J. Janes - Mannequin

Kohler found him at last, three tables back of the postage stamp dance floor, holding court with four others amid a clutter of wine bottles and cigarette butts. ‘Now, look, all I want is a little information,’ he said quietly.

There were five empty bottles and spills of red wine on the linoleum table-top.

‘Eat dung. Kiss your mother’s ass.’

‘Don’t be tiresome.’

A flick-knife came out; the blade leapt! Fifteen centimetres of highly polished, hardened steel straight from the Reich and bearing the much-coveted logo of the SS, the death’s-head.

A man of few words, then, but with them, the sickening realization that, though it was forbidden to kill any member of the Occupying Forces, there was one exception. Hermann Andreas Kohler. Fair game and no one’s loss.

‘Put the knife away. Please. Let’s not get heavy, eh? Just a few small questions,’ breathed Kohler.

A bottle fell, the table quivered, neckties and faces were blurred. Kohler grabbed another bottle and smashed it. The sound of breaking glass shattered the silence. A girl screamed but was slapped into silence.

Peguy got slowly to his feet to face the spines of glass. ‘Give me room, ’ he hissed, tossing the words out of the side of his mouth.

The others backed away. Soon there would only be the two of them on the dance floor, ringed by spectators all thirsting for blood. Mine! thought Kohler. Ah merde.

The table was flipped out of the way, the knife flashed. Kohler lost the broken neck of the bottle. Blood ran from his right forearm, flooding over the back of his hand. ‘You cut my overcoat?’ he said, feeling no pain. A puzzle.

‘Now the liver! ’ spat Peguy. ‘You have no friends.’

To one side, revolvers had come out but were not yet pointed at him. Was it but a taste of things to come when this lousy war should end and everyone else had gone home?

‘Look, I’ll walk out of here. Okay? No problem. No questions. Nothing said.’

The knife didn’t move. Balanced lightly, it was held close in, with the elbow braced against the base of the ribcage and the muscles knotted.

Slowly Kohler pulled off his scarf and gathered it as best he could around his bloodied hand. If he drew his pistol, the bastards with the guns would even the score. Ah Christ, there was nothing for it.

‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ he said. ‘I’m bigger. I don’t like to pick on little guys.’

The knife flashed, the wrist was grabbed, Peguy taking to the air to land on his back with a crash that broke the floor and sent the bottles spinning.

Kohler swept up one and smashed it.

The Frenchman began to back away on his ass, to throw his pals looks of desperation. So, a court of last appeal and everything not exactly going one way, snorted Kohler inwardly. The rest of them had figured it out by themselves.

The bastard scrambled up and made a run for it through the parting crowd. Kohler got to him in the toilers. Throttling him from behind-seizing him by the belt and lifting-he crammed the pomaded, black-haired, jerking head into the stained trough of the urinal and shrieked, ‘Kiss it, you son of a bitch! Kiss it and puke! ’

Blood ran from battered lips to mingle with the piss and other things. ‘Now talk,’ he whispered, letting up a little and catching a breath. ‘ Talk! ’ he shrieked in good Gestapo form.

Down on his knees, with his face still squished to one side and his eyes fighting for a way out, Peguy spat blood and his gold nugget and winced. ‘Air,’ he managed, vowing to rip open Kohler’s other cheek and cut off his balls. ‘Air.’

‘Okay. Don’t choke on your puke.’

Straddling him, Kohler eased up a little. ‘So, what did you find out for our friend?’

He waited. He shook the bastard. ‘The robbery, eh?’ he hissed. ‘Eighteen million straight in from Lyon that very same day, am I right?’

Vomit joined the blood. There was a ragged gasp up the nose. A breath was caught and swallowed. ‘My knees …’

‘Fuck your knees. You’re one of the prefet’s mouchards, piss-head. Where did the money come from, when did it arrive and who the fuck knew about it?’

That was too much to ask. The prefet would kill him. ‘Silence. I keep the silence! ’ came the watery hiss.

‘Jesus, a hero!’ shouted Kohler, slamming him back into the trough. ‘I’ll piss on your head, you little fart!’

‘Lyon that … that same morning by banker’s dispatch. Eighteen millions, in 1000- and 500-franc notes. New francs.’

‘Ja, ja. Now who told who about it?’

‘We … we do not know that yet! ’ shrieked Peguy, struggling to escape.

He was throttled like a dog and forced to kiss the urinal but there was nothing more to come on that aspect. ‘So, now tell me about the suitcases. Start with those and see if you can remember everything.’

Kohler let go of him suddenly. He would give him time to think that maybe … just maybe it would be possible to get up.

Then he cocked his pistol and pressed its muzzle to the back of the bastard’s neck. ‘A girl is missing, you greasy son of a bitch. A friend. The robbery may have nothing to do with it. We’ll have to see. Just start talking or we’ll have an accident.’

Kohler … Kohler had a pretty little pigeon named Giselle le Roy …‘Two suitcases. Leather. Alligator. Louis Vuitton 1934 to ’36. Two men, one woman.’ Peguy angrily spat blood and other things. ‘The men to take the money, the woman to watch the street. One motorcycle for the getaway.’

‘Come on. Two big, heavy suitcases and two guys on one motor cycle? Hey, you can do better than that. Why not throw in a velo-taxi just to speed things up?’

A bicycle-taxi.

A nostril was cleared. ‘They … they stole a car.’

‘Talk louder.’

‘A car !’

‘Good. Let the others in there know you’re telling me everything, eh? Then it won’t be Talbotte who cuts your throat but your friends.’

‘My usefulness…. Please, the prefet is counting on me to …’

‘Aw, stop whining and get on with it. A car in Paris? A German car?’

The bastard nodded but banged his forehead and cursed Kohler’s ancestors until the gun was pressed a little closer and he was told that, since Talbotte had not wished to co-operate on such a delicate matter, there had been nothing for it but to ask his sources. ‘It’s simply your tough luck, mon fin, so spit it out.’

‘Then yes. Yes! The car of one whose mistress was in a shop across the street. They forced her driver to take them to Pigalle and they ditched him here.’

‘Now wait a minute. Whose car was it?’

‘Ah nom de Jesus-Christ, foutez-moi la paix! ’ Bugger off!

Kohler waited.

‘The … the Sonderfuhrer Franz Ewald Kempf.’

A special officer, Section II of the Propaganda Staffel, in charge of news releases for the Luftwaffe. An arrogant smart-ass, a real ladies’ man. ‘Pigalle in broad daylight?’ scoffed the Gestapo’s strong-arm. ‘Maudit salaud, don’t be such an utter idiot!’

‘Montmartre, up on the hill … a farm lorry, a gazogene … ’

That was better but still not good enough. Kohler leaned down to whisper in his ear. ‘Is your ass as tight as your lips, or do I have to bring one of your friends in here to find out for myself?’

Both nostrils were cleared. There was some choking. ‘A courtyard off the rue des Amiraux. Number 9. The driver was knocked out and left in the car. They … they walked away.’

‘With two big suitcases like that? Near the goods yards? Hey, you must think I don’t know my way around.’