The Cyclist (28 page)

‘You and your stupid ideas. What was she to you anyway? Did you... did you?’

‘Of course not. She was a young and talented French girl. She deserved to have a life. A good life. He took it away. He has to pay.’

‘Who has to pay?’ Zara said.

‘Never you mind. It is too complicated to tell you now. Now, you all have to get into the car. Let’s go.’

It was cold and icy outside. It crossed Auguste’s mind to leave and never come back, leaving Brunner’s men to make their fruitless raid. He and Odette could be many miles away by the time the SD gave chase.

Something stopped him however and he knew what it was too. It was a deep and vital anger. It was a towering rage for his country, fed by the German presence, but there was guilt too. Guilt because he had been so slow to react. He had allowed his life to become complicit, treacherous. He collaborated with the Nazis and it betrayed all he valued. How could it take him so long to realise the width of the chasm between good and evil, displayed before his own eyes. The thought nonplussed him.

He wondered as he drove, whether God was guiding him but he put away the thought. He was killing God at the same time as he would kill Bruner. His denial of the mortal sin of murder was the same as if he denied Christ, denied the whole Church and its holy laws. He felt as if some unrecognised hand guided him. If it was the Devil, then so be it. If it was Satan then he felt Satan was right. And what did it make him? He knew he loved Christ. He loved his Church but he felt forced now to go against it all for the sake of honour and justice. He felt everyone around him had forgotten those concepts and now he alone stood between humanity and the abyss.

Five miles out of Bergerac, on the Sarlat road, he dropped off his family. To his right was a canal running parallel to the river and he ensured Odette and the girls hid well out of sight, on its bank under some bushes.

Odette hugged him. He had to tear himself from her arms and he dared not look back, he was leaving his heart behind. Zara whimpered. He knew what he had to do. Nothing would stop him.

Chapter 24

1

The dark streets of the town, illuminated by his headlights, seemed almost to warn him. They spoke to him. He was leaving; leaving Bergerac, leaving God. Giving up his soul in exchange for his own sense of honour. Why would not God, the Church, Père Bernard understand? He had a responsibility to the people of his town and community. It was what he had taken on when he became Police. The duty had always been a serious and solemn one for him and he never deserted it even if time had now shown how his morals had become tainted.

For Auguste, the Jewish murders were a matter of shame. Could it have been a simple blindness? Or perhaps a voluntary shunning of the truth? All those dead people. Families. Children. They stretched out before his mind’s eye like some killing field, limbs grey and bloodless reaching out to him. And what suffering would he be prepared to face on their behalf? Was he trading his immortal soul for them? No, it was for all of those Frenchmen and women lying in their beds, wondering who the SD would kill next or even where their next meal would come from. Brunner’s death was a key to it. A key to freedom.

The only Jew he knew well was Pierre. His old friend was like a brother, as far as they could ever become kin, with their separate blood ties and separate religions. But he cared for Pierre as he cared for no other man alive. Monique too. He loved the little girl and in one sense for Auguste, everything revolved around this one child. He could no more abandon her for the Brunners of this world to butcher, than he could desert Zara—his own flesh and blood.

A cat skittered across the road in front of him and he swerved. The skid almost caused him to hit a streetlight. The car stalled. He turned over the engine and set off again.

He felt a wave of remorse now. Had he taken on too much? Could he really kill Brunner? Perhaps the man protected himself. He had not thought of it before. Auguste had imagined he would go into Brunner’s house, shoot him and leave. What if there were guards—heavy security? No. He had been to Brunner’s house before. The barred gates were always locked but he knew Brunner would not want his men to be too near him. He was smug. Auguste recalled the hangings and the satanic eagerness of the man. Brunner loved seeing those men hanged. That alone was a reason to hate him. Auguste reasoned however, killing the Major because he hated him, was the wrong motivation. It had to be cold. It had to be the administration of God’s justice. Not revenge, but execution and he wanted Brunner to know why he would kill him. He wanted to see remorse in the man’s eyes. No. Remorse might turn his hand. Remorse might weaken his resolve. He wanted Brunner to repent. Like a sinner before God’s avenging hand, before the inevitability that was death. And Auguste felt he would be God’s vessel of justice. Not only for God but also in some way, for France and the evil these Arian, Nazi demons had visited on his country.

Presently, he saw the street where the SD Major lived. Brunner had commandeered a small house on three storeys facing a cobbled street. It was near the main church of Notre Dame. A single streetlight shed a bright circle of light outside the doorway. The house itself was set back from the street by a six-foot cobbled frontage, and a high barred, wrought iron gate separated the doorstep from the street.

He saw no cars parked. He knew Brunner used a driver and he had never seen him drive. Perhaps Brunner was afraid of bombs. A hundred yards from the house, Auguste parked. A slogan was painted on the brick wall across the street. It read ‘Traison, Famine, Prison’. He smiled. It was a common act of resistance to change the Vichy government’s propaganda words ‘Travaile Famile Patrie’ into this popular slogan. The shade there hid his car, like a shroud. It would not be easy to make out or identify later. He checked his pistol before he got out. He had taken the Luger, though he had never fired one before. He wished then he had practised a few shots but he knew there were only five rounds left in the clip. He knew the writing on the butt, ‘Deutsche Waffenund Munitionsfabriken’ abbreviated to only a lower case ‘m’ and it struck him there was poetic justice in killing Brunner with a weapon made in the heartlands of Germany—‘Das Vaterland’ indeed.

He pulled up the collar of his coat as he walked towards Brunner’s house, a meagre protection against the cold breeze. He checked his watch. It was close to midnight.

He tried the green-painted wrought iron gate, but it was locked. A bell-pull hung suspended beside it and he gripped it with shaking fingers. He heard the ringing as a faint, far-off sound somewhere inside the house. He waited, his heart beating a tattoo against his ribs and his mouth arid as desert.

No reply. He rang again, harder and longer. Auguste pictured Brunner awakening, confused in the dark of his bedroom, reaching for his alarm clock.

A light came on in one of the upstairs rooms. The window opened.

‘Who is this?’

‘It’s me Auguste, Helmut.’

‘Auguste? What do you want at this time of night?’

‘I need to speak to you Helmut. Can I come in?’

‘No. Can’t it wait until the morning? My office.’

‘No. It’s urgent.’

‘What is it about?’

‘It’s Claude. I have to speak to you. Do you want the whole street to know a matter of importance to the SD?’

‘We will speak in the morning, one way or another,’ Brunner said.

The strange tone in his voice revealed exactly what he meant, to Auguste’s mind. He would torture him in the morning. Electric shock. Red-hot irons. Beatings.

‘It is a life or death matter. I have to speak to you now or it may be too late.’

‘You had better go home. I have nothing to say now.’

Brunner began to lower the sash.

‘Helmut, wait.’

‘What is it now?’

‘Claude has evidence about the dead girl. He has spoken to Barbie. There is more.’

‘Is that all?’

Auguste lowered his voice a little to give the impression of complicity.

‘I need to tell you more. You can’t trust Barbie. I cannot tell you out here.’

Brunner considered in silence for a moment.

‘Oh, very well then. Wait there.’

Auguste stood where he was. He was banking on Brunner’s insecurities. The thought that Barbie in Lyon, might comply with a subordinate’s arrest was an attractive one. Auguste was a patient man but the wait had him rattled. Sweat dripped down his back; his heart still thumped and his back began to ache from the muscle tension. He pictured Brunner making a telephone call, he imagined him checking his gun. Auguste gripped the Luger in his pocket. His thumb slipped the safety. He was ready.

2

Auguste did not measure the time it took, but he felt he must have waited minutes. He almost made up his mind to run; to discard his weapon and flee. It was a split second’s decision but as if in a vision, he pictured Bernadette’s body on the porcelain mortuary slab. He knew he was compelled to stay. He also knew deep inside what was right. At last he was resigned to the task he had taken upon himself.

The front door opened and there was Brunner, in dressing gown and slippers. It seemed absurd to see this man dressed like any other domesticated person. He wondered if all such scenes had a ridiculous side to them. It seemed surreal to Auguste, who had only seen him in uniform or dark suits.

Brunner unlocked the outer gate and stepped back. He kept one hand in the pocket of his gown and indicated to Auguste that he should go first.

‘I will follow when I have locked the gate.’

‘I will wait, Helmut, it is no trouble,’ Auguste said.

He did not intend to let Brunner escape. He wanted to keep his eyes fixed on the man.

The gate locked, Auguste said, ‘After you my friend.’

‘No, after you.’

‘Please, you know the way.’

Brunner shrugged. He led the way up a flight of stairs and then to the right into a living area. Had Auguste been capable of taking it in, he would have been horrified at the contents of the room. It held works of art such as any museum would have been proud. A thick Persian rug adorned the floor space, a Louis Quinze low table stood in front of an antique sofa. An antique silver-inlaid walnut chiffonier stood against the wall and pictures by Degas and Renoir hung on the walls, looking down from their gallery-lit positions..

None of this was apparent to Auguste, whose heart felt as if it would leap from his throat at any minute. Brunner turned.

‘Can I offer you a glass of wine?’

‘No. No thank you.’

‘Now then what’s all this about your lieutenant? He’s spoken to Barbie about my little indiscretion?’

‘He was working for you, wasn’t he?’

‘He is ambitious. He does a little service for me now and again. I reward him. Is it a crime? I don’t think so.’

Auguste, unable to contain himself and make more small talk, drew his weapon. The Luger was heavy but he held it with a firm but sweaty grip. Beads of perspiration formed on his forehead.

Unperturbed, Brunner said, ‘What’s this? A French policeman with a German gun? Are you going to arrest me?’

‘No. I’m going to kill you.’

‘If I might say a word about that?’

‘Talk is useless. You tortured, killed, raped a young French girl. It is impossible for me to indict you, but you confessed to me. For me, it is enough. You will pay the price; before God you will pay the price of His justice.’

‘She was nothing in the scheme of things. She gave a little pleasure and now she is dead. It is a nothing.’

‘You’re a murderer.’

‘Yes. Are you not also a murderer? What about all those arrests?’

Murderer? Auguste pictured Claude’s body, his frantic attempts to verify the man was dead.

‘I’ve never killed for pleasure.’

‘Please, there is much to consider here, besides your small-town morals. Let us sit down and take some time to talk about this.’

‘Time? You want to spin this out, don’t you? What did you do? You telephoned, didn’t you? They’re coming aren’t they?’

‘Nonsense! Whom would I telephone? Sit; let us discuss this like civilised men.’

‘When are they coming? How long?’

‘Please Auguste, there is no one coming. Tell me what troubles you.’

‘No. I’m finished talking. You die even if you beg.’

‘Beg? I will not beg. I am a German officer. I have more pride than that. But I need to live. If you go now, I will give you time to get away. I will not look for you until morning.’

‘No.’

Brunner changed then. His voice took on a hard edge, his eyes narrowed and his jaw set.

‘I’m not scared of you, you stupid little French policeman. My men are going to arrest you and your family in only a few hours. It will go ill with you if you shoot me. I am your only hope of life. I can be lenient, you know. My successor will not be, I assure you. They will be here soon.’

‘I cannot. I am here to see you get justice.’

‘Should you not make sure the safety catch is up? It would not be of much use as it is.’

Auguste did not take his eyes off the German.

‘You can’t fool me. I have handled weapons since I was a child.’

‘Then you should know better. The Luger has a safety catch that is on when it is pushed down and off when it is in the up position. Shoot, if you don’t believe me. It won’t function.’

This time Auguste’s anxiety got the better of him and he looked down. It was long enough. With a speed taking Auguste by total surprise, Brunner stepped forward and struck his clenched fist into Auguste’s face. He made a grab at the Luger. The gun went flying, to rest against the wall beneath a Degas depicting a ballet dancer who peered down unsurprised at the weapon.

Dizzy, Auguste remained standing. Time seemed to pass faster than he comprehended. His next aware moment came seeing Brunner on one knee scrabbling for the gun. Auguste stepped forward onto his left foot and kicked with all the strength his dazed mind could muster. He struck Brunner on the side of the head.

It was Brunner’s turn to drop the pistol. He fell back and Auguste dived for the gun. Brunner was quicker. He had the gun now in his right hand and turning fast onto his back, he tried to level it at his prospective assassin.