Blood on the Tide

by Chris O'Donoghue

  ‘It was a neighbour who informed on Franz,’ he began. ‘The end of the war was approaching, the Gestapo were getting jumpy – more so than usual – and for some unknown reason the neighbour was concerned they might come after him. So, to put them off the trail, he let it be known that there was a cripple, a young man with a withered leg, in the house next door, hoping that would divert them. And sure enough they came. Our wealthy parents had both died earlier in the war, Ludwig was away in the army and just Franz and I were in the house when the four men in their feldgrau uniforms hammered on the door.

  ‘Franz had always been the golden boy – in every way. He was good looking, good natured and a superb athlete. Ironically, a shining example of the Aryan ideal. So much so that it was expected he would have been asked to compete in the Olympic Games - if they had not been cancelled in 1940 and 1944. Sadly he was dead before the resumption in 1948, even if Germany had been allowed to take part. Ludwig had idolised him, acting as his protector, until called up to fight with the Wehrmacht. Franz was the youngest, so he stayed home with me for the first three years of the war. I loved him dearly, vicariously sharing his successes on the track and field in summer and on the ski slopes in winter.

  ‘We sailed together – the one thing I could do – Franz as crew, leaping across the boat as we went about, trimming the sails and keeping the balance - while I perfected my skill as helmsman. After a busy day tacking round the buoys in the lake we would settle down in the evening, discussing boats and sailing and often having knot-tying competitions. I invariably won - my fingers were nimble and my brain quick. Franz was never jealous, delighted that there was something practical ‘Wolf’ could do with ease. When Franz joined the Wehrmacht, I was heartbroken to see him go but proud of his rapid promotion to Obergefreiter and relished his all too brief spells of leave when we could spend time together.’

  Wolfgang shifted his position and drew, in a leisurely fashion, on his cigarette. He was amazingly cool, Weeks reflected for a man about to commit another murder. He continued with his reminiscences.

  ‘When Franz was taken I was distraught. More so when I learnt that he had been viciously tortured for several days before being executed, his wrecked body thrown in a shallow grave. Friends sheltered me but when, a short time later, the war ground to its inevitable end, I was absolutely determined to avenge my brave brother’s death. Ludwig came back from fighting the Russians, bowed but not broken, unlike scores of his comrades, and between the two of us we uncovered the chain of events that led to Franz’s appalling end.

  ‘The neighbour was the first to be dealt with. One night he disappeared. A few days later he turned up in the lake, drowned but with unpleasant injuries to his body that just might have been the result of being in the water - just might have.

  It took a lot longer to find the whereabouts of the Waffen-SS soldiers who had been responsible for Franz’s torture and death. But we were determined to seek revenge and spent the next 10 years, doggedly searching records until we finally tracked them down. Then, together, we captured them, transported them across the continent and gave them a taste of their own medicine. The grisly nautical tortures we inflicted on their bodies seemed fitting, given Franz’s love of boats and sailing. Now there is just one monster left to deal with…’

  -0-

  Wolfgang stared into the distance as he finished his story, seemingly lost in thought for a moment, his face sad. Then, suddenly, he leapt to his feet and ground his cigarette end into the earthen floor with his foot.

  ‘Right,’ he snapped. ‘Let us finish the job and be gone.’ He reached into his satchel, withdrew a coil of rope and held it out to Weeks.

  ‘I want it up there, over that beam.’ He looked towards the open framework of the roof.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do not stand there with your mouth open you fool, just do it!’ Wolfgang trained the gun on him and Weeks reached for the rope. Taking it he realised, with a shudder, that there was a noose in one end, neatly tied. Wolfgang saw his reaction and smiled.

  ‘That is right, I am going to hang him.’

  ‘B-but you can’t!’ Salz stammered.

  ‘But I can.’ The little German was smiling grimly.

  ‘I have enjoyed repaying your men for what they did to my brother. First a keelhauling for Obersturmführer Rudolf Bausewein. I took great pleasure in that. Next it was the turn of Untersturmführer Kaspar Bockelmann. That was a little more complicated, but no less enjoyable.’ He chuckled and looked towards Weeks.

  ‘I was rather pleased that we caused so much upset at not one but two of your building sites.’

  Weeks spoke. ‘But why did you bring those men to England to kill them. Wouldn’t it have been easier to do it where they lived?’

  ‘Ah, but then it would not have had the same impact. It did require a lot of organisation and effort but I knew the English press would make a big fuss in reporting it.’ He smiled thinly. ‘They do like a sensational story - and I gave them several. I wanted to make sure this miserable example of humanity came to hear of our … exploits with his men.’ Salz was in pieces.

  ‘But why England when he was in France?’

  ‘I did not know at the time. The rumour was that he had hidden himself in your country. It was our last victim, Untersturmführer Max Krull, who told me where he was. Luckily the French papers had picked up the stories … so he found out.’

  His face darkened. ‘It was your lot - the British police - who caused the problems we had dealing with Krull. And now my beloved brother is in your British custody.’

  He brightened. ‘But do not worry, I have a plan for getting him back. But that is for later. Meanwhile, we have to deal with this piece of dirt.’

  He pointed the Luger at Salz. The man looked close to death already. ‘Now - do as I say!’

  A horrified Weeks reluctantly threw the rope towards the beam. With his first attempt it hit the timber but bounced off and fell at his feet. He tried again and this time it curled over the beam and he was able to reach up and grasp the swinging end. He looked towards Wolfgang.

  ‘Right,’ the German barked. ‘Take the end over to that diagonal wooden brace.’ He pointed to the side of the barn. Weeks did as he was asked. ‘Now wrap it round then come back and stand by this … creature.’

  When the policeman had taken his place next to Salz, Wolfgang backed away, aiming the gun at them. He reached the wall, grasped the rope, pulled it taught and tied a bowline, one-handed. He saw Weeks looking at him and smiled.

  ‘Surprised? Now you know who tied all those beautiful knots. Even the disabled have skills.’ He let the gun droop in his hand and leant against the wall.

  ‘I expect you’re wondering why all those archaic nautical punishments - keelhauling, lashing, walking the plank…’ He paused and chuckled. ‘I quite enjoyed having an audience for that one. Especially as it was rarely used in actual fact.’

  ‘Like my brother Franz, I have always loved the water and boats. Sailing was the one sport I was good at - with this.’ He tapped his withered leg. Yes, it is polio. I understand a specialist in America by the name of Jonas Salk has recently developed a vaccine for it.’ His tone changed and he sounded wistful. ‘But it is too late for me.’ He grew quiet, seemingly lost in thought. Then he brightened.

  ‘However, the thought of this final punishment is cheering me even though, as your Mr Bunyan said: “Hanging is too good for him”.’

  He pointed the pistol at the other German, whose legs were shaking uncontrollably.

  ‘But it will have to do. Right you - stand up.’ Salz got shakily to his feet. ‘Now you …,’ he motioned to Weeks, ‘put the stool underneath the rope.’ The young man was appalled.

  ‘But you can’t…’

  ‘I can and I will,’ Wolfgang hissed. ‘Do it. Now!’ He clicked off the gun’s safety catch. Weeks unwillingly took the stool and placed it beneath the noose then stood back.

  ‘You…’ Wolfgang pointed the gun at Salz. ‘Get
on the stool!’

  ‘B-but…’

  Wolfgang fired a shot. The bullet thudded into the brickwork, sending up a little puff of dust. Salz shuffled over and tried to climb on the stool. He was quaking so much he couldn’t control his legs and remained standing on the floor.

  ‘Help him!’ Wolfgang’s light voice became a high-pitched scream. Weeks went over and took the man’s arm and half-lifted him on to the stool, where he stood, knees knocking, trousers embarrassingly wet.

  ‘Now, put the noose round his neck.’ Weeks hesitated. Wolfgang flicked the gun upwards. The young policeman did as he was bid, the noose hung loosely down the man’s back. As he moved to step away Wolfgang threw a length of the chord he had taken from the satchel towards him.

  ‘Wait. Tie his hands.’

  Weeks picked up the chord, pulled Salz’s hands behind his back and tied them together. While he was doing this Wolfgang had reached round the diagonal brace and deftly untied the end of the rope, pulled it taut, so the noose was tight around the man’s neck, and tied it off again.

  He pointed the gun at Weeks. ‘Now stand back, against the wall; I need you for later.’

  Weeks moved to the other side of the barn, his brain whirring. He was desperately trying to work out how he could possibly save the man’s life. The German may have been guilty of torturing and killing Wolfgang’s brother, but he would rather see him stand trial and be justly punished than suffer this horror now. He thought quickly: If he tried to rescue the man, Wolfgang had the pistol and was obviously not afraid to use it. Likewise, if he tried to rush the little German he’d probably end up with a bullet in him. Talk. That was all he could think of. Get him talking. He tried to keep his voice even… tried not to betray the quaking inside.

  ‘What do you need me for later - Wolfgang?’ It was the first time he had used his name to the killer’s face. This seemed to catch him unawares.

  ‘What?’ The little German looked surprised.

  ‘I said what do you plan for later – with me?’

  Wolfgang smiled coldly. ‘You are going to help me get my brother, Ludwig, released from police custody.’

  ‘Really? How will we do that?’

  ‘When we have dealt with… with… this…’ He pointed the gun at Salz, the man barely able to keep his balance on the stool. ‘We will go back to England.’

  ‘But how do you propose to get him out?’

  Wolfgang scowled. ‘I will work that out on the way over. He may have the brawn, but I have the brains.’

  He gave a short laugh. ‘Any more questions? Or can we get on with this?’

  Weeks thought fast. ‘I may know a way…’

  ‘Yes? What is that?’

  Making it up as he went along: ‘If you can get me back to Collinghurst I can talk to my superior, I know he’ll help…’

  Wolfgang sneered. ‘Detective Inspector Russell?’ Weeks nodded. ‘But I heard he’s off the case.’

  ‘He was, but he’s back on it now.’ Weeks had his fingers crossed behind his back.

  ‘Hmm. Maybe.’ He grew impatient. ‘Enough of this idle chatter. I have a final task to complete. Kick the stool away.’

  Weeks had run out of ideas. ‘No, I can’t,’ he pleaded. Please don’t make me do this.’

  ‘Gott in Himmel!’ the small German stormed. ‘Do I have to do everything myself?’ He was just moving across the room to finish the job when there was a hammering on the door.

  ‘Was ist das? Sei stille!’ he held a finger to his lips. ‘Quiet!’

  The hammering came again and there was a shout.

  ‘Monsieur Salz. Êtes-vous là?’

  Wolfgang moved swiftly over to the door. There was a large baulk of timber, pivoted at the centre. He swung it round hard, like a propeller, so it locked into two metal brackets, securing the door. Then he moved back across the room and, reaching down, pulled the stool out from under the baker’s feet.

  ‘Nooo!’ Weeks yelled, and ran towards them.

  Wolfgang pulled the trigger. The young policeman froze, squeezing his eyes tight shut as he waited to feel the lethal burn of a bullet… but there was just a hollow click.

  ‘Scheisse!’ Wolfgang swore. He tried again. Nothing. The gun had jammed. For a moment, the German stared at the weapon in disbelief. Weeks staggered back and held on to a joist for support. His knees shook under him and he thought he was about to pass out.

  There was more hammering on the door.

  ‘Ouvrez la porte immediatement!’

  Wolfgang looked from the door to Weeks, who had run over and was trying to support the weight of the German.

  ‘Mein Gott! What now?’

  Staring wildly around he suddenly spotted a small door at the back of the barn. Limping, he ran across the room, and pulled it open.

  ‘No! Stop!’ Weeks shouted. But Wolfgang, with a quick glance over his shoulder, was gone.

  ‘What’s going on?’ a voice yelled from outside.

  ‘He’s getting away! We’re in here!’ Weeks yelled. ‘Wait!’

  Still holding Salz he fumbled with his foot until he felt the stool and was able to hook it round a rung. With superhuman strength, he held up the German and, balancing on one leg, slowly dragged the stool under the kicking feet.

  ‘Stand still!’ he commanded.

  The kicking stopped, he pushed the support beneath Salz’s feet and the weight eased as he found his footing. Weeks ran to where the rope was tied, undid the knot and let it go slack. Rushing back he caught the man as he began to fall off the stool. He laid him on the ground and eased the noose from round his neck. After checking that he was breathing he crossed to the door, and tried to release the beam. It was wedged tight.

  ‘Damn!’ he said. Wolfgang had spun it round so hard, it was stuck fast.

  The pounding started on the door again.

  ‘What’s going on in there?’ It was Russell’s voice.

  Weeks smiled in relief. ‘Sir! Oh, thank God! Just a minute. The door’s jammed!’

  Looking round he saw a length of timber against the wall. He picked it up and swung it with all his might. It hit the beam with a thud and splintered but the beam stayed put.

  ‘Aah! Shit!’ Weeks swore uncharacteristically.

  Searching wildly for a stronger piece of wood he suddenly spotted a sledge-hammer across the room. He ran and grabbed it and was back within a matter of seconds. He swung the tool above his head and brought it down hard. On the third blow the beam spun free.

  Almost immediately, the door flew open and Russell rushed in, closely followed by Judd and Bruissement.

  ‘What the…!’ Russell took in the scene, clapped the trembling Weeks on the back, then quickly knelt by the German, feeling his pulse. ‘Alive – thank God. Where’s Wolfgang?’

  Weeks, stunned by the events, took a moment to react and shook his head in an attempt to clear his brain.

  ‘Wolfgang? He’s escaped - out there!’ he said, pointing to the small door at the back of the barn through which the German had disappeared moments before. Judd and the Frenchman tore out into the yard.

  In a few minutes they were back. ‘He’s gone,’ Bruissement said.

  ‘No sign of him,’ the American added. ‘How’s Salz? He pointed to the German on the floor.

  Russell looked up. ‘He’ll live. Although he may not want to…’

  ‘What do we do about Müller?’ Judd asked.

  Weeks spoke. ‘He’s probably headed back to the quay. That’s where we left the dinghy. He’ll try to row out to Moonshine. It’s hidden in the reeds.’

  ‘Right! We need to get after him.’ Bruissement was taking charge. ‘Sonny, you stay with Salz. Weeks, you go and get help. Someone nearby must have a telephone. Greg, you come with me.’ Then he was gone, again moving at surprising speed, the American struggling to keep up with him.

  The two men reached the quay just in time to see the dinghy melting into the mist which was closing in again.

  ‘Merde! What do
we do now?’

  ‘Look, over there, Le Bureau du Capitaine de Port - the harbourmaster’s office,’ Greg said, pointing. ‘Maybe he can help.’ They ran the few hundred yards and clattered in through the door.

  ‘Bonjour messieurs. Que puis-je faire pour vous?’ the harbourmaster asked, looking up from some paperwork. They explained that they needed to get a boat to follow Wolfgang and stop Moonshine from leaving. ‘Pas de chance!’ he said, and pointed out through the window. In the time it had taken to get to his office the mist had rolled in so thickly that it was now not possible to see the quay outside.

  ‘That’s it then,’ Judd said in disbelief. ‘We’ve lost him. After all that we’ve lost him.’

  Bruissement sighed deeply. ‘For now, mon ami, for now…’

  Postscript

  The local gendarmerie, along with an ambulance, were soon attending the barn next to the big white house. Micha Salz, or Achim Pfeffer, was initially taken off to hospital but in due course would be handed over to the relevant authorities to stand trial for war crimes.

  Bruissement persuaded the others that they should have a celebratory lunch, which would allow time for the mist to clear, so it was mid-afternoon before Russell and Weeks were on the ferry, heading back to England. Although it was late when they arrived in Collinghurst, Superintendent Stout was waiting for them at the police station.

  ‘Well Russell. We’ve got a result – of sorts,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘We now have enough evidence to formally charge Ludwig Müller with the murder of the three Germans. Shame we haven’t got his brother, too.’

  ‘Quite, Sir. Don’t worry, I’m going to find him. What will you do with Rankin?’

  ‘He’ll be charged with aiding and abetting. He won’t be going back to the Army any time soon.’ Stout turned towards Weeks. ‘As for you…’ Weeks did his best spaniel impression; all sad eyes and drooping mouth. ‘You were lucky to get away with your life.’

  ‘I know, Sir,’ he replied quietly.

  ‘However, if it hadn’t been for you, we would have had another death on our hands. So don’t look so glum.’ Weeks brightened. ‘Anyway, I expect you’re both tired so best get home. We’ll go over it in more detail tomorrow. Right, off with you.’