Murder's Art

by Christopher Nicole

  ‘Ah …’ But what did he have to lose? ‘I swear.’

  Her tongue came out and circled her lips. ‘I want you to … pretend to hurt me.’

  Wassermann finished his brandy in a gulp. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

  ‘You know how to hurt people, Herr Major. I have seen you do it. I want you to do the same to me. To pretend I am a guerilla, and interrogate me.’

  ‘You can’t be serious.’

  ‘You promised.’

  ‘You mean you want to feel electric shocks between your legs?’ She was opening up a Pandora’s box of anticipated pleasures … but Pandora’s box had released endless disasters as well.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said seriously. ‘I don’t think so, really. But I would like to feel that it was going to happen, feel entirely at your mercy. Feel helpless. But alive. Can you understand that?’

  ‘Of course,’ he lied, making a mental note that before he got too close to this girl he simply had to get her to a psychiatrist. But more urgent considerations came first, while she was in this mood. ‘And sex?’

  ‘Make me feel, first, and do what you wish with me, afterwards.’

  He gazed at her, and she flushed slightly. ‘Please, Herr Major.’

  ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that you should start calling me Fritz.’

  ‘Ah, Wassermann,’ General von Blintoft said. ‘Good morning.’

  Standing in the doorway of the general’s office, Wassermann had to collect his thoughts; he hadn’t expected his boss to be in quite so early – or in such a clearly good mood. ‘Good morning, Herr General.’

  ‘Sit down.’ Wassermann seated himself before the desk. ‘Tell me, what did you do with my daughter last night?’

  Wassermann gulped. The one thing he had not considered was that Angela might have mentioned anything about last night to her father. He had not sworn her to secrecy, but if she had suddenly been overcome with a feeling of guilt, if only about losing her virginity … ‘We had dinner.’

  ‘She didn’t come in until three. I was beginning to get worried.’

  ‘Well …’ Had the old goat seen her? ‘We danced for a while, and then talked …’

  Blintoft nodded. ‘That was good. She needs to talk. And you know how it is – girls find it difficult to talk to their fathers.’

  Wassermann felt a sense of relief. But he still didn’t know how much, if anything, Blintoft knew. On the other hand, he reflected, he couldn’t possibly be this affable if he had the slightest idea that his only daughter had allowed herself to be placed in the chair in Ulrich’s office and handcuffed to the floor, and then had her drawers pulled down and the electrodes clipped to her most private parts, to be made to feel, as she had wanted, before having sex. What had she felt when she had so willingly placed herself, and that splendidly shaped body, at his mercy? She had stared at him with an intensity that had almost been frightening. But then, he had been frightened himself as he had released her dress to pull it down past her breasts, to expose them and touch them, and then eased it up past her thighs, to uncover such a feminine wonderland. He had expected her to cry, but, as on her visit to the cells, she had not, while he had felt the strongest urge to turn make-believe into reality, been so tempted to turn on the current, but had resisted it. And then he had taken her, lying on the floor, and she had gasped softly as he had entered her. Even less could the general possibly envisage that she had appeared to enjoy every moment of it – or suspect that he had a severe mental case as a daughter. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘I am very anxious to help her.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Blintoft said. ‘Still, you mustn’t overtire her. She is still in bed. This is very unusual for her.’

  ‘I apologise, sir. It is just that … she did not seem to wish to go home to bed.’ Which was absolutely true.

  ‘You must insist the next time. Now, I have the most tremendous news. As you know, while I was in Germany I went to Berlin. I had long meetings with both the Führer and General Heydrich, and they both agreed that we should do something about the Yugoslav situation, certainly in the light of this latest outrage.’

  Wassermann’s heartbeat quickened, but he could not resist asking, ‘Have you changed your opinion of what is necessary, Herr General?’

  ‘I have come to the conclusion that you may have been right, Major, that these people – these Partisans and their friends the Cetniks – cannot be treated as civilised human beings, but must be destroyed before Yugoslavia can possibly become a properly constituted colony of the Reich. This is not simply because I wish to avenge my wife and bring her killers to justice, although I certainly mean to do that. The overall picture requires that this business be settled as rapidly as possible. The eyes of the world are starting to look towards Yugoslavia. The fact is that we are already experiencing some guerilla activity behind our lines in Russia, as well as in Greece; these people undoubtedly have heard of the successes gained by the Cetniks and Partisans, and used them as their examples. So we, in turn, must make an example of them. Do you agree?’

  ‘Entirely, Herr General. Although I still think it would be a mistake to lump the two groups together. Divide and rule, eh? I think if we denounce the Partisans as the murderers of your wife, thus discrediting them in the eyes of the world, and concentrate our efforts upon them, we may well find that the Cetniks will cooperate with us. And once we have destroyed the Partisans, then we can turn on the Cetniks.’

  ‘It is certainly something to be considered,’ Blintoft agreed. ‘Although I am not sure that it will be necessary. I have been promised two divisions of front-line troops, together with a panzer brigade. They are on their way here now.’

  ‘But that is splendid news, Herr General. We will at last have a proper army.’

  ‘Together with all the air support we require. We will begin by regaining Uzice. Hopefully this Tito will attempt to hold on to it, and then we will destroy him.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘And just to encourage the locals, I am empowered to offer a reward of ten thousand marks each for the capture, dead or alive, of this Captain Davis and the woman Fouquet.’

  PART TWO:

  SURVIVAL

  When bad men combine, the good must associate; else they will fall, one by one, an unpitied sacrifice in a contemptible struggle.

  Edmund Burke

  Four

  Plans

  ‘Déjeuner!’ Tony Davis reeled in his line, pulled the flapping fish from the hook. Sandrine had been bathing in the stream, and was naked. Even after six months of utter intimacy, Tony remained fascinated by her body, by the whiteness of her skin – there had not been a great deal of time for sunbathing during the summer – just as he also always marvelled at its symmetry; she was a small woman, but perfectly formed; that her breasts were slightly disproportionately large only added to her beauty. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  Tony laid the fish on the ground. ‘I have no idea. But it’s a big one. What we call a whopper. Three pounds at least. Is that fire ready?’

  She turned on to her knees and struck a match. A moment later the accumulation of twigs and dried leaves was alight, while Tony quickly gutted the victim and laid it in two strips on a small frying pan in which he had already placed a dollop of cooking oil.

  Even in early November, it was a delightful day, both warm and sunny. The clouds gathering in the mountains to the west were still only a threat. It was a treat to escape the crowded bustle of Uzice for the peace of this lonely wooded hillside, with its bubbling stream and its still leafy trees. He knelt beside her to fry the fish, and their shoulders touched. ‘On days like this,’ she said, ‘I am happy to be alive.’

  ‘What about on other days?’

  ‘I am surprised. Do you think we are going to survive this war, Tony?’

  ‘Just let’s keep on being surprised.’ The fish was ready, and from his haversack he took a bottle of wine; they drank from the neck.

  ‘If only there was some end in sight,’ she said.
‘Hmm.’ They ate from the pan, and the fish was still very hot.

  ‘There will be.’

  She chewed thoughtfully. ‘But the Germans are winning, are they not? Is it not true that the Russians are beaten?’

  ‘It certainly looks like it.’

  ‘Then there is nobody left to fight Hitler.’

  ‘Except England.’

  ‘England,’ she said. ‘I suppose they may hold out. But they cannot help us here. Especially if they lose Egypt as well. Then what can we do? We can never surrender. They would hang us.’

  ‘So like I said, we keep on being surprised.’ He stroked his finger up her arm and over her shoulder to touch her neck. ‘We can get out, you know. You and I.’ She turned her head. ‘Alexandria would agree to that. They offered to take me out a couple of months ago, remember, when I was hit. If I were to tell them now that I wanted out, they couldn’t object. We could go home to England.’

  ‘And what then?’

  ‘Well, we’d get married …’

  ‘I’d like that. Where would we live?’

  ‘You’d live in Somerset with my family, for the duration.’

  ‘I do not speak any English.’

  ‘I’d teach you.’

  She considered. ‘And you would stay with me?’

  ‘Well, no. I’d rejoin my regiment.’

  ‘And be sent away somewhere to fight.’

  ‘That’s what it’s all about.’

  ‘I would prefer to be beside you when you fight. As we are now.’

  ‘I don’t think they’d wear that in the British army.’

  ‘Then I would rather stay here. Anyway, how could we desert these people?’

  ‘There’s a point.’

  She finished her fish, and lay down with her arms beneath her head. ‘But I think it would be a good idea if you were to start teaching me English. After we have made love.’

  ‘The heat from the sun is going,’ Tony said. ‘We’d better pack it in.’

  Sandrine pulled on her clothes, looking down the hill. ‘Who is that?’

  Tony shaded his eyes; from their position they overlooked one of the minor roads, hardly more than a track, that led towards the town. These approaches were always under surveillance by Partisan patrols, but clearly no one had thought it necessary to challenge a lone cyclist. ‘A man on a bicycle.’

  ‘Pedalling very hard.’ She picked up her tommy-gun. Before the day they had escaped Belgrade last April, Tony knew that she had never fired a weapon, never, in fact, handled one. But in that desperate adventure she had found herself in possession of a tommy-gun, and since then she had never been without one.

  He picked up his own weapon as he watched the man. The slope of the road had now grown sufficiently steep to force him to dismount, but he was still pushing his bike as quickly as he could. His clothes indicated that he was, or was pretending to be, a Serbian peasant, but what he was doing out here in the middle of the afternoon all by himself was a question that would have to be answered, whether the sentries thought it necessary or not. ‘Cover him,’ Tony said, and stamped on the still glowing fire to put it out. Then he took the frying pan to the stream and rinsed it before stowing it in his haversack. Sandrine meanwhile moved forward to the edge of the copse, and was standing behind a tree; the road passed immediately beside the little wood. For the moment the man was out of sight, but she knew he would soon appear over the brow of the hill. Tony joined her. ‘No shooting,’ he said.

  The man came in sight, and Tony decided that he was unarmed – although he did carry a satchel in which there could be a weapon – and also that he was middle-aged and did not in any way suggest a combatant, whether regular or irregular; it was difficult to determine whether the stubble that coated his cheeks and chin was the result of an unsuccessful attempt to grow a beard or from merely forgetting to shave for a couple of days.

  Tony stepped out from the trees. ‘Stop,’ he commanded, switching from French to Serbo-Croat. The man’s head jerked, and he nearly let go of the bicycle. ‘Where are you going?’ Tony asked.

  ‘I am going to Uzice.’ The man’s eyes rolled as Sandrine also emerged from the trees, her yellow hair fluttering; her sidecap was tucked into her waistband.

  ‘What business have you in Uzice?’ Tony asked.

  ‘I am to see General Tito. And …’ He peered at Tony, and then looked at Sandrine again. ‘You!’

  ‘Do you know me?’ Tony asked.

  ‘You are Colonel Davis.’ He turned back to Sandrine. ‘And you are the Frenchwoman.’

  ‘Ha!’ Sandrine commented. ‘I do not even have a name.’

  ‘Your name is here.’ The man opened his satchel, and checked as both tommy-guns were levelled. ‘I have no weapons. I have these.’ He took out two large rolls of stiff paper, and unfurled one of them. ‘You are Sandrine Fouquet.’

  Sandrine looked at the enlarged photograph of herself, head and shoulders, smiling at the camera. ‘Elena took this, last Christmas. Where did they get it?’

  ‘I would say from your apartment in Belgrade,’ Tony said. ‘Didn’t you leave everything there?’

  ‘I had no choice, we left in such a hurry. But …’ She studied the poster, which was in both Serbo-Croat and German. ‘Ten thousand Deutschmarks! Is that not a hundred thousand francs?’

  ‘It was once,’ Tony said. ‘Could be worth more now.’

  ‘I am worth more dead than I am alive!’

  ‘Actually, it says dead or alive.’ He read over her shoulder. ‘For the murder of Frau von Blintoft and other crimes against the duly constituted authority of the Reich. I have an idea they’d prefer you alive.’

  ‘Ha!’ she remarked again. ‘And what are you worth?’

  Tony unrolled the second poster. ‘The same. I make it a thousand pounds, at pre-war rates.’

  ‘But there is no photograph. That is just a drawing.’

  ‘That’s because I didn’t leave anything behind,’ Tony pointed out. ‘It’s not too bad a likeness. I wonder who did it for them.’

  Sandrine turned to the man. ‘And you have come to collect this money, eh?’

  ‘No, no,’ the man said. ‘I have information. For General Tito.’

  ‘We are General Tito’s friends,’ Tony told him. ‘Give us the information, and if we think it is important enough, we will take you to the general.’

  The man licked his lips, and looked at Sandrine, who smiled at him. ‘If you do not, we will decide that you are a spy, and shoot you,’ she said. ‘But we will keep these posters. It is a nice picture of me.’

  ‘Are you not afraid?’

  ‘Not of two pieces of paper,’ Tony said, and released the safety catch on his gun with a loud click.

  The man panted, ‘The Germans are coming!’

  ‘Makes a change. When, and with what?’

  ‘They are being reinforced. Two divisions. A panzer brigade. Aircraft. They are coming to destroy you.’

  Tony looked at Sandrine. ‘It had to happen some time,’ she said.

  ‘When is the assault due to begin?’ Tony asked.

  ‘I do not know, sir. They say it will happen as soon as all the troops have arrived. That could be any day now.’

  ‘How do you know this? What is your name, anyway?’

  ‘My name is Boris. Boris Malic. My daughter is a maid at the royal palace, which is now the home of the governor-general. She overheard them talking, the governor-general, von Blintoft, and his chief of police, Major Wassermann.’

  ‘And she told you. Do you realize how dangerous it is for you to have come out here to tell us? Dangerous for both you and your daughter.’

  The little man drew himself up. ‘I wish to serve Yugoslavia.’

  ‘But you have not taken this information to General Mihailovic.’

  ‘Bah. He is a traitor. Besides, Uzice is closer.’

  ‘And you can come and go as you please.’

  ‘My daughter is Fräulein von Blintoft’s personal maid.’

>   Tony looked at Sandrine, who shrugged. ‘I think we will take you to Colonel Tito,’ he decided. ‘But we will blindfold you, eh?’

  ‘Tony!’ Tito said, as boisterously as ever. ‘You are back just in time. I have someone to see you.’

  Tony turned in surprise, which grew as he took in the man seated at the side of the desk; he was wearing the uniform of a British officer, and had all the neatness as well as the little moustache that went with it. Now he stood up, and Tony saw that he wore the crown of a major. ‘Captain Davis. Bob Curtis.’

  ‘My pleasure, sir,’ Tony said, shaking hands. He could not salute, as he was not wearing a hat.

  Tito did not intend that there should be any doubt about their respective ranks, at least in Yugoslavia. ‘Captain Davis is actually a colonel,’ he remarked slyly.

  Curtis raised his eyebrows.

  ‘I shouldn’t think it has ever been gazetted,’ Tony said. ‘I hold the rank in the Partisan army, not yet the British.’

  ‘Major Curtis is from Alexandria,’ Tito said. ‘And this is Mademoiselle Fouquet.’

  Curtis looked tempted to kiss her fingers. But he shook hands instead. ‘The famous Sandrine.’

  Sandrine showed him the poster. ‘The Germans think so too.’

  ‘Major Curtis has come from Mihailovic,’ Tito explained.

  ‘I was actually sent to see the situation on the ground,’ Curtis said.

  ‘I’m sure you will be of great assistance,’ Tony said. ‘May we have a word, General?’

  Tito looked at Curtis. ‘If you will excuse us, Major.’

  Curtis looked distinctly put out, but he gave a brief bow. ‘I would like a word with you, Captain,’ he said. ‘I beg your pardon, Colonel. When you have the time.’

  ‘Five minutes,’ Tito said. Curtis left the room, and Sandrine closed the door. ‘Let me see those,’ Tito said. The two posters were laid on his desk. He inspected them in turn. ‘So they have decided to lay blame.’

  ‘That is the least of it.’ Tony told his commander what Boris Malic had said. ‘He’s outside if you wish to question him.’