Butcher and Bolt Page 19

  ~ ~ ~

  ‘This is the man,’ said Yvette, showing her the drawing.

  ‘How can you be sure?’ asked Hortense.

  ‘I had to ... spend some time in this man’s company a few months ago,’ said Yvette, ‘he spent a lot of it talking about himself and what he did and how important his work was.’

  ‘Huh!’ snorted Hortense derisively, ‘sounds like a typical man then.’

  ‘Yes, but he is not typical, far from it,’ said Yvette bitterly.

  ‘He hurt you didn’t he?’ said Hortense quietly, ‘what did he do?’

  Yvette looked up at the ceiling. The paint was peeling in places and a lone fly buzzed pointlessly against the window pane. In one corner a patch of mould seemed to her to take on the shape of an old crone with a crooked nose. She shook herself back to the here-and-now.

  ‘Never mind,’ she replied, ‘the less you know the better. You have to play a part, I only want to give you enough background so you can ask him some leading questions.’

  ‘Just answer me one thing then,’ said Hortense, ‘is he interested in women? He’s not a homosexual or anything?’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Hortense, ‘he’s definitely not that, he’s interested in women because he hates them. He hates them as much as he hates Jews.’

  ‘Okay then,’ said Hortense, ‘I can work with that. Let’s go.’

  She stood up and checked her hair and makeup one last time in the mirror.

  Hortense entered the main room from a door beside the stage and walked right through the middle of the tables, her hips swaying suggestively. As she passed each table the eyes of the German officers raked her up and down, instantly taking in and evaluating her vital statistics and concluding that she was by far the most beautiful woman in the place. Their heads turned as she passed and each table was disappointed that she’d not chosen to sit down with them.

  Reaching the table where Richter and Schmidt were sitting she paused and eyed Schmidt.

  ‘Do you have a glass eye?’ she said, bending down towards Schmidt to show off her cleavage, ‘that must have been so painful, were you wounded in action my hero?’

  Schmidt’s one eye appraised her coolly. Was she mocking him? She was certainly beautiful, and relatively young, in fact she reminded him of the Burgomeister’s daughter he had raped at knife-point all those years ago in Baden Baden, the silly little bitch who’d ended up dying on him and got him arrested. Bad for him at the time, but it had led to his joining the SS and everything else had followed naturally from that.

  The memory of that night stirred in him like a coiled snake and he stood up and pulled out a chair.

  ‘Not as painful as seeing you forced to stand unnecessarily,’ said Schmidt with a clumsy attempt at chivalry, something he was not accustomed to.

  Hortense laughed, a liquid ripple, and sat down, holding out her hand.

  ‘Hortense,’ she said.

  Schmidt kissed the proffered hand and sat.

  ‘Hagan,’ he replied, ‘you remind me of someone.’

  ‘Oh really?’ she asked with wide eyes and a devilish smile, ‘not your mother I hope.’

  Beside her, Hauptsturmfuhrer Richter guffawed and poured her a glass of champagne.

  ‘My name is Hans,’ he said holding out the glass, ‘let us drink the health and restored eyesight of my friend Hagan here.’

  From her eyrie, Yvette watched the party of three closely. Hortense was clearly an expert at playing men. While feigning interest in what Richter was saying, her body language made it clear that Hagan Schmidt was the one who had claimed her attention. She sat facing him with her legs crossed in the aisle between the tables and looked sideways at Richter. Yvette saw her reach into her small purse and produce an ivory cigarette holder which she loaded with a Gitane. Richter held out a lighter and the conversation continued. A few minutes later a waiter brought a second bottle of champagne.

  Half an hour later the bottle was empty and Yvette was watching the trio through her opera glasses. She saw Hortense laugh at something Richter said, then Schmidt said something and Yvette saw her whirl around to face him, an expression of fear on her face. Schmidt stood up suddenly, grabbed her by the arm and hauled her to her feet. Yvette saw Jean-Paul stand in his alcove and make his way down the stairs to where Schmidt was now manhandling Hortense up the stairs towards the door. There was a brief conversation, then Jean-Paul stepped aside and allowed Schmidt to push the girl towards the door.

  ‘Non! Non!’ came the girl’s screams, but at that moment the band started up, the curtain rose, and the girls came high-stepping out onto the stage. Hortense’s cries were lost in the noise, but Yvette was already flying down the stairs.

  ‘Fuck! Fuck! What went wrong?’ she cursed to herself as she negotiated the steps two at a time and came into the main room. At the front, the door was swinging shut on the struggling form of Hortense.

  ~ ~ ~

  Joe tapped a fresh cigarette out of the packet, lit it from the stub of the last one and threw the butt into the growing pile beneath the driver’s door. He noticed that the fingers of his left hand were tapping nervously on the steering wheel and he grasped the curved metal tight to stop them. He’d always found the waiting the worst part of any action: once the explosions started going off and he could shoot back at something he was so scared and pre-occupied with the idea of imminent death that he stopped thinking consciously. Sitting here though, waiting for someone else to do something, was mental torture of a completely different kind.

  The door at the top of the stairs swung open and Joe saw Hortense come out, being pushed roughly by a man in a suit.

  ‘I’m not Jewish!’ she screamed, but the man just snarled and slapped her across the face before dragging her down the steps.

  ‘You there!’ called the man to Joe, ‘open your door immediately.’

  Joe jumped out and pulled the door open, and the man pushed Hortense into the back seat of the cab and climbed in after her. When Joe got back into the driver’s seat he looked in the mirror and saw the man was holding a pistol, low down above his leg pointing at Hortense, who was now sobbing. Without prompting, his trained eye identified it as a Walther P38, nine rounds.

  ‘Hotel Lutetia, now!’ ordered the man.

  Joe started the engine and was engaging first gear when the front door of the club burst open and Yvette came running out and down the stairs. Joe pretended to be having trouble with the gear stick to gain her a few seconds.

  ‘Now, you French dolt!’ yelled the man, and he pointed the Walther at Joe, ‘or do I have to drive this thing myself?’

  Yvette yanked open the passenger door, and, as the man swung his gun around, leant in and pointed the M1911 at his head.

  ‘Drop it or I’ll blow your head off!’ she cried.

  The man hesitated and she leant in further and jammed the revolver against his head.

  ‘Now!’ she hissed.

  Joe swivelled in his seat, plucked the gun from the man’s hand and turned it on him. He looked familiar but it was too dark to see him clearly. Yvette took the opportunity to climb in, then stuck the automatic deep into the man’s ribs.

  ‘Let’s go Joe,’ she urgently, slamming the door.

  Joe lurched off in first gear, accelerated down the empty street and turned left onto Boulevard Clichy.

  As they turned the corner, the club door opened and Richter raced out pulling on his coat. He ran down to the waiting line of cabs and jumped into the first one. As the cab accelerated and rounded the corner, The Corsican was taking the steps of the club three at a time.

  ~ ~ ~

  ‘What the fuck is this?’ screamed Schmidt in German, ‘who are you people? Do you have any idea who I am? You’ll all be hung with piano wire for this!’

  ‘Don’t you recognise me Hagan?’ asked Yvette in a cold voice, ‘do I look that different when I’m not chained to a radiator?’

  Hagan Schmidt’s look of fury
changed abruptly to one of fear. In the darkness of the blacked-out Parisian streets he couldn’t see Yvette’s face, but he recognised her voice.

  ‘You!’ he hissed, ‘you took my eye and left me for dead. By God you’ll pay for this!’

  Yvette ground the gun barrel hard into his ear and he flinched.

  ‘No Schmidt, not me, it’s your turn to pay. Joe, turn right and keep going until you cross the river.’

  ‘What the hell happened?’ asked Joe, whose view of the rear seat was obscured in the darkness, ‘who the hell is this bastard and where’s Richter?’

  ‘This is Hagan Schmidt, better known to you as Private Summerville, don’t you recognise him Joe?’

  ‘Schmidt? What the hell?’

  ‘He came into the club quite by chance,’ said Yvette, ‘so I told Hortense to go after him instead of Richter.’

  For a moment, Joe’s mind filled with the image of Major Benjamin leaning over the desk in the briefing room back in England, explaining that Richter was the target, ‘We want him alive for questioning about the massacres in Belgium and France, that’s why,’ then the memory of Summerville raping Yvette in the kitchen in Roubaix, her uncle’s body still bleeding out in the front room, blotted out any sense of duty or mission objectives. For a moment a red rage filled his eyes, and his throat swelled and threatened to choke him, but he forced air back into his lungs, changed gear and made a turn that he knew would take them down to the Seine.

  In the taxi behind them Richter gesticulated wildly at the bemused taxi driver.

  ‘Follow them!’ he yelled, pointing to where the taxi was turning the corner. He instinctively reached for the Luger on his left side and drew it.

  Cursing loudly, he peered through the windscreen at the fleeing taxi. From a side street on the right, a sedan pulled out in front of them and accelerated sharply. At the next intersection, the taxi turned left and the car followed it.

  ‘A gauche! A gauche! Allez!’ yelled Richter, and the driver stepped on the accelerator and threw the car around the corner.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  When the car turned into the side street and Schmidt saw the river, he knew there was only one end awaiting him. He had to make his move now. The bitch with the gun had the barrel hard up into his ribcage though, he would need a distraction.

  The fools hadn’t searched him properly. They’d taken his Walther 9mm, but as the car began to slow he inched his left hand into his trouser pocket, where he kept his switchblade. It had been a gift to him from Admiral Canaris himself when he completed his training, and since receiving the knife, Schmidt had kept it scrupulously clean, the mechanism oiled and silent.

  The moment to move was when they were getting out of the car. She would have to take the gun out of contact with his body. He readied himself as the car drew up beside the river.

  The Australian in front pulled on the brake and got out, aiming the Walther at him. That complicated matters and he instantly changed his plan.

  ‘Hortense,’ said Yvette, ‘open the door and get out, I’ve got this bastard covered.’

  Hortense leant to open the door, but as she did so, Schmidt threw himself bodily upon her, drawing the blade with his left hand as he launched himself up and over the woman.

  Yvette was caught unawares and as she squeezed the trigger, stopped with the sudden realisation that the bullet would also kill Hortense. Then she saw the flash of the steel in Schmidt’s left hand, but it was too late. He had the blade at Hortense’s throat and had grabbed her right arm in a pinch hold.

  ‘If you move I open this bitch’s throat!’ screamed Schmidt.

  Then Joe hauled open the door and the two of them tumbled out in a heap. Joe stepped in and threw a mighty kick at Schmidt’s head as it came out of the door, but he only half-connected, and in his follow-through his foot went hard into the door-jamb. He whirled in pain, but forced himself to raise the gun and point it at the German. Schmidt had crawled out and once again had his knife at the throat of Hortense, who was lying curled up, whimpering.

  ‘So Lieutenant,’ said Schmidt with a sneer, standing and hauling Hortense to her feet in front of him, ‘did I ever tell you how much I enjoyed your woman when you abandoned her in Roubaix? Or did she tell you about it?’

  ‘Is that how you lost your eye, you bastard?’ said Joe.

  Yvette crouched behind the car and levelled her pistol at Schmidt with a cold and deadly expression on her face.

  ‘It’s over for both of you amateurs,’ said Schmidt, ‘Richter will have followed me, ah, here he is now,’ he said, nodding to a set of headlights coming up the street.

  Joe weighed his options. He should shoot Schmidt. If Hortense got her throat cut in the process that was unfortunate, but Schmidt couldn’t be allowed to live. But he couldn’t bring himself to squeeze the trigger, at this range there was no guarantee he could hit Schmidt.

  As he hesitated the taxi drew up and Richter stepped out, his Luger steady in his hand. Joe saw another car coming down the street behind him and wondered who it could be. The taxi driver jammed his car into reverse and skidded away from the scene, careering wildly across to the wrong side of the street as he raced away along the river.

  ‘Drop your gun,’ screamed Richter, pointing the Luger at Joe.

  ‘You drop yours,’ said Joe.

  ‘The car behind me is bringing more officers,’ said Richter, ‘in ten seconds you will be outnumbered, you might as well surrender now.’

  The approaching car screeched to a halt and the doors flew open, but instead of German officers, l’Hydre, the Corsican and Jean-Paul stepped out.

  ‘Well, well,’ said l’Hydre, taking in the scene, ‘you are pretty determined aren’t you Lieutenant Dean?’

  ‘Bloody hell, you cut that fine,’ said Joe, keeping his revolver trained on Richter, ‘can we get out of here now?’

  The Corsican and Jean-Paul stood silent, And Joe noticed that their pistols were covering him, not Richter. The man who called himself l’Hydre took a few paces closer.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s not that simple lieutenant, you see Mr Glass-Eye over here,’ said the Frenchman, gesturing at Schmidt, ‘made me a fine offer yesterday, one I feel obliged to honour.’

  ‘Seize them both, now!’ said Richter in the voice of one used to instant obedience.

  ‘Please don’t interrupt,’ said l’Hydre. Richter turned purple and seemed as if he were about to explode, but managed to swallow his rage.

  ‘You see Mr Dean, while it might be patriotic for me to help you, it is not really in my long-term interest is it? France is conquered, these men govern. If I am to retain even a vestige of my influence in Paris I have no option but to co-operate with them.’

  ‘Collaborate you mean,’ said Joe fiercely.

  ‘Call it what you will, but it makes sound business sense,’ said l’Hydre.

  ‘And do you reckon the Germans will let you run your poxy little operation for long?’ said Joe, ‘they’re just using you, and one day they’ll send you to the camps along with everyone else they deem unfit to live. Criminal scum like you must be high on their list for extermination after the Jews.’

  No-one seemed to have noticed Yvette lurking behind the car. Joe knew it was only a matter of time until Schmidt gave the game away. He had a few seconds, while this pointless conversation continued, to come up with a plan of action. He flicked his eyes around the scene. What were his options? To his right, Schmidt held the knife to Hortense’s throat. To his left, Yvette was crouched behind the car. In front of him, Richter, the Corsican and Jean-Paul had guns trained on him. He had the German’s Walther, but it was not a good situation. Not good by any estimation.

  ‘Don’t listen to this fool,’ said Schmidt, adjusting his grip on Hortense, ‘we have a deal and you have the protection of nothing less than the Abwehr. Now, arrest them or shoot them, I don’t care which.’

  At that moment Hortense abruptly threw an elbow into
Schmidt’s glass eye. He let out a scream and stumbled backwards, but as he fell the blade sliced across her neck, opening a livid gash. A horrific gurgling scream escaped from her opened throat and blood jetted out, spraying directly into Richter’s face.

  Joe and Yvette seized their chance.

  Joe had been aiming at the Corsican and at the sudden movement he made a reflexive shot that caught the man full in the chest. He went backwards without a sound and Joe stepped left and switched his aim to Jean-Paul. He fired twice at the shape, but the big man vanished behind the car. Then Richter, his hands wiping blood from his face, stumbled across his view and Joe fired twice again. The first bullet blasted past Richter, but the second scored across the back of the man’s skull and he crumpled to the ground.

  Two deafening shots exploded beside Joe’s left ear. He whirled to see Yvette lowering the pistol. One shot had taken Schmidt in the left thigh. The other, presumably her first shot, had hit him in the upper torso, but on the way it had blown straight through Hortense’s right shoulder. The girl’s shoulder joint was completely destroyed and her right arm was hanging by a tendon, blood spraying out through the wound. She was wriggling convulsively on the ground and making inhuman noises. Schmidt wasn’t moving.

  A shot crashed into the car window, spraying glass over both of them, and Joe span to see Jean-Paul firing at them from their left. L’Hydre was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Where the hell is he?’ Joe asked himself as he crouched behind the car.

  Yvette loosed off two quick shots before Joe grabbed her arm and pulled her into cover behind the car. Another bullet screamed through the metal of the far side of the car and exited only inches above their heads. How many shots had Jean-Paul fired? What sort of gun did he have? Joe had no idea, but counting through the events of the last three seconds he realised that between them, he and Yvette had only three shots left.