The Golf, Cheese and Chess Society

by Jason Blacker

  Hanz looked over as Frances swung the wooden pole. The flat end of the brass hook caught him across the temple. His finger pulled the trigger and the room filled with a loud bang. The bullet hit the wall a few feet above the headboard. Hanz lost his balance and stumbled towards the door. He could see a man coming for him from down the hall. Hanz shook his head. He aimed again and pulled the trigger. This time the bullet hit the door frame. He felt another blow upon his back. It was not hard enough to do much damage to him through his thick jacket and sweater, but it reminded him of why he was here.

  If he could just finish her off, that would be enough. He stumbled around again. Frances could see a wildness in his eyes. She could see the scar above his right eyebrow. He was not a handsome man. Blood streamed down the left side of his face from the temple. It started to drip from his chin. Frances ducked just as Hanz pulled the trigger. The bullet shattered the window. Hanz cursed.

  “Scheisse!”

  It was because he had lost his little finger that his aim was not as good as it had once been. It was a munitions accident earlier in the war and he had been thankful that was all he lost. But now it seemed like a tragedy.

  Downstairs at the back of the house, Alfred heard the gunshot. He sat up in bed stiff as a board. It only took him a moment to realize what was happening. The bloody kraut was back to finish what he had tried to do up at Avalon.

  “Not today you bloody well won’t,” Alfred said under his breath.

  There was no time to dress. In his pajamas and bare feet he leapt out of bed. He grabbed Purdey. It stood like a sentry in the corner of his room. He was glad to have brought one of the shotguns down with him from Avalon. It was the one that had tasted the German. This time he’d make a meal of it. Alfred opened the break-action to check for shot. There was only one shell in the barrel. That would have to do. He would have to be careful with his aim. He left his room and ran towards his Lady’s chambers. For a tall, older man he was sprightly.

  Hanz grabbed his dagger with his left hand as Declan came upon him. He pulled the trigger and this time his aim found some flesh. Declan winced as the bullet tore at the top of his shoulder. The bullet traveled right through not finding bone or major blood vessels. The pain was muted by his adrenaline and anger, but he was having difficulty using that left arm of his.

  Declan tumbled into Hanz grabbing at him wildly with his right hand. Hanz lost his grip on the Pistole as they crashed to the floor but his left hand held onto the dagger. They were clutching at each other like drunk lovers in the throes of coitus. But this was a fight for their lives. They turned and tumbled over one another as they fought. Frances watched, holding the window opener in her hands, ready to rain down blows if she could. But the way they were struggling she couldn’t.

  Declan saw the glinting blade of the knife. It was untarnished. Its thirst for blood had not been quenched and he was determined not to allow it. Just looking at it he could tell it was sharp. Both the point and the edges would slice him to ribbons if he’d let it.

  His left arm had lost half of its feeling. He could use it but it felt wooden and uncoordinated and that’s how it behaved. Blood soaked the shoulder of his white striped pajamas.

  Hanz managed to transfer the dagger to his right hand in the struggle. It made it easier to control. He thrust at Declan, but the man was strong as he held onto his right forearm. Hanz twisted and thrashed about trying to loosen Declan’s grip on him. It helped. As they wrestled, Hanz managed to thrust at Declan’s neck and the knife found flesh. It sliced along the top of Declan’s left trapezius close to the shoulder. Declan winced. Frances exclaimed in horror. She couldn’t hit Hanz for he was now underneath Declan.

  Declan knew this fight was not going well. Not without the full use of his left arm which he no longer had. He lay down upon Hanz using his left arm as a brace against Hanz’s right arm. It didn’t work as well as he had hoped, but he was tiring now. Hanz could still move his elbow and he made thrusting motions with it. The blade sliced along Declan’s upper back. Declan grimaced in pain. He rolled over and Hanz rolled on top of him. Hanz had the leverage now. He bore his weight upon his dagger using his left hand for support. Declan was holding Hanz up, bracing his right and left hands against the man’s right forearm. But Hanz had the better strength and greater leverage. Declan could see the dagger inches from his eye and the weight of Hanz was becoming too much to bear.

  “Down, my Lady!” yelled Alfred. She was in his line of fire ready to hit the German, and he could see that Declan was struggling. The dagger was at any moment about to be thrust into him.

  Frances dropped like a stone and Alfred squeezed the trigger. He was only four or five feet from his mark and spread would be limited, but he didn’t want to take any chances with Lady Marmalade.

  A fraction of a second after the deafening crack, Hanz slumped over Declan, much to Declan’s relief. Declan pushed Hanz off of himself and slowly got up to a seated position. He leaned over the dying German.

  “Why did you do it? What’s the purpose?” he asked, through labored breath.

  “For a better… world,” said Hanz, so softly that Declan had to lean in to hear him. “Heil… Hitler…”

  Those were the last words Hanz Himmler spoke. Declan looked up at Alfred.

  “Thank you, Alfred. I think you just saved my bacon,” said Declan.

  “Of course, my Lord,” said Alfred. “What did he say?”

  “I asked him why he did it. He said he did it for a better world. Then he hailed Hitler.” Declan winced. Alfred came over to him and lay the shotgun on Lady Marmalade’s bed.

  Frances came around to see her son.

  “My dear God,” she said, “you’re bleeding.”

  “Yes, that second shot he aimed at me found its mark. I think it went through my shoulder. The knife cut me a couple of times too. I don’t think it’s too serious though.”

  Frances held onto him to support him. In the skirmish, Alfred had knocked Alfie and Amelia aside in the hallway. They now crowded into the room to see if everything was alright.

  “I’ll call for the ambulance, my Lady,” said Alfred, “and I’ll get some bandages.”

  THIRTY

  Heavy is the Night

  DETECTIVE Inspector Pearce stood outside with Lady Marmalade, Alfred, Alfie and Amelia as they watched the ambulance take Declan to the hospital. The physician that attended Declan at the scene was not concerned that any of Declan’s wounds were life threatening. With that knowledge, Declan had insisted that his mother and sister not attend the hospital until they had rested and had a good breakfast. Frances had reluctantly agreed.

  “And you have no idea why he came after you again?” asked Pearce, as they watched the ambulance disappear down the road.

  The neighbors had gathered on their front steps and on the road to see what the commotion was about.

  “Let’s go back inside for some privacy,” said Frances.

  Pearce, Alfred, Amelia and Alfie all followed Lady Marmalade into the house.

  “I’ll put some tea on to settle the nerves, my Lady,” said Ginny.

  Frances nodded and smiled at her. They made their way towards the tea room which overlooked Hyde Park. Though at this time there was nothing to see for the night was as black as murder. They sat down as the coroner and his team brought the dead body of Hanz Himmler down from Lady Marmalade’s room.

  “His last words, when asked by Declan why he did it were, ‘for a better world’. Then he said ‘heil Hitler’. That was all.”

  Detective Sergeant Lavatish came into the room to see them all.

  “They’re all finished upstairs, Inspector,” he said.

  “Good,” said Pearce. “Head on back to the Yard and I’ll join you shortly.”

  Lavatish nodded his head and made his way outside the house, following the coroner and closing the door behind him. Ginny brought a big pot of tea into the room and let it steep for a moment. Pearce looked at Frances for a moment.


  “I’m afraid I owe you a sincere apology,” he said. “It never crossed my mind that he’d be back to try and finish what he started up at Avalon.”

  Frances smiled weakly at him. She patted him on the forearm.

  “I have never been so scared in all my life. Thank heaven’s for my son and for Alfred for once again saving the day.”

  She looked up at Alfred who stood off to the side and smiled at her. He nodded his acknowledgement.

  “It was nothing at all, my Lady,” he said.

  “You owe me no apology, Devlin,” she said. “I am as surprised as you are that he came back here. I mean really, I was just incidental to the case he was involved with. I really thought he was finished after he had murdered all three of them involved with Operation Cracking Eggs or whatever its silly name was.”

  “To think that a madman made it into our house to kill us all,” said Amelia. “It is a deeply shocking feeling. And I saw poor Decky struggling with him with his wounded arm, and then Alfred almost knocked me off my feet as he came barging down the hallway…”

  “I do apologize, Lady Amelia,” he said.

  “No need, Alfred, you’re the hero today. You shook some sense into me. I shouldn’t have just been standing like a wooden figure, should I? I mean I should have done something.”

  “Sometimes in extreme distress the body behaves in strange ways. Being shocked still is not uncommon, Amelia,” said Pearce.

  “Still, it’s been a very hairy experience.”

  “It’s been terribly upsetting to everyone involved,” said Frances.

  Pearce nodded in agreement.

  “I must say, I’m not disappointed he’s dead though. Up at Bletchley Park yesterday everyone was salivating at the idea of capturing him and using him as a pawn to bring concessions from Hitler. As I had mentioned earlier, this fellow was the younger brother of Heinrich Himmler.”

  Frances nodded.

  “But I don’t think Hitler would have been moved to make any concessions about Hanz Himmler. Not at this stage of the war anyway. And now that he’s dead, perhaps that’s best. It’ll let them know how tough we are. How serious we are in winning this war.”

  “Now of course you’ll have to find out where he stayed. Find out exactly what sort of documents he had.”

  “That’s the easy part. Shouldn’t take us long,” said Pearce. “I’m just grateful we got him and nobody has been seriously injured. Though Declan stands to earn a medal for his bravery. And Alfred too, of course.”

  Frances poured the tea and they sat in silence while everyone added milk and sugar, or cream in Frances’ case.

  “All I can think of,” said Frances, after some time, “is that he wanted to clear up all the loose ends, and I think he saw me as a loose end.”

  Pearce nodded.

  “I suppose we’ll never know. However, that seems like the likeliest reason because he didn’t know you personally, did he?”

  Frances shook her head.

  “Never saw him before this past weekend.”

  They drank their tea before Frances spoke again.

  “I will tell you what I’m not happy with,” she said.

  Pearce looked at her expecting to get a lecture.

  “MI5 and MI6 need to work more closely together. I don’t believe any of this would have happened if they’d both been playing on the same side.”

  Pearce had nothing to add. She wasn’t wrong. In fact, if they’d all been on the same side then three senseless murders might never have happened. But wishing so wouldn’t make it so. But if there was one person who could instigate change it was Lady Marmalade, and Pearce was certain she was going to ruffle some feathers over this.

  “If wishes were coins, we’d all be millionaires,” said Pearce.

  Frances looked at him quizzically.

  “I beg your pardon, Frances,” he said, “I was just thinking out loud.”

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  I write two mystery series. A cozy mystery series and a hardboiled detective mystery series.

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  The tough drinking, hard talking Anthony Carrick is an ex-LAPD homicide cop with a conflicted past. From the same mold of Sam Spade and Mike Hammer, he enjoys seeking justice for the downtrodden. Sometimes that means using his fists.

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