Beacon of Vengeance

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  “Hurry it up, Erika. It’s getting dark.”

  “Soon, love.” At the window she folded and refolded a small undershirt. “Just a few moments longer.”

  Leo had run down to help his grandmother feed the chickens, and now Erika watched them coming up through the garden, Leo alternately leading Jeanne by the hand and then leaving her again to pick a flower and ask its French and German name. It was good to see him so involved with someone, so relaxed in his grandmother’s company. This would be good for them both, since Jeanne had revealed that morning how lonely she’d been since her cousin’s quiet death a month earlier. Exhaustion showed in her mother-in-law’s gait. The first thing Jeanne had done after the funeral was to send away the cruel young farmworker who had helped out around the place. He had bullied Leo when they had first arrived at Morlanne months before, and Jeanne hadn’t forgotten.

  “It will work out fine, won’t it, René?”

  He stepped behind her and his arms encircled her waist. One of his hands crept up to cup her breast and he bent closer and kissed behind her ear. She wore her hair up just for him, longer now than back in Germany, and he loved the smooth skin of her neck and her soft scent. Erika leaned her head back in appreciation of the caress and gave him a half-hearted smile.

  “Don’t worry, darling.” René lightly bit her neck to lighten her mood. “Just see how happy the two of them are! He’ll be fine. We can show him on the map that we aren’t really all that far away, and we’ll come back to visit in a month or two.”

  “Or two?” Erika frowned.

  “Maybe sooner. But we’ve work to do.”

  “I know. It’s just so difficult leaving him after all he’s been through.”

  “We’re not leaving him—we’re putting him in loving hands. And don’t forget, he gives my mother a reason for living. She’s lost all she loved, you know—my father, the shipping business, both homes on the Rhine. And now Brigitte’s gone, too, just as they were reunited. My mother has only us now… and our little Leo there.” He pushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “And she does love you, too, you know.”

  A new tear streaked her cheek. “I miss my parents so much, René.”

  “Why wouldn’t you? They loved you and fought hard to spare you this horror. That bastard von Kredow stole you away from them, and then took them from you. But we both have reason to remember the good things of the past as we fight for a better future.” He nodded toward the garden. “If nothing else, for Leo there.”

  She stared out the open kitchen window. Leo sat on a rough-hewn bench, the resident cat’s forepaws on his leg as she stretched to rub her face against his cheek. The cat would be purring, and Leo was certainly giggling at the tickle of the whiskers. Jeanne sat beside him and stared down toward the cow pasture, perhaps lost in her own memories. But then she turned and smiled as she stroked Leo’s head while he stroked the cat, and Erika was finally satisfied. “Let’s go. Night’s coming. It’s time to finally make these Nazi bastards pay.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Paris, Occupied France

  15 August 1941

  Pascal found her. Pascal of the clubbed foot, Pascal of the undying devotion to the ladies of the stage who treated him like a younger brother and not the suave lover he aspired to be. Except for one of them. Except for Colette, who smiled and teased and ignored his limp and foot and left him totally captivated.

  Bruised and battered, she lay just beyond his regular post at the side door of la Chatte bottée, unconscious beside the trash bins. It hadn’t been the kind of beating that breaks bones or does permanent damage, but rather the slow, methodical beating that bruises muscles deeply and leaves the victim laid up for weeks, and prevents her from ever feeling secure again when walking the dimly-lit streets and alleys to the Montmartre night club.

  That evening he had first spied a crumpled heap beside the bins as he turned off Rue Pigalle to unlock the stage door and assume his watch in the narrow passageway. He thought someone must have abandoned household rubbish that he might exchange on the black market for a few extra francs or a ration coupon. But as he neared he saw long, lovely legs, except they were now scratched and mottled purple, and as he drew off the sheet of old pasteboard he saw in horror that it was Colette, naked and abused. Despite the dim light he heard her mumble incoherently from swollen and bloody lips, so he knew she still lived.

  Pascal carried her into the night club, shocked that anyone could have been so cruel and vicious to this sweet girl. He maneuvered around the tightly-spaced tables toward the curtains separating the dance floor and the foyer. Despite her condition and his better thoughts, he felt himself respond to her nakedness, his hand on one of those lovely breasts he had admired on stage for so long, and he hated himself for thinking such thoughts at that moment. He consoled himself with another thought: at least she lives, and I’m rescuing her, and she’ll be grateful when she awakens, knowing that I really do care about her.

  He clumsily switched on the lights, reaching the staircase to what once was a projection room years before when the night club was a failing movie theater. Taking care not to hit the girl’s head on the wall of the narrow passage, he reached the office of the owner Mademoiselle Lesney. He knew she wasn’t in yet, but the phone in her office would bring her running. Mademoiselle Lesney loved all the girls who worked for her. She would know what to do.

  The door was unlocked as always, and Pascal pushed down the handle with his elbow and clicked on the overhead light. He carried the unconscious girl to the small couch in the corner beside the writing desk where his boss kept her neatly-stacked paperwork. He set Colette down as gently as he could, crossing her legs for modesty’s sake, and reluctantly covered her bruised body with the owner’s shawl.

  He dialed the number, and his boss answered immediately to say she was on her way.

  In the short time before the arrival of his boss he adjusted Colette’s head on the cushion and looked again beneath the shawl at her perfect body made so dirty and ugly by the beating. And that was when he saw it. The one thing that would never heal completely and disappear—a permanent mark on her young flesh. Artfully etched with a blade into the skin of her belly, clearly legible in the glare of the office light, was a single word, a name: SERGE.

  “My God, what utter depravity!” Marita stared dumbfounded at the young dancer’s abdomen as the doctor bathed the wound and applied iodine. Out of respect he had placed towels over her lap and breasts once those areas had been cleaned and checked for injuries. Now he carefully examined the knife wound.

  “Whoever did this used a very sharp blade, so scarring should be minimal.” The girl was now conscious but sedated, and the doctor chose his words carefully, assuming she was listening. He had placed a wet cloth over her swollen eyes and given her homeopathic Arnica Montana to hold down the bruising. “She’ll dance again, but you may need a bit of costume to cover the blemishes.” The physician looked up at Marita over the rim of his glasses and shook his head in disgust. “Isn’t our world ugly enough without this?”

  Marita had sent young Pascal away with sincere thanks for his quick thinking and some francs offered in gratitude. She had never had a problem with any of her girls before but now she had a frightening thought to consider: what monster was threatening their livelihood. Was this simply a hot-tempered, jilted lover? A madman? Or, equally possible, was the attack related to the secret work some of the girls were doing at her request, gathering the names and designations of the military units represented by the officers frequenting the club? Marita routinely passed this information on to Argent.

  She shook aside those thoughts to deal with immediate concerns as the doctor bandaged the worst of the wounds. “So, where do we go from here? Will she need further treatment?”

  “This young lady’s going to be mighty sore for a few weeks, but I find no evidence of broken bones or internal injuries. And mademoiselle, there’s no evidence of rape. Whoever did this to her knew his stuff. He didn’t want to d
o permanent damage—just send a message.” The doctor handed Marita two small envelopes of medication and began to pack away his equipment. “Keep her warm—get her some clothing as soon as possible—and have her rest. Let me know if she starts to vomit or has other signs of distress beyond the obvious. Can you keep her here for twenty-four hours?”

  “Of course. I’ll stay with her personally, but we’ll let her mother know.” Marita pursed her lips, recalling Colette’s situation. “She’s the only breadwinner—her father’s in a German camp.”

  “No charge for my services. Just keep her comfortable.”

  “Thank you so much, Doctor. And these envelopes?”

  “The pill’s a pain-killer, the powder a sedative. Use as directed on the envelopes and I’ll check in on her tomorrow.” He reached back into his black bag. “And here’s an ointment for the…” he hesitated, not sure what word to use for the atrocity etched in that beautiful skin, “…for the wound, and have her keep it covered to prevent infection.” He shook Marita’s hand. “And Mademoiselle Lesney…you may wish to hire a couple of bodyguards to look after your girls. Whoever this ‘Serge’ is, he may not be finished here.”

  He let himself out of the office, still shaking his head over the human condition as Marita applied another cool compress to Colette’s eyes and forehead.

  The line of applicants trailed out the lobby and into the street, and Marita interviewed each one personally. The bouncer Florian, her personal bodyguard, kept to her side, his focus constantly shifting from Marita to each candidate. Florian had already completed the initial sorting in the lobby, sending off those totally disqualified at first sight. Most applicants were unsuited to the task—too frail from hunger and deprivation, too old or weak but longing for this employment, others wounded in the war and unfit for the task. The marginal and the obviously fit waited in line to climb the stairs and meet with the owner.

  Marita sat on the Louis XVI chair with the tapestry print and took notes on each applicant. She had placed a small ad in the newspaper, printed among listings announcing the latest rationed food items and schedules of coupon availability, other employment want-ads, and plaintive pleas for information on persons still missing since the great exodus from the city the year before. The Gauloises she had smoked for years were getting more difficult to obtain, even on the black market, so she tapped incessantly with a lacquered fingernail tip on the smooth desk surface to still the nicotine hunger. She missed the comfort of her sister, her parents.

  The newest candidate was mid-thirties, of average height but with huge arms and narrow waist. She found him physically suited for the bodyguard post. “So,” she gave a friendly smile, “just why do you want this job?”

  “I need the money—simple as that.”

  “Can you fight, if need be?”

  “Been a fighter all my life, miss, truth be told. But most recently—before the war, that is—did some prize-fighting, middle-weight.” He named a working-class neighborhood in the north of the city.

  “Can you keep your hands off the dancers?”

  “Got a wife and four kids to feed and love, mademoiselle. Last thing I need right now is for the missus to kick me out, trust me.”

  Marita turned to Florian, who was eyeing each candidate in turn with a look of pure scorn, just to test the men’s reactions. This one seemed immune to his glare. “What do you think, a possibility?”

  Florian nodded in agreement.

  “Your name and a way to reach you.”

  “Jérôme Lafleur. 38 Rue du Gaspardin. Got no telephone, but the shoe repair downstairs has one we can use anytime. They practically make their business from us re-soling the kids’ shoes.”

  Marita nodded with a smile and rose to shake his hand. “We’ll be in touch, monsieur. Thank you for coming.”

  A full week had passed since Colette had been brutalized, and the entire club was on tenterhooks. The girls had taken to meeting elsewhere and coming to la Chatte bottée in larger groups. Most evenings Marita haunted the projection window overlooking the club, her eyes moving from guest to guest, wondering if one of them had been responsible for the terrible attack. All the men on staff were now armed with knives or blackjacks, a few with pistols. Illegal, but a wise precaution they’d been happy to adopt.

  Colette was now under the care of her mother and recovering well enough, but she wouldn’t soon dance again or entertain the German officers in her current condition. To help mother and daughter make ends meet, Marita was sending money and extra ration coupons supplied by Argent. And because of everyone’s concern, she had agreed to the physician’s advice to hire two new bodyguards, one to watch the alleyway and another to offer the girls protection on their way home after closing.

  The next candidate appearing at the door was a barrel-shaped man with a shaved head and brushy salt-and-pepper mustache. His arms seemed unnaturally long for his body, his eyes intelligent and his smile friendly though cynical. And he appeared to be all muscle.

  “Bonjour mademoiselle,” he nodded to Marita and then acknowledged Florian’s glare, “and to you, monsieur.”

  The teeth beneath the mustache were long and very yellow, testimony to years of smoking with little attention to brushing. Uninvited he took a seat on the couch and crossed his legs. She noted immediately the man wore clothing of very high quality, surprising for a prospective bodyguard in the Occupation economy. His boots appeared new, the soles of genuine leather and barely marked.

  “Monsieur, I would ask you to stand should you wish to continue this interview.” Marita was in no mood for disrespect.

  “Of course, Mademoiselle Lesney.” He rose with a smile and straightened the crease of his trousers. “But will it bother you if I smoke?” Without waiting, he drew a cigar from his vest pocket and lit up, releasing an acrid cloud into the close chamber. “More comfortable now, miss?” The amber teeth appeared again beneath the brush on his lip.

  “Monsieur, I regret any inconvenience you encountered in coming here this afternoon, but you don’t appear to meet our criteria.” Marita turned back to her desk in dismissal. “Thank you for your troubles.”

  “No trouble at all, miss. Glad to pop in. Although I thought you might be gracious enough to at least note my name.” His lower lip protruded in a ludicrous pout, a feigned disappointment.

  She looked up from the desk. “All right then, what is your name, monsieur?”

  “Why, thank you for asking—I go by Serge.”

  Marita’s eyes sprung wide and she involuntarily drew back in the chair. Florian took an aggressive step forward with fists clenched.

  “Serge Bergieux, but all my friends call me simply ‘Serge.’ As future business partners, I’m sure we’re to be friends.”

  Marita sat silent for several moments, suppressing the fury which threatened to overwhelm her. “Did you assault one of my girls last week, Monsieur Bergieux?”

  “Now why would I do that, Mademoiselle Lesney? I have more profitable uses for my time and energy than assaulting young women, and am insulted you should ask.” A flash of yellow teeth, then another drag on the cigar.

  “Because the man who did that atrocity signed his work—with your name.”

  “Serge?”

  “Serge.”

  “A common enough name here in Paris, you realize. But very few bearing it have my special talents—talents certainly of future value to you.”

  “And what could possibly suggest we might become business partners?” She placed a hand on Florian’s arm, her glance warning him to keep his anger in check. His hate-filled glare never left the stocky man.

  “Well, obviously times are difficult for you, what with running a profitable establishment such as this. Alcohol is hard to come by, and word on the street is your dancers are running scared. That makes for a less inviting stage performance, don’t you agree? You suggest that one poor child may have been assaulted, so can you really blame the girls for having doubts about working here? And soon your clientele may
decide to find a club where things are a bit more, shall we say, settled?”

  She got to her feet. “Go on.”

  “I’m merely saying that this world of ours gets rougher by the day—so much so that you’re hiring new bodyguards. Suppose you took on a partner instead, a man well connected, someone like me? I could personally oversee the criminal elements hereabouts and make sure your dancers and your operation continue unmolested by those dangerous types. Wouldn’t that be worth something to you?”

  “I can take care of things on my own. I already have good people.”

  “With all respect to present company—obviously not, Miss Lesney. What if the next problem with one of your people, one of those lovely young ladies, is something considerably worse, say a mutilation, a missing limb, a death, perhaps? What if the monster capable of such a thing went after your friends, or their spouses and children? Where might all this end? Would you really want that on your conscious, when I am here now to offer you my services?”

  Marita sat down again. Her voice remained steady but she shook inside. “What exactly do you want?”

  “Me? Not much at all. I simply offer my help, and in return I get…say…fifty per cent of the club’s profits?”

  The enormity of the situation made her hold her tongue. She raced through the dangers and possibilities. Whom could she call on to help? Her own past misjudgment and fear had already cost the lives of her family. Her German lover might be able to help, but for now she had to buy time.

  “I don’t make enough to survive on half the profits. I’m barely scraping by now.”