Murder's Art

by Christopher Nicole

  ‘He is under sedation, you see, Fräulein,’ the doctor explained. ‘This is because, when conscious, he experiences considerable pain.’

  ‘But you say he will live.’

  ‘I believe so, Fräulein.’

  ‘And be able to live an ordinary life?’

  ‘Ah … given time, yes.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She bent over the bed, and kissed Wassermann on the forehead. The sister’s eyes filled with tears at such devotion. Angela straightened. ‘When next he wakes up, tell him I was here, and will come again,’ she said, and left the room, Ulrich hurrying behind her.

  ‘You are being very brave,’ Ulrich said.

  ‘Thank you.’ Angela did not actually know what she was being. She was not even sure what she was feeling, or had felt, since Ulrich had told her that morning. Because for the past few days she had been aware of the most conflicting emotions, at once stimulating and disturbing. She could not get the image of the Frenchwoman out of her mind. She had never expected her to be so soignée, so beautiful, so calm, when she was a woman who had killed, mercilessly, and who must know that she was going to be killed, mercilessly. Sandrine Fouquet had made her feel inferior, and she did not enjoy that. She had known the strongest temptation to return to the cells to look at her – and then to have her taken into the office and strapped to the chair, and hurt her until that lovely mask disintegrated and she shrieked for mercy the way the man Kostic had done. But she had told herself that pleasure could wait on Fritz’s return, and be shared with him. It had been a dream, and she had dreamt it every night before falling asleep.

  But now Fritz was back, and he was not going to interrogate the woman for a very long time. Nor was he going to hold her in his arms for a very long time. Perhaps for ever, because even if he recovered from his wound, he would always be a shattered wreck of a man. She did not wish to be married to a shattered wreck of a man. Did that mean she had never loved him? She knew she had not. She had fallen in love with his aura of power and omnipotence, and cold cruelty. None of which had any meaning now. Or would ever have any meaning again.

  So, as had happened after her mother’s death, she was again adrift, and this time there was no one to turn to; she knew her father too well to suppose he could ever be a rock on which to hang her emotions, because he would simply be unable to understand them. But she was not the same girl she had been the moment before her mother had died. She might only be a few weeks older, physically, but her brain had aged a thousand years. Wassermann had done that. At her request, to be sure. He had reached into the dark recesses of her soul as she had revealed them to him, and taken out what was there, exposed it to the air, allowed it to roam free. She did not know if it would ever return to secrecy and subjugation, as required by polite society. She did not know if she wanted that to happen. Because however much she might hate herself from time to time, when she was in the grip of her demonic passion she had known the purest ecstasy. She was in the grip of such a passion now.

  ‘The car will take you home,’ Ulrich said.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I must go to the office. I suspect there is a great deal waiting for me there.’

  ‘Including that woman.’

  ‘Ah … yes. You understand, Fräulein, that I have not told your father that we hold her. These were Major Wassermann’s instructions, you see, and I would not like to disobey him while he is injured.’

  ‘I quite understand, Captain. And I agree with your decision. I shall not tell Papa either. However, if you are going to Gestapo headquarters, I would like to come with you.’

  ‘May I ask why?’

  ‘I wish to see this woman again.’

  ‘And may I again ask why, Fräulein?’

  ‘For one reason: she is now responsible for the death of my mother and the serious injury to my fiancé.’

  ‘Fouquet cannot possibly have had anything to do with the wounding of Major Wassermann, Fräulein. She was already in the cell here in Belgrade when he was hit.’

  ‘She is a Partisan, is she not? And it was a Partisan who shot the major. They are all equally guilty.’

  ‘I think you should go home, Fräulein. I know you are under a severe strain. I would not like you to do something you might regret.’

  ‘You are the one who should be worried about actions you might regret, Captain. I wish to see this woman. If you do not take me to her, I shall be obliged to inform my father that you have been deceiving him.’

  Ulrich opened his mouth and closed it again, less from concern at what Blintoft might be able to do to him – which was, as he had reflected earlier, very little – than at the attitude of this apparently innocent girl. At the same time, he did not really wish to become embroiled in a quarrel with the general, at least not until Wassermann was able to support him. Besides, what could another inspection accomplish? He shrugged. ‘If you are that desperate, Fräulein.’

  They drove to the Gestapo headquarters in silence. It was the middle of the afternoon, and the place was busy. Sentries stood to attention at the sight of the governor-general’s daughter, as did the clerks inside. Angela ignored them, and followed Ulrich down the stairs and along the corridor. Anke waited for them, eyebrows arched.

  ‘Fräulein von Blintoft wishes to interview number thirty-one,’ Ulrich told her. Anke shifted her gaze to Angela, without visibly changing her expression. ‘Be sure you remain with her at all times,’ Ulrich said, reflecting that that would restrain Angela from any unacceptable action. ‘If you will excuse me, Fräulein. There will be a car waiting for you when you wish to leave.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain.’

  Anke led her along the corridor, unlocked the door of cell thirty-one. Sandrine was lying on her back on her bed. Her torn clothes had been replaced by the plain, shapeless, ankle-length blue prison uniform, and her feet were bare. She had clearly been sleeping, for her head turned sharply as the door opened. But she did not move, although her eyes were watchful. ‘What have you done to her?’ Angela asked, speaking German.

  ‘I have done nothing to her, Fräulein. I was ordered to do nothing to her.’

  ‘You mean she just lies here, all day and every day?’

  ‘She is exercised for an hour every morning. Then she is bathed, and she is fed twice a day. Those are my orders, given to me by Captain Ulrich.’

  ‘You bathe her every day?’

  ‘I escort her to the shower baths,’ Anke said. ‘I am not permitted to touch her.’

  ‘But you watch.’

  ‘Yes, Fräulein, I watch.’

  ‘When is she bathed?’

  ‘As I have said, every morning after her exercise.’

  ‘I would like her to be bathed again, now.’

  Anke frowned. ‘She has already been bathed today.’

  ‘It can do her no harm to be bathed twice in a day.’

  Anke glanced at the door. ‘The captain …’

  ‘I am superior to the captain. I am the governor-general’s daughter.’

  Anke considered briefly. Then she said, ‘You wish to watch this?’

  ‘Yes,’ Angela said.

  ‘Very good, Fräulein. Get up, thirty-one,’ she said in Serbo-Croat.

  Sandrine had been listening to the conversation; Angela realized that she understood at least some German. Now her eyes were more watchful than ever. ‘What for?’ she asked.

  ‘You are going to the showers.’

  ‘I have already been to the showers today.’

  ‘It is the Fräulein’s wish.’

  Sandrine did her best to keep her face as expressionless as usual, but Angela could guess the various considerations that were passing through her mind while she looked at her, directly, for the first time. Then she threw back the covers, swung her legs out of the bed, and stood up. ‘Will she attempt to resist us?’ Angela asked.

  ‘I do not think so, unless we touch her.’ Anke moved to the door, and jerked her head. Sandrine went to the door, and Angela followed. H
er feelings, the emotions bubbling in her brain and in her stomach, were threatening to overwhelm her. But she could wait. She was not yet certain of what she wanted to do to this woman, save that she wanted to see some expression enter that face, those eyes, just as she wanted to hear her scream – even if she knew she could not use electricity, with Ulrich so close.

  The three women walked down a side corridor to the showers. They passed one or two other guards, who looked at them curiously, but did not comment. The bath chamber itself was stark, a row of doorless stone cubicles, each about four feet square; the shower heads protruded from the walls, just higher than the average head. On the opposite wall was a bench running the length of the room, and above it, a rail. The baths, at this time of the afternoon, were deserted.

  Sandrine removed her dress, and hung it on the rail; she wore no underclothes. Now her flesh was pink. It might have been the chill, which down here penetrated even the heating, or, Angela thought, it might have been her own presence; she must be used to being watched by Anke. ‘Does she always blush?’ she asked.

  ‘No, Fräulein.’

  Then it is my presence, Angela thought. She had achieved at least a minor triumph.

  Sandrine stepped into the nearest cubicle, switched on the water, and shuddered as she was struck by the powerful jet. She soaked herself, then switched off the water to use the soap, goose pimples standing out all over her body, enlarging her nipples. Angela gazed at her, then noticed a length of hose lying on the floor. ‘What is that for?’ she asked. Sandrine switched on the water again, and rinsed urgently.

  ‘We use that for punishment,’ Anke explained. ‘But it is also useful for interrogation.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘It is the muzzle velocity, Fräulein. I can reduce it to the thinnest of jets, so that it feels like a knife cutting the skin.’ She smiled. ‘And the beauty of it is that properly used, like the electrical charges, it leaves no mark. But it is even better, because it will not kill – unless the prisoner happens to have a weak heart.’ Her smile widened. ‘But then death will have been by natural causes.’

  Sandrine stepped out of the cubicle, and reached for her towel; now she was shivering with the cold. ‘I would like to see it work,’ Angela said. Anke raised her eyebrows. ‘On her.’

  Anke looked at her, and then at Sandrine, who was still towelling herself vigorously to restore some warmth to her body. But she had been listening, and now she stopped rubbing herself and faced them, the towel held protectively in front of her. Anke licked her lips. ‘The captain—’

  ‘Said that I was not to be harmed,’ Sandrine said in German.

  ‘So you do speak our language,’ Angela said. ‘Go back into the cubicle.’

  Sandrine gazed at her for a few seconds, then glanced at Anke. She was clearly debating whether she could attack them, but while Angela knew she would have no chance against her, she also knew the prisoner could not hope to take on the pair of them, especially as Anke was so much the bigger and obviously stronger woman. Sandrine squared her shoulders for the coming ordeal. ‘I will report this to the captain,’ she said.

  ‘When next you see him,’ Angela agreed.

  Sandrine hung the towel on the rail, then stepped into the cubicle, and stood with her back to them. ‘We may get wet,’ Anke said.

  ‘Do you usually get wet when using the hose?’

  ‘Yes, Fräulein. To save my clothes I usually undress myself.’

  ‘Then do so.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I will undress also,’ Angela said. Again Anke licked her lips. And why not? Angela thought as she took off her fur and hung it on the hook by the door; she was getting two beautiful women at the same time. She kept her back turned as she took off her dress and slip, and then her knickers, before unfastening her suspender belt and stooping to roll down her stockings. Only when they were about her ankles did she remove her shoes, and only then did she remember she was wearing a hat. She took off the fur turban as well, laying it with her other clothes on the bench, and then fluffed out her hair. Then she turned, beginning to shiver in the cold, to discover both of the other women staring at her; Sandrine had turned round. While Anke was also naked, a mountain of a woman. ‘Commence,’ Angela said.

  Anke switched on the hose from a tap in the floor beneath the bench. The water spurted out, and for a third time that day flooded Sandrine’s body. Sandrine backed against the wall, holding her breasts with her hands; she knew what to expect. Anke twisted the nozzle, and the jet thinned, and now she directed it against Sandrine’s face. Sandrine gasped, and tossed her head, and stepped from side to side, but the jet always followed her, bringing red flushes to the pale skin, which had assumed a blueish tinge from the cold. ‘She does not seem to be in any discomfort,’ Angela said.

  ‘That is because the jet is still soft.’

  ‘I wish to make her feel. Give it to me.’ Angela took the hose from Anke’s hands, twisted the nozzle tighter yet, and aimed it at Sandrine’s pubes. Sandrine gave a little shriek and turned round, only to have the jet slash into the cleft of her buttocks. She turned again, hands instinctively dropping, and Angela directed the jet against her exposed breasts. Sandrine gave another shriek, and her self-control snapped. She sidestepped the jet, and, before Angela could react, hurled herself forward and out of the cubicle. Her shoulder struck Angela’s, and Angela’s feet skidded on the wet floor, and she sat down heavily with a splash in more than an inch of water, giving a squeal of her own. Sandrine then turned to face Anke, but she was too late. Anke swung her hand in a karate chop, striking Sandrine on the shoulder; the Frenchwoman went down like a stone. Angela turned on to her knees. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘The bitch attacked us,’ Anke snarled.

  ‘You have killed her!’ Angela wailed, lifting Sandrine’s head from the water, which was still flooding the floor. She was aware of an entirely new emotion, but one that was every bit as strong as any she had ever felt before. Here was transcendent beauty, and she had been trying to destroy it, just as she had been trying to destroy transcendent courage and determination. Here was … She didn’t know, save that she knew she had always wanted to hold this woman in her arms, from the moment of their first meeting. She did so now, hugging her tightly against her breast.

  ‘She won’t die,’ Anke said. ‘She’s tough.’

  And Sandrine was giving little gasps as she regained consciousness, her lips moving against Angela’s breasts. ‘Get out,’ Angela said.

  ‘And leave you here with her? She’d kill you.’

  ‘Get out!’ Angela shouted. ‘Out!’ Anke hesitated, then retreated to the doorway. ‘Right out,’ Angela said. Another hesitation, then Anke went through the door, and closed it behind her.

  Sandrine gave a little moan, and Angela hugged her some more. ‘Listen,’ she said. ‘Try to sit on the bench, and I will dry you.’ Sandrine’s head moved back as her eyes focused. ‘I am sorry,’ Angela said. ‘I … I meant to hurt you. Now I …’ She licked her lips as her hand slid up and down Sandrine’s arm, and then moved lower to caress her buttocks. ‘You must let me help you,’ she said. ‘Or you will catch pneumonia.’ Angela’s lips twisted. ‘So will I.’

  She got to her knees and then her feet, grasped Sandrine’s armpits, and with a great effort got her up and seated on the bench. She was actually the taller woman, although she doubted she had more than a fraction of Sandrine’s hard-muscled strength. She massaged Sandrine’s back and shoulders and breasts with the towel before turning her attention to her legs, kneeling at her feet, tentatively moving up to Sandrine’s thighs. Slowly Sandrine’s breathing returned to normal; she did not seem to notice what Angela was doing. ‘Where is the woman?’ she asked.

  ‘Outside.’

  ‘You sent her away?’ Sandrine’s tone was incredulous.

  Angela stood up. ‘Dress yourself. Yes, I sent her away.’ She began to dry herself.

  Sandrine pulled on her dress, then sat down again to dry her feet
, lifting them from the wet floor on to the bench. ‘Why did you do that?’

  Angela began to dress. ‘I did not want her here.’ She turned to face her.

  ‘And she went? Do you not know—’

  ‘That you could probably kill me? I know that. She went because I told her to do so. I know you can harm me. But if you do not, I can help you.’

  Sandrine’s lip curled. ‘You can save me from Wassermann?’

  ‘Wassermann is close to death. He was shot while pursuing the guerillas.’

  Sandrine’s lips parted. ‘Then …’

  ‘I cannot let you go,’ Angela said. ‘Not now. But I can make sure that you are not harmed, and continue to be well treated, as he commanded. And in time, it may be possible to, well, perhaps exchange you. Or at least make sure you are not executed.’

  ‘Why should you do this? I am your enemy.’

  ‘Can enemies not be friends?’ Sandrine stared at her. ‘Or even …’ Angela bit her lip. ‘You are shivering. Here …’ She wrapped her coat round Sandrine’s shoulders. Instinctively Sandrine stroked the fur; she had never worn anything like this. And then her fingers touched Angela’s. ‘I will take you back to your cell now,’ Angela said. ‘And we will … talk.’

  Angela sat opposite her father at the dinner table. She had had another bath when she had come in, a very hot bath, with sweetly scented foam and soap. But she still felt cold. And yet wildly exhilarated. She had, suddenly, almost mysteriously, created a relationship, the sort of relationship she had dreamed of all of her life. She had beauty, and a surprising amount of response, literally at her fingertips. She knew that the response was an act, that Sandrine was only concerned with survival, but that did not matter, because she was in control, holding as she did that survival in the palm of her hand. She had never been in control of a relationship before, had always rejected relationships, simply because of that lack of control. Even with Wassermann, while she had wanted him to turn her personality no less than her sexuality inside out, to do that she had had to submit to his own personality, his own aura of omnipotence. Now she had replaced that relationship with something better; now she was the controller instead of the controlled, and she was excited by it …