Ungentlemanly Warfare

by Howard Linskey

  Romain’s face was a picture. It would perhaps have been amusing under different circumstances but there was nothing funny about Walsh’s situation or the risks he had taken to come into the city, evading the German checkpoints and passing patrols. He’d left Simone’s truck parked on a side street then went the rest of the way on foot until he reached the café Romain visited; the same one they had met in before when Walsh had begun to plan a mission involving the now destroyed Maquis force. The café overlooked the rear of the hotel where the man worked so Walsh waited there and was able to witness him leave at the end of the day but he did not enter the café. Walsh drained his drink and followed Romain down the street and increased his pace till he could catch up with the man without drawing too much attention to him by running.

  ‘Romain,’ he called and when the man did not hear or chose not to turn, Walsh reached out a hand and placed it on his shoulder. The startled man spun round and a look of panic greeted the presence of Walsh.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he hissed at Walsh, ‘are you crazy?’ He shrugged off the other man’s hand.

  Walsh was thankful there was no one else in range to hear those words. ‘I’ve got the money you lent me, Romain,’ he said brightly in a tone that was louder than his companion’s.

  ‘I can’t do this,’ Romain whispered and his eyes darted from side to side in case they were being watched.

  ‘Let me buy you a drink then to thank you,’ said Walsh with a forced smile. Then he lowered his voice and placed a hand firmly back on Romain’s shoulder, ‘I need to speak to you about the professor. It won’t take long.’

  ‘But they’re all dead,’ his tone was disbelieving, as if he couldn’t understand why Walsh would still be interested in the German professor.

  ‘Yes,’ said Walsh firmly, ‘they are. We were betrayed by someone.’ There was menace in his voice. ‘So, help me now and perhaps I will be able to convince myself it wasn’t you.’

  It was fortunate for Walsh that Madame Dechabert, like many who worked in her trade, chose to keep her occupation and her private life distinctly separate.

  The plump, middle-aged lady who lived alone in the cottage near the village school house let it be known that she lived off investments but did not fully disclose the nature of them to her neighbours. Instead she allowed a vague understanding that her money came from property in town and that this property could be rented, for the right price.

  Madame Dechabert considered this to be a half-truth; the brothel was property after all and both its rooms and her girls could be rented out by the night or, more commonly, by the hour. There was nothing to be gained from revealing the truth, however, unless she actively wished to be shunned in the village and called out by the Catholic priest from his pulpit for her debauchery. This was not hypocrisy on her part but simply an awareness of the double standards most people held about her profession. Madame Dechabert was a brothel keeper and though most people in her country knew that these places existed and were largely tolerated by the authorities as something many people wanted or needed, she also realised her standing in her own community would be severely imperilled if anyone knew she personally provided such a service.

  When Harry Walsh had first questioned Montueil’s contact at the hotel, Romain, he had learned a great deal about the condition of Professor Gaerte’s residence there, including his preferred form of entertainment and who had been entrusted with organising it. At that stage, the information didn’t seem to be of much use to him. After all, he was planning to kill the man not blackmail him but he listened nonetheless to the tales of women being regularly procured for the scientist. His more recent visit, which had so alarmed Romain, was needed to get the details of who provided these women and where they came from. It was then he learned of Madame Dechabert’s role in proceedings and, being a thorough man, he had listened further to Romain’s description of her double life, as both brothel keeper and quietly respectable resident of a village just outside Rouen.

  During the long days following the slaughter of the Maquis and Sam’s tortuously slow recovery from his wound, somehow the germ of an idea had been planted in Walsh’s mind. Now he had a name: Madame Dechabert; and a place: her village. All he needed now was an exact address and this was eventually procured with the help of Simone, who simply let a number of close and trusted souls know it was required. Within two days, discreet enquiries had been made and the exact location of the brothel owner’s cottage had been confirmed.

  Just like the Milice leader, Combret, Madame Cecile Dechabert returned home one evening to find Walsh sitting calmly in her living room. When the shocked woman saw him, he placed a finger to his lips then gestured with his gun, beckoning her to leave her home by the rear door. She looked terrified but she went quietly enough.

  Emma kept a pistol trained on Madame Dechabert as Walsh drove them deep into the countryside. The two women were hidden in the back of the green van. Madame Dechabert had been instructed to say nothing and in fear she complied.

  Only when they were miles outside the city did Walsh halt the truck and climb into the back with them to commence an explanation. He began by informing the terrified brothel keeper that she would die unless she told him everything about the German professor, the girls she sent him, and exactly what he did with them once they were inside his hotel room. Initially, he sensed she was still too scared of the Germans to cooperate, so Walsh produced his knife and threatened to cut her throat unless she changed her mind. He must have been convincing for she immediately told him everything. Sometimes Walsh wished there was a more potent weapon than fear but, if it did exist, he was yet to become aware of it.

  ‘One of Gaerte’s men made the first approach,’ she told him, ‘he requested “a lady’s company” for the Professor. That’s how it began. Now he is a regular client.’

  ‘How often do you send him a girl?’

  ‘Every two days. There was one last night so he is expecting another tomorrow.’

  ‘Who chooses them?’

  ‘I do and it’s not so easy, as the professor prefers new ones and I am running out of suitable companions. Some are reluctant. They may be whores but they are still patriots,’ she told Walsh defiantly, ‘as am I. Do you think I like sending my girls there but what choice do I have? None.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ he said.

  Madam Dechabert explained that her girls did not live in her bordello, so it wasn’t necessary to summon them there for the job. Instead she would despatch a messenger to a girl’s apartment. She would then be required to show up punctually and perform satisfactorily. Because the guards were expecting a girl they were none too concerned when one duly arrived, even if they had never seen her before. They were aware of the professor’s need for variety. There was no code word, all they had to say was that Madame Dechabert had sent them. They would then be escorted to Gaerte’s landing, whereupon the guard on his door would search the girl before admitting her. The sessions with Gaerte would last between half an hour and an hour and were not especially taxing.

  ‘Sometimes he will pretend to punish them, you know,’ and she illustrated her point with a smacking motion against her own thigh. ‘He likes to play the headmaster,’ and Madame Dechabert shrugged, as if she had long ago given up trying to comprehend men, ‘mostly he just wants to screw them and send them on their way. Sometimes he’s asleep before they are even dressed. That is all I can tell you about him.’

  Walsh thought for a while and when he finally spoke she listened intently.

  ‘Have you chosen the girl for tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And has she received her message?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘There will be no message.’

  Madame Dechabert nodded then immediately glanced at Emma who avoided her eye. Walsh continued. She would not be returning to the brothel that evening or the next. Madame Dechabert would
write a note, explaining that a relative had been taken suddenly and seriously ill and she would not be back for a couple of days. Walsh would arrange for the note to be pushed through the door in the middle of the night.

  ‘My mother is still alive, by the grace of God,’ she suggested.

  ‘Good, cooperate with me and you will see her again soon. The worst you will have is one uncomfortable night in the woods.’

  ‘It will not be the first time I have slept in a field. I am not so grand,’ then she frowned ‘but what will the Germans do when they know I helped you?’

  ‘They won’t know. You were forced. I’ll leave you tied up. A message will be delivered stating exactly where the collaborating bitch-whore can be found.’ Madame Dechabert nodded in support of this plan. ‘They will find you terrified but largely unharmed,’ she raised her eyebrows in disbelief, ‘the members of the Maquis do not murder women,’ Walsh continued, ‘usually. Besides, we kept you alive for a reason. When you are questioned by Colonel Tauber, as you will be, I want you to give him a message.’

  ‘Is that it?’ He nodded. She thought for a moment then looked about her at the isolated location, ‘I don’t really have a choice, do I?’

  Walsh showed her the pistol, ‘It’s either that or I kill you now. I can’t let you leave.’

  ‘I see,’ she said, ‘and the professor, what are you going to do?’

  Walsh smiled, ‘I’m going to send him a message as well.’

  40

  ‘It’s no use saying, “We are doing our best.”

  You have got to succeed in doing what is necessary.’

  Winston Churchill

  A little over twenty-four hours later, Emma set off for her rendezvous with the professor, in clothes borrowed from Simone and her mother and altered to give her a more burlesque appearance; the skirt considerably shortened, a precious pair of silk stockings loaned, garish make-up applied and the top two buttons of her blouse left undone. After terrorising Madame Dechabert and tying her to a tree, this was another reason Walsh was feeling far from proud of himself. He knew he was sending the woman he loved into mortal peril and there was a strong likelihood he might never see Emma again.

  Simone drove the little green truck into Rouen. Her cargo included a consignment of fruit and vegetables, which could be accounted for as produce to be sold on a market stall the next morning, and Emma, whose presence would be much harder to explain. For that reason and to avoid the inevitable German checkpoints, Simone drew the truck to the side of the road a couple of kilometres from the edge of town and let Emma out. She kissed the English woman on both cheeks and whispered ‘bonne chance’ then got back into the truck immediately and drove off towards town, leaving Emma on her own to make her way slowly and cautiously into Rouen on foot.

  Watching Simone’s truck rattle round a corner and disappear from view, Emma had never felt more alone.

  There was a uniformed guard on the front door of the professor’s hotel. Emma approached him and he regarded her with suspicion till she became irrationally convinced he could read her nationality and true intentions just by looking at her face and was about to raise his rifle. ‘Madame Dechabert sent me,’ she managed, ‘for the Herr Professor.’

  The soldier looked at Emma dispassionately for a moment then stepped wordlessly to one side to admit her. As she walked into the hotel Emma Stirling told herself to get a grip and not to let the terror she was feeling weaken her judgement. She knew just how easy it would be to betray herself at the critical moment. One wrong word or gesture that made her appear out of place, a look that caused suspicion; any one of these would be enough to condemn her.

  Emma had been briefed on the layout of the hotel and now she walked through the large open lounge towards the ornately carved wooden staircase that led to the first floor, her eyes fixed firmly ahead so she did not have to return the gaze of the handful of SS officers drinking in the hotel’s lounge. They immediately stopped talking as she entered the hotel and she sensed their eyes upon her. This was not a new sensation for Emma but it was the first time that adoring gazes had come from a room full of enemy officers, all of whom assumed her to be a whore. It made her feel even more nervous to realise how vulnerable she was here; a woman from an occupied land in a hotel filled with its conquerors, who now regarded her with the carelessness they would reserve for someone who had slept with countless men for money. Any officer-class chivalry these men might retain for wives and sweethearts would surely not extend to her and as they watched her like dogs eying a bone, she realised the only thing that might save her from brutal treatment was their fear of upsetting the important Nazi scientist she was about to meet.

  The only sound in the lounge came from the heels of Emma’s shoes, which clicked as she took each self-conscious step across the ancient wooden floorboards that creaked under her weight.

  Eventually, when she was no more than a couple of steps from the staircase and the German officers were some way behind her now, one of them spoke. The shock of his loud voice made Emma freeze instantly before she realised he had spoken in German and not to her. He must have made a lewd joke about her because his comment was followed by braying laughter from the other men.

  Move, Emma, she told herself firmly but found she was still rooted to the spot in fear, unable to obey her thoughts, move damn it!

  With a supreme effort of will Emma put one foot in front of the other and stepped on to the staircase then she kept going, as the sound of the laughter died away to be replaced by distracted conversation from the men.

  Madame Dechabert’s girls were always given the Professor’s room number but Emma didn’t need it. Gaerte’s room was the only one on the first floor that had a guard standing outside it. The soldier was a big man and he seemed alert, snapping his head to one side to look at Emma. He visibly straightened and took a step towards her but his face softened when he took her in and his gaze told her that he understood the reason for her presence.

  ‘Mademoiselle,’ he greeted her with a tiny bow.

  ‘I am here to see the Herr Professor,’ she repeated, since this approach had worked with the guard on the main door.

  The sentry had a little French, perhaps enough for an occupier to get by. ‘Of course,’ he managed politely, even though she was a whore, ‘one moment,’ and he held out his arms to indicate that she should allow him to search her. Emma complied, stretching out her own arms, and the guard took his time. First, he ran both of his hands all the way along one of Emma’s outstretched arms, squeezing and patting her through her clothes as he went then he tackled the other arm. Next, he examined her hat and pressed gently against it, even though it would surely be impossible to hide a gun or a knife there, and he let his fingers trail through her hair as if she might be hiding a poisoned hair pin. He paused for a moment before letting his hands move lower and their eyes met, he was close enough for her to smell the tobacco on his breath.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said a little nervously then he let his palms travel from her shoulders and right across then underneath her breasts, which, even allowing for the terror of the moment, made Emma want to slap him hard across the face but then she reminded herself that she was a whore, who was used to being pawed like a lump of meat, so instead she gave him a disapproving look, which implied she knew he was allowing himself to handle the goods without paying for them and he flushed a little. He paused momentarily at her navel, as if he was contemplating where his duty began and decorum ended, the palm of his hand now rested against the top of her skirt and his eyes narrowed slightly. Perhaps he remembered then that she was a whore not a lady and Emma felt his hand press more firmly against her, fingertips slipping beneath the waistband of her skirt. She knew it was about to slide further.

  ‘Stop or the professor shall hear of it.’

  The soldier froze, his hand halting just inside the waistband of her skirt and their eyes locked once more. Emma stare
d back at him defiantly and, for a moment, she was convinced he was about to degrade her for the sake of it or perhaps as a punishment for her resistance but his fear of the professor must have been more powerful than his anger at being told what to do by a whore. He silently withdrew his hand and turned towards the professor’s door.

  Gaerte was in his bathroom when the knock came; it made him start and he realised he was excited. He paused in front of the mirror to check his appearance, even though the girl was already paid for and it hardly mattered but he still liked to think of each one as a conquest. Gaerte ran a hand through a disobedient clump of hair, pinning it to his forehead then walked back into the bedroom before calling, ‘Yes.’

  The SS guard insisted on letting the girl in himself. It was an intrusion, an impudence that highlighted the man’s low-rank vulgarity, though it was not an indiscretion Gaerte would find easy to complain about to the man’s superior officer. How does one describe a lack of decorum concerning the manner in which a whore is indiscreetly let into one’s bedroom?

  Gaerte’s irritation was soon forgotten once he got a good look at the girl. She was young, slender and strikingly pretty with a natural look, eschewing the gaudy make-up so common to members of her profession, with just a touch too much red lipstick to give her away. Her hair was pinned back and partially hidden under a hat. She might have looked almost like a lady if it were not for the excessively tight skirt that clung to her like a jealous lover, its hem inches too high above the knee for respectability.

  Gaerte dismissed the guard with a nod, leaving the two of them alone in his room. The girl seemed a little nervous. He was used to that. Gaerte’s status rendered them all the same; young, beautiful but scared and he preferred not to put them at their ease. She called him ‘Herr Professor’. He dipped his head slightly, going along with the sham, pretending she was a lady.