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 Theriaults had led. Their shields, their heraldry … the Siege of Orleans, 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.
The battle-axe moved! He fired again, a screened shot that deflected off a sword, splintered a pike shaft and ricocheted around the room.
St-Cyr yanked the battle-axe free and threw it. Ackermann fired. The woman shrieked at him to save himself.
They made for the door at a run and St-Cyr headed after them. The Luger swung his way. The hammer came back. She fought with Ackermann. She tried to get the gun, tried to …
St-Cyr tore him from her and knocked the gun to the floor. He went in with his fists, hammering. A left to the chin, a right to the shoulder. One, two; one, two. Now step away, feint to the left and in with a left. Yes … yes that’s it! ‘A bloodied nose, eh, General? Well, there’s more of it, my friend. There’s more.’ He feinted left and left again, dodged and weaved, stepped in suddenly, then back and around, cornering, working, now a jab, now a withdrawal.
They closed and the general went down in a welter of blows they hadn’t taught him at that fancy SS academy. St-Cyr fell on him like a stone and pressed both knees into his back. He gave a savage grunt as he whipped the handcuffs from a pocket and clapped them on the bastard. ‘Done! Ah-ha, my fine, it’s done!’
‘Hermann …? Hermann, what has happened?’ St-Cyr raised the lantern. He’d found Kohler outside the back door of the stables, a wreck and badly in need of medical attention.
‘Louis …? Louis, where’s Ackermann?’
‘Locked up in one of the towers, with bracelets.’
Kohler wanted to say, Good work! Instead he had to say, ‘We’re not going to get out of this, Louis. Jensen tried to kill me. His gun … You know how it was. The thing went off and hit Bocke twice in the guts. A stroke of luck perhaps, but not for us.’
‘I’ll get a couple of blankets and cover them. We’ll think about it, eh?’ He’d never seen Hermann quite like this.
The Bavarian tore his one-eyed gaze from Bocke’s body. ‘I’ve already thought about it, Louis. I had no other choice but to kill Jensen with a pitchfork. It was either him or me.’
A pitchfork! ‘Yes … yes, I quite understand. Shall I call Pharand or will you call Boemelburg?’
Kohler held his throbbing cheek. ‘I think you’d better call Boemelburg for me. Just tell him to come down here, Louis. Don’t try to bugger about, eh? Words won’t be of any use so leave them to me. Let’s let him see this for himself.’
‘And the General Oberg, over on the avenue Foch, Hermann? What about him?’ The employer of the dead.
‘Von Schaumburg, I think. Let the Kommandant of Greater Paris call him personally. Tell them all to come. We’ll make a party of it and go out in style.’
‘Then we’d better include the prefets of Paris, Barbizon and Fontainebleau.’
‘Yes … yes, all of them, Louis. Now get me to a doctor, will you? I think I’m going to pass out.’
The flame of a single candle lit the room. Ackermann sat on the only seat, a wooden stool from medieval times. The casket still lay open with its burlap sacks of rocks. A black-out curtain had been placed over the window and stuffed into the hole in the glass to stop the draughts.
It was the loneliest of vigils and the night was long. ‘You have the choice of honour, General,’ said St-Cyr quietly.
‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ snapped Ackermann.
‘Burial with full military honours, General. A family name that is unbesmirched. No reflections on your wife and daughters. A hero of the Reich until the end of time.’
‘You and Kohler will die with me. This place will be sacked and burned to the ground. The countess and the others will be shot.’
‘A common grave, is that it, eh?’
‘Yes, that’s it. I’ve won, St-Cyr. There’s no possible way you and that Bavarian traitor can get out of it.’
‘Hermann is a man whose loyalties have been placed in confusion by events over which he had little control.’
‘It’ll do him no good to say those two tried to arrest me.’
‘Then I will leave you with this, General. Until the dawn, eh? Let us hope the others arrive at first light. Me, I am anxious for it all to end.’
He placed a single 9 millimetre cartridge next to the candle, then laid the general’s empty Luger beside it. ‘My apologies if I do not take the handcuffs off you, General. I will check in from time to time. Should you feel the call of nature, please do not worry. I will be armed, of course, and always there will be someone else both to lock me in here with you and to let me out when I knock.’
Ackermann smirked at him. The Frenchman nodded adieu, then went over to the door and rapped soundly on it.
The key turned, the door came open only with difficulty, and he stepped out into the hall.
It was Mademoiselle Arcuri, not the servant who had accompanied him. She locked the door again and left the key in the lock. ‘How’s Hermann?’ he asked. There was a torch in her hand.
They’d speak in whispers, their voices hushed. ‘Fine. There’s always the danger of tetanus, but Dr Cartier has used much antispetic and has sewn up the cheek. Me, I have given your friend lots of brandy. He’s now asleep.’
‘And Rene and the countess?’ he asked.
He was such a sensitive man, this Jean-Louis St-Cyr. No cop she’d ever met had been quite like this. ‘Rene is fast asleep ‘ exhausted, poor thing. He … he has told me the truth of what happened.’
She looked steadily at him, didn’t shy away from it. ‘Hermann had to kill Jensen, Mademoiselle Arcuri. There was absolutely no other alternative.’
‘Yes … yes, I understand but will your friend really do this for my son?’
He must be kind. There was so little hope. ‘He will, but you must pack some things for the boy and see that someone is ready to hide him at a moment’s notice. The Germans, madame … Two of their SS are dead. Even if they had killed each other, someone else must pay the price. This we cannot avoid. I wish with all my heart it were different but …’
She stopped him with a look. ‘And Jeanne?’ she asked.
‘Yes … Yes, the countess as well.’