ he shouted.

  The countess wiped the blood from her lip with the back of a hand. She was over by the window, caught in the fading light and contemplating a foolish, foolish thing.

  The casket was between him and Ackermann. No chance there … Not yet. ‘General, I am only too aware that you will kill Mademoiselle Arcuri. Me, I am at your service. Lock the two of them in the tower here and take the key, eh? Then you and I can settle this business with Hermann.’

  He gave the countess a glance of warning which she failed to notice. The woman was going to rush Ackermann in a vain attempt to give them a chance.

  ‘Countess, please,’ said St-Cyr. ‘Both the general and I know he’d only kill you.’

  The wind came to feel its way through the embrasures, echoing softly in the tower. No one moved. Perhaps half a second passed, perhaps a little more. Ackermann still stood behind Mademoiselle Arcuri with the gun pressed firmly to the back of her neck and her left arm wrenched painfully upwards.

  ‘I won’t tell you anything!’ she shrieked. ‘There is no body. You’ll never find it. We hid no one, Hans. No one! Charles died at Sedan. You have no proof we hid him. Nothing but a coffin full of rocks.’

  Kohler … was the boy trying to get to Kohler? St-Cyr was watching for a chance. The countess …

  Ackermann released the arm and seized Gabrielle by the hair. He’d make her scream. He’d tear it out by the roots.
‘Talk,’ he said quietly.

  She winced in pain and gasped. ‘With no body there is no proof. René … Ah, my hair … my hair.’

  Her scalp was on fire. The skin was ripping …

  ‘Hans, stop it, please! You’re not a total coward. Let me talk to Gabi. She’ll understand.’

  The countess moved away from the window. Swiftly Ackermann lifted the pistol and shattered the glass behind her, filling the tower with the sound of the shot.

  Again none of them moved. Gabrielle Arcuri’s face was a mask of pain. Her eyes were filled with tears which streamed down her cheeks.

  ‘Please,’ said St-Cyr. ‘I beg you, General. Be decent.’

  ‘Gabi, tell him where you hid the body. You can’t hope to save the château for Renè. He’s finished. Even without the proof, Hans will see that the boy is …’ She couldn’t say it and turned quickly from them to stare out through the shattered glass at the growing dusk.

  Those who had been at the reception would now begin to leave the farmhouse of Riel and Sophie Noel. Some would walk slowly homewards along the roads, or make their way back to the château. Others like Morgan Noel would wander up to the caves to stand alone among the rows of bottles or by the fermentation vats asking God why it had had to happen. They’d all be very afraid. They’d try to stay clear of things and she must find it in her heart to understand their fears and to forgive them.

  ‘Go and show him where the body is hidden, Gabrielle. Lock me in here with the inspector.’

  Ackermann gave her a minute. The pistol never wavered as he again took aim.

  ‘General, you are not so foolish as to kill her in plain view of witnesses. Berlin must have its answers, isn’t that so? The General von Schaumburg will not let this matter lie.’

  ‘Von Schaumburg can be dealt with.’

  ‘But not the Oberkommando der Wehrmacht, General. Not the High Command with whom he is in constant communication. No, my friend, if you are to get out of this unscathed, you will need great tact and you will most definitely need to produce the body of Charles Maurice Thériault. Your word is no longer trustworthy, General. The General von Schaumburg will take things to the truth. Please make no mistake, he’s out for blood.’