"That's enough," Maundsley said. "Who is this girl?"
He had stepped towards us. He was looking at Shirl like she was a serving wench who'd strayed into the master's quarters.
"I'm a woman, not a girl. So watch your mouth, Adolf."
Maundsley bridled. "Don't use that revered name as an insult," he said.
"That name is revered about as highly as kangaroo crap," Shirl said.
Maundsley stepped forward and raised his hand to slap Shirley's face. I moved fast, grabbed his arm, yanked it behind him, and forced it up his back. Maundsley yelled in pain. I clamped my left arm around his neck and held him tight.
I glared at Blunt. "Untie Shirley's hands or I'll break the Führer's arm," I said.
"I'll shoot you first," Blunt said.
"That will be second. You may have noticed I'm standing behind Maundsley. The bullet will perforate him before it reaches me."
I yanked Maundsley's arm a further inch up his back. He screamed in agony.
"Untie her," he yelled. "Just do it."
Blunt looked confused. His bewildered gaze travelled from Maundsley to his gun. From his gun to me. From me back to Shirley.
He shoved the gun roughly in his jacket pocket and went to work on the knots around Shirley's wrists. The red cord came free and fell to the ground.
Shirl's arm moved like a blur.
Slap!
She hit Blunt on the right cheek. He staggered back and reached for his gun.
I released Maundsley's arm and he moved towards Blunt.
"Leave that," he said. "You're an army officer."
"Retired," I said.
"And useless," Shirley added.
Maundsley snapped: "Report to your commanding officer."
Blunt looked around, confused as though he'd expected a stray field-marshal to have walked into the hut.
"I'm your commanding officer," Maundsley said. There was a note of exasperation in his voice. "Cover these two with your gun. If either of them tries to escape, shoot both of them."
"You're assuming he's loaded the gun with two bullets," I said.
Blunt fumbled the gun out of his pocket. He stood up straighter. Snapped his feet together.
"Well, man, out with it," Maundsley said.
"I hid in a telephone box round the corner from Churchill's old school. I saw the old man arrive. I couldn't hear much inside the box so went to have a closer look. I thought I heard a rifle shot. But there were a couple of police officers outside the school and they thought it was a motorcycle back-firing. Anyway, Churchill was ushered safely inside the school."
"Nothing else?" Maundsley asked.
Blunt looked at the roof for a bit. Turned back to Maundsley. "Nothing else at the school. As we agreed, I went back to the tango school to rendezvous with Montez, but he didn't show up. Must've been detained elsewhere."
"He was detained in his sniper's apartment being dead," I said. "He shot himself."
"Why should he do that?" Blunt snapped.
"Remorse at his failure?" I suggested.
Maundsley strode towards me. "Be silent. Don't speak like that of a brave soldier." he snarled. He had lost his legacy, but regained his old arrogance.
"Nazi thug, more like," I said. "And you're a political has-been with a strong line in dodgy friends."
"I believe I'm being saved for greater work," he said loftily.
"Like cleaning out the pigs," Shirley said. "And they need it. This place pongs like the VIP suite at a farters' convention."
"Be quiet," Blunt snapped.
Shirley stuck out her tongue at him.
Maundsley said to me: "I don't understand how you found out about Montez."
"I'll tell you, if you answer one question for me."
"I don't see that can do any harm as you'll be dead in ten minutes' time."
Shirley shot me a worried glance. I took her hand and squeezed it gently. She forced a smile.
I turned back to Maundsley. "Who is Montez really?"
"Ah, you penetrated his guise as a tango teacher from Buenos Aires."
"A genuine Argentine tango teacher wouldn't think Al Costado scored a goal for Argentina in the last World Cup. Even after one lesson, I knew it meant 'move to the side'."
Maundsley cleared his throat like someone about to make an important announcement. "SS Stabsscharführer Conrad Schwarz was Germany's finest war-time sniper. He undertook several missions on the personal orders of Hitler. His speciality was removing individuals who'd become an embarrassment to the Reich. Naturally, as it became clear how the war would end, Schwarz realised his talents would not be appreciated by the advancing allies. He left for South America in April 1945 taking a large quantity of gold bullion with him. He lived on the money until last year, entertaining himself in Buenos Aires' casinos and bordellos."
"When, no doubt, the money ran out."
"And he discreetly passed the word, that he was available to use his skills on selected targets for an appropriate fee. As it happened, I had already decided that this would be the year when Churchill died."
"Why now?"
"Because it is forty years on from the date I first crossed swords with the arch-traitor."
"The 1924 general election - when Mr Churchill roundly defeated you in a democratic vote."
I should have known. Forty years on. It was like some kind of curse. Maundsley had been at Harrow school, just like Churchill. Yet Churchill had become a war winner while Maundsley was just a failed fascist. The truth would have gnawed at him like a rat at a ragbag. Killing Churchill wouldn't be enough for Maundsley. He'd need to do it in a symbolic way. A way that would convince Maundsley's twisted mind that the killing represented divine retribution.
Forty years on. It had caused me a lot of trouble.
I couldn’t wait for forty-one and a quieter life.
"But Churchill has dodged your assassination attempt," I said.
"There will be another opportunity - next time successful. And I won't wait another forty years."
"And you had no shame about hiring a Nazi killer."
"The workman is worthy of his hire," Maundsley said complacently. "However, soon after Schwarz arrived in Britain, it was clear the dissolute lifestyle he'd enjoyed in South America had played havoc with his old skills. He needed practice and he needed confidence to shoot at an important target. It seemed the life-sized waxwork of Churchill would fit the bill. That's why I had it borrowed from Louis Tussaud's. I instructed that two other random waxworks should also be taken so that it would look like an ordinary robbery."
"I doubt they'll want the wax Winston back - not with the holes Montez left."
Maundsley waved his hand airily. "Collateral damage is always possible in affairs of this kind."
"So that's what Shirley and I are, is it? Collateral damage."
"I regret that is the case. But you can prolong your life by telling me what gave my plan away."
I said: "A hat box."
Maundsley's eyebrows drew together in a puzzled frown. "I don't understand. Whose hat box?"
"The one in the back of your car. We discovered it belonged to Françoise Dior. The French Nazi who you plan to marry secretly. And, by the way, where is Françoise? Shouldn't she be outside goose-stepping around the farm and singing the Horst Wessel?"
"Françoise has returned to Paris until this little difficulty has been resolved."
"So no wedding bells for you after all."
Maundsley's moustache twitched in irritation.
"If Derek Clapham hadn't suspected your wedding plans, he'd still be alive," I said. "At first, I thought Clapham had been killed by Gervase Pope. He had no reason to like Clapham or you - as you well know. But then I suspected Clapham was trying to blackmail you. He'd seen the same magazine picture of Françoise heading to England that I'd been shown by Shirley. He spotted the box with her wedding togs, as we'd done, and drew his own conclusions. He knew that if news broke that you were marrying a French Nazi, it would
n't go down well with voters."
I pointed at Blunt. "The big boy here was your killer of choice for that execution."
"I was obeying orders," Blunt shouted.
"Shut up," Maundsley said.
"Blunt was still in the flat when I came in. No doubt he was searching for any evidence Clapham had of your plans to marry Dior secretly. But my arrival spoilt his search and he had to make a rapid exit through the kitchen window. Left a mess on the floor, too."
Maundsley scowled at Blunt. "Bungling idiot," he said.
"But that wasn't the end of the good Captain's duties, was it?" I said. "He also organised the heist of the waxworks. No doubt he thought he was a clever-clogs to nick glamour-pussies like Marilyn Monroe and Yuri Gagarin. After all, if they were among the stolen, who was going to bother about Churchill? But one person was suspicious. Gervase Pope. You had to deal with him before he could make trouble. And you turned to one of your old storm-troopers, Felix Delaunay, to handle that. Convenient, wasn't it, that Felix had his own reasons - the death of his sister - for wanting Gervase six feet under? In his case, it was water rather than earth. But just as well I turned up - although I can't say I really enjoyed taking his place."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Maundsley said.
"Too bad that you persuaded Unity Box-Hartley to supply the ducking stool that Felix used. If she hadn't I wouldn't have tracked down her warehouse and discovered the waxwork of poor old Winston riddled with bullet holes. After all that, it wasn't hard to tie Montez into the plot as your hired gun."
Maundsley nodded thoughtfully. Blunt waved his gun around a bit. He was getting nervous. After all, the old basket was only a soldier in name. Setting up a mobile latrine unit for six hundred beefy soldiers would be no picnic, but it wouldn't compare with going over the top with all guns blazing.
Finally Maundsley spoke. "So there have been errors in my organisation at every stage."
"You can't get the help these days," I said.
"Perhaps not," Maundsley said. "But I have got the help to kill you."
He turned to Blunt. "Put two bullets into each of them. One in the head, one in the heart."
Shirley threw her arms around me. "Colin…" she cried.
I gave Maundsley what I hoped was my most contemptuous look. "Do you want some of your legacy book back?"
"What? You fed it to the pigs."
"Not all of it. I'll tell you how to get some of it back in exchange for our lives."
"I won't bargain with you. Not after you destroyed my life's work."
"Suit yourself," I said.
But I knew he couldn't leave it there.
Maundsley looked at Blunt.
Blunt shrugged.
"I saw you throw my book in the air," Maundsley said.
"But you didn't see where it all landed," I said.
"What?"
Maundsley's head swung back and forth looking for the remains of his book.
I pointed to the electricity duct that came into the room and carried the cable to the lights.
"Some of the pages became lodged on top of the duct," I said.
Maundsley looked up. He rushed to the wall at the edge of the pigsty and craned his neck.
"There must be thirty or forty pages up there. I think they're the pages about my Action Plan for Britain. We must save them. Blunt, climb up there and bring down those pages."
"I can't do that," Blunt said. "I'm covering these two with the gun. You've just ordered me to shoot them."
"I'm countermanding that order. For the time being. The new order is to rescue the pages."
"I don't like to go into the sty. Some of those pigs are feral. Besides, there's crap all over the floor."
"Why should that hold any fears for the former commander of a latrine unit?" Maundsley snapped. "Get in there and rescue those pages. History is depending on you. Use that ladder propped in the corner."
Blunt looked like a fat little boy who'd just been told he wouldn't be allowed any sweets for a week. He handed the gun to Maundsley and stomped off to the corner to get the ladder.
Maundsley watched him. I gave Shirl's hand a little tug and nodded towards the door. We edged down the wall. But Maundsley turned back to us.
"Stay where you are or I fire," he said.
We froze.
Shirley whispered: "What now, my hero?"
"Wait and watch."
Blunt collected the ladder. It was a heavy item and he slung it over his shoulder. He clumped over to the pigsty and pushed open the gate. He tiptoed through the enclosure avoiding the piles of pig poo. He propped the ladder up against the duct close to the wedged papers.
"Climb up," Maundsley ordered.
Blunt shot him a look like he wished a Tiger tank would roll over him. He grabbed both sides of the ladder and climbed. The ladder creaked and strained under his weight. Half way up, Blunt looked down.
"I don't like heights," he said to Maundsley.
"Just get up there and rescue my book - what's left of it."
Blunt climbed on like he was Sir Edmund Hillary making the final perilous steps to the summit of Everest.
Maundsley's eyes focused on Blunt. I nudged Shirl and nodded towards the pigsty. Blunt had left the gate open as I knew he'd have to when he carried the heavy ladder through. Already a couple of hefty porkers had come through and were making their bid for freedom.
Blunt arrived at the top of the ladder. He reached over and pulled the sheaf of papers from where it was wedged behind the duct.
Now he had to climb down holding the ladder with only one hand. He had the papers in the other one.
I whispered to Shirley: "When I shout, scream like you're in the back row of the flicks and a dirty old man in a mac has just sat down beside you and put his hand up your skirt."
"Kinky," Shirl whispered. But she grinned.
Blunt was half way down the ladder. He took one foot off and dangled it over the next rung down.
I glanced at the pigsty gate. Half a dozen sows had made their way through now.
I yelled: "Pigs at ten o'clock."
Shirl screamed.
"Yeeeeoowwwww."
"Louder," I whispered.
"Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeooowwwwwwwwwwwwww."
Blunt's head snapped in our direction. He let go of the ladder. His body twisted backwards through an arc Euclid would have been proud of. The papers in Blunt's hand flew out and scattered across the sty. He scrabbled for a hold on the ladder. And then he fell. Like a ten-ton bomb crashing to earth.
Squelch.
It was a soft landing. But not the kind he was hoping for.
Splodge.
"I'm in the shit," he screamed.
"Too right," I yelled.
Maundsley watched Blunt's fall. His eyes followed the scattering papers like a child's might follow snowflakes. He seemed frozen to the spot, too horrified by the sight to move.
But that didn't last for long.
Because when Blunt's body hit the ground, it sent the pigs into a panic.
Some squealed like a choir of off-pitch sopranos.
Some grunted like a taproom of saloon bar bores.
Some oinked like a street full of jammed motorbuses.
The noises filled the hut and echoed off the metal roof.
And then they rushed from the pigsty. They jammed together and fought one another to get through the gate.
Shirley and I pressed ourselves against the wall. But Maundsley rushed towards the sty to save his papers.
Big mistake.
The exodus of stampeding pigs hit him like a tidal wave of bacon on the hoof.
He fell backwards. The gun fired but the shot went wild and blew a hole in the roof. It sent the pigs into a fury.
And then the porkers were all over him.
They snuffled. They snaffled. They sniffled. They snivelled.
They chomped. And they chewed.
Bones crunched and flesh squelched.
Vital organs popp
ed. Body fluids flushed across the floor.
The pigs foraged. And they ferreted.
Maundsley's body had disappeared beneath the starving porkers.
But then an arm appeared. Stiff and erect above the pigs' surging bodies. Maundsley was giving his last Nazi salute. His hand flopped over, his elbow bent, and the arm sank from sight as more feasting pigs piled in.
The pigs' jaws opened and shut with wet slapping sounds as they fought for their share.
In the pigsty, Blunt had scrambled to his feet and climbed the ladder to escape the pigs that snuffled around him.
Shirley and I edged our way swiftly along the wall away from the horror. We reached the door. We opened it, slipped through and slammed it behind us.
Behind the door, we heard a long high-pitched scream.
Shirley threw her arms around me and I held her tight. She was shaking and I could feel her heart pounding like a distant aborigine's drum.
"Are we safe?" she asked.
"Yes," I said. "But I'll tell you one thing for certain."
"What's that?"
"I'll never eat another bacon sandwich again."
Frank Figgis lit up the first Woodbine since he'd given up extra strong peppermints.
He said: "I had to give up the mints on health grounds. They were making me fat."
I said: "If I could see through the smoke, I'd be happy to confirm that."
It was later that afternoon. We were in Figgis's office. First copies of the Night Final had just come up from the machine room. The splash headline read:
CHRONICLE FOILS CHURCHILL ASSASSIN
Further down the page another screamer read:
FASCIST LEADER EATEN BY PIGS
It described how, by the time the cops arrived, there wasn't enough of Maundsley left to make a decent sandwich. Blunt had escaped the ravenous porkers by clinging to the ladder. He'd had to be hosed down by the cops with cold water and industrial detergent before they could put handcuffs on him and load him into a black Maria.
Figgis said: "What gets my goat is that the nationals will have the story as well."
I said: "It could hardly be avoided after the cops arrived on the scene. We rang them from Maundsley's house. But only the Chronicle has my eye-witness account."
I'd written a separate piece for an inside page about Unity Box-Hartley. She'd been arrested and was being questioned about her connection with a number of crimes, including attempted murder.
The Tango School Mystery Page 22
