The Hochmann Miniatures

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  “No.” Michel’s voice was completely emotionless. “My wife seems to prefer the Boches. It would be impossible.” He turned, staring up the mountain, studying the terrain. “The cave is less than a quarter of a mile from here. Up above. We’d better get there before the rain starts again.”

  He moved to the front of the group, taking the lead. They swung from the trail behind him, moving silently through the gaunt stands of chestnut and pear trees, their legs soaked from the tall grass and thickets of sodden bushes. André slipped the second rifle across his shoulder; his free hand was used to support Georges. Kek slipped on a muddy patch and went down, but he held the radio high, protecting it, and then clambered back to his feet and followed.

  The cave was a darker shadow on the gray hillside, ringed by a series of gorse clumps, offering small protection from weather or sight. Michel held up his hand; they paused, panting, while he crept forward alone to investigate. A moment later he was waving them forward.

  Georges was placed as far to the rear of the shallow depression as was possible; the huge André stripped off his thick jacket and wrapped it about the other’s shoulders, refusing the weak protests. Michel dropped his pack near the entrance and took up his position there, squatting down and staring out into the dusk and the drizzle that was beginning again, his rifle nestled in readiness across his knees. Kek unwrapped the radio with almost loving care, placed it on the folded oil-silk for protection against the mud of the cave floor, and knelt beside it, turning it on, warming it up, and rubbing his hands for warmth as he did so. The small box came to life with a sharp squeal, instantly muffled by the boy’s hand. From the rear of the cave Georges began to say something and then was caught in a torrent of coughing. He forced it down, speaking harshly.

  “Turn off the radio. My coughing makes enough noise without that.”

  “I just want——”

  “Turn it off! We’ll be listening to it at eleven. And we have to save the batteries.”

  “There’s plenty of life in these,” Kek said stubbornly, and bent closer to the small, cloth-covered speaker, playing with the knobs. “Besides, they have more batteries in Mauriac.” Voices mixed with static hummed in the small enclosed space.

  Turn it off!” André said shortly. “You can hear that damned thing for miles! The Boches aren’t deaf, you know.”

  “On a night like tonight the Boches are all inside, sitting in front of a fire somewhere,” Kek said doggedly. “I just want to get the news.” He twisted the knobs with the delicate care of a safe-cracker dialing a particularly tricky combination. Suddenly a voice in French came on, clear and loud; the boy instantly turned the volume down, bending closer, adjusting the fine tuning.

  “Damn it …!” André began hotly, but Kek held up his hand, commanding silence. In the small space the disembodied voice from the box seemed to whisper. Despite themselves, the men in the cave bent toward the sound, listening intently. Somewhere beyond the cold and discomfort of the tiny cave, beyond the constant fear of the hunted, men actually lived in warm rooms, were well dressed and well fed, walked the streets openly, instead of skulking from tree to tree; and more important, were able to communicate.

  “… the Pacific, the Japanese continue to punish the Americans, pushing them back. Three battleships and two destroyers were reported sunk in air raids conducted from Japanese bases, with considerable loss of life. There are no reports of Japanese losses in the action.… On the eastern front, the drive for Moscow is now in full swing, and it is expected that the troops of the Reich will celebrate the New Year in what—until now—has been known as Red Square.…

  “In Paris, the big news is not of war but of a more pleasant subject. Tomorrow, high German officials will attend the wedding at Notre Dame cathedral of General Wilhelm Wolfgang Gruber and the Fräulein Jadzia Hochmann. Fräulein Hochmann is the sister of the well-known Polish patriot Stefan Hochmann. There is speculation whether the Fuehrer himself may be present.…

  “In Berlin …”

  André reached over with a huge, hairy hand and twisted the radio knob, switching it off. He snorted in disgust.

  “Social notes, yet! For this we waste our batteries! For garbage like this we take a chance of being heard and caught. And shot!” He paused, uncertainly, staring through the growing darkness of the recessed cavity. “Kek. Kek! What’s the matter?”

  Huuygens was sitting with his young, shaggy head bent, as if under a guillotine; even as André watched him in amazement, the boy’s large fists clenched tightly and then began to pound the mud floor of the cave with a slow rhythm that was terrifying in its approach to insanity. André frowned at him, astounded.

  “What in the devil …?”

  The gray eyes of the youth came up, chips of black granite burned deep into the ashen, streaked face. He looked through André without seeing him and drew back his lips like an animal attacked. His voice was more the voice of age than that of youth, almost hypnotic in the intensity of its hatred.

  “I’ll kill him. I’ll kill the monster.…”

  “What the devil …?”

  The boy’s fingers became talons; he held them poised a moment and then plunged them into the earth floor of the cave, ripping, tearing, ravishing the rock beneath the mud, shredding his fingernails in a bloody passion of fury. “I’d give a million francs to have that vicious bastard’s neck between my hands for one minute …!”

  “Stop it! And keep your voice down!” It was an unfair criticism; Huuygens’s growlings were the low animal-sounds of a beast suffering its pain without the release of noise. André clamped a large hand on the boy’s arm. His eyes narrowed as comprehension slowly came to him. “Gruber.… He’s the one you’ve told us about.”

  Kek’s head remained bent as his passion spent itself. He shuddered as he brought himself under control and then came to his feet slowly, rubbing his muddy, bloody fingers on his trousers. He stepped over the now-silent radio, moving as if in a trance to the entrance of the cave. “I’m going to Paris,” he said in a harsh voice that defied opposition. “Someone else can take the radio to Mauriac.” His tone indicated that they could leave it behind, or even drop it in the Loire, for all he cared.

  From the rear of the cave Georges spoke in a rasping whisper. “No. You’re going to Mauriac. That’s an order.…”

  “No,” Kek said quietly, simply, and turned to find himself facing Michel, who had risen and was standing with his rifle held horizontally, barring the narrow entrance.

  “You’re going to Mauriac,” Michel said evenly. He might have been back teaching school, explaining the reason for a poor grade to a student. He might also have been a man standing, barring passage to freedom, with a gun “Paris can wait. And will. So will your Wilhelm Gruber and your Jadzia Hochmann.” He raised one hand, forestalling interruption; the other remained quite firm with its rifle poised. “Yes, you’ve told us about them both, many times. They can wait. But Mauriac can’t. They need that radio urgently.”

  “You don’t understand.” There was a tremor in the strong young voice of the boy, a tremor he thought he had outgrown in the past few moments, if not in the past year. “You don’t understand.…”

  Michel’s teeth momentarily flashed white in the deepening shadows.

  “I don’t?” he asked softly, and then tilted his head. “Just over these mountains—an hour’s stroll on a clear day; no more, I assure you—is Cantal and my home. And my wife, whom I love very much. And sharing her bed every night of the week is a Boche lieutenant.” His voice remained emotionless. “And tomorrow I will go to Saignes—or wherever we are sent—and not to Cantal. And tomorrow you will go to Mauriac with the radio, and not to Paris.” He paused a moment, and then continued gently. “Because, my young friend, that’s the quickest way to where you really want to go.”

  Kek stared at him wordlessly. The thin face before him was a blur blocking his exit; the hands holding the rifle were now relaxed and far from threatening. With a muttered exclamation he turn
ed and stumbled back inside the cave, slumping down beside the radio, unmindful of the damp cold of the cave floor, or the growing pain from his torn fingers.

  “You shouldn’t go around offering million-francs like that,” André said dryly. “Somebody might take you up on it some day.” He studied the expressionless face of the boy a moment longer and then looked up. “Hey! Michel! How about digging down in that pack of yours and seeing what you’ve got to eat? Preferably pressed duck.…”

  “With truffles?”

  André shook his head in disdain. “You can’t drink truffles. See that you find a bottle of nice, dry champagne in there. Something from the year 1920, preferably.…”

  4

  Kek Huuygens took a deep breath and lay back in his chair, relaxed and oddly at peace with himself. Yes, that was how it had gone. Those were the memories, the shadows that remained in the hidden recesses of his mind throughout the years. So far they had refused to disappear completely of their own volition, or to age to decent death and be properly buried. Still, they were there, and what action would finally exorcize them? He came to his feet slowly, easily, and walked to the small bar, taking a glass of cold water, sipping it, and then placed the glass on the counter and crossed the room to the balcony doors. He opened them and stepped out into the moonlight.

  The Bois had misted over; the dark green cover reflected myriad sparkles of moonlight, the streetlamps below outlined the twisting boulevards with soft halos. In the distance the occasional clatter of heels on the sidewalk could be heard, and the faint roar of an automobile, accelerating, taking advantage of the lack of traffic at that hour of the morning. He leaned on the railing, his large hands relaxed, looking out into the beauty of the night, his mind calmly and carefully considering the problem he faced.

  To begin with, did he really want to do anything about the matter after all these years? He was comfortable, his life was interesting and enjoyable, and he had long since trained himself not to expand his energies on unprofitable pastimes. Was not his first reaction to the news that Gruber was in Lisbon, available after all these years, only an automatic response, triggered to a large extent by a guilt he felt at the death of his parents and sister, and the loss of Jadzia? Was it not, in truth, what he felt he should sense, rather than the feeling he actually did experience?

  He was not surprised to find himself smiling a bit grimly at the thought. No, my friend, he said softly to himself; you will not escape that easily! No scientific gimmickry, no pseudopsychological loopholes for you! Nor could you find release from your private demons in merely denouncing Gruber to the authorities. To begin with, considering his many connections among the officials in Lisbon, it is doubtful that he would remain uninformed long enough to be available for extradition—and at least now I know where he is. And even if, by some miracle, he was actually detained and returned to Germany for trial, what sentence would he get? Five years? Out in three with good behavior? Twelve months each for my father, my mother, and my sister? That certainly isn’t the answer!

  And as for the argument that your personal feelings for Jadzia might warp your judgment or cause you to lose objectivity; well, that would be a poor compensation to show for fifteen years’ experience. On the other hand, don’t make the mistake of thinking those personal feelings will have no effect. Merely recognize the facts and include them in your calculations; be more cautious in your estimates and more careful in your planning.

  He stared out into the darkness. Grayish wisps of fog still eddied in faint patches over the Bois; the deserted pavement below glistened damply. He nodded, satisfied. Step One had been accomplished; the acceptance of the job. That was often the most difficult of all decisions to be made; tonight it had been quite easy. Had it been too easy? Dangerously easy? He shook his head in impatience. Step One was finished; forget it and move on to Step Two.

  He tried to picture Gruber in Lisbon, tried to visualize how he had arrived, when he had arrived. Almost without volition a glimmer of an idea formed in his mind. Somewhere he had seen a newspaper article that might be useful … He studied the idea and began to expand upon it, but not—as he usually did at such moments—with a grin of appreciation for his own brilliance. Instead a frown crossed his face; his hand went up automatically to tug at his earlobe. For several minutes he allowed his imagination scope and then reined it in, shaking his head. Until more facts were available, it was impossible to formulate a complete and foolproof scheme; at the proper moment a suitable plan would come. Step Two, therefore, should content itself with getting him to Lisbon on a logical basis, and nothing more.

  There were, of course, several ways this could be accomplished, but the newspaper article seemed the best approach. If his surmise was correct, it could very well work. He went back to that portion of the plan and restudied it, rejecting this point, adding that, consolidating, checking, unconscious of time. It was not until he was completely satisfied with each step that he straightened up, alert and confident as always once an operation was under way, and walked quickly back into the living room.

  The lamp above the desk was flicked on; under the cone of light the black plastic of the telephone gleamed invitingly. He winked at it reassuringly, seated himself comfortably in the swivel chair, and raised the receiver, dialing the operator.

  “Hello? I should like to place an international long-distance call, please. To Lisbon … What? Lisbon, in Portugal, of course. What? There are others? That many, eh? All in America …? Amazing.… No, this is to Portugal.…”

  He shrugged lightly. The operator’s voice sounded acerbic, probably at being troubled at that early hour. This one is definitely married, he thought with a grin; only long practice at putting a husband in his place could develop that accusatory tone.

  “Yes, operator. Moncada 917. That’s right. How long? I see.… Could you call me back?” He nodded, gave his number politely to the instrument, and smiled as he heard it correctly repeated. “Thank you.…”

  He hung up and leaned back, tenting his fingers. Now, where had he seen that newspaper article? It had been here at home, within the past few days. If it wasn’t in the pile in the kitchen, waiting for the maid to eventually get rid of them, he would simply have to go to the newspaper office, dig it out, and get a copy. As he recalled, the article had been sufficiently indecisive to serve the purpose perfectly. He could, of course, always go to one of those silly shops in Pigalle that catered to tourists, and have something fictitious printed in one of those comic newspapers, but it would be taking a chance. And on this job, no chances would be taken that could possibly be avoided.

  He came to his feet, walked through the dining room to the small kitchen, and turned on the light. As he had suspected, the maid had postponed the disposal of the papers—probably, he thought with a smile, in the vague hope that they would somehow disappear by themselves. Bless all lazy maids, he said to himself, and began leafing through the stack.

  He found the article almost immediately, carefully ripped out the page containing it, and returned to his desk. He folded the sheet to bring the column he wanted on top, placed it beneath the lamp, reseated himself, and read it once again. This time his attention was far greater than when he had first noted it. He shrugged; it was not exactly what he might have wished, but still, it should do very well. Or at least, well enough. He started to lean back again when the telephone suddenly rang. He bent forward at once, picking it up.

  “Hello?”

  “Ready with your call to Lisbon.…”

  A strange voice replaced that of the operator. “Yes? Hello?”

  Kek frowned; the voice was not that of André. “Is this Moncada 917?”

  “Yes. Kek? This is Michel Morell.” Kek smiled; after two words he had recognized that controlled tone. The dry, pedantic voice continued. “André is here. I’ll call him in a minute, but I wanted to speak with you first. André told me about his conversation with you, and I came over here to wait for your call.”

  Kek grinned. “Michel
! How have you been? André told me about you and your job there. In the police, eh? Very good. As for André, you don’t have to call him; as a matter of fact, I was calling to get your telephone number. I wanted to talk to you.”

  Michel’s voice became almost cold, highly official. “And I wanted to talk to you. Forget the entire matter, Kek. Put it out of your mind. As soon as I had told André, I was instantly sorry. It was a bad mistake on my part.”

  “A mistake?”

  “You know what I mean.” Michel paused a moment and then continued, his tone less official now, friendlier. “Kek, I know all about you. I suppose every police officer on the continent does. You’ve done pretty well. I don’t pretend to know all the details of how you’ve done it, but you have. And you’ve come out of it with just about everything you want—certainly everything you need. So why jeopardize it all for the momentary, childish satisfaction of trying to get even? Especially about something that happened so long ago?”

  Huuygens smiled at the telephone gently. “What makes you think I intend to jeopardize anything?”

  “Because I know you. Because——”

  “Then, if you know me so well, why do you try to talk me out of something you’re sure my mind is made up about? By your own theory, you wouldn’t succeed.”

  “Kek, Kek! Don’t be a fool!” Michel sounded impatient. “To begin with, do you honestly imagine the man is just sitting there with his eyes closed and his fingers in his ears? Or that you’re the only enemy he’s ever made? The only one in fifteen years who has wanted him dead? But he’s alive, I tell you! And not by accident!” Michel took a deep breath. “Secondly, I should hate to be on the other side from any of our old group. But I take my job seriously, Kek. I’d be lying to you if I allowed you to get any other idea. And third.…”

  “Yes? What else?”

  Michel’s voice dropped in pitch, becoming somber. “Third, my friend, remember this: revenge is an empty thing. Here in Portugal we say: ‘Revenge is a cold supper from an empty plate.…’”