Wolfgang’s smile widened, but held no warmth. ‘That is better,’ he said quietly.’ Standing he moved towards the galley. He turned and said: ‘You look terrible. I had better feed you up if you are to be of any use to me.’
-0-
They had taken off from Stuttgart airport in the Piper Clipper at just after 5am. With a cruising speed of around 100 knots it would have been possible to make the trip in a little over four hours. But the pilot was concerned that the fuel might not last the journey so they touched down near Reims. Russell was glad of the chance to stretch his legs and grab a coffee although anxious to be on his way again, once the refuelling was done.
Just before ten am they were circling over Le Touquet. Russell could clearly see the terminal building, with the words ‘Gateway to the Continent’ in large letters on the roof. He could also see the unmistakeable form of Bruissement standing by a black Citroën traction Avant.
The pilot brought the Piper down expertly in a classic three-point landing on the Tarmac strip and taxied up to the terminal. When the aircraft had rolled to a stop, Judd climbed out of his seat and held the door open for Russell. Bruissement came over from his car and folded him in a warm embrace. Slightly embarrassed he stood back while the Frenchman did the same with Judd. Then flinging his arms wide he said: ‘Ah, mes amis, it is good to see you both! You must be hungry and thirsty. I know I am. And Sonny … I ’ave some good news … and some bad news for you. Follow me and I will tell all.’ Bruissement winked and led them into the airport café.
They found a table overlooking the airstrip and soon the waiter had brought warm croissants, pain au chocolat, pain au raison and steaming bols of coffee. ‘First the good news: your Superintendent Stout has had you réintégrére!’
‘Re-instated?’ Judd asked. ‘Why, that’s marvellous.’
‘What? But how? I don’t understand.’ Russell paused, the croissant he was about to bite into hovering just short of his mouth.
Bruissement chuckled. ‘I ’ad a talk with your Inspector Parker…’ Russell raised an eyebrow. ‘… I told ‘im you were en route to Le Touquet and suggested that ’e ’ad a talk with Stout.’
‘How on earth did you get him to agree to that?’
The Frenchman’s chuckle turned into a laugh. ‘A little bird suggested to me that your DI Parker does not like to travel by boat. ’E soon realised that it would be better if you were the man on the ground. I think the thought of crossing the channel made ’im - ’ow you say - a leetle green round the gills.’
‘And the Super agreed?’
‘Apparement. So now you are on business official.’
Russell put down the remains of the croissant and let out a long breath. ‘Well. That is a surprise.’ After a few moments he sat up and spoke again. ‘You said there was bad news, too.’
‘Ah ... I am afraid there is a little complication.’
‘And that is?’ Russell returned to his croissant and took a sip of coffee.
A concerned look crossed the Frenchman’s face. ‘It is your right ’and man …’
‘Weeks?’
‘Yes. I am afraid he has been kidnappé.’
‘What?’ Russell jumped to his feet, scattering crumbs and spilling coffee in his agitation.
Bruissement held his hands up, palms outwards. ‘Please to be calm, Sonny. Sit down and I will tell all.’ While mopping up the spilt coffee with a napkin the Frenchman explained what Parker had told him about Wolfgang and how the scouts, Christopher and Sandy, had persuaded him to take it seriously.
Russell shook his head. ‘This really complicates matters.’
‘Maybe. But perhaps we will be able to turn the situation to our advantage.’
‘I don’t see how.’
Judd spoke for the first time. ‘Listen. It sounds like the situation is difficult enough as it is. Why don’t we sit back and decide the best way to deal with it, Hmm?’
‘You are right, mon ami américain. Let us work out un plan d’attaque.’
-0-
Wolfgang steered Moonshine carefully between the muddy banks of the estuary. He allowed the tide to carry the vessel, keeping the engine at low revs, just enough to retain steerage. The mist meant that visibility was greatly reduced and he didn’t want to risk running aground. There were a couple of heart-stopping moments when the keel touched the bottom but the tide easily lifted the boat up and forward. He knew it would be imprudent to land at the quay as although, as far as he was aware, no one knew where he was headed, the police may have been alerted. So he looked out for a creek where he could conceal the boat.
After a few more minutes, a channel opened up to starboard. Putting the helm down the German nosed the craft into the narrow opening, reed-topped mud banks closing in on both sides. Twisting and turning they had travelled only a short distance along the channel before a decrepit looking jetty came into view. He let the boat drift up to it and bump the timber. Apart from a little shudder, the structure stayed firm, so he guessed it would be strong enough for the purpose of mooring, plus the banks and reeds would help to conceal Moonshine. He stepped out of the wheelhouse and threw a loop of rope over a post on the jetty.
‘You come up here,’ he called to Weeks
The tousled head of the young policeman appeared from below. ‘Yes?’ he said warily. He’d managed to eat most of the food that Wolfgang had prepared and the colour was returning slowly to his cheeks. ‘What do you want?’
Wolfgang had walked to the bow and thrown another rope over a stump of timber. ‘You may start by securing that.’
Weeks nodded and swung his leg over the gunwale. He stood unsteadily on the jetty, his balance shaky after all the hours at sea. He made his way to the rope and did his best to secure it. The German obviously did not approve of his efforts as he scowled and tutted. Weeks shrugged, thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and hung his head.
‘Oh, I suppose it will do. Now get back here and help me get the dinghy over the side. But remember, I have a pistol and I will use it if necessary. We are going into the town. You will do exactly what I say and you will not get hurt. If you disobey…’ His words hung in the air.
Wolfgang untied the neat knots that held the small wooden craft secure and the two men manhandled it over the side of Moonshine and into the water. ‘Right, you get in first. You are going to row me to the quay.’ The policeman climbed down into the dinghy and settled himself on the central thwart. Wolfgang handed down the oars then clambered down, his withered leg making the descent clumsy and a canvas satchel slung over his shoulder causing additional hindrance. Weeks automatically put out a hand to steady him but the German thrust it aside.
‘I can manage!’ he snapped angrily. Weeks shrugged and slotted the oars in the rowlocks while Wolfgang pushed the dinghy away from the bigger boat. ‘Now row!’
The younger man had learnt to handle a boat when he was in the sea scouts and he pulled strongly. Wolfgang sat in the stern, telling him when to alter course. With the tide in their favour it only took ten minutes to reach the quay where they moored by a flight of stone steps. The German looped the painter round a ring set in the dripping stone wall and deftly tied it off.
‘Right. Get out of the boat, slowly climb the steps and wait at the top for me. And no tricks. You know what I have in my pocket.’ Weeks did as he was bid and with an effort Wolfgang joined him on the quay. Then pointing to the right he said: ‘This way.’
They set off and were soon walking along Rue de la Ferté. They received no curious glances from the few people they passed, despite their odd appearance - Weeks in his rumpled clothing and the German with his awkward gait. Halfway along the narrow street, Wolfgang stopped in front of a boulangerie. ‘Now, remember what I said. I have the gun in my pocket. Do exactly what I say. Understand?’
Weeks nodded. ‘Yes, I understand,’ he said resignedly.
The bell above the door jangled cheerfully as the two stepped inside. There were no other customers and the rotund boulan
ger had his back to them. He was stretching up to a shelf attempting to get a tin that was only just within his reach. At the sound of the bell he started to turn, smiling a welcome. But immediately his cheerful expression was swiftly replaced by a look of horror, the tin slipping from his grasp and clattering to the floor. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead and he put out a hand to steady himself, clutching the edge of the counter.
Wolfgang, pointing the Luger, smiled icily. ‘I see you remember me, Herr Pfeffer.’
‘S-Salz,’ the man stammered. ‘My name is Salz – Micha Salz.’ The sweat was running down his fat face now and he was shaking uncontrollably. He pointed towards the front of the shop. ‘You can see my n-n-ame above the window.’
The small German chuckled mirthlessly. ‘I don’t care what you call yourself now. I will always know you as Hauptsturmführer Achim Pfeffer. Now, you will write a note saying the shop is closed.’
‘What?’ the boulanger said, almost in a whisper.
‘You heard,’ Wolfgang hissed. ‘Say you are ill.’ He threw back his head and let out a high-pitched laugh. ‘You certainly will be!’ With trembling hands Salz found paper and pencil and scribbled a few words. When he had finished he looked up. Still pointing the pistol at the baker Wolfgang turned his head slightly towards Weeks. ‘Take the paper and put it on the door.’ The policeman moved forward and picked up the note. He walked to the door and wedged it under the edge of the frame. As he was turning back Wolfgang said: ‘And pull down the blind.’ Then to Salz: ‘Take off your apron. We are going to your house.’
‘B-but…’
Wolfgang waved the pistol. ‘You will do what I say – now!’
-0-
Judd: ‘So what’s your idea, Guillaume?’ The three men were still in the airport café, now on their second coffees.
The Frenchman put down his cup and pursed his lips. ‘As I said on the telephone, I think we should go down to Saint Valery, but …’ he held his finger to his lips and spoke in a whisper, ‘… but tread carefully.’
Russell had been thinking hard but had failed to come up with any ideas. ‘What do you suggest we do?’
‘This is what I think.’ Bruissement sat back, put his hands on the table and linked his fingers. ‘We should drive down. It will take us no more than 40 minutes, maybe 50. We will park the car discrètement. I will show you where the Boulangerie Salz is, then we will drive past and park the motor car. Sonny, you and I will wait at a safe distance while you’ - he gestured towards Judd - ‘will go into the dépôt de pain and engage M. Salz in conversation.’
‘Hmmm. What will I say?’ the American wondered.
‘Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps something about ’ow good his bread is. ’Ow it ’as been recommended by a friend. Perhaps, ’ow there is nothing like it in Germany. Just try to steer the conversation so you can establish un rapport with ’im. Somehow you ’ave to gain ’is trust. Maybe begin to talk German with ’im. I am sure ’e will be delighted to meet a fellow countryman.’ Bruissement winked. ‘Then, ’e will open up to you.’
‘Oh, I don’t know how convincing I will be …’
Bruissement spread his arms expansively and beamed. ‘Trust me, mon ami américain. It will be fine. You will see.’ He clicked his fingers for the bill. ‘Now we must get going.’
The journey, as Bruissement had predicted, took just over 40 minutes. Once in the town he drove the Citröen slowly along Quai Blavet, which skirted the estuary and moored fishing boats, then turned into Rue de la Ferté. As they motored along the narrow street he pointed to the right.
‘There it is.’ Russell and Judd looked and could see a discreet shop with the legend Boulangerie Salz above the window. The Frenchman drove on for another hundred yards or so and parked on the Quai Pérée.
Turning to Judd he said: ‘Right. Sonny and I will wait here while you go and reconnoitre.’ The American grimaced, but opened the door, got out and walked back the way they had just come.
‘So what do we do next?’ Russell asked.
‘We wait to see what Greg has found out.’
They settled in their seats and looked out across the quay. The mist that had been hanging over the sea was starting to lift a little and the shapes of the marshes were beginning to show more clearly. To their right, at the end of the railway track, a small Corpet-Louvet locomotive stood on the turntable, the steam from its chimney swirling and blending with wisps of mist. But they had been settled for only a few minutes when the car door was wrenched open and Judd tumbled into his seat. ‘He’s not there!’
‘What?’ the other two said in unison.
‘There was a handwritten note on the door. ‘Fermée. Pour cause de maladie’.
‘He is sick? How strange,’ Bruissement said. ‘Mon Dieu! What can we do now?’ He slumped back in his seat and snorted.
‘Perhaps we can find his house?’ Russell suggested.
The Frenchman sat up. ‘But of course! Come, let us interrogate his neighbours. He climbed swiftly out of the car, plucked the keys from the dashboard, slammed the door shut and strode back towards the boulangerie. The other two men struggled to keep up with him. Salz’s immediate neighbour was a fleurist. Bruissement went into the shop while the others waited, but he was quickly outside again, shaking his head. ‘Non. They ’ave not seen ’im.’ On the other side was a confiserie, its window filled with brightly coloured sweets and candies. Again, the propriétaire had not seen the boulanger. Next was a bureau de tabac. The patron was outside, arranging copies of Le Figaro in a wire rack. Bruissement asked if he had seen Salz.
‘Why yes!’ he said. ‘He came past. Not half an hour ago.’
‘Was he on his own?’
‘No, he was with two other gentlemen.’ Bruissement and Judd exchanged a glance.
‘Did he say anything?’
‘Yes, he said he was feeling unwell and these friends of his were helping him home.’
‘Can you describe the friends?’
The man thought for a moment then spoke again. ‘Well, it was strange, as the one who seemed to be in charge was a little man. As they walked away I noticed that he was limping badly.’
‘And the other?’
‘He was younger. Had a mop of dark curly hair. Looked unhappy.’
‘Can you tell me where M. Saltz lives?’
‘Rue de Puits Salé. It is no more than 10 minutes from here.’
‘Which house?’ When there was no immediate reply Bruissement said: ‘We are the police. We need to contact him urgently, mon ami!’
The patron looked flustered. ‘Umm. I can’t remember what it’s called but it’s a big white house. Oh, and it has a brick barn attached on one side.’
‘Which way do we go?’
‘That way.’ The man pointed up the street. ‘Keep going along Quai de Romere, into Rue de la Port de Nevers and it’s on your left. The house is about 100 metres farther on. You can’t miss it.’
Bruissement nodded. ‘Thank you, monsieur. Tres bon.’ He then set off at a cracking pace which belied his sedentary appearance.
Russell almost had to trot to keep up. ‘What did he say?’ he asked as the conversation had taken place exclusively in French. As they hurried, Bruissement explained, with additions from Judd, who was just about keeping up. In fewer than the ten minutes they had been advised they had rushed through a stone archway and were turning into Rue de Puits Salé.
-0-
As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom Weeks could see that the barn was used as a store. Boxes and barrels were stacked neatly, lengths of timber leant against the wall and bulging sacks were piled up in the corner. Wolfgang had made Salz sit on an old stool, in the middle of the room. He sat on a chair, a few feet away, the Luger held loosely in his hand.
‘Do you speak English?’ he asked. The man was sweating freely and shaking, as if in a fever. He nodded. ‘Then do so, for the benefit of our friend here.’ He inclined his head towards Weeks. ‘You were very frightened when I appeared in your
shop. How did you know I would be coming?’
The man swallowed several times, his Adams apple bobbing visibly.
‘I saw the reports in the newspaper.’
Wolfgang tilted his head to one side and smiled. ‘What reports?’
‘About the bodies. I realised who they were.’ He sat hunched, wringing his hands in his lap.
‘And who were they? Please tell my friend here.’ He waved the gun towards the Englishman.
They were my men,’ he said quietly.
‘Oh yes? Can you be more specific?’
‘They were in my unit.’
‘Working for T four.’
Even more quietly: ‘Yes.’
Wolfgang pointed the gun. ‘Speak up!’ he commanded.
‘We were working for T four.’ More loudly this time.
‘Ah yes. Tiergartenstrasse vier. The systematic elimination of the mentally and physically disabled. Those poor souls who did not fit the Aryan ideal.’ Salz remained silent. Wolfgang went on. ‘I remember it well.’ He paused and sat quietly, lost in thought.
‘I remember your unit coming to our house. Unfortunately Ludwig was away, fighting on the eastern front, and only Franz was there to protect me – he didn’t stand a chance. But he did delay your men long enough to allow me to escape through a window at the back of the house.’ He paused again, remembering - then went on quietly.
‘Every day since, I wish I had not.’ Weeks could see he was near to tears.
‘I only found out later what had happened to Franz… and it was you and your unit that did it to him. It should not have happened. He was an Obergefreiter in the Wehrmacht. But you did not care. It was me that you wanted.’ He rubbed a sleeve across his eyes. ‘But he did not give me up.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Salz too was near to tears.
‘Sorry?’ Wolfgang hissed. ‘Sorry? It is too late for regrets. You should have thought about that when you took him – instead of me.’
-0-
The little German settled himself on the chair and fixed his eyes on the quivering baker. He got out a pack of cigarettes and lit one for himself, taking a deep and satisfying drag. Salk looked at it longingly. ‘Huh,’ snapped Wolfgang, ‘I don’t think so!
Blood on the Tide Page 24
