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 chateau. 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 Theriault. 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, Rene! 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, Rene Yvon-Paul Theriault, 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, Rene. 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 Rene. ‘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 chateau’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 Theriaults 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 Theriaults 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.