Fulcrum of Malice

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  “Not here anymore—they’ve all left.” The barred window started to close.

  Nicole trembled in frustration, her nails digging into her palm, the other hand steadied by the pistol. “Listen, madame, I have my orders, and you surely know the people I work for. Orders are orders. Let me in, and now, or things will get ugly.” She tasted blood on her lower lip where she had bitten it. She forced her jaw to relax, shook loose her clenched hand.

  The woman’s face disappeared and Nicole heard the lock turning. The heavy door groaned and she forced her way in past the concierge, an older woman in a flowered housecoat who began to protest vehemently. The foyer was unheated but elegant, its hardwood flooring gleaming. Light from the open door to the caretaker’s flat showed tiles cracked with age, matching the older woman’s face now twisted in anger. “How dare you? I said they’re all gone!”

  Nicole was in no mood. “Just listen, madame—you will fetch the keys to the upstairs rooms, understood?”

  “But—”

  “No buts—” She grabbed the woman’s elbow and steered her into the flat. “The keys!” The concierge offered no resistance. An older-style telephone with its upright receiver sat atop a demi-lune table just inside the entry. A wall rack above it displayed numbered hooks. Nicole shouldered her captive aside and gathered all the keys. “Get back to your supper,” she peered into the cooking alcove, “your cassoulet is burning.” Distracted by the smoke escaping the oven door, the woman turned to rescue her meal. Nicole yanked the phone cord from the wall and out in the foyer assured herself the front door remained unlocked. From an upstairs window she would signal Erika and Leo to join her.

  The grind of the old cage lift might betray her arrival so instead she opted for the stairs. Her pistol hand braced her injured side as she climbed. Leo had said the children were in a flat off the first landing. She slowed her pace, her back to the wall, each foot carefully placed. Reaching the final step she checked for movement in the hall. At the end of the dark corridor a door stood ajar, a faint bluish light defining its frame. With pistol clutched in both hands, Nicole edged closer, then entered and cautiously headed toward the source of the light.

  Her heart sank. The concierge had not lied. The children were missing, her Sophie gone. There would be no vindication for having betrayed all who had trusted her, no redemption for having become everything she despised in a world corrupted by hatred and violence. She moved slowly across the heavy carpet, her eyes drawn to some brighter object draped on the dark sofa, ignoring the overturned game boards and the children’s playthings strewn across the floor.

  Watching for Nicole’s signal coming from an upper window, Erika and Leo saw instead a sudden flash of light followed by a muffled pop. No other noise could mimic a sound they knew too well. With Leo on one hand and her weapon in the other, Erika was in motion. Limited only by his stride, she reached the front door just as it opened to reveal the fleeing concierge. Bundled in a ragged fur coat, the woman drew back and swung her handbag. Erika wrenched it by the strap, binding her attacker’s wrist. “Let me go,” the woman screamed, “I’m late!”

  “You’re going nowhere.” Erika dragged her back into the vestibule by the scruff of the coat. The door to the concierge flat was open. The smell of burned food pervaded the foyer.

  Leo, grimacing, muttered under his breath: “It stinks in here.”

  With every nerve was on edge, Erika was in no mood for delays. “The nurse who arrived a few minutes ago—where is she?” She shook the concierge so hard her poorly fitted dentures slipped loose.

  “I told her they were gone but she went up anyway.” The woman’s words slurred clumsily, her eyes glued to the pistol in Erika’s fist. “I can’t be responsible, you know. I must go now, I’ve an appointment.” She readjusted the false teeth.

  “Inside!” Erika was losing patience. “I’ll be the one to decide who’s responsible around here.” Leo nervously eyed the lift and stairs, Erika sharing his worry. “Get in there!” She shoved the woman ahead of her, freeing the torn phone cord from the receiver. She ordered the woman to the wooden chair by the stove and quickly bound her hands and feet.

  “I’ll scream!”

  “Be my guest,” Erika stuffed a potholder into the woman’s mouth, securing the gag with apron ties. “Leo, keep an eye on this woman while I go find Madame Nicole.”

  “But I can help—”

  “Leo, you will stay down here and keep an eye out! If a vehicle comes, if someone rings—anything unusual outside at all—call for the lift and I’ll hear the bell upstairs, d’accord?” Leo nodded meekly.

  She took the steps two at a time while checking the safety on her pistol. On the landing she spotted the open door leading through to the main room of the suite. She approached stealthily, senses alert, vaguely aware of a distant police siren and a clock ticking somewhere within the apartment. She eased into the grand salon. Dim light from an outside streetlamp silhouetted a table and wooden chairs centered on the carpet. A sofa backed to the high windows, the spot where Nicole should have signaled with a match. Not a gunshot.

  Barely discernable against the dark fabric of the divan, the young mother lay slumped, unmoving. Erika rushed forward, ignoring the toys at her feet, unable to look away yet wishing she could. Nicole’s hair was ratted and damp, the right temple glistening purple in the pale light. A pistol lay on the cushions.

  Erika set aside her own weapon and fought back the tears. She moved the body upright and closed the sightless eyes. Just moments before, so much tormented beauty, and now only this raw ugliness, the strings of Horst’s “Marionette” cut by her own hand.

  Tears now raced unchecked down her cheeks. Pull yourself together, dammit! She spotted a wad of cloth clenched in Nicole’s left hand and released the fabric from the dead woman’s fingers. She held it toward the window. A bullet had pierced the tiny dress of a toddler. Unlike the smears on the couch and the splatter on the window panes, this blood was dark and fully dry.

  Erika removed the pins and arranged the damp hair to cover the wound at the temple. The young mother deserved a last shred of human dignity. She wiped her fingers on the couch and took Nicole’s pistol and false identity papers. She could only guess the authorities’ reaction when they found this scene, what story the concierge would tell.

  Even from the grave, Horst continued to torment with new suffering, new sorrow. What of the other children—had Horst manipulated their parents just as he corrupted poor Nicole’s mind? Were they also his latest and youngest victims? The timing had her baffled. Had he committed this atrocity himself days earlier, when he picked up Leo on his way to Nantes? Or had he left orders for associates to carry out the monstrous act? Question upon question. She closed the door behind her as she left the flat, ready to demand answers.

  Leo waited expectantly on the bottom step. “Where’s Sophie, Maman? Where’s Madame Nicole?” He was already on his feet and rushing up to meet her.

  Erika raised her hand to stop his progress. “No, Leo, you stay there. I’m coming down.” With each step she gathered her thoughts, resolving how best to explain Horst’s final vengeance. Her son’s baffled look meant no putting off the inevitable. Leo would pester and pester until he knew the truth. “They’re gone, Leo. They’re—”

  “What do you mean ‘gone’?” Leo moved to get past her. “I know this is the right place! Where else could they go?”

  Erika pulled him into her arms. “The children have all left, and poor Madame Nicole is dead, Leo. There’s nothing we can do.”

  “But how?” his voice plaintive, “how could she be dead, Maman?”

  How to explain suicide to a seven-year-old when she herself reeled at the thought? “You remember what I told you about how sad she was? Sophie was all she had left, all she lived for. She found Sophie was gone, and it was simply too much for her. She…she shot herself.” Leo looked toward the landing as if Nicole and Sophie might somehow still appear. What was going through his young mind, having
already witnessed so much violence and tragedy? She held him at arm’s length, forced him to look in her eyes as he began to cry. “We must both be strong, Leo.”

  “Did I do it, Maman, did I make her do it? I told her about Sophie, and she was so excited, and now Sophie’s not here and Madame Nicole…” His voice drowned in sobs of self-blame.

  “Of course not, Leo—you mustn’t ever think such a thing! Sadness is a terrible sickness. She was already sick with it when we met her, and now she thought she had nothing more to live for.”

  “Sophie’s dead, too? And Pierre and Jacqueline and Jakob? Are all my friends dead, Maman?” He buried his face in her coat.

  Erika felt the burden of the dead woman on the sofa above, and the tiny dress, once pink, now caked in red. And this immense challenge for her young son, who had already witnessed so much suffering and violence. A convenient but misleading truth seemed the best answer for now: “I don’t know where the others are, Leo, but they’re not upstairs and I intend to find out what’s happened. Come on, let’s go see the concierge.”

  “Maman?”

  “Yes?”

  “I want to say good-bye to Madame Nicole.” He started up the stairs.

  “No, baby, no!” She grabbed him, fearing he might make a run for it. “It isn’t something for you…for anyone to see. It’s simply too sad, and we’ve already had enough sorrow, haven’t we?” She guided him down, an arm around his shoulders. “Come on, I’ll ask the concierge about the kids, right? She must know.” At the front door she turned the lock. This was no time for unexpected visitors.

  The woman glared from her chair under muffled grunts of protest. Erika wouldn’t have Leo witness the interrogation in case it revealed some further horror. “Leo, I need you to go back in the bedroom and watch the street from the window. Anyone approaches, let me know right away. Someone may have heard the gunshot and called the police. Meanwhile, I’ll learn what I can about your friends.”

  She waited for him to disappear behind the heavy window drapes before closing the door to the bedroom. “Listen, madame—I will remove the gag, but only if you truthfully answer my questions. I’m not going to hurt you, is that clear?” Accepting her nod of acquiescence, Erika set aside the saliva-soaked pot holder and freed her hands. The concierge seated her teeth properly and rubbed her jaw, then glared as Erika posed her first question. “Listen, madame—why were you running?”

  The woman’s voice was low, calculating, looking for advantage as she massaged her wrists. “I heard the shot… upstairs…that young nurse?”

  “She’s dead—took her own life.” The woman’s eyes widened, but she said nothing. “Is anyone else in this building?”

  She shook her head. “They all left.”

  “When?”

  “Days ago. In a big hurry.”

  “Tell me what you saw.” Erika’s eyes narrowed. “Exactly.”

  “I saw nothing. I keep my door shut and follow orders.”

  “You see everything, madame. A good concierge knows all that happens in her house, and you are a good concierge, aren’t you?”

  Her chin rose: “One of the best.”

  “Tell me everything or you’ll tell it to the police later, understood?” A nod. “So speak—”

  “They came a few nights ago—”

  “Specifics now, don’t waste my time! Who came?”

  “The tall Gestapo, the one called Le Masque.”

  Erika’s time to nod. “Alone? Was he alone?”

  “Two others, and that ridiculous Madame de Brassis.” She spit the name with such venom her dentures slipped again.

  “This Madame de Brassis, you don’t like her?”

  “A Boche and a bitch, that’s all I’ll say. Full of herself. Married into old family and thinks that makes her a countess, gives her the right to lord it over us all.” Her hand shot to her mouth to reposition her teeth. “And now with Monsieur de Brassis dead and buried, she sleeps with the Gestapo to keep herself in food and fine clothes. This building was his, you know, from before, from his first marriage. That wife, now she was an angel. Treated me with respect until this one came into the picture.”

  Erika moved her along. “Tell me exactly what happened when the Gestapo came.”

  “They locked me in here with my cat.” Her eyes shot to a shelf above the stove. Erika hadn’t noticed the two golden eyes observing them, and the sleek black creature began to rumble loudly. “But I listened at the door anyway. It is my house, you know, my business what happens here.”

  “Of course. And heard what?”

  “Le Masque and another agent took away your boy there.” She gestured to Leo, who now stood at the threshold, eavesdropping, ostensibly watching the cat groom itself. “And the other agent took the youngest boy of the group.”

  “Leo, take the cat back in there with you and close the door. And keep your eyes and ears on the street, not on my discussion with this woman, is that clear?”

  “Yes, Maman.” No grin despite the animal. It told her just how much the suicide and missing children disturbed him. He eased the long-bodied cat down from the shelf. It melted onto his shoulder and its purr grew louder with the attention.

  The door again shut behind him, Erika returned to the interrogation, her voice lowered. “And the other children?”

  “My ankles?” The woman gave what passed for a smile. “They’re very stiff and uncomfortable, and I do have a touch of arthritis.”

  “Tell me the rest, then you go free, so hurry it up. What of the others?”

  “Three remained with their governess. They took them away in the bitch’s grand limousine.” She opened and closed her fists, stretching her fingers. “That’s all I know.”

  “And that was the last time anyone went up there?” Erika’s eyes shot to the ceiling, shuddering as she remembered what she’d just seen, picturing the beautiful woman so alive with hope and anticipation less than an hour before.

  The concierge hesitated, thinking or maneuvering, Erika wasn’t sure. “A man came back the next day, alone. Had keys, went upstairs briefly, then left again.” She stomped her bound feet on the floor, ostensibly restoring circulation. “That was it.”

  “The nanny, she lived upstairs full-time?”

  “She did.”

  “Her name?”

  “Haven’t a clue.” Hands planted firmly at her knees, stockings slumped to the cord binding her ankles. “Now, what about my legs?”

  “Soon enough, but that doesn’t add up—a woman living full-time in your building, and you never learned her name? She had to come and go for groceries and ration coupons and the like, yet you never inquired, never met her in the hall to chat?”

  “No, never. I keep to myself.”

  Erika stood up. “In that case, we shall also leave you to yourself.” She took one corner of the saliva-soaked gag, ready to return it to the concierge’s mouth. “You and your cat, entirely to yourself, just as you prefer. The house is now deserted but for a dead woman upstairs. Your Gestapo friends appear done with you. How long before someone drops by? Days? Weeks, perhaps?” Erika watched the woman maneuver the dentures with her tongue, her eyes fixed on the cat bowl beside the stove. “Oh, don’t worry about your cat. I’m sure it will find something to eat around here once she’s hungry enough. Turn-about is only fair play, you know. In Paris they had to eat their pets, what with food being so scarce under our Boche friends.”

  The woman’s hands began to tremble. “Agnès. Her name was Agnès, she was my friend, alone…like me.” The woman’s chin dropped to her chest.

  “You said ‘was’ a friend.”

  “Is. Is a friend.”

  “So you went upstairs after they left.”

  “No. What happened up there was none of my business.”

  Erika lifted the woman’s chin to look directly in her eyes. “You saw it, didn’t you? That little dress with the bullet hole?”

  The woman’s shoulders began to shake and Erika took pity at last. Sh
e dropped the gag back on the sideboard. “Fine, all we need to know is where they went and we’ll be out of your hair.”

  “Don’t you understand? Are you totally blind?” The woman’s eyes glistened. “They’re all gone, Agnès too. Who cares where they took them? They’re gone, all dead, as I told that young nurse before she barged upstairs anyway!”

  “Let me share something with you, madame. I knew Le Masque, the one with the scars responsible for all this.” Erika’s broad gesture encompassed the entire building. “Nothing was ever as it seemed with him, every move devious, always some hidden motive. He lived for manipulation and cruelty. Give me some proof that all those children are truly gone and I’ll get out of your hair.”

  “What would you have me do? How should I know where they took them?”

  “Your beloved Madame de Brassis. She didn’t live here anymore?”

  “No. Only before they brought the children. She despises kids, thinks them worse than cats, messy and unmanageable. When he brought the children here she moved out.”

  “Where to?”

  “How would I know where the harpy lives?” She kneaded her hands, clearly working out a new falsehood.

  “Surely your friend knew. This Agnès had to have a way to reach her boss.”

  The woman fell silent, unconsciously shifting her jaw. At last she spoke again, now with resolve, her decision made: “Agnès spoke of a fine house directly on the coast, between here and Biarritz. A summer house on the strand, far too good for that woman.”

  Erika digested this information, crafting a plan. “You can find this place, this ‘summer house?’”

  She nodded. “Agnès reported there weekly, bringing the mail. “She described it to me well enough. But I’ll need money. Who knows if she’ll let me stay on, now that all this has happened.”

  “I can pay. We leave now, all three of us.”

  “But my cat—”

  “Get us to that summer house and you’re free to return.” Erika loosened the phone cord. The woman massaged her ankles, moving stiffly. Erika helped her stand. “Now, madame, tell me your name.”