Court Martial (29 page)

'Where'd that cow get to?' asks Gregor, open-mouthed.

''E ain't climbed
that
,' says Tiny. 'Even a Finnish cat couldn't get up there. They do say as fear can put wings on people, but that's a load of bull like a lot of other things. That bastard's sittin' around 'ere somewhere waitin' to get shot. God 'elp 'im when I get my teeth in 'is arse. I'll tear 'is eyes out, I will, and then I'll rip 'is bleedin' ears off. What a rat! Runnin' away like that when
we're
comin' to shoot 'im up!'

They creep up some backstairs and almost frighten the life out of an old woman coming down with a pail of garbage.

Tiny asks her if she's seen a man who's going to be shot and she throws the pail at his head. He falls over backwards and takes Gregor with him a good way out into the yard.

'You sure that wasn't him?' asks Gregor, brushing potato peelings from his uniform.

'That was an ugly Lapp woman,' snarls Tiny, picking eggshell out of his ears. 'She thought we were the dustbin!'

'Do we
look
like dustbins,' asks Gregor, insulted.

'In the dark it's easy to make that mistake,' considers Tiny, 'but Emil's goin' to pay for this too! I'll tear 'is bollocks off, I will, and stuff ' em straight up 'is stinkin' arsehole!'

Soon after, they catch sight of somebody, standing close to the wall, further down the alley.

'Holy God's mother, that's
him
!' roars Gregor, and empties the magazine of the Nagan so fast it sounds like an Mpi.

The shadowy person disappears into a gateway leaving a respectably sized pool of blood. The spots of blood lead into a house, but tail off little by little.

'We made a 'ole in 'im any road,' says Tiny, with satisfaction, spitting contemptuously at the blood spots.

'He'll bleed to death like a sick rat,' says Gregor, pleased.

'
Should
that bastard survive all this,
we
ain't gonna be sittin' so pretty, though,' says Tiny, worriedly.

'Jesus, no,' says Gregor, blackly, wiping sweat from his forehead.

'I reckon we can go back 'ome and tell 'em we've punctured that lukewarm turd,' says Tiny, resolutely. 'The blood can't leak out of the sod if there ain't a 'ole in 'im, can it?'

'They'll strangle us if they ever find out we're taking the piss out of 'em,' says Gregor, pessimistically.

'Stop your cryin', then,' says Tiny, calmly. 'If we ain't made a big enough 'ole in 'im, then we'll come back an' do it better next time. But 'e
must
be dead. 'Ell, 'e must've lost at least five gallons of 'is rat's blood, which is more'n God give anybody to lose!'

'It's odd,' Gregor admits, 'let's have another look. I'd
rather
go home and be able to say I'd taken a kick at his body. But the body we saw, ran bloody off, didn't it? And it's not often bodies do that sort of thing!"

'Maybe we've frightened him enough to make him keep his mouth shut,' thinks Tiny.

'It's not impossible,' agrees Gregor, 'and then he'll get himself a posting to some place a long way away where we can't get to him, and the others'll never find out he's still breathing. We're the only two who
do
know, and we don't even know for sure. Let's be true believers. We believe he's dead!'

'Tell me, now,' says Tiny, nervously, pushing the bowler to the back of his neck. 'You don't think it's some other silly cow we've 'ad a bang at and who's lost all that blood we saw back there?'

'I think that's it,' Gregor nods, with conviction. 'That sod we shot was too big to be Emil. And I think he was wearing a Finnish uniform!'

'Jesus, Jesus,' shouts Tiny, clasping his hands as if in prayer. 'Let's not 'ave any more to worry about! If we've shot one of them polar blokes they'll be complainin' to the German authorities. Emil knows we were close to 'avin' 'is arse in that alley an' the case'll go to is section. Ain't no Sherlock needed to sort out who it was 'ad a crack at an arctic 'ero!'

'You're right,' says Gregor, weakly. 'It's a black outlook. But no matter what, we stick to it that we've fixed him good. We didn't leave the body till it was full of blue-bottles, understand?'

'I 'ope you know what we're doin',' mumbles Tiny with a grimace, 'but don't forget Porta an' Wolf! Those two treacherous sods'll be askin' questions all over the shop, and if the rat's still alive they'll find out for sure!'

The same evening a happy wake is held in Hofmann's quarters, with Tiny and Gregor as the guests of honour.

'That's the way to treat blackmailers,' shouts Barcelona, enthusiastically. 'No talk. Lightning-fast action!'

The beer is laced with Slivovitz, and the gaiety of the party rises to unprecedented heights. The singing can be heard all the way over in the Russian lines:

Denn wir wissen, dass nach dieser Not
50

uns leuchtet hell das Morgenrot!'

'We 'it 'im right between the eyes,' lies Tiny, with practised ease, believing it for a moment himself. 'The bullets went "smack" as they went into 'im!' he boasts, bringing both hands forcefully down on the table.

'And the blood
spouted
out of him,' grins Gregor, happily. 'There was blood all over! It went
streaming
down the gutters! It was like the Stockhold bloodbath!'

'I put three shots straight up 'is jacksey 'fore we got out,' states Tiny, impudently, crooking his forefinger.

'
Merde alors!
What did you do with the body?' asks the Legionnaire, practically.

'We slung it down into a 'ell of a deep cellar,' explains Tiny, eagerly. 'Should've 'eard 'im splash when 'e 'it bottom.'

'I suppose you could find that cellar again?' asks Porta, with a suspicious gleam in his eye.

It is Hofmann who exposes them next morning.

'There was a lot of blood yesterday?' he asks sarcastically, and stands in front of Tiny.

'That's right,' Tiny assures him. Tour or five gallons at least!'

'And the body you threw into a deep cellar?' continues Hofmann.

'Word of honour,' Gregor gives the guarantee solemnly. 'We heard the thud when it hit bottom.'

'Then perhaps it would interest you to know that I have just spoken to the body on the telephone, and that the body has promised to give us his very special attention!'

Tiny is about to turn and run for it, when the muzzle of an Mpi is pushed against his stomach.

'Stay put,' smiles Porta, dangerously. 'Or I'll show you how lying bastards like you get blown off the face of the earth!'

'There must be some mistake,' stammers Gregor, confusedly.

'Sure! One of the big ones,' snarls Hofmann, grinding his teeth. 'But one thing's a certainty. It was Emil Sieg I talked to. It may also interest you to know that an attempt to murder a Finnish sergeant has been reported, and that Sieg has been given the case!'

'Doesn't sound so good,' sighs Tiny, in a small voice.

'Let's have the story,' demands Porta, narrowing his eyes.

'Well it was black as a cannibal's arsehole,' explains Gregor. We shot some silly bleeder, but it doesn't seem it could've been Emil when the Herr Hauptfeldwebel here's talked to him on the phone today. It doesn't often happen the dead ring up!'

'There is simply no other way,' says Wolf, decisively. 'We've got to chill the bastard!'

'You're telling me,' says Porta. 'He's dangerous as a cobra in a warm bed, and now he's mad on getting back at us!'

'Can't we report him to the police?' suggests the Westphalian, na'vely. 'It's a crime to blackmail people.'

'You're that stupid it's a wonder you know enough to stay breathin'!' shouts Tiny, contemptuously. 'Only the feebleminded ask the rozzers to 'elp 'em!'

'I suggest we storm his lair and shoot his head off,' says Gregor, filling up the glasses from Wolf's stock.

'It'd be difficult to get in to him,' says Barcelona, doubtfully. 'He's sitting pretty there right in the middle of the old fort. The gates are strong as them in a prison.'

Porta picks up his beer and drinks deeply, then bites off a chunk of hot pork.

'I know that bloody fort. The only way we'd get in there'd be with a big, big load of TNT. That'd send the lot of 'em up, but it could mean sudden death for us too if we made a balls of it. Gimme a cup of coffee, and I'll think of something else!'

'I got a plan,' says Tiny, twirling his Mpi. 'Let's invite the silly sod out to us an' give 'im the treatment. I know a way as'd make a nice, considerate citizen of 'im.'

'No good,' says Porta. 'He's a crook, and he won't stop until he's taken us for everything we've got.'

'I can turn 'im into a Sunday School teacher,' shouts Tiny, cocksure of himself. 'Listen! It's a great plan. When 'e arrives we give 'im a welcomin' glass for old times' sake. Then we attend to 'is personal comfort. 'E'll no doubt be in need of a pedicure. I pulls out me battle-knife an' amputates the little toe on 'is left foot. So there'll be more room in them narrow officer's boots of 'is. If 'e still won't come to 'is senses we explain to 'im as 'ow both parties are wastin' their time talkin' an' might as well go 'ome. On the way out of the door we notice the poor bleeder is limpin', because 'e ain't got the same number of toes on both feet. Now what do old friends do to 'elp the louse?' asks Tiny, looking around and proud of himself.

'Hit the back of his neck with an acid drop,' suggests Porta, large-mindedly.

'No, no! No brutality,' Tiny turns the suggestion down. 'We leave that sort of thing to Nazis and Commies. We are 'umane. We don't shoot a man just because 'e limps. No, we take off 'is right boot, and 'elp 'im off with 'is right little toe. Then the boots fit 'im, and 'e don't get corns!'

'I don't think he'd like that,' says Barcelona, looking tenderly down at his own feet.

'Nobody's askin" im to,' says Tiny, companionably. 'But I'd expect 'im to stay with us a bit after that to discuss things. At any rate 'e'd 'ave the thought that 'e still 'ad eight toes, ten fingers, two flappin' great ears an' a big, ugly nose in the middle of 'is kisser, as we could 'elp 'im off with one by one.'

'Don't forget he's got a prick too,' whoops Porta. 'We'd cut that off an' stick it in his mouth so's he'd think he'd come to a fairies' party!'

'No good,' says Barcelona, gloomily. 'If we can't
pay
the bastard to keep quiet there's only one thing to do: Liquidate him like the rat he is! Be the first sensible killing in this whole war!'

'My feeling too,' agrees Hofmann.

We agree to get things moving right away.

Inspector Sieg is not feeling too well when he leaves his office. He leaves early. He goes cold, and begins to sweat at the same time, when he hears that ten kilogrammes of TNT have been stolen, in the course of the night, from an ammunition store close by. From what he knows of Porta it can only be he who has stolen it to use in an effective liquidation.

With all his senses working overtime he walks along, keeping close to the walls and taking cover behind other people the whole time. Every time he sees an amphibian he stops in terror. He realises suddenly that blackmailing is a very dangerous business.

He gives a terrified start when a vehicle brakes hard out on the road and takes cover behind a perambulator containing a pair of wailing twins.

With his hand on his pistol butt he sneaks along. He stands still for a long time, watching the house in which he is quartered. He enters it only when he is satisfied that nobody is lying in wait for him.

He changes to civilian clothes and congratulates himself on having had a really clever idea. Those fools will be looking for a man in a uniform of a poisonous-looking green colour. Civilians will be about as interesting to them as a bunch of carrots to a well-fed dog.

Part of the way down Hollanti Street he again thinks he has caught sight of Tiny and Porta and pulls the pistol from his pocket. To his huge relief it turns out to be a couple of ordinary infantrymen, who are trying to hit it off with three Finnish girl soldiers. He has realised long ago that he cannot follow the usual service procedure and hand over the case to a colleague. If he does, he himself will end up behind bars.

The devil!' he curses, thinking with longing of how pleasant it would be to be living a boring civilian life, paying taxes and rent, and going to bed at ten o'clock every night with a wife in hair curlers.

With these melancholy thoughts running through his mind he sneaks into Hurme's Bar for a cup of coffee and a large cognac. That should pull him together a bit. If there is anything he needs now it is clear thinking.

There are only a few people in the long bar-room. The barmaid is leaning, half-asleep, on the bar. Without a word she shoves a cup of coffee and a glass of cognac towards him. He squeezes into a dimly lit stall, and swears viciously when he scalds his tongue on the hot coffee. Carefully he pours it into the saucer and blows on it. He slobbers it down, noisily, and begins to feel a little better.

With a satisfied expression he smooths down his black tailor-made suit. Black is stylish, the tailor has told him, not having anything else in stock. His shirt is white. His tie scarlet. The national colours, red, black and white. He enjoys looking at his smart 200 mark, patent-leather shoes. Not everybody could give himself a pair of shoes like that.

The third cup of coffee goes down and another cognac. He dreams rosy dreams of the whole of 5 Company being mowed down by a firing squad.

'I'll get those criminals,' he says, half-aloud.

By now there are only two guests left beside himself. Two Finnish ski soldiers look in but leave immediately. One of them, a sergeant with partisan badges, takes a suspiciously long look at him. Had that murderous pack joined up with the Finnish allies? He shudders and gets up to leave.

A Nagan pokes his spine brutally.

'You're dead, you crooked son of a bitch,' says Tiny, sharply. 'Take a deep breath and that dog's 'eart of yours'll get blown through the wall! And, as you know, it's difficult gettin' along with no 'eart left!'

Porta bursts noisily through the revolving-doors, with Gregor at his heels. The last two guests disappear quickly, and the dozy barmaid wakes up suddenly. It's not the first time she has seen an armed business meeting.