Mayhem

by J. Robert Janes

  ‘Jeanne stays. You,’ he pointed the Luger at St-Cyr, ‘and Gabrielle come with me.’

  Kohler eased his aching wrist. The boy had cut him free but there was no time.

  ‘The revolver,’ he gasped. ‘Quickly!’

  ‘The loft, monsieur. We must climb up there.’

  The ladder was a thousand kilometres away and it went straight up to Heaven.

  Jensen had appeared in the doorway. No sign of the other one yet. He’d be covering one of the exits.

  This was it. Death at what? Twenty paces …? Ten …? Five …? Had the kid got to the revolver? The pile of manure was to the right and about three metres behind.

  Kohler managed a shrug and a sheepish grin though his face hurt like hell. ‘So, a last cigarette, eh?’ he said.

  ‘Don’t touch that weapon, Renè! Come here,’ shrilled Jensen. ‘Hey, Klaus, I’ve got them.’

  Kohler leapt sideways, lunging for the whip as two shots rang out and the boy … the boy …

  He seized the thing and brought the rawhide down. A last desperate gamble as the kid tumbled over the manure and ran for a pitchfork and Jensen … Jensen …

  The whip had torn an ear right off him. Gott in Himmel – SS and blood pouring all over the place! Startled eyes, shock, the gun coming up again. ‘Klaus … Klaus …’ the man muttered in bewilderment.

  Kohler flung the whip at him and charged. He threw himself at Jensen, caught him by the arms – tried … God he tried to hold the pistol away. The gun went off – all thirty of the remaining rounds were sprayed about the place as the two of them rolled over and over on the floor and Jensen’s finger was repeatedly jammed against the trigger.

  One of the mares fell dead. Another was wounded and began to cry out in terror and kick her stall boards.

  A lantern shattered. Blood … there was blood everywhere. A pail came into view. One eye … only one. His wrist … damn his wrist.

  Kohler lay on his back and used both hands to force the pistol away. The kid flashed into and out of view, a blur. Jensen shrieked at him to stay put.

  No hope … too powerful … thought Kohler desperately. Not as young as I used to be …

  Jensen’s eyes shot wide. His mouth gaped. He stiffened in shock, tried to release his grip, tried to turn …

  Blood rushed into his eyes and trickled from a corner of his mouth, dribbling on the uniform as he stiffened yet again, then fell headlong at Kohler who pushed him aside. The boy … the pitchfork … Gott in Himmel, a seven-year-old boy, or was he eight or nine?

  ‘Klaus,’ gasped Kohler. ‘The other one.’

  The boy couldn’t seem to move. He’d lost all colour. A German … a member of their dreaded SS. He’d killed him! He, René Yvon-Paul Thériault, had murdered him.

  The wounded mare flung herself against the side of the stall and broke three boards. The sounds she gave were agony.

  ‘Son, help me up,’ wheezed Kohler. Where the hell was Bocke? Still waiting for them to make a run for it?

  He tried to swallow. His chest ached. Had one lung collapsed? His heart pounded unmercifully. The kid had driven the pitchfork right into the small of Jensen’s back. He must have taken a run at it. The mare … would the thing not be quiet for one moment? Jesus, the racket was terrible.

  ‘Oh God, we’re for it, kid. There’s no way a thing like this can be hidden. Get me the revolver. No, not the Luger. Louis’s gun. I’ll kill the other one if I can and I’ll say I did this. You hear me, eh? I killed him, not you. You’re to make a run for it. Go and hide in the mill. The mill, René. Understand?’

  The boy handed him the revolver. Kohler’s aching fingers found a corner of torn shirt but it was impossible for him to clean the weapon.

  Breaking the cylinder open, he held the gun out to Renè. ‘Is the barrel free?’

  The kid nodded. ‘So okay, eh? You to the mill, and me to find the other one.’

  This Gestapo inspector was almost dead himself and looking very grey. ‘If we go up through the loft, monsieur, there is a small door which leads …’

  ‘Never mind the loft. You beat it, eh? You’ve done your bit. I hope you live to see your grandchildren.’

  ‘Will you shoot Christabelle? Please, monsieur. She is in great pain and must have broken something too.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll shoot her, but only after you …’ Kohler indicated the ladder at the far end of the stables. As he watched the boy hurry away, he thought of his own boyhood, of a stable not nearly so fine, of a desire even at that tender age to become a famous detective.

  Such are the dreams of youth.

  The boy disappeared into the darkness but then a feeble shaft of light, up high, picked him out as he waved.

  Bocke … where the hell was Bocke?

  Almost at a run, they were now passing through the château’s Chinese Room, making for the cellar steps to what Mademoiselle Arcuri had called the Grotto. The chanteuse was in the lead, then himself and Ackermann – all three of them crowded too closely together. No chance to dart aside and slip away. No chance to turn and put a stop to the general.

  St-Cyr caught only fragmentary glimpses of the room whose windows opened on to the central courtyard. A superb screen of painted silk … blue porcelain jars hundreds and hundreds of years old. A tiny white jade figurine – some sort of deity perhaps. A life-sized porcelain warrior dressed in full regalia, an embroidered silk robe … the Thériaults had bought history and had banked wisely. But of course, the war… The Germans would take all of it.

  A gilded bamboo birdcage, in the design of a pagoda, was piled like a cake in tiers but held Italian faience birds of the finest porcelain.

  A dagger encrusted with verdigris lay open on a small table of black lacquerwork and gilt. Could he chance it?

  Ackermann jammed the gun into his back, propelling him into the next room as the woman said, ‘We must go this way now. There are some stairs at the back,’ and the sound of her voice, the tension and the fear in it lingered with St-Cyr.

  They entered the Hall of Armour and he knew right then and there that she’d come this way on purpose. The Thériaults had a superb collection, much of which stood menacingly about the hall. Full suits of armour, the dull gun-metal blue fast fading with the last of the light. Swords upraised to deal Death’s blow, pikes at rest. Which would it be? A mace? he wondered. Could he grab one?

  As they threaded their way quickly among the armour, she suddenly shouted, ‘Go left, Inspector!’ and bolted to the right.

  St-Cyr dodged under a mailed fist, twisted sideways near a pike and heard the first of two shots as he ran full tilt into a breastplate and knocked it over.

  Stumbling, he tripped and fell flat. Ackermann … where was Ackermann? Ah, Mon Dieu …

  The ringing sound of the armour gradually lessened.

  There were cabinets and cabinets – muskets, swords, dirks and pistols – how had the countess managed to keep them? No powder and ball, perhaps.

  Ackermann’s matched set of duelling pistols lay open on top of one of them – could he reach it? Could he chance it?

  High on the wall behind it were the flags and colours of the regiments the Thériaults had led. Their shields, their heraldry … the Siege of Orléans, the Battle of Waterloo …

  No sign of Ackermann and none whatsoever of the chanteuse. A quick glimpse of the maze over his shoulder, ever darkening but offering hope perhaps.

  Stealthily he began to crawl out from behind the small cannon he had used as cover. Nothing now showed on the floor but those suits of armour. Gods in their times, they stood about, mementoes of bygone days, no words of comfort.

  A step – was that a jackboot on the hardwood parquet?

  ‘Inspector …?’

  Ackermann had her by the hair again. In desperation St-Cyr closed a hand over one of the small cannon-balls that were piled in the iron basket beside the cannon.

  There’d been two shots – presumably the Luger had been fully loaded. One shot up in the tower then a
nd two here, so there should be at least four left and perhaps a fifth, if Ackermann had done as many did and left one in the chamber before inserting the clip.

  Five shots.

  He wound up and bowled the little cannon-ball across the floor, flinging himself aside at the same time and skidding to a stop behind one of the suits of armour.

  ‘Come out at once,’ commanded Ackermann. St-Cyr had spread his legs and was now standing directly behind the armour.

  A battle-axe hung from a length of chain that was wrapped about a mailed wrist.

  The battle-axe moved! He fired again, a screened shot that deflected off a sword, splintered a pike shaft and ricocheted around the room.

  St-Cyr yanked the battle-axe free and threw it. Ackermann fired. The woman shrieked at him to save himself.

  They made for the door at a run and St-Cyr headed after them. The Luger swung his way. The hammer came back. She fought with Ackermann. She tried to get the gun, tried to …

  St-Cyr tore him from her and knocked the gun to the floor. He went in with his fists, hammering. A left to the chin, a right to the shoulder. One, two; one, two. Now step away, feint to the left and in with a left. Yes … yes that’s it! ‘A bloodied nose, eh, General? Well, there’s more of it, my friend. There’s more.’ He feinted left and left again, dodged and weaved, stepped in suddenly, then back and around, cornering, working, now a jab, now a withdrawal.

  They closed and the general went down in a welter of blows they hadn’t taught him at that fancy SS academy. St-Cyr fell on him like a stone and pressed both knees into his back. He gave a savage grunt as he whipped the handcuffs from a pocket and clapped them on the bastard. ‘Done! Ah-ha, my fine, it’s done!’

  ‘Hermann …? Hermann, what has happened?’ St-Cyr raised the lantern. He’d found Kohler outside the back door of the stables, a wreck and badly in need of medical attention.

  ‘Louis …? Louis, where’s Ackermann?’

  ‘Locked up in one of the towers, with bracelets.’

  Kohler wanted to say, Good work! Instead he had to say, ‘We’re not going to get out of this, Louis. Jensen tried to kill me. His gun … You know how it was. The thing went off and hit Bocke twice in the guts. A stroke of luck perhaps, but not for us.’

  ‘I’ll get a couple of blankets and cover them. We’ll think about it, eh?’ He’d never seen Hermann quite like this.

  The Bavarian tore his one-eyed gaze from Bocke’s body. ‘I’ve already thought about it, Louis. I had no other choice but to kill Jensen with a pitchfork. It was either him or me.’

  A pitchfork! ‘Yes … yes, I quite understand. Shall I call Pharand or will you call Boemelburg?’

  Kohler held his throbbing cheek. ‘I think you’d better call Boemelburg for me. Just tell him to come down here, Louis. Don’t try to bugger about, eh? Words won’t be of any use so leave them to me. Let’s let him see this for himself.’

  ‘And the General Oberg, over on the avenue Foch, Hermann? What about him?’ The employer of the dead.

  ‘Von Schaumburg, I think. Let the Kommandant of Greater Paris call him personally. Tell them all to come. We’ll make a party of it and go out in style.’

  ‘Then we’d better include the préfets of Paris, Barbizon and Fontainebleau.’

  ‘Yes … yes, all of them, Louis. Now get me to a doctor, will you? I think I’m going to pass out.’

  The flame of a single candle lit the room. Ackermann sat on the only seat, a wooden stool from medieval times. The casket still lay open with its burlap sacks of rocks. A black-out curtain had been placed over the window and stuffed into the hole in the glass to stop the draughts.

  It was the loneliest of vigils and the night was long. ‘You have the choice of honour, General,’ said St-Cyr quietly.

  ‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ snapped Ackermann.

  ‘Burial with full military honours, General. A family name that is unbesmirched. No reflections on your wife and daughters. A hero of the Reich until the end of time.’

  ‘You and Kohler will die with me. This place will be sacked and burned to the ground. The countess and the others will be shot.’

  ‘A common grave, is that it, eh?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it. I’ve won, St-Cyr. There’s no possible way you and that Bavarian traitor can get out of it.’

  ‘Hermann is a man whose loyalties have been placed in confusion by events over which he had little control.’

  ‘It’ll do him no good to say those two tried to arrest me.’

  ‘Then I will leave you with this, General. Until the dawn, eh? Let us hope the others arrive at first light. Me, I am anxious for it all to end.’

  He placed a single 9 millimetre cartridge next to the candle, then laid the general’s empty Luger beside it. ‘My apologies if I do not take the handcuffs off you, General. I will check in from time to time. Should you feel the call of nature, please do not worry. I will be armed, of course, and always there will be someone else both to lock me in here with you and to let me out when I knock.’

  Ackermann smirked at him. The Frenchman nodded adieu, then went over to the door and rapped soundly on it.

  The key turned, the door came open only with difficulty, and he stepped out into the hall.

  It was Mademoiselle Arcuri, not the servant who had accompanied him. She locked the door again and left the key in the lock. ‘How’s Hermann?’ he asked. There was a torch in her hand.

  They’d speak in whispers, their voices hushed. ‘Fine. There’s always the danger of tetanus, but Dr Cartier has used much antispetic and has sewn up the cheek. Me, I have given your friend lots of brandy. He’s now asleep.’

  ‘And René and the countess?’ he asked.

  He was such a sensitive man, this Jean-Louis St-Cyr. No cop she’d ever met had been quite like this. ‘Renè is fast asleep ‘ exhausted, poor thing. He … he has told me the truth of what happened.’

  She looked steadily at him, didn’t shy away from it. ‘Hermann had to kill Jensen, Mademoiselle Arcuri. There was absolutely no other alternative.’

  ‘Yes … yes, I understand but will your friend really do this for my son?’

  He must be kind. There was so little hope. ‘He will, but you must pack some things for the boy and see that someone is ready to hide him at a moment’s notice. The Germans, madame … Two of their SS are dead. Even if they had killed each other, someone else must pay the price. This we cannot avoid. I wish with all my heart it were different but …’

  She stopped him with a look. ‘And Jeanne?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes … Yes, the countess as well.’

  Doubt showed. ‘Would it do any good for her to speak to Hans?’ A last attempt.

  ‘No … No, I have already tried. I’m sorry. It… it was of no use.’

  ‘She won’t try to sleep. She can’t. She paces up and down and goes from room to room chasing memories and having a last look.’

  ‘That is as it should be, madame, and I am sorry I cannot offer more.’

  ‘Will they really send you to the salt mines?’

  ‘Silesia? Ah no, no, they will have a little something else in mind.’ The firing squad.

  Again doubt showed in the look she gave him. There was hesitation too, but this was quickly followed by resolve. ‘Then it doesn’t matter, does it, if your wife should come back to you?’

  ‘Marianne …? Ah, I don’t know what she’ll decide to do. I haven’t really had a chance to think about it lately. She’ll either be there waiting at the house or she won’t. My son Philippe as well, of course, but the Germans won’t let me see them. Of this I’m certain, so in a way it really doesn’t matter what she does since I won’t know of it in any case.’

  They both fell silent. Mademoiselle Arcuri hunched her shoulders against the cold and gripped the torch more firmly as its beam passed over the floor at their feet.

  ‘Madame, I …’ He felt so useless at things like this.

  She looked up suddenly. ‘Please, there is no
need to say anything, Inspector.’

  ‘Until the morning then? Try to get a little sleep, eh? You’ll need your strength. You’ll have to be stronger than you’ve ever been.’

  Just before dawn an icy mizzle drifted over the Vouvray area. One could taste the smell of wet, decaying leaves, of vines and ripe, fermenting grapes, of woodsmoke, fresh dung and distant coal-fired furnaces.

  Thick and blanketing everything, it made greyer still the grey of the château’s walls as the light began to grow.

  St-Cyr waited. The fog was a nuisance. Would it slow Boemelburg and the others? Was it only a local phenomenon?

  Boemelburg’s Daimler purred from under the entrance arch, its headlamps unblinkered. A great, shining Mercedes followed – von Schaumburg was taking second place, or was that the General Oberg’s car from the avenue Foch?

  ‘They’ve all come,’ said Ackermann with a contemptuous snort. ‘So, a little something for them to witness.’

  A third car entered – another German staff car – then a fourth, a black Citroën, the car of Osias Pharand.

  The Préfet of Paris followed in the Peugeot the Germans had allowed him. Three men tumbled from it, and even at a distance, St-Cyr recognized the préfets of Barbizon and Fontainebleau.

  Ackermann took off his cap and placed it carefully to one side on the walk. ‘There are some letters I would like delivered. One is to my Führer, explaining everything. One is to my superiors, and one to my wife and family. Please see that the General von Schaumburg receives them.’

  Not the General Oberg. At the very end, Ackermann couldn’t find it in his heart to trust the SS. ‘I will, of course,’ said St-Cyr. ‘Is there anything else, General?’

  A look, a last word, a prayer … They were standing right in the middle of the château’s inner courtyard, right next to the central fountain whose stone greyhounds viciously leapt at a cornered stag.

  ‘No. No, there is nothing. You may go.’ The fountain had been turned off and the pond drained for the winter.

  The countess had come out of the front door to stand on the steps beside Mademoiselle Arcuri and her son; so, too, the parents of Jérome and Yvette Noel.