The Darkest Hour

by Tony Schumacher

  Koehler turned smartly and walked off toward the main stairs that led to his office. Rossett stood in the foyer for a moment watching him go. He stuffed the chitty into his pocket and walked out into the street, which had returned to normality after the earlier parade.

  He walked down the steps and past an old man with a dustcart who was coaxing a few cigarette butts down the gutter with a balding broom toward a half-­blocked grate.

  The old man obviously didn’t care what would happen if the grate became fully blocked and had to be investigated. Nobody would point a finger in his direction when things went wrong.

  Rossett wished he could say the same.

  Chapter 11

  ROSSETT SAT IN the car and stared at the petrol chitty Koehler had given him. There was no upper limit filled in, which meant the Austin was going to have a full tank for the first time in years. Maybe he would ask Mrs. Ward to take a run down to the beach; they could fill a flask and fetch that tartan rug she kept folded on the settee in the front parlor. He felt something stir inside for the first time in a long time and wondered whether Koehler had been right, whether maybe he had been working too hard, thinking too much.

  He started the car and looked across to the open courtyard gates. He knew the petrol pump was located on the far side of the garages, which had once been Bow Street Runner stables back when the Met had been a private army guarding the streets from the muggers and murderers who lurked in the gaslit shadows.

  He pulled across and the sentry approached his window. Rossett cursed when it dropped into the door again as he opened it.

  “I’ve got a petrol requisition, I need to fill up.”

  The guard glanced down at Rossett’s warrant card and the note he held in his other hand.

  “You will have to come back later. The area commander’s cars and escort are inside, and I can’t let anybody in until they go. The yard should be open after eight.”

  The young German shrugged as he spoke. Rossett glanced past him and saw the three big Mercedeses and a troop truck parked, taking up half the yard.

  “I’ll be two minutes, I promise. This tank is tiny.”

  “I’m sorry, those are the orders.”

  The German stepped back to his hut, conversation over, and Rossett moved the little gear lever into reverse and cursed his luck.

  “First time off in years and I still have to come back later,” Rossett muttered under his breath, deciding to make use of the broken window’s being down by sparking up another cigarette.

  He opened the packet only to find it was empty. This day was getting better and better. He pulled out onto Charing Cross Road in search of a tobacconist and, spotting one, dodged the Austin across the street and bumped it up onto the curb facing into traffic.

  There was a fog coming down, pushed by the cold November air. A few of the passing cars had their headlamps on and the afternoon felt damp, heavy with winter. Rossett ran his fingers through his hair and noticed it was wet to the touch. He longed for some warmth and made a mental note to get a good fire going in his room as soon as he got home, damn the coal ration. If he was going to have a holiday, he was going to spend it somewhere warm.

  He wrestled the window back up and stepped out onto the pavement. Next to the tobacconist’s, he noticed a small off-­license window display that caught his eye. He stared at the bottles that lay in wooden boxes on beds of straw and thought about buying some Scotch and spending the evening warming his throat as he warmed his feet. Rossett stopped and tried to remember if the pleasure at the start of the bottle was worth the pain at the end. The pain that brought tears and the tap tap tap of his old ser­vice revolver against his temple as he screwed his eyes and tried to shut out the world and dam the tears that the Scotch shook free.

  It wasn’t, not tonight. He walked on to get the cigarettes.

  The fog inside the tobacconist’s shop was almost as thick as the fog outside. A small man with a waistcoat and a puffing pipe was stocking some shelves. He scuttled behind the counter on seeing Rossett and stood expectantly, hands clasped across his chest like an eager mouse relishing cheese.

  “May I help you, sir?”

  “Sixty Players.”

  The pipe dropped a fraction at the corner of his mouth like a railway signal at a passing train. The shopkeeper dropped the cigarettes onto the counter and reclasped his hands.

  “Can I interest sir in a nice cigar for after dinner this evening?”

  The pipe fluttered an expectant fraction and Rossett frowned. He was on holiday; maybe a cigar would be nice?

  “What would you recommend?”

  The pipe perked up and the little man lifted the counter flap and led Rossett by the elbow to the case he’d been stocking as Rossett had entered.

  “We have a wide selection, sir, all excellent.”

  He stood back and studied Rossett like a tailor, then slid back the glass door and produced a box of Cubanas. With the solemnity of a bishop at a coronation, he held the box in front of Rossett and slowly opened the lid.

  “I think sir will find these to his taste. One can still smell the sunshine on the box. A mild cigar, sir, a relaxing smoke perfect for that recline in an armchair after a tough day.”

  The edges of Rossett’s mouth twitched.

  The little man pulled four cigars from the box.

  “Will sir be paying cash?”

  Rossett nodded, feeling the weight of the day slip from his shoulders. The little man puffed on his pipe, sending smoke signals to the gods of a good sale, job well done.

  Maybe this is why women buy hats? thought Rossett as he patted his pockets looking for his wallet in his raincoat, realizing he felt better for the time he’d spent in the shop. The little man dotted the invoice with a flourish and turned it to Rossett for him to see.

  The pipe dropped again as the tobacconist looked up into Rossett’s eyes.

  “Sir?”

  Rossett stared back blankly, the moment’s contentedness suddenly crushed under the realization that he had left the pouch with the coins in his desk back at the station. His blood dropped from his face to his feet as something else hit home.

  Koehler knew about his going to the beach with Mrs. Ward. He’d never told anyone he’d been to Southend with her, and yet the German knew.

  That meant he’d been followed.

  That meant they didn’t trust him.

  And if they didn’t trust him before today, they certainly wouldn’t trust him now; those coins in the desk could be an end to his warrant card and a start to his death warrant.

  He needed to get them out of the station quick.

  “Sir?”

  Rossett drifted back to the shop like a man regaining consciousness. He looked at the shopkeeper as if seeing him for the first time. Willing his brain to say something, he realized his mouth had been hanging open, and he clenched his jaw and swallowed hard.

  “I . . . I just remembered something, something important.”

  “These are such stressful times, I’m sure these fine cigars will lighten your burden this evening with maybe a brandy. Next door offer a fine—­”

  “How much is all this?”

  The shopkeeper seemed disappointed that his run of form had failed him, and he placed his finger above the invoice total and smiled.

  Rossett pulled a pound note from his wallet and then realized he would have to pull a ­couple more; he glanced at the shopkeeper and shook his head with disbelief at the expense of the cigars. The sales spell had been well and truly broken and the warm feeling long gone.

  “Would sir be interested in opening an account?” The shopkeeper finally removed his pipe as he placed the change on the counter; Rossett noticed the two cracked yellow teeth the pipe had been resting against.

  “No.”

  Chapter 12

  NOT BEING TRUSTED was s
omething Rossett knew all about. He understood suspicion. He worked for the Germans and wore a swastika on his lapel. Everywhere he went ­people eyed him, guarding their words as much as they would guard their ration book if he were a thief.

  ­People assumed he was reading their minds, and sometimes he felt as if he was. He didn’t trust the public, and the public didn’t trust him. He’d gotten used to it, lived and breathed it, was comfortable with it and accepted it. He read their eyes, watched their hands, listened to their bodies as much as he listened to their voices. That was why he had been such a good thief taker before the war, and why he’d become such a good Jew taker after it.

  Suspicion was his job.

  It had never occurred to him that the Germans suspected him. He’d done everything they had asked, and he had, in return, never asked a question or ruffled a feather.

  Until today.

  He cursed himself inwardly and shook his head outwardly. That one question about where the trains went: had he asked it yesterday, he would have slapped his forehead and regretted it, then got on with his job, hoping that Koehler would let it slide from his memory as Rossett proved his worth.

  But he hadn’t asked it yesterday, he’d asked it today, and in that moment, as he’d patted his empty raincoat pocket and fired the tiny part of his brain that wondered where the pouch that had been there before had gone, he’d remembered Jacob, the pouch full of sovereigns, Koehler, the Gestapo, the shouting and the struggling as he’d been dragged into the cells. Most important, he remembered Koehler’s statement about Mrs. Ward and Southend.

  A woman whom Rossett had never mentioned or described, and a trip he had most definitely never told anyone about.

  The Germans had followed him.

  The Germans didn’t trust him.

  The Germans might still be following him.

  And up until that morning he would never have cared if they were, because he had nothing to hide. But now a pouch full of sovereigns lay in his office like a body in a cellar. Waiting to be discovered to condemn a half-­hanged man to the drop.

  He had to get the sovereigns and he had to get them quick.

  As he opened the door of the Austin and bent to get in, a hand grabbed his shoulder, and Rossett spun and twisted, tearing the hand from his coat and driving the wrist upward and away from its joint. His assailant’s arm straightened, then flexed against its own elbow, and Rossett pushed it farther up and back as he faced the body that barely hung on to the other end. He cocked his right fist and was about to punch hard into the ribs of his attacker when he stopped.

  A young uniformed policeman, eyes bulging and mouth open, stared back in shock.

  Rossett released his grip and let the policeman’s arm drop; passersby stopped and stared at Rossett. The bobby stepped back gasping, cradling his right arm.

  “Bloody hell, Sarge. I was only saying hello!”

  “You should know better than to grab a man when he isn’t looking!” Rossett almost shouted, his cheeks flushing.

  The passersby started to move again, and the young bobby regained some composure, straightened his helmet, and brushed his sleeve.

  “I’m sorry, Sarge. You bloody well nearly ripped my arm off. Where did you learn that move?”

  Rossett realized it was Baker, the young policeman from the search earlier that day. He looked up and down the road and wondered if that was too much of a coincidence, the old instincts jangling.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “It’s my beat, Sarge. I saw the car parked the wrong way with no lights and half on the curb. With this fog coming in, I thought it might be a bit of process for me.”

  Rossett relaxed slightly, relieved to see that Baker was just a young bobby looking to placate his sergeant with a summons file for a motoring offense.

  “When I got over and I saw the window half cocked, I realized it was yours. I was going to surprise you, for a lark. Sorry, Sarge.”

  Rossett smiled and shook his head.

  “I’m sorry, Baker. You gave me a start, and old instincts kicked in. Is the arm okay?”

  Baker gave a relieved smile and rubbed his shoulder.

  “You near tore it off, Sarge, but it was a bit daft of me, my fault. Are you working on a case?”

  “No, I’m buying cigarettes. I’m having a few days off so I thought I’d stock up. Sorry about the parking, a lot on my mind.”

  “How’s that little boy?” Baker ignored the apology.

  Rossett flushed again and opened the door of the Austin.

  “He’s fine.”

  “Poor little blighter, did he catch that train?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, right, is he stopping at the station then? I’ll drop by and see him, friendly face and all that.”

  “No, he’s, er . . . he’s over at Charing Cross.”

  Baker chewed his lip and nodded, realization dawning that the boy had been handed over to the Germans.

  “How long for?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I expect he’ll be okay, they’ll look after him . . . won’t they, Sarge?”

  “Yes, I’m sure they will.”

  “It’s just you hear stories, about what goes on.”

  The men nodded to each other, embarrassed by the conversation but not sure how to end it.

  “I’d best be going. Hope the arm is okay.”

  “It’ll be fine, Sarge. Sorry for the fright.”

  Rossett nodded and got into the car as Baker stepped into the street to stop the oncoming traffic. The little Austin fired up and Rossett bounced off the curb and pulled forward into the gap Baker had made. He stopped by the officer, who stood, arm raised, holding back the tide.

  “That was good work today, Baker, at the house. You did well.”

  “Thank you, Sarge. It was an honor to work with you.”

  “An honor?”

  “Yes, Sarge, you’re a bit of a legend to us young lads: war hero, top thief taker when you was a copper, ‘straightest man in the Met,’ my old sergeant calls you. It was a real honor for me.”

  Rossett nodded, gave a half smile, and tried to ignore the “when you was a copper” line as he drove away.

  Chapter 13

  ERNST KOEHLER SQUEEZED his toes, stretched his toes, and then squeezed his toes again. He leaned back in his chair, sighed a weary sigh, closed his eyes, and, for the first time that day, relaxed a little. After a moment he opened his eyes and stared at the boots that stood to attention on the desk in front of him.

  The words of his old drill sergeant echoed across the years.

  “A size too small will make you stand tall, gentlemen. Always wear dress boots that pinch.”

  Ernst squeezed his toes again and decided that the man was obviously an idiot or a sadist, or, God forbid, an idiot sadist.

  The intercom on his desk buzzed.

  “Herr Schmitt to see you, sir.”

  Koehler sighed and flopped back into his chair without answering; he banged himself on the forehead with the heel of his hand, then reached over to the intercom.

  “Send him in, please.”

  A moment later the heavy oak door of his office swung open and the Gestapo man entered. Over his shoulder, Kate made the briefest of eye contact with Koehler, who smiled in reply.

  “Could you have someone make us tea, please, Kate.”

  “Not for me,” said Schmitt.

  Schmitt took a seat without asking and waited for Kate to shut the door behind him. Koehler leaned back in his chair and smiled warmly, deciding to leave the boots on the table between them.

  “So, Schmitt, what can I do for you?”

  “I want to know why the Englishman has been released.”

  “Detective Sergeant Rossett?”

  “Yes.”

  “I believ
ed it was a simple misunderstanding; the sergeant thought your men were trying to take his prisoner from him.”

  “The ‘prisoner’ was already away from him, watching the fucking parade.”

  Koehler smiled at Schmitt’s swearing, the only indication that he was angry about the incident. Other than that one word, the man was implacable, his voice monotone, his face expressionless, hands placed calmly upon the left leg that was crossed over his right.

  “I think you’ll find that the sergeant was in control of the situation.” Koehler smiled. “There was little chance of the prisoner’s escaping.”

  Schmitt leaned forward slightly, but as he was about to speak, the office door opened and Kate and a secretary carrying a tray entered. Schmitt leaned back in his seat and waited for the teacups and pot to be placed on the table. Nobody spoke, and Kate merely nodded to Koehler once the items were laid out.

  “Thank you, Kate, that will be all.”

  The two women left the room, and Koehler picked up the pot and poured the tea. He slid a cup across the table to Schmitt, who uncrossed his legs and folded his arms.

  “I didn’t want tea.”

  “You really must try it. It’s excellent, Earl Grey, the real thing from my private supply.”

  “I don’t drink tea.”

  “Try it.”

  Schmitt pushed the cup back across the table toward Koehler, spilling some into the saucer.

  Koehler raised his eyebrows, “Please Schmitt, it really is . . .”

  “Can you take your boots off the table so I can see who I am talking to?” Schmitt snapped, his irritation plain to see, and Koehler smiled.

  “Of course, forgive me; it is awfully rude. They pinch terribly and I was just glad to have them off after the parade.” Koehler spoke but merely looked at the boots, leaving them where they stood.

  “Why did you let the Englishman go?” Schmitt banged his fist upon the desk, then pointed at Koehler. “He assaulted a member of the Gestapo. He should be shot, not released! I demand to know why you let him go.”

  Koehler paused midsip and placed his cup back down on the saucer he was holding with his other hand.