The Hazards of War

by Jonathan Paul Isaacs

  So that meant that Cartwright had been in the wine cellar before. Was it while he was committing a murder?

  There was a big part that didn’t make sense, though. Tiedemann thought that if anyone would have hidden a body after a struggle, it would have been a downed airman who was trying to remain unnoticed. Instead, Hoffman’s body had been left in the open for anyone to see. That part certainly didn’t add up. And despite Krauss’s insistence, he had a hard time imagining why Cartwright would have risked moving recklessly through the house while enemy soldiers were all about.

  Tiedemann’s nature was to act with precision. He did not want to slaughter this whole family in a fit of retribution. He wanted to exact revenge on the killer. He wanted to know who had done it.

  So, before he came to any conclusions, he needed more information first—information he intended to get from the Contis. Even now, the shock of being caught would be wearing off as his prisoners sat in their stress positions in the Great Room. Tiedemann had to get back to questioning the French, before they regained their wits and concocted alibies.

  Of all the suspects, the men were at the top of the list in their likelihood of being the guilty party. Tiedemann closed his eyes and tried to associate the faces, names, and impressions that he had been able to gather.

  Cartwright, of course. He was an enemy soldier behind the lines and trying to avoid capture.

  The old man, Marc Rimbault. He seemed too smart for his own good after trying to make a deal in the Great Room.

  Robert Conti and the retainer, Girard Laurent. Both were possibilities, even though their motives were less clear.

  Then there were the women and the young boy.

  Conti’s wife Claudette seemed the hysterical type. If she had been scared enough, could she have lashed out with a lucky blow and caused Hoffman’s death?

  Tiedemann didn’t know much about Gabrielle Conti, the teenage girl. She had avoided the soldiers. But she was very pretty. Had the soldiers avoided her?

  The Conti son, Philippe, was no older than nine or ten and normally not a logical suspect. But what if he had been involved somehow? Young boys were often adventurous. Perhaps he had triggered a chain of unintended consequences.

  God, my head hurts.

  The only way Tiedemann was going to get anywhere was to go through the process, question each one of them, and look for inconsistencies. He prayed he would find some. This wasn’t Russia. They were in France, an old and cultured country as civilized as any other. Tiedemann didn’t want to resort to torture to gain a confession, nor did he want to have a mass execution.

  Gohler climbed up the staircase behind him, scowling.

  “Perfect timing,” Tiedemann said.

  “Sir?”

  “We are going to begin our fact gathering. You are in charge of managing the prisoners. I want each of the Contis taken to a different part of the house. Keep them separate and under guard. I don’t want them to see each other or to be able to communicate in any way. I also don’t want them to know in what order they are being interrogated. Bring each to me so that I may question them one at a time.”

  When the Germans marched back into the Great Room, the Conti family members were still in kneeling positions along the walls. Gohler gave instructions to separate the prisoners while Tiedemann entered the adjoining library. The walls were lined with half-empty bookshelves, and there was a table onto which Tiedemann threw his cap. Yes, this would work well, Tiedemann thought. He dragged an old leather chair into the partial shadows of the corner. That is where he would sit. Springer and Kraus cleared the furniture from the middle of the room so that it was empty, with just an old area rug covering the wooden floor.

  Tiedemann took his position in the battered chair, to the side. “Bring in the grandfather, Rimbault.”

  The old man was hauled in roughly and forced to kneel on the floor. Tiedemann sat to the side, partially obscured by the angle and the shadows, but still with a clear view of body language and facial expression. All he saw so far was grim resignation.

  “Herr Springer, tell our friend I would like to return to our conversation. What were we talking about? Ah, yes. Motive.”

  Springer paced menacingly as he translated.

  “You neglected to tell us that you were hiding a British airman in your house. We should execute you on the spot for such a crime.”

  No reaction. The old man stared into space, with any inclination to make a deal packed up and folded away.

  “Herr Cartwright had some very interesting things to say about you and your family.”

  There was a subtle change in the Frenchman’s pallor at the mention of the Englishman’s name. Tiedemann had known there was more behind this than met the eye. Interesting.

  “I am going to ask you some questions now. And I trust that you will reply only with the truth. Because later, when we question your granddaughter, if her answers were to differ from your own… that would have to mean she was lying, yes? That would be unfortunate. I can’t think of anything my men hate worse than a pretty young girl who lies. They would undoubtedly need to teach her a lesson. Am I being clear, Herr Rimbault?”

  The old man finally turned his head to look at the captain. He understood. Tiedemann noted that there was little, if any, fear to be found in the defiant Frenchman’s face. Only smoldering anger.

  “Springer, soften him up.”

  Springer punched him in the cheek. Rimbault ricocheted into the hardwood floor before the German hauled him back up and shouted at him to remain still.

  “Good,” Tiedemann said. “Let’s begin then. Why don’t you tell us what’s going on here?”

  Rimbault spoke, and Springer translated. “He says he doesn’t understand, that there’s nothing going on.”

  “Again, Springer.”

  The blond officer kicked the old man in the kidneys. Rimbault doubled over in pain. Tiedemann held his hand up to stop—best to start small. More encouragement could come later, perhaps on one of the others while Rimbault was forced to watch.

  “One of my officers is dead, and there’s an enemy airman hiding out in your home? Come now, Herr Rimbault, there most certainly are things going on, and that’s just the surface of it. Why don’t you tell us what your involvement has been? Start with the flyer.”

  The old man grunted as he struggled to sit upright. “The Englishman wandered onto our doorstep several nights ago. He’d been shot down and was in miserable shape. So we took him in, fed him, clothed him, gave him shelter from the cold. And then you arrived.”

  “Several nights ago? How many?”

  The old man hesitated, as if unsure his answer might reveal a lie told by someone else. “I’m not positive. I think it might have been the night before last, but I’m not positive,” he hedged.

  “What sort of plane did he fly?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How many of his companions survived the plane crash?”

  Rimbault betrayed a smug look. “You seem to know more than I. None of my family speaks any English.”

  Springer punched him in the ear this time. It was a full minute before the old man was able to regain his composure.

  “I’d remember your manners, Herr Rimbault, lest you forget to whom you’re talking,” Tiedemann said. “If we don’t get what we need from you, we will continue next with your granddaughter.”

  A cough was the only reply.

  “How many companions?”

  “I—I don’t know. No idea if he even had any. Don’t… don’t know what sort of plane he flew. We’ve seen only him.” Rimbault’s voice was ragged now.

  “How many nights ago did he arrive?”

  “I told you, maybe two, I think. I’m not sure,” the old man wheezed.

  “And where did you keep him all of this time so that he wouldn’t be found?”

  “We’re in the middle of the country, monsieur. No one comes here. There wasn’t any need to hide him anywhere until you arrived with your patrol.”r />
  “So when we arrived, where did you hide him? Down in the wine cellar, perhaps?”

  It was a leading question on purpose. Tiedemann saw the old man’s eyes glance over to the left—just for a moment. This was an old trick he had learned from an interrogator on the Eastern Front. Watch where a person’s eyes looked as they recalled answers to questions they were asked. The eyes betrayed the mechanics of how human memory worked. Looking to the left meant that the brain was retrieving visual information from something actually seen. Eyes to the right meant the prisoner was summoning up what something would have looked like, because there was no actual memory.

  “Why, I don’t know.”

  A lie. The old man’s eyes indicated he had seen Cartwright in the cellar. Something to build upon.

  “The kitchen, Herr Rimbault, the kitchen,” Tiedemann said. “That is where we found him. Weren’t you paying attention when all that noise drifted through the hallway? You hid him in the kitchen.”

  “Yes. You found him in the kitchen,” the old man said, his eyes glancing to the right. His words were too deliberate. Interesting, Tiedemann thought. Rimbault had to imagine what hiding the Englishman in the kitchen had looked like. Cartwright had been placed somewhere else prior to his discovery.

  “So how did Cartwright come to be hidden there, Herr Rimbault? Did you put him there?”

  “No. I did not make the decision.”

  “Who did?”

  Pause. “My son-in-law, most likely, but I am not sure.”

  “How are you not sure?”

  “I’m sure you can imagine that things were a bit chaotic when you knocked on our door.”

  Tiedemann tilted his head to the side. “Why the kitchen at all, do you suppose? You have a wine cellar underground. Why did you choose a room that was so close to where we billeted our men?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, that doesn’t make sense.” Tiedemann folded his arms and stared at the Frenchman, pausing for a moment. “I don’t like liars. Will your granddaughter know more? Perhaps she will tell us that he was hidden somewhere else, that he was in the kitchen when we found him because of some other reason?”

  “She will not know anything,” the old man snarled. “The only one who might have decided where the Briton would be kept is Robert.”

  “Deciding where he would be kept is different from knowing where he was kept.”

  The Frenchman remained silent.

  Tiedemann decided to move on from his circular, repetitive questions. “So, your son-in-law? Robert? Yes, then. Tell me, did you spend any time with your son-in-law last night?”

  “Of course.”

  “Where?”

  “There is a small bedroom upstairs where we usually discuss matters.”

  “And while you were in this room, with my soldiers walking about in your home, did you by any chance discuss how you were going to keep a hidden British flyer safely out of view from a platoon of SS soldiers?”

  “I’m sure it came up,” Rimbault said sarcastically.

  It was becoming apparent that he had some hostility toward the Germans. Perhaps that was important.

  “Your son-in-law seems like a very intelligent man. Do you think he is smart?”

  “Yes, I would say he is.”

  “Then I don’t understand what’s going on here. It doesn’t seem very smart to move someone’s hiding place from the cellar to the kitchen when there are so many troops about, does it?”

  Rimbault stiffened. “We weren’t hiding him in the cellar.”

  “Really? Then who were you hiding in the cellar?”

  Tiedemann waited for Rimbault to show some physiological sign of a mistake. There was something going on, for sure. Was there another airman somewhere?

  Tiedemann stroked his chin and lit a cigarette while he lounged in the leather chair. He thought through what else he had heard during his barrage of seemingly random questions. Making mention of the cellar had been completely hypothetical, simply a piece of bait to draw out more information. It was quite clear that the old man’s eyes betrayed a visual memory when Tiedemann mentioned the Briton being down there. That potentially placed both men at the crime scene, although the time of occurrence had yet to be determined.

  “Springer. Again.”

  The blond lieutenant threw several more punches into the old man’s side. After a minute Tiedemann stopped him. Left on his own, Springer would just try to beat the truth out of their prisoner. But physical punishment worked best with gaps to recover.

  “You seem quite certain that Cartwright was not hiding in the cellar,” Tiedemann continued. “Quite certain indeed for someone who professes to not know where he was kept at all.”

  “I am merely guessing, monsieur. You yourself said that the he was found in the kitchen.”

  Tiedemann changed the subject. “You were together with Robert in this bedroom you speak of. When?”

  “Early last night.”

  Of course he would say it was early. Later in the night would cause too much suspicion. “How early?”

  The Frenchman closed his eyes as he tried to remember. “I don’t know the exact time. After you had retired for the evening, but before you had fallen asleep. We were together for a while.”

  Tiedemann didn’t buy it. He needed to build the mental bridge as to how the old man could have seen the Briton in the cellar, and at what time.

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “One of your officers saw us.”

  Tiedemann’s eyebrows arched. That was the last thing that he expected to hear as he tried to spring a trap on the Frenchman’s story.

  “Who?”

  Springer asked the question and looked surprised at the response. Then the junior officer turned to Tiedemann. “He says it was me.”

  Tiedemann stared. “Well?”

  Springer hesitated. “I don’t know, sir. It could have been. Honestly, I don’t remember much after the third bottle of wine.”

  Tiedemann cursed and shook his head. The lingering hangover reminded him to be still.

  “Why does he think it was you?”

  Springer asked the question in French and related the reply. “He says that his son-in-law and he were arguing with the door ajar and that I ‘poked my blond head in to see what the commotion was about.’ The old man then told me that they were having a private discussion and closed the door on me.”

  “Tell me you remember it, Springer.” Exasperation was bubbling up.

  Springer was turning a little red. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t. But I do remember wandering all over this house at some point looking for the stairs to the cellar, so it could have happened.”

  Tiedemann frowned.

  “All right. Keep translating.”

  “Herr Rimbault, how long did your discussion take place with your son?”

  “An hour, perhaps.”

  “And then what did you do?”

  “I went to sleep with the rest of my family.”

  “What were you arguing about when Herr Springer introduced himself through your doorway?”

  “All sorts of things. You.”

  “And what to do with us? How to take revenge?”

  “No! Why would we do such a thing? You were going to be leaving today, when the rain let up. To try and hurt you or your men would be more than foolish. We have nothing to gain.”

  “If it was intentional, yes. If it was an accident, that’s something different. Are you saying my man’s murder was an accident?”

  “No, I’m not saying anything. I don’t know anything about your officer’s death. I assure you, none of us do.”

  “But was the Englishman in the cellar last night?”

  The old man’s eyes unmistakably darted to the left once again. Tiedemann knew he was lying by omission when he kept silent.

  Tiedemann held his finger on his lip and thought some more. Did the old man’s alibi hold water? Granted, no one knew the exact time that Springer must ha
ve walked in on the two Frenchmen, but at least they had an initial placement of their location early in the evening. And it was away from the cellar. And judging from the old man’s eyes he was sure that the airman had been underground at some point, which allowed the easy presumption that the Englishman had been responsible for Hoffman’s murder. But there were still pieces missing. The timing eemed wrong.

  “Herr Springer. Do you think any of our soldiers would have seen the old man if he had gone to the wine cellar?”

  The lieutenant thought for a moment. “I would expect so, Herr Hauptsturmführer. Gohler had men on guard the entire night.”

  Tiedemann nodded. There was more here than met the eye, but he would come back and revisit the inconsistencies. He needed to test the information from the others. Then perhaps he could make sense of it all.

  “Very well. This has been quite interesting. Herr Krauss, you have been taking notes, yes?”

  “Jawohl.”

  “Good. Herr Springer, please get Herr Gohler and have him put the old man under guard in one of the bedrooms. Don’t let the other prisoners see him. They’ll be more on edge if they don’t know what’s happening to each other.”

  “Which room, Herr Hauptsturmführer?”

  “I don’t care. Upstairs, the first one you see. Whatever.”

  “Jawohl.”

  As Gohler arrived and then departed with the prisoner in tow, Tiedemann turned to Krauss.

  “Bring in the young girl next. Rimbault seems very protective of her. Let’s find out what sort of person she is.”

  9

  Gabrielle let out a cry of pain as she was hauled upright by her hair. She instinctively clawed and scratched to protect herself, but it was no use. Another solider pinned her arms to her sides and she was made to walk toward the library, kicking in protest.

  When she was at last thrown to the floor at the feet of Captain Tiedemann, Gabrielle was strangely furious. Sure, she was scared of what the Germans might do to them, but this last bit of treatment was simply unconscionable. Gabrielle turned her head angrily to the man that had carried her in and let loose a stream of insults that would have made her grandfather blush.