Tito and Tony Davis had taken to each other on sight, and Tony felt they were friends. Yet here he was, crouching in an attic bedroom, preparing to commit murder and thus risk his own life, and that of Sandrine, because Tito considered it necessary – and because he considered that Tony’s exceptional ability with a rifle made him the best man for the job.
‘I see it,’ Sandrine said.
‘Check your weapons,’ Tony told them.
The other three were armed with tommy-guns and pistols, and each had a string of grenades round his or her waist. Tony also had a tommy-gun slung on his shoulder, but in his hands he held a high-powered Mauser rifle with telescopic sight, and this he now loaded. He reckoned it might just be possible to get in two shots, but he was fairly sure he could settle it in one. From his tunic pocket – like his companions he wore a species of uniform, not that any of them supposed this would do them much good were they to be captured – he took a folded newspaper sheet, and opened it for a last look at General von Blintoft’s photograph; there were now a lot of officers gathering in the station yard, and he did not wish to kill the wrong man. But Blintoft’s big, bland, not unhandsome face would not easily be mistaken.
He moved to the window. Sandrine had opened the shutter just sufficiently for him to slide the gun barrel through when he was ready. Which would not be until the official party emerged from the station and into the yard; the station roof prevented him from seeing the actual platform at which the train was now stopping. Tony did not doubt that there were security guards watching all the buildings overlooking the railway terminus; given enough time one of them might well spot a rifle barrel projecting from a supposedly empty room. He listened to snapped orders, watched the guard of honour come to attention and present arms. He was tempted to keep his shot until the general commenced the inspection of the guard, which would take place in the fullest possible light. But then Blintoft would be moving, and unexpectedly stopping from time to time to chat with one or other of the soldiers. Whereas as soon as he emerged from the building, he would stand still while the anthem was played. That was the best possible moment.
The bandleader raised his baton, and Sandrine gave Tony a quick squeeze of the hand. She knew as well as he that the next few minutes might well be their last on earth. Several people emerged from the station doorway, coming from the shade into the light. None was the general. But now Blintoft appeared, a commanding figure. Tony knew the man beside him: Major Wassermann, who headed both the German military police and the Gestapo in Yugoslavia. Tony would in fact far rather have been aiming at Wassermann, who had made himself feared throughout Yugoslavia by his mistreatment of those even suspected of subversion who might be unlucky enough to fall into his hands, while the general’s only crime, so far, was the mere fact that he was the newly appointed governor-general.
Blintoft stood to attention on the station steps, Wassermann immediately behind him. Tony slid the rifle barrel through the open shutter, and checked in consternation. If he had noticed the fluttering hair and skirts behind the general, it had only been half-consciously, so hard had he been concentrating. But now Blintoft turned and put an arm round each of the two women standing behind him, bringing them forward to stand in front of him for the anthem. ‘Shit!’ Tony muttered. Both women were fairly tall, and though one was bareheaded, the other wore a big hat. Together they quite obstructed a clear view of either the general’s head – the best target – or his breast. If he fired, one of them would certainly be hit.
‘What is the matter?’ Svetovar Kostic stood at his shoulder.
‘No one said anything about women,’ Tony muttered. He had seen women die, violently, as when he had led the assault on the Gestapo headquarters in Uzice a few months ago, but he had not enjoyed it. So, it seemed he still retained some of the attitudes of an officer and a gentleman after all.
The band struck up. Everyone in the station yard was standing to attention. ‘You must shoot,’ Svetovar said.
‘I will hit the women,’ Tony said.
‘So what is one German woman, more or less?’ Svetovar snatched the rifle from Tony’s hands, threw the shutters wide, aimed and fired almost in the same instant.
Sandrine gave a little shriek, as she was inclined to do in moments of stress, and banged the shutter closed again. This prevented Svetovar from firing a second time, and before he could react Tony had regained the gun. ‘That was a bloody stupid thing to do.’
‘You would not shoot.’
‘Now we are all scuppered,’ Maric said.
Sandrine was peering through a crack in the shutter. ‘They are pointing. We must get out.’
‘If we can.’ Maric opened the door at the back of the room.
‘Hurry,’ a voice said from down the stairwell.
‘Go,’ Tony commanded. The two men ran to the door. Sandrine hesitated. ‘I am right behind you,’ Tony promised. But he paused to look down at the station yard. As he had suspected, one of the women had been hit, and was now lying on the ground, surrounded by standing or bending or stooping people. As a target, the general – also crouching – was even more concealed than before. Meanwhile the guard of honour was certainly looking up at this building, and there was considerable activity to either side.
He considered the sniper’s rifle he still held. It was useful only for murder, would not in any way assist in facilitating his escape. Nor would it matter when it was found by the Germans; they would already know what sort of weapon had been used to fire the fatal shot. He laid it on the floor and ran out of the doorway on to the landing, where Sandrine was waiting. The footsteps of the two men rumbled from beneath them.
‘That bastard has ruined everything,’ Sandrine complained. ‘I knew we should not have brought him. He is too riddled with hate to be reliable. He should be shot himself.’
‘Let’s get out of here first, and worry about him later,’ Tony recommended. He grasped her arm and hurried her down the stairs.
On the next landing a middle-aged man waited. He wore a suit and looked prosperous, but also highly agitated. ‘You have five minutes,’ he said.
Tony nodded, and he and Sandrine went down to the first floor of the house. Here Maric and Svetovar waited. ‘We got one of the bastards, anyway,’ Svetovar said.
‘We got no one of the least importance,’ Tony told him. ‘And your throwing that window wide has told them exactly where to look for us. Mr Brolic …’ Brolic, who had followed them, gestured at a bedroom. Here a woman and two teenage children, a boy and a girl, were lying on the floor. They were already bound and gagged. Brolic lay beside them, indicating the waiting cords. It took only a matter of seconds to bind his wrists and ankles and stuff a gag into his mouth, but the gag was deliberately badly secured so that it could quickly be got rid of. ‘Good luck,’ Tony said.
They ran down the last flight of stairs, and now could hear the tramp of feet and the barked commands of the approaching soldiers. ‘Here …’ Maric said. He was an old friend of Brolic, and had set this up. Now he held the cellar door open for them. They reached it just as there was a crashing knock on the front door.
Svetovar led the way down into the gloom while Maric closed the door behind them. He did not lock it, as that would have indicated someone was down here. They reached the foot of the steps, and Tony flicked the switch of his flashlight. ‘Over there,’ Maric said.
Above them they heard shots as the front door was forced. They ran to where Maric was pointing, Svetovar turning round to look at the steps, tommy-gun thrust forward; the soldiers could be there at any moment. But now they heard Brolic shouting; he had got rid of the gag as planned. ‘Help me!’ he yelled. ‘Help us!’
Predictably, the footsteps now sounded on the upper stairs. Maric pulled away several barrels of wine to indicate a small doorway; this he opened to reveal an even smaller passageway.
‘Will they not find this?’ Sandrine asked.
‘Of course. We must be out of it before they do,’ Maric said.
Svetovar slung his tommy-gun, dropped to his hands and knees, and crawled into the aperture. Sandrine followed, and then Tony. Maric meanwhile was rearranging the barrels as best he could to make them look undisturbed, then he too crawled into the passage, closing the door behind him. ‘How far?’ Sandrine whispered.
‘A hundred feet,’ Maric said. ‘Then there is another door. You are not afraid of rats?’
Sandrine blew through her teeth, contemptuously, and resumed crawling behind Svetovar, almost bumping into his backside when he suddenly stopped. ‘What is the matter?’
‘I have reached the door.’
They listened to the sound of rushing water, and now inhaled a most unpleasant odour. ‘Shit!’ Sandrine commented.
‘That is exactly it,’ Maric agreed.
‘Will they not simply seal off the sewers?’ Tony asked.
‘Only when they are sure we are down here. We have a few minutes yet.’
Svetovar opened the door, and now the stench was overwhelming, while the shrill barks of the rats rose even above the swish of the water. ‘Remember to stay on the shelf,’ Maric said. ‘It is quite deep in the middle.’
Svetovar crawled on to the ledge, and kicked a rat into the water. ‘Will they attack us?’
‘Only if they think you are attacking them.’
Sandrine crawled through. ‘You spend a lot of time down here, Maric,’ she suggested.
‘It has been necessary, from time to time,’ Maric agreed equably.
Tony climbed through and Sandrine squeezed his arm. ‘There is a rat standing on my foot,’ she whispered, her voice trembling to belie her earlier declaration. ‘I think it is trying to get up my trouser leg.’
‘Kick your foot,’ he recommended.
Sandrine did so, and the rodent flew off and into the water with a squawk.
‘Haste,’ Maric said. There was now a great deal of noise from behind them, although whether it actually came from the cellar they could not be sure.
Svetovar was already moving along the ledge, ankle-deep in water, kicking rats left and right as he did so. Sandrine followed, every so often reaching behind her to make sure that Tony was at her shoulder. Now Svetovar reached a ladder leading up. ‘Where do we come out?’ he asked.
‘Not here,’ Maric said, bringing up the rear. ‘It is the fifth ladder.’
Svetovar splashed on, followed by the others. Tony wondered if they were going to make it. Maric had been confident of it when the plan had been laid. But they had also counted on an extra few minutes caused by German uncertainty as to where the shot had come from. He was angry about what had happened, both because of the added danger it had placed them in and because it had involved a bystander rather than the principal. He certainly intended to have Svetovar punished – even if the young man had very nearly been his brother-in-law – for such a blatant disobedience of orders.
‘Two,’ Svetovar said as they passed the next ladder.
But now, suddenly, there was noise in the sewer. ‘Shit!’ Sandrine muttered.
‘You in there!’ a voice shouted. ‘Come back and surrender. You cannot escape.’
‘We are done,’ Svetovar said.
‘We’ll use the grenades,’ Tony said. ‘Carry on.’
‘I will stay with you,’ Sandrine announced.
‘No,’ Tony said. ‘I am giving you an order.’
‘And I am disobeying it.’
‘I will stay,’ Maric said. ‘I know these sewers. I can find my way out by another route.’
‘You cannot get out,’ the voice called. ‘All the exits are sealed.’
‘Is he right?’ Tony asked.
‘No. There are secret exits. The fifth ladder does not go to the surface. It exits in another cellar, another safe house. They are expecting you.’
‘And you?’
Maric’s teeth showed in the gloom as he grinned. ‘I will be there.’
Tony squeezed his hand, then turned back to the others. ‘Let’s go.’
Antoni von Blintoft knelt beside his wife, watched the blood welling from the wound in her chest. With every breath she also expelled blood from her mouth and nostrils. ‘Magda,’ he said. ‘My God, Magda!’ He raised his head. ‘A doctor. We need a doctor.’ He gazed at Angela, who was kneeling on the other side of her mother, staring at the dying woman. Her face was composed, and there were as yet no tears, but the little muscles at the base of her jaw were jumping as she clamped her mouth shut.
‘You heard the general,’ Wassermann snapped. ‘Hurry. She should not be moved,’ he added as hands reached for the woman. ‘Wait for the doctor.’ His eyes were already scanning the buildings around the station yard.
‘Wassermann …’ Blintoft said.
‘I will see to it, Herr General,’ Wassermann said. He looked at the girl, almost as if he wished to say more, then thought better of it and strode towards his men.
The wail of an ambulance siren could be heard, and already soldiers were moving towards the onlookers, using the butts of their rifles to push the crowd back. A tremendous hum of comment rose out of the yard. An officer saluted, and then pointed. ‘That window, Herr Major.’
‘Follow me,’ Wassermann commanded, and set off at the double. The captain signalled his sergeant, who followed with a dozen men. Wassermann drew his Luger pistol as he crossed the open space. His mind was a jumble of mixed emotions. He enjoyed action, the chance to hit back at the guerillas, to vent his spleen upon the wretches who sought to make life difficult for the Reich. He was not overly concerned for Frau von Blintoft, but his blood boiled at the thought of how easily the bullet could have struck Angela, the mental picture of that white shirt and superb torso torn apart by the flying lead. What kind of man would have done such a thing?
More disturbing than any of those considerations, however, and more irritating, was the fear that he might be blamed for what had happened, for inadequate security. No matter that he had ordered all of these houses to be searched this very morning; as it had been the general’s command that he should be met at the border by his police chief, he had not been here personally to oversee the search.
He reached the steps leading up to the front door; this was on the street adjacent to the station yard, and he was therefore out of sight of the tragedy, although he could still hear the shouting. ‘Name?’ he demanded.
‘Brolic,’ the captain panted at his elbow. ‘He has a general store in the city.’
‘Any record?’
‘None. He has always been a supporter.’
‘Those are the worst.’ Wassermann banged on the door. ‘The house was searched?’
‘Yes, Herr Major.’
Wassermann banged again. ‘The time?’
The captain looked at his sergeant. ‘At eight o’clock this morning, Herr Major.’
‘Who was inside?’
‘Herr and Frau Brolic, and two children.’
‘Herr Brolic had not yet left for work?’
‘No, Herr Major. There is another son, older, who works for his father. He had already left the house.’
Wassermann nodded, and stepped away from the door. ‘Break it down.’ The sergeant beckoned two of his men, who levelled their rifles and shot into the lock. Wood splinters flew, and the lock disintegrated. But it was still held by a bolt. More shots were fired, and the wood shattered sufficiently to be dug out by a bayonet, exposing the bolt. This was forced back, and the door hurled in.
Wassermann stepped into the gloomy hall. ‘Check the cellar,’ he commanded, and was himself checked by a shout from upstairs.
‘Help me! Help us!’
Wassermann took the steps two at a time, followed by the captain and several men. The sergeant and the remainder of the squad waited in the hall, the order to check the cellar on hold for the moment. The major reached the landing, threw open the bedroom door, and gazed at the four people lying on the floor. ‘Thank God!’ Brolic said.
‘Untie them,’ Wassermann commanded, and surveyed them while they were being freed by his men. A middle-aged man, a younger woman, and two rather overweight children – brother and sister, in their early teens, he estimated. About as average a family as one could think of. And then there was Captain Ulrich’s opinion that they were willing acceptors of the German occupation. That made him suspicious, for a start. ‘What happened here?’ he asked.
Brolic was sitting up and rubbing his wrists where the bonds had been released. ‘We were having breakfast, just after your men had been here, when these people appeared.’
‘What people?’
‘Three men and a woman.’ He knew he could not lie about this, just in case the Partisans were to be captured.
‘You knew these people?’
‘I had never seen them before. But they were armed, and said they would shoot us all if we made a noise. Then they made us lie on the floor and tied us up.’
‘Where are these people now?’
‘I do not know.’
‘You mean they may still be in the house?’
‘It is possible.’
Wassermann turned to the captain. ‘Search the house. Begin with the cellar.’
‘The shot came from the attic, Herr Major.’
‘They are hardly likely to have stayed there, waiting for us to come for them. But send two men upstairs anyway. The rest to the cellar.’
Ulrich saluted and hurried off, beckoning his men to follow.
‘You mean these people have been shooting?’ Brolic asked.
Wassermann regarded him for several seconds. Then he said, ‘You say they came here at eight o’clock this morning?’
Murder's Art Page 2