“She wasn’t a collaborator,” Leo says.
“She was married to a Milicien,” the man replies in a matter-of-fact tone. He is not looking at Leo. He is completely focused on re-wrapping the body. “There was a group of men. They broke into his apartment looking for him. She stalled them while he fled. They would surely have killed him if it wasn’t for her.”
Leo sees it play out like a film before his mind’s eye. He watches the coward leaping out a window, leaving her there to defend him against the killers. He sees Nina staring at the door, watching it crack and buckle from the pounding of the vengeful mob. He imagines himself there, as if by doing so he could somehow change the outcome.
Run! he cries. You still have time! Go to our place on the rue Vavin! You still have a key! They will never...
No, she says sadly. I cannot. If I don’t slow them down, they will catch him.
To Hell with him! Why should you sacrifice yourself for him?!
She gives him a wan smile. Because I love him, you fool. If you had ever really loved anyone yourself, you would understand.
The door collapses and they tumble clumsily into the room, shouting and snarling. They pass through him like the phantom he is, and set about their brutal work.
He is snapped out of his grim reverie by the voice of the attendant. “I’m sure they didn’t intend to kill her,” the old man says. He is smoothing out the white cloth, folding, tucking. “The tonte is more about humiliation than violence. She must have provoked them somehow. Perhaps she goaded them in order to give her husband more time to run away.”
“You make it sound as if she brought this upon herself,” Leo says. There is a warning in his voice, but the man doesn’t seem to hear it.
“Perhaps she did,” he says.
“Old man,” Leo says, “you are very close to ending the day on one of these slabs.”
The man does not look up from his work. “A fierce threat,” he says quietly. “Was she one of your lovers? They say you have had many.”
Leo is amazed at the man’s gall. “What was it you said a moment ago, about goading and provocation?”
The man pauses to inspect the shroud. “You are right to be angry,” he says. “I am being rude and insensitive. It is unforgivable that I should speak this way to a national hero.” He chuckles softly. “You know, my son was a great admirer of yours. When he was a little boy, he used to say, ‘Papa, when I grow up I will be just like the Nyctalope!’ He thought you were the best man in France, even after you gave your allegiance to Vichy.”
The attendant slowly lifts his head, and looks directly into Leo’s eyes.
“My son,” he says quietly, “was married to a Jew. At first, I didn’t approve, but over time I learned to accept her, even to love her. They had two children, beautiful little girls. Would you like to know what happened to them, my son and his family?”
Leo says nothing.
“This woman had a better death than they did,” the old man says. “I do not feel sorry for her. If you wish to kill me for it, then do so. If not, then leave. You have seen what you came here to see.”
Leo turns on his heel and walks away into an all-consuming darkness.
Giraud stood at the door facing into the apartment. “The door was not forced,” he said. “The killer was able to talk Boucher into opening it for him.”
“We had surmised as much,” Blofeld said.
Giraud ignored him. The scene was taking shape in his mind, almost as if he witnessed it himself. “They spoke for a moment, then the killer held this up to Boucher, held it before his eyes.” Giraud lifted the locket. “Boucher grabbed it with his right hand. The links snapped, but part of the chain remained entwined in the fingers of the killer.”
“What happened then?” Fitz asked, caught up in the moment. It was the first time Giraud had heard the man speak. He looked at the German with surprise, then almost laughed when he saw that Carlos and Blofeld were doing the same.
Well, do not leave him in suspense, Giraud, Poirot said.
Giraud nodded. “The killer caught Boucher’s hand and gave his arm a violent twist.” Giraud pantomimed the action, stepping into the role of the murderer. “Boucher’s arm was dislocated. The pain was excruciating, but he tried to counter with vicious blow from his left. The killer, however, was too fast for him. He caught Boucher’s fist and snapped his wrist with contemptuous ease.”
Giraud could almost feel the bones crack beneath his fingers as he mimicked the deed. The sensation was uncanny, godlike. Was this how the Belgian felt when the pieces began to fall into place, when everything sharpened into almost painful clarity? If so, then he could almost forgive the man his arrogance.
“Boucher cried out in pain,” he continued, “but only once. After that, things happened so quickly he barely had a moment to breathe. The killer grabbed him by the neck and sent a series of sledgehammer blows into his face. The pounding was so brutal that it actually drove a link from the chain—the chain still clinging to the killer’s hand—between what was left of Boucher’s front teeth. It remained lodged there until I pried it free a moment ago.”
Blofeld picked at some lint on one of his lapels. “And then?” he asked, stifling a yawn.
Giraud stood over Boucher’s corpse. “By now, the killer was in the grip of an uncontrollable, psychotic fury. He allowed Boucher to fall, then straddled him, pulled out a knife and…” He pointed at Boucher’s head.
“Do you think the killer was a Red Indian?” Fitz asked. He was clearly impressed by Giraud’s performance.
“What the Hell do you know about Indians?” Carlos asked.
“I read about them in Karl May,” Fitz said defensively. “And I’ll thank you not to take that tone. You have no right to...”
“Silence,” Blofeld said. His voice was calm and even, but his men obeyed him as if he were Zeus bellowing from Olympus.
“The killer was a Frenchman,” Giraud said.
Blofeld’s eyes widened. Only a little, but they widened. “How do you know that?”
“Boucher’s head was shaved in imitation of la tonte, a punishment meted out to women who had collaborated with Nazis during the occupation.”
“That seems a bit illogical. Why would anyone do that to Boucher?”
“Because of this,” Giraud said, and he held up the locket. “I thought this belonged to Boucher, but it was brought here by the killer. It was in his possession. I think the killer had an attachment to the woman represented in this cameo. I believe this woman was punished for her association with Boucher, and the killer was infuriated by it. He wanted Boucher to suffer the same way she did.”
Blofeld stared at Giraud for a long, silent moment.
I don’t think he is convinced, Poirot said. Your theory is too weak. It covers all the facts, but it is ultimately just a series of melodramatic suppositions. Where is your evidence?
“Well, are you going to answer me?” Blofeld asked.
“What?” Giraud said, blinking. “I’m sorry, could you repeat the question?”
“I said, where is your evidence?”
“I expect it to walk through that door later tonight.”
Blofeld no longer looked bored or irritated. “Why do you say that?”
“I am employing an old theory,” Giraud said with a thin smile, “the one which states that the killer always returns to the scene of the crime.” He held up the locket. “Especially when there is something there that he wants back.”
They keep him around for a while, pretending that things are the same. He is simply too useful to discard. They tell him his future is secure. Just stay out of the public eye, they say. Time will pass and the people will forgive you.
But I don’t need forgiveness, he says. I haven’t done anything wrong. The words hang flaccid in the air, sounding lame even to his own ears.
They only stare at him. A couple of them sigh and shake their heads, as if he were senile or insane. Please, don’t argue. Just do as we ask. Do t
hat and everything will be all right.
They are wrong. It is not all right. People have long memories and deep resentments, and one evening, some gray and faceless men in gray and colorless suits come calling.
In 48 hours you will be arrested, one of them says. There is to be a trial, very public and very humiliating. If you would like to avoid this, leave immediately.
Very well, he says. If I am needed, I can be reached by my Loire Valley contact...
The gray man holds up his hand. We don’t mean leave Paris, he says. Leave France. And never return.
They walk away before he can recover himself enough to form a reply. Later, he will not even remember packing his bags, checking his guns, or setting the house on fire before driving away.
He travels far and goes through many identities and a great deal of money, and one night he finds himself in a dive bar in Buenos Aires, watching a man across the room chat up an attractive whore.
There is something very familiar about this man, something with unpleasant associations…
The man looks in his direction.
You.
The man looks back at the whore. Laughing. Drinking. Enjoying life.
I remember you.
The whore whispers something in the man’s ear and he shakes his head, pulling out his pockets to show how little they contain. She shakes her head in disgust and turns away.
You son of a bitch.
The man shouts something after her, grumbles some unintelligible curses, then heads for the door.
Finishing his drink, Leo Saint-Clair, the Nyctalope, rises and follows him into the night.
Giraud stared at the door until his eyes were dry. He no longer smelled the death stench, although it certainly had not dissipated. All he could think about was Boucher’s killer, and how badly he wanted the man to appear.
The watched pot, it never boils, Poirot said.
Maybe, Giraud acknowledged, but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything but seeing that door open.
And if it does, what then, my friend?
Then I will have been right, by God! And whatever happens after that is Blofeld’s problem.
Blofeld did not seem to be in any suspense at all. He was, to all appearances, perfectly content to sit in the darkness facing the door, calmly waiting to see if Giraud’s theory would bear fruit. Giraud did not know how long the man was prepared to wait, and he did not dare to ask. He and the others had not been invited to sit, and so they stood like sentries; Fitz beside the door, Giraud and Carlos flanking Blofeld. Blofeld’s henchmen were both armed with automatics, but they had not seen fit to return Giraud’s bullets. Under ordinary circumstances, Giraud would have felt naked and helpless, but now nothing mattered except the door.
The door…
The door to the apartment silently opened. A tall shadow stepped inside, and paused at the threshold. Giraud felt a trickle of sweat run down the side of his face. He and the others were concealed in the darkness, but the shadow acted as if it could see them.
Blofeld must have sensed it as well, for he chose that moment to speak. “Please come in,” he said. “We are not your enemies.”
“Then why are you pointing guns at me?” the shadow replied. “That doesn’t seem very friendly.”
“I think it’s a sensible precaution, under the circumstances. May we talk?”
The shadow confidently walked into the room, picked up one of the overturned chairs, and sat down in front of Blofeld.
“Fitz,” Blofeld said, “please close the door and turn on a light.”
Fitz obeyed and Giraud was unable to prevent himself from gasping in astonishment. The man sitting before him was older than he remembered. His face was lined and careworn, and there was more than a hint of gray in the swept-back hair. The Mephistophelean goatee was a recent addition, and it leant his classical features a slightly sinister cast. The leather jacket draped over his muscular frame was, like his faded jeans, a far cry from the expensive, tailored clothes he used to be seen in. But, for all that, he was still instantly recognizable. He had once been among the most famous men in France.
“So,” Blofeld said, “Monsieur Leo Saint-Clair. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“The pleasure is all yours,” the Nyctalope replied. He crossed his arms and legs. He seemed completely at ease. “I see I was expected.”
“We were expecting someone, not you specifically.” Blofeld gestured to Giraud, who stood at his right. “The credit must go to Monsieur Giraud. He maintained that you would come here tonight.”
Saint-Clair turned his eyes on Giraud. “You used to be with the Sûreté,” he said.
Giraud was shocked. “You know me?”
“Only by reputation.” He turned back to Blofeld. “Who are you?”
“Does the code name Rahir mean anything to you?”
Saint-Clair nodded. “An espionage network that operated during the war. What of it?”
“It was my creation.”
“Good for you. It was very efficient, while it lasted.”
“And very profitable. But my work didn’t end with Rahir. In fact, I am currently putting together a group–a special executive, if you like–which will direct an enterprise far greater in scope and impact than any network that has ever existed.”
“What does this have to do with me?”
“I would like for you to be a part of it.”
Saint-Clair’s mouth turned in a half-smile of amusement. “I’m not a spy,” he said.
“I didn’t come here looking for a spy,” Blofeld said. He pointed at Boucher. “I came to find the man who did this. I wanted to meet a skilled and ruthless killer whom I could recruit for my organization; a man with an aptitude for terrorism…revenge…extortion…”
The Nyctalope’s smile faded. “And you think I am that man?”
“I know that you have the instincts of a mercenary,” Blofeld replied. “Anyone who has followed your career can see that.”
“Is that so?”
“Oh, I am aware that you were once a well-known champion of the law,” Blofeld said with a dismissive wave. “I’m sure that role that was both useful and expedient. I’ve played it myself, once or twice. However, I think the work you’ve done on Boucher is ample evidence that you’re ready to dispense with that particular artifice. Why don’t we move to some more congenial surroundings where we can discuss...”
“This has to be a mistake,” Giraud said, shaking his head.
Blofeld looked up at him, his pale face growing red with anger. “Do not open your mouth again while I am speaking,” he said. His voice was level, but only just.
“But this can’t be right,” Giraud said, unfazed. “This isn’t… This man is no murderer! He couldn’t possibly have done this!” He turned an appealing gaze on the Nyctalope. “Tell him,” he said. “You’re conducting your own investigation, aren’t you? You’re hunting a mad killer, and the trail led you here. This is the first time you’ve even been to this apartment, right?”
Saint-Clair’s mouth opened as if he were about to speak, but nothing came out.
“Carlos,” Blofeld said, “please silence this jabbering fool.”
Carlos smiled and turned his pistol on Giraud. Saint-Clair leapt from his chair, but the little man moved like a cobra. He snapped the pistol around and fired a single shot into the heart of the Nyctalope. Saint-Clair dropped like a stone.
For a moment, they all stood frozen in tableau. Blofeld sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Well,” he said, “that was regrettable.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Carlos said. “It was instinct. When I saw him move I...”
“There is no need for an apology,” Blofeld said, rising to his feet. “I have serious doubts that he could have been turned to my purpose anyway. I could tell that he was still clinging to the shreds of his personal myth. I could see it in his heart.” He turned to Giraud with a sneer. “As for you...”
He was interrupted by a stirring on th
e floor. He looked at Carlos. “Impossible,” the little man said, stepping over to the Nyctalope. He leaned over the body. “That shot should have...”
He never finished his sentence. In the span of a heartbeat, Saint-Clair’s hands had closed around Carlos’ pistol, driving it up and back into the little man’s mouth. There was a thunderclap of gunfire and the back of Carlos’ head exploded.
Blofeld, with a speed that belied his hulking frame, grabbed Giraud and shoved him toward the Nyctalope, who was struggling to cast aside Carlos’s body. Giraud fell over Saint-Clair, giving Blofeld a few precious seconds to get to the door. “Kill them!” he shouted to Fitz as he ran by.
Fitz fired and Giraud felt a blaze of white heat as the bullet took off the top of his right ear. He fully expected the next one to catch him between the eyes. He was raising his hands before his face in a futile gesture of defense, when he saw a small crimson hole appear on the German’s forehead, and a spray of blood coat the wall behind him. Fitz, his face still set in the concentration of aiming, collapsed in a lifeless heap.
The Nyctalope rose slowly to his feet and looked down at Giraud. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face, which was drenched in Carlos’ blood. “It’s good that you were in his line of fire,” he said to Giraud, dabbing at his eyes. “That probably saved us both.”
Giraud fought the urge to start laughing. He had never been so close to death, and his narrow escape had left him in a euphoric state that was close to hysteria. He jumped to his feet and grabbed the Nyctalope’s hand, pumping it vigorously. “My God!” he said, grinning. “My God, but that was incredible! How did you survive that shot from Carlos? Are you wearing a bulletproof…” Giraud fell silent as he noticed the dark, spreading stain on Saint-Clair’s chest.
“I will not die from that wound,” the Nyctalope said. “My heart is mostly made of plastic. But there is steel there as well.”
Giraud was awestruck. “We must get you to a doctor,” he said. “Come, let us-”
“No,” Saint-Clair said firmly. “I can take care of myself. But before I go, there is something here that belongs to me. Do you have it?”
Enter the Nyctalope Page 16
