Mayhem (37 page)

‘Water,' muttered Kohler. ‘In the name of Jesus, give me something to drink.' Every effort to get away had failed.

Jensen wrenched open the door to the nearest stall and took the mare's trough from it. ‘Water, eh? Then water you shall have!'

Sputtering, Kohler gasped then bellowed, ‘Bastard! I'll see you in hell for this.'

‘You'll see nothing if you don't shut up,' shouted Jensen, reaching for the whip. ‘I've had enough from you.'

‘Some duel I'm going to fight, eh? Blind in one eye and cut to ribbons. Weak from loss of blood –' He kicked out fiercely and lost his balance, giving a scream of anguish as his wrist was wrenched.

A breathless Bocke appeared on the run. ‘Klaus … Klaus, the boy has escaped. Help me to find him.'

Jensen looked to Kohler and then back to Helmut. ‘Help me to tie his feet, otherwise I can't leave him.'

One of the mares whinnied and began to stamp excitedly about her stall, tugging on the halter rope. Again Jensen went over to the door and yanked it open. Straw on the floor, dung, oats … nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing. The boy? he wondered.

They tied Kohler's ankles together and ran the rope up behind him, bending his head back so far that if he moved, he'd break his neck.

‘Rest easy,' snorted Bocke. ‘We'll be back.'

The one good but bloodshot eye closed in pain rather than look at them.

The boy … where was the boy? These guys, they knew every angle. They'd let the boy show himself and then they'd come back and take him. The kid didn't have a chance.

*

Ackermann twisted Mademoiselle Arcuri's arm behind her back and forced her to her knees. ‘One false move and she dies, St-Cyr,' he shouted.

The countess wiped the blood from her lip with the back of a hand. She was over by the window, caught in the fading light and contemplating a foolish, foolish thing.

The casket was between him and Ackermann. No chance there … Not yet. ‘General, I am only too aware that you will kill Mademoiselle Arcuri. Me, I am at your service. Lock the two of them in the tower here and take the key, eh? Then you and I can settle this business with Hermann.'

He gave the countess a glance of warning which she failed to notice. The woman was going to rush Ackermann in a vain attempt to give them a chance.

‘Countess,
please
,' said St-Cyr. ‘Both the general and I know he'd only kill you.'

The wind came to feel its way through the embrasures, echoing softly in the tower. No one moved. Perhaps half a second passed, perhaps a little more. Ackermann still stood behind Mademoiselle Arcuri with the gun pressed firmly to the back of her neck and her left arm wrenched painfully upwards.

‘I won't tell you anything!' she shrieked. ‘There is no body. You'll never find it. We hid no one, Hans. No one! Charles died at Sedan. You have no proof we hid him. Nothing but a coffin full of rocks.'

Kohler … was the boy trying to get to Kohler? St-Cyr was watching for a chance. The countess …

Ackermann released the arm and seized Gabrielle by the hair. He'd make her scream. He'd tear it out by the roots. ‘Talk,' he said quietly.

She winced in pain and gasped. ‘With no body there is no proof. René … Ah, my hair … my hair.'

Her scalp was on fire. The skin was ripping …

‘Hans, stop it, please! You're not a total coward. Let me talk to Gabi. She'll understand.'

The countess moved away from the window. Swiftly Ackermann lifted the pistol and shattered the glass behind her, filling the tower with the sound of the shot.

Again none of them moved. Gabrielle Arcuri's face was a mask of pain. Her eyes were filled with tears which streamed down her cheeks.

‘Please,' said St-Cyr. ‘I beg you, General. Be decent.'

‘Gabi, tell him where you hid the body. You can't hope to save the château for Renè. He's finished. Even without the proof, Hans will see that the boy is …' She couldn't say it and turned quickly from them to stare out through the shattered glass at the growing dusk.

Those who had been at the reception would now begin to leave the farmhouse of Riel and Sophie Noel. Some would walk slowly homewards along the roads, or make their way back to the château. Others like Morgan Noel would wander up to the caves to stand alone among the rows of bottles or by the fermentation vats asking God why it had had to happen. They'd all be very afraid. They'd try to stay clear of things and she must find it in her heart to understand their fears and to forgive them.

‘Go and show him where the body is hidden, Gabrielle. Lock me in here with the inspector.'

Ackermann gave her a minute. The pistol never wavered as he again took aim.

‘General, you are not so foolish as to kill her in plain view of witnesses. Berlin must have its answers, isn't that so? The General von Schaumburg will not let this matter lie.'

‘Von Schaumburg can be dealt with.'

‘But not the Oberkommando der Wehrmacht, General. Not the High Command with whom he is in constant communication. No, my friend, if you are to get out of this unscathed, you will need great tact and you will most definitely need to produce the body of Charles Maurice Thériault. Your word is no longer trustworthy, General. The General von Schaumburg will take things to the truth. Please make no mistake, he's out for blood.'

‘Jeanne stays. You,' he pointed the Luger at St-Cyr, ‘and Gabrielle come with me.'

Kohler eased his aching wrist. The boy had cut him free but there was no time.

‘The revolver,' he gasped. ‘Quickly!'

‘The loft, monsieur. We must climb up there.'

The ladder was a thousand kilometres away and it went straight up to Heaven.

Jensen had appeared in the doorway. No sign of the other one yet. He'd be covering one of the exits.

This was it. Death at what? Twenty paces …? Ten …? Five …? Had the kid got to the revolver? The pile of manure was to the right and about three metres behind.

Kohler managed a shrug and a sheepish grin though his face hurt like hell. ‘So, a last cigarette, eh?' he said.

‘Don't touch that weapon, Renè! Come here,' shrilled Jensen. ‘Hey, Klaus, I've got them.'

Kohler leapt sideways, lunging for the whip as two shots rang out and the boy … the boy …

He seized the thing and brought the rawhide down. A last desperate gamble as the kid tumbled over the manure and ran for a pitchfork and Jensen … Jensen …

The whip had torn an ear right off him.
Gott in Himmel
– SS and blood pouring all over the place! Startled eyes, shock, the gun coming up again. ‘Klaus … Klaus …' the man muttered in bewilderment.

Kohler flung the whip at him and charged. He threw himself at Jensen, caught him by the arms – tried … God he tried to hold the pistol away. The gun went off – all thirty of the remaining rounds were sprayed about the place as the two of them rolled over and over on the floor and Jensen's finger was repeatedly jammed against the trigger.

One of the mares fell dead. Another was wounded and began to cry out in terror and kick her stall boards.

A lantern shattered. Blood … there was blood everywhere. A pail came into view. One eye … only one. His wrist … damn his wrist.

Kohler lay on his back and used both hands to force the pistol away. The kid flashed into and out of view, a blur. Jensen shrieked at him to stay put.

No hope … too powerful … thought Kohler desperately. Not as young as I used to be …

Jensen's eyes shot wide. His mouth gaped. He stiffened in shock, tried to release his grip, tried to turn …

Blood rushed into his eyes and trickled from a corner of his mouth, dribbling on the uniform as he stiffened yet again, then fell headlong at Kohler who pushed him aside. The boy … the pitchfork …
Gott in Himmel
, a seven-year-old boy, or was he eight or nine?

‘Klaus,' gasped Kohler. ‘The other one.'

The boy couldn't seem to move. He'd lost all colour. A German … a member of their dreaded SS. He'd
killed
him! He, René Yvon-Paul Thériault, had
murdered
him.

The wounded mare flung herself against the side of the stall and broke three boards. The sounds she gave were agony.

‘Son, help me up,' wheezed Kohler. Where the hell was Bocke? Still waiting for them to make a run for it?

He tried to swallow. His chest ached. Had one lung collapsed? His heart pounded unmercifully. The kid had driven the pitchfork right into the small of Jensen's back. He must have taken a run at it. The mare … would the thing not be quiet for one moment? Jesus, the racket was terrible.

‘Oh God, we're for it, kid. There's no way a thing like this can be hidden. Get me the revolver. No, not the Luger. Louis's gun. I'll kill the other one if I can and I'll say I did this. You hear me, eh? I killed him, not you. You're to make a run for it. Go and hide in the mill. The
mill
, René. Understand?'

The boy handed him the revolver. Kohler's aching fingers found a corner of torn shirt but it was impossible for him to clean the weapon.

Breaking the cylinder open, he held the gun out to Renè. ‘Is the barrel free?'

The kid nodded. ‘So okay, eh? You to the mill, and me to find the other one.'

This Gestapo inspector was almost dead himself and looking very grey. ‘If we go up through the loft, monsieur, there is a small door which leads …'

‘Never mind the loft. You beat it, eh? You've done your bit. I hope you live to see your grandchildren.'

‘Will you shoot Christabelle? Please, monsieur. She is in great pain and must have broken something too.'

‘Yeah, I'll shoot her, but only after you …' Kohler indicated the ladder at the far end of the stables. As he watched the boy hurry away, he thought of his own boyhood, of a stable not nearly so fine, of a desire even at that tender age to become a famous detective.

Such are the dreams of youth.

The boy disappeared into the darkness but then a feeble shaft of light, up high, picked him out as he waved.

Bocke … where the hell was Bocke?

Almost at a run, they were now passing through the château's Chinese Room, making for the cellar steps to what Mademoiselle Arcuri had called the Grotto. The chanteuse was in the lead, then himself and Ackermann – all three of them crowded too closely together. No chance to dart aside and slip away. No chance to turn and put a stop to the general.

St-Cyr caught only fragmentary glimpses of the room whose windows opened on to the central courtyard. A superb screen of painted silk … blue porcelain jars hundreds and hundreds of years old. A tiny white jade figurine – some sort of deity perhaps. A life-sized porcelain warrior dressed in full regalia, an embroidered silk robe … the Thériaults had bought history and had banked wisely. But of course, the war… The Germans would take all of it.

A gilded bamboo birdcage, in the design of a pagoda, was piled like a cake in tiers but held Italian faience birds of the finest porcelain.

A dagger encrusted with verdigris lay open on a small table of black lacquerwork and gilt. Could he chance it?

Ackermann jammed the gun into his back, propelling him into the next room as the woman said, ‘We must go this way now. There are some stairs at the back,' and the sound of her voice, the tension and the fear in it lingered with St-Cyr.

They entered the Hall of Armour and he knew right then and there that she'd come this way on purpose. The Thériaults had a superb collection, much of which stood menacingly about the hall. Full suits of armour, the dull gun-metal blue fast fading with the last of the light. Swords upraised to deal Death's blow, pikes at rest. Which would it be? A mace? he wondered. Could he grab one?

As they threaded their way quickly among the armour, she suddenly shouted, ‘Go left, Inspector!' and bolted to the right.

St-Cyr dodged under a mailed fist, twisted sideways near a pike and heard the first of two shots as he ran full tilt into a breastplate and knocked it over.

Stumbling, he tripped and fell flat. Ackermann … where was Ackermann? Ah, Mon Dieu …

The ringing sound of the armour gradually lessened.

There were cabinets and cabinets – muskets, swords, dirks and pistols – how had the countess managed to keep them? No powder and ball, perhaps.

Ackermann's matched set of duelling pistols lay open on top of one of them – could he reach it? Could he chance it?

High on the wall behind it were the flags and colours of the regiments the Thériaults had led. Their shields, their heraldry … the Siege of Orléans, the Battle of Waterloo …

No sign of Ackermann and none whatsoever of the chanteuse. A quick glimpse of the maze over his shoulder, ever darkening but offering hope perhaps.

Stealthily he began to crawl out from behind the small cannon he had used as cover. Nothing now showed on the floor but those suits of armour. Gods in their times, they stood about, mementoes of bygone days, no words of comfort.

A step – was that a jackboot on the hardwood parquet?

‘Inspector …?'

Ackermann had her by the hair again. In desperation St-Cyr closed a hand over one of the small cannon-balls that were piled in the iron basket beside the cannon.

There'd been two shots – presumably the Luger had been fully loaded. One shot up in the tower then and two here, so there should be at least four left and perhaps a fifth, if Ackermann had done as many did and left one in the chamber before inserting the clip.

Five shots.

He wound up and bowled the little cannon-ball across the floor, flinging himself aside at the same time and skidding to a stop behind one of the suits of armour.

‘Come out at once,' commanded Ackermann. St-Cyr had spread his legs and was now standing directly behind the armour.

A battle-axe hung from a length of chain that was wrapped about a mailed wrist.