Death on the Rhine

by Charles Whiting

  At seven, it started to rain, a thin, bitter drizzle which chilled to the bone so that the men on the open deck huddled in their oilskins, stamping their feet to keep the chill out, wishing they were back in the warm fug of the galley.

  Smith wiped the moisture from his face and cursed. ‘Just the damned weather we need at this moment, Dickie.’

  ‘You can say that again, Smithie. Can’t see a hand before my face. Jolly bad show.’

  ‘Well, we’ve got to live with it. Let’s get in closer to the river bank and use the searchlight. We’ll sweep it along systematically.’

  Dickie wasn’t so enthusiastic. ‘But do you really think, old bean,’ he said, ‘that this Hun murderer chappie will approach the house from that direction?’

  ‘I don’t really know, Dickie. What do you suggest?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it since the rain started. Visibility is about zero and I don’t think we’re doing much good out here. I think we’d do more good if we joined McIntyre with foot patrols. I think it’d be better for the chaps too. At least they’d be moving and keeping a bit warmer.’

  Smith considered for a moment. Then he made his decision. Thus it was that the Swordfish was tying up just as Hopkins drove the GOC’s Rolls Royce out of the villa’s drive to pick up the General’s last visitor of that fateful Saturday night.

  * * *

  Kati von Duckwitz stood naked in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom and admired her young body. She had just emerged from her bath and her ivory skin glowed a faint, warm pink. She turned and looked over her shoulder, admiring her shapely back and pert buttocks. Happily she blew herself a kiss and taking up the large powder puff, dipped it in the scented powder and began to dust herself with it, enjoying the sensation as she spread the powder over her breasts.

  She had always felt like this. When she had gone to Cheltenham Ladies College back in 1919, paid for by her rich Swiss relatives, she had not enjoyed any of the ‘crushes’ that the other girls had on one another. Not because she was the ex-enemy, the first German girl in the college since the war, but because she enjoyed her own body more than she would have done that of another girl. Alone in her own cubicle in the dormitory at night, listening to the secretive giggles and moans of girls in bed together, she had felt nothing, neither lust nor sorrow that she didn’t have a ‘little friend’. She had been sufficient to herself and always would be. She wet the finger of her free hand and inserted it gently in her vagina. She gave a little shudder of delight and told herself that was the best way of all. No man alive could ever give her that kind of thrill.

  But she needed men all the same. Even she was forced to pander to their silly little perversions, particularly the older ones. For men meant money and power. She had long realised that, and she was determined never to be poor again. Through men – and bed – she could achieve her aim, the restoration of the von Duckwitz estate in all its former glory. It was a duty she owed to her ancestors.

  She stopped playing with herself and concentrated on her dressing, knowing that this night would be one of the most momentous in her life. She slipped on the sheer silk black drawers the General had brought her on his last leave in Paris. One of the new fangled brassieres, also in black and from Paris, followed. She sat on the bed, still admiring her body in the mirror and pulled on black stockings, which fastened with red garters – the General was always very specific on what she should wear underneath. More than once he had sent her an itemised list prior to their Saturday-night mating, instructing her on what she should clothe herself in. Finally the frock came, one of those new very short ones imported from New York, ‘the flapper look’, the papers were calling it. It barely came to her knees and would have cost a fortune on the German market. Fortunately with the sovereigns the General gave her she had been able to buy it for a song.

  She pulled it down snugly.

  Now she was ready to look out of her window. She crossed to the big window overlooking the park opposite. It was raining and visibility was bad, but he was there all right. He was lounging against a lamp, hat pulled well down over his face so that she could not see it. But she knew it was him all right. She had been sent a full-length photograph of the man the previous week.

  She nodded her approval and went back into the bedroom. Her handbag lay on the dressing table. She opened it and looked the contents over. There was the new Swiss passport, a bundle of currency, French, Swiss and British, and beyond that – the little pearl-handled pistol.

  She smiled at herself in the dressing-table mirror and then, content, she sat down and began to brush her short bob, which the delighted General said always made her look ‘no more than a schoolgirl – and a very naughty one at that’.

  Her smile broadened at the memory. Just how naughty she was the silly old fool could hardly conceive. She continued to brush her hair, while down below the big man waited in the rain, the drops running down his ruined face unheeded…

  * * *

  Trooper Hopkins drove the big Rolls Royce carefully. The General was a stickler for appearances and he couldn’t afford to have some fool squarehead bumping into it in this terrible weather. Not that they were about much. He turned off the Hansaring into the street where she lived, just opposite the new park created by the burgomaster Adenauer, the General’s friend, who looked like a wizened monkey. The street was deserted, the cobbles gleaming in the rain in the headlights of the big car. All to the good, Hopkins told himself. He knew trouble was expected for tonight and he, personally, didn’t want to be involved in it.

  The General could get on with his whore-mongering later on – and what else was to come. He’d be quite happy to put his feet up, drinking his ‘Bass’ and smoking his pipe, and having a good old read at the ‘Pink ’Un’, though it was pretty impossible to use any of the racing tips it gave its readers.

  ‘Number Sixty-Nine,’ he read out the number of the apartment house where she had her flat. He sniffed. ‘Right kind of number for her nibs,’ he said aloud, speaking to himself in the fashion of lonely men. He patted the pocket of his immaculate tunic and felt the comforting weight of a pistol it in. Hopkins was what he called ‘a belt and braces man’; never took chances. He looked left and right. The place was empty. He nodded his approval. Putting on his cap, he strode through the rain to the door of the apartment house. He pressed the bell and waited, cap off, ready to greet her with the usual, ‘Good evening, Miss. The General expects you.’ He sniffed again and told himself the General was expecting a little bit of the other as well.

  Upstairs, Kati von Duckwitz heard the bell ring. She was already fully dressed and ready, handbag under her arm. But she forced herself to count off the minutes to give him time. Then when five minutes were up, she opened her door and prepared to descend to the waiting car.

  Seven

  ‘Okay,’ McIntyre agreed, wiping the raindrops off his tense face, ‘I guess you’re right. You can’t do much good on the river in damned weather like this—’ He stopped suddenly. The General’s car was returning, turning slowly into the drive to the villa, as Hopkins worked the windscreen wipers manually.

  McIntyre said, ‘Oh, it’s the GOC’s girlfriend.’

  Next to him, Dickie Bird grinned despite the rain, and said, ‘Heaven help a sailor on a night like this! God, what wouldn’t I give to tuck myself around a nice nubile female – even if she is a Hun.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Smith said and McIntyre said, ‘You never know. A Hun is a Hun.’

  He stepped into the drive and held up his hand. In time, Hopkins spotted him and, pulling up the Rolls Royce, turned on the interior lighting. Smith and Bird saw a very pretty blonde sitting in the back, doll-like, with a white powdered face and huge baby-blue eyes.

  ‘The General’s guest, sir,’ Hopkins said – and sniffed significantly.

  ‘What’s up. Trooper?’ McIntyre rasped. ‘Got a cold?’

  Hopkins thought it best not to reply. Instead, he waited patiently, while McIntyre touched his han
d to his battered cap in cold politeness, ‘Good evening, miss,’ he said, and swept his hard gaze around the Rolls’ interior. He nodded to Hopkins. ‘All right, Trooper, carry on.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Good night, sir.’

  McIntyre nodded again and the big car carried on, with the girl not deigning to notice McIntyre’s presence, though her heart was beating like a trip-hammer.

  Dickie whistled softly through his teeth. ‘I say,’ he gushed, ‘that one’s worth a sin or two.’

  ‘Not for the likes of you,’ Smith said firmly. ‘Reserved for general officers.’

  ‘There’s no justice in this world,’ Dickie moaned.

  ‘Knock it off,’ McIntyre interrupted harshly. The strain was beginning to show on him, Smith told himself. ‘You fellers can form the inner perimeter right around the villa,’ he decided. ‘If I had my way I’d have the lot of you inside the place. But the General won’t buy that, of course. He wants to be alone with his beloved.’

  ‘Can’t blame him,’ Dickie said, a little mournfully, as the sudden gust of wind lashed his face with ice-cold rain.

  ‘What do you think?’ Smith asked urgently. ‘Do you think von Horn has called it off? I mean our security is pretty damn tight.’

  McIntyre shook his head. ‘No. We know the killer’s on this side of the Rhine. The silly old fart’s alone in the house with his woman and Trooper Hopkins. The field’s still wide open…’

  The ‘Beast’ crouched in the boot of the Rolls Royce, listening intently as the woman got out and the Tommy driving her said something he couldn’t understand. He heard the car being put into gear once more. It moved off very slowly. If von Horn’s information was correct, the car would now drive to the garage at the back of the house where the chauffeur had his quarters. A minute passed. The car halted again. He heard the clatter of a steel shutter being raised. He nodded his approval. The door of a garage. Von Horn’s information had been correct.The car moved inside. The door was shut. The engine was turned off.

  He heard the chauffeur cough and then the crunch of his boots on a concrete floor. A door was opened. That would be the door to the stairs leading to the chauffeur’s quarters above the garage. It was now or never. Gently, the ‘Beast’ raised the lid of the boot, grateful for the perfection of the big luxury car. It made absolutely no noise. He stepped out and peered through the yellow gloom. The door to the stairs was still open. The chauffeur had not yet closed it. He darted forwards. He had to get up those stairs and into the villa.

  Heavy boots were coming downstairs once more. The chauffeur was coming back to lock the car and the door. The ‘Beast’ tensed, big hands at the ready.

  Trooper Hopkins came through the door, a bottle of ‘Bass’ already open. He had been craving a drink of beer for hours now. That had been the first thing he had done upstairs – had a good swig at the ‘Bass’. ‘Can’t stand that foreign stuff,’ he had said to himself. ‘Like gnat’s piss.’ He stopped short. ‘Hey, what the devil are you doing there?’ he cried.

  Suddenly he saw the ‘Beast’s’ mutilated face. ‘Christ Almighty!’ he exclaimed. He dropped the bottle. It shattered on the concrete floor. Madly, he tried to reach for the revolver in the pocket of his tunic.

  The ‘Beast’ didn’t give him a chance. With an animal grunt that came from deep down inside him, he sprang forwards. His hands found and tensed around the soldier’s neck. Hopkins gasped, face suddenly contorted with unreasoning, overwhelming fear. He tried to break that murderous grip. To no avail! The ‘Beast’ exerted yet more pressure. Hopkins’ face turned purple. His eyes bulged from his head. Desperately, furiously, Hopkins tried to break free before it was too late. Already red stars were exploding in front of his eyes. His heart was thumping away furiously. He’d be unconscious in a few moments.

  The ‘Beast’ didn’t give him a chance. ‘Die,’ he hissed through gritted teeth, ‘die!’

  Suddenly, startlingly, Hopkins went limp, his eyes rolling upwards.

  The ‘Beast’ was taking no chances. He kept up that tremendous pressure for a minute longer. Then slowly and gently he lowered Hopkins to the floor and felt for a pulse. There wasn’t one. The Englishman was dead. The ‘Beast’ licked his suddenly dry lips. He felt a sense of elation. He was inside the villa, alone with the General and the woman…

  * * *

  ‘Well, how do you like it, Alex?’ Kati von Duckwitz asked, after the General had very gallantly kissed her hand.

  ‘Exceedingly pretty, my dear,’ the General said, his usual pale face flushed with the afternoon’s drinking with the officers of the 8th Hussars. ‘Most becoming.’

  She laughed, showing those beautiful, white teeth of hers. Seemingly full of the exuberance of youth, she twirled round on the toes of her high-heel shoes. The short skirt furled outwards and upwards and the General had a momentary glimpse of taut young buttocks clad in sheer black silk. He almost spilled his glass of champagne at the sight. ‘What a delightfully naughty young filly you are, m’dear!’ he exclaimed.

  She tweaked his raddled cheek playfully, ‘And I hope my general is going to be very naughty too tonight?’ she simpered.

  ‘By Gad,’ the GOC said heartily, ‘you do do something for an old chap like me. But I’m neglecting my duties. Let me get you a glass of champagne.’

  ‘I’d love one,’ she said, all smiles and fluttering eyelashes. ‘I’d rather like to get a little tipsy.’

  ‘Well, I’m the chap to get you in that delightful state, m’dear. Here you are. Bottoms up. What?’

  ‘Bottoms up,’ she echoed and raised the flute. ‘But not just yet, what?’ she mimicked his cavalryman’s drawl quite well and he exclaimed, ‘Capital, m’dear. Capital. You’ve got me off to a T. Now then, be a dear and come and sit on my lap. It’s cold and rainy outside. And old buffer like me needs a bit of warming up on a night like this, what.’

  Obediently she slipped on to his lap, his polished cavalry boots creaking as he took the extra weight. Her short skirt rode up again to reveal a delightful red silk garter holding up the sheer black silk stocking.

  ‘I say,’ he said, feeling a stirring in his aged loins already. ‘That red garter does something for a chap.’

  Playfully, she hooked her fingers inside the garter and pulled the elastic up, allowing it then to slip and slap against her taut thigh.

  He chuckled with delight. ‘I say, Kati, m’dear. I think we’re going to have a perfectly ripping time tonight, what.’

  ‘Oh, perfectly ripping, what,’ she mimicked him again with a smile. Inside her, a hard little voice said, ‘Yes, and for the last time, too…’

  * * *

  ‘I say, Dickie,’ Smith exclaimed angrily, as a fresh burst of bitterly cold raindrops slashed him across the face, ‘Bugger this for a tale. Those brown jobs’ – he meant the men of the West Yorks patrolling the river bank somewhat noisily, ‘are trained for this sort of thing. They enjoy being out in all sorts of weathers and being miserable. Well, we’re not. Come on.’

  ‘Where are we going, old bean?’ Dickie asked, feeling pretty miserable and cold himself.

  ‘Inside the villa.’ He indicated the house behind them. ‘Look, the old codger’s upstairs already with his girlfriend. The lights are out up there. He won’t even know we’re inside. Come on, I’ve had enough.’

  Together the wet, dispirited crew of the Swordfish, their oilskins glistening in the bitter rain, filed inside the big hall. Ginger and the rest gazed around at the oil paintings and portraits that adorned the walls, with something like apprehension.

  Dickie saw the looks and said, ‘Don’t worry. It ain’t the General’s either. He’s just borrowed it from the Huns. But don’t go making a mess of his floor. Generals don’t like you to do things like that.’

  Smith turned to CPO Ferguson, ‘Chiefie, you’re in charge of the chaps out here. Mr Bird and me will have a look around on the ground floor. Test the windows and the like.’ He frowned. ‘Funny, you’d think that the GOC would have se
rvants and the like, more than just that one groom.’

  ‘Ay, he does,’ CPO Ferguson said, face set in a look of disapproval. ‘When he has his fancy woman in, they’re all packed off to the annexe at yon back o’ the huis. Early.’

  Smith grinned. ‘You’re a real old puritan, Chiefie, do you know.’

  ‘Well, I dinna rightly ken what yon word means,’ Ferguson growled, ‘but if it means I dinna like our generals carryin’ on with Jerry fancy women – then I am.’

  Now Smith and Bird wandered through the silent house, checking to see whether the many doors and windows were securely locked. All was silent save for the howl of the wind and the rattle of the rain-lashed windows. Occasionally there were the sounds of muted laughter and once something, which could have been a bottle, falling on the floor from above. But that was all. In the dim light, the bulbs flickering every now and again because of the storm, there was something a little eerie about the place. More than once Smith was tempted to look behind him to see if there was really anyone lurking there in the shadows, but he caught himself just in time. Now when they spoke, the two of them lowered their voices, as if they might be overheard. Why, they did not know. For they knew there was no one else on this floor.

  ‘It comes,’ Dickie Bird summed it up in a whisper as they turned into the kitchens, ‘from reading far too many ghost stories at Harrow-on-the-Hill after lights out.’

  Smith chuckled softly. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said aloud. But at the back of his mind a hard little voice said, ‘It’s not that at all. It was the look on poor old Sparks’ face. The monster who murdered him must have the strength of a maniac.’ The small hairs at the back of Smith’s head suddenly stood erect and he shivered.

  ‘Somebody walk over your grave?’ Dickie quipped.

  ‘Something like that.’ Smith forced himself to be business-like. ‘All right, cut the cackle. Let’s have a look-see at those windows.’