The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 2: Cold Wars (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #2) (10 page)

“Uh-huh,” Candle agreed. “I got a question – your pet wolfhound, Morgen, I believe his name was, went a little rabid and killed Weatherby’s mom and pop. And even before that, the poor kid was practically a prisoner in his own castle, thanks to you and your goose-steppers. Why exactly would he want to help Old Adolf’s war effort?”

Von Koch twitched. “He will be persuaded, Herr Candle.”

“I’ll bet.” Candle put his hands in his pockets. “You got that treaty in writing? You Germans like everything neat, orderly and by the book, right?”

“Indeed.” Von Koch pulled an envelope from his pocket. He held it out to Mort Candle. “The agreement is detailed here. You have my word that I will adhere to it.”

“Actually, General, I got something else for you to do with that agreement.” Candle smiled. “Listen carefully now. I want you to take that letter, reach down, and shove it right up your ass. Can you do that for me? Just reach down and shove that agreement right up your ass?”

The General twitched again, like an electric current was making a corpse spasm. “You will be wiped out,” he said. “I will promise you that my men will not take prisoners and—”

“It might be a little tough, General, but I figure you got plenty of practice of taking it up the behind. Probably learned that in Nazi school, just like how to salute.” Candle reached for another cigarette. “You and Adolf and Himmler and Goebbels must play ‘hide the Weiner schnitzel’ all the time back in Berlin.”

Von Koch fell silent until Candle stopped talking. “Are you finished?” the General asked.

“I think so.”

“So you will not hand over the Stein boy. You will force us to take him.”

“Correct. You want a prize for guessing that, General?”

“You don’t understand the forces that are set against you, Sergeant. You don’t understand how great your suffering will be, if we take you alive.”

“Ain’t gonna happen.” Candle pointed to the soldiers behind Von Koch. “Bring on all your Kraut nancies. I’ll kill them all without getting short of breath.” He reached for another cigarette. “You boys did pretty good, General, I’ll give them that. Got all of Europe nice and comfy under your boot. But you made a mistake – you screwed with Uncle Sam.” He put the cigarette in his mouth and reached for his lighter. “I’d offer you one, General – but I don’t smoke with murdering Nazi bastards.” He turned away. “I’m gonna dangle now. I suggest you do the same.”

It was tough to make Von Koch angry, but Candle achieved it. He saw lines suddenly cross Von Koch’s face, and his tone grow in rage. “How dare you insult me, you American swine! I will—”

“Elkins!” Candle called out. “Elkins, go ahead and rustle the leaves at the general’s feet!”

The sniper fired. The leaves between Von Koch’s feet stirred and he leapt back, gray snow and dirt rising up in a small burst.

Candle grinned at him. “Thank you, Elkins,” he said. “See you around, General.” He turned and headed calmly into the woods. None of the SS soldiers made the mistake of trying to follow him. Morton kept walking under the boughs of the trees, barely noticing Elkins dropping down from a low-hanging branch to stand next to him. Elkins had his Springfield sniper rifle strapped to his back, and his olive green helmet under his arm.

“I’ll tell the boys what happened at the church,” Candle said. “You can hear too.”

“I reckon I can figure what you said,” Elkins replied, his voice an Okie twang. He was a tall, lean man, quite different from his stocky, solid sergeant. Elkins could hit a bird on the wing, and his quiet optimism always got on Mort’s nerves.

They moved slowly through the forest. It was around evening, with the sun shining in the distance. The Black Forest was very quiet, with dim sunlight reaching to the black dirt in soft shafts. It had been a beautiful place, but the 101
^st
Airborne, General George S. Patton and the OSS didn’t send Candle and his squad there to see the sights.

They had selected an old church as their headquarters. Empty fields stood around it, vanishing eventually into the tree line. A shell had blasted open the tiled ceiling of the old stone church, and fallen leaves filled the aisle and pews. Stacks of ammunition and weapons, a couple rolls of barbed wire and a few piles of bricks for cover did nothing to sanctify the church. A few more flakes of snow dropped down, adding a border of frosting to the edges of the church’s roof and whitening the ground.

Tiny, the squad’s gunner, stood up and covered Elkins and Candle with his mounted .30 cal machine gun. He had placed it under the archway of the church, using piles of bricks and dirt for cover. “Sarge, it’s good to see you!” he called, his airy Southern voice soft and excited. “You have yourself a nice talk with the Germans?” He was a Cajun, a hulking man who moved with slow and easy purpose. He stood head and shoulders taller than Candle. Tiny manned the .30 cal, if he had time to set it up, and the Browning Automatic Rifle if he didn’t.

“Come on inside, Tiny. You’ll hear all about it.” Candle stepped over the small bits of cover and entered the church. Tiny and Elkins followed him. The rest of the squad was there. Newt and Dutch, the two riflemen, were playing cards, their carbines slung over their shoulders. Newt was tall and thin, Dutch was short and fat. Dutch was easy going and Newt seemed to hate everything in the world with equal passion. They got along great.

They ended their card game and joined Elkins and Tiny. The medic, Charlie, walked out from the small green tent they had set up near the altar. Charlie was from an upper class family in Connecticut. He had left his place in medical school to join the army, and the army had sent him to the Airborne. He had ginger hair and a smattering of freckles, with an easy smile and a quiet manner. The squad liked his bedside manner and his coolness under fire.

Candle nodded to Charlie. “How’s the kid?”

“He’s sleeping, sir. Cried a little bit, when he thought I wasn’t looking, but then dozed off.” Charlie had been seeing to Weatherby Stein, the pint-sized objective of their squad. He liked Weatherby’s awkward formalness and endearing gratitude a great deal. All of the squad did. “What’s up?”

Sergeant Candle looked at his men. They had been together since Normandy. They had stormed across France, battled in the little villages and the hedgerows and in the cities of Holland. They had shed their blood together, and taken the lives of countless German troops. They were a family, the only one Morton Candle had ever had, and the only one he ever wanted. His parents had emigrated from Calabria, changed their name from Canete to Candle at Ellis Island, and promptly died in Brooklyn. Candle had spent his youth in orphanages and reform school, and it seemed like the Airborne had always been waiting to strap him in a uniform and send him to war.

“Listen up, ladies,” he said. “Here’s the score – Von Koch offered to let us slip away, if we handed over Weatherby, so they could torture every bit of occult info out of the poor kid. I told that bastard to climb his own thumb.”

The soldiers looked at each other. Their khaki uniforms were tattered and their eyes were dim and weary. But no one disagreed. Newt even cracked a smile. “The hell with them. Those Krauts can try all they want. I’ll slaughter the bums.”

Tiny, as usual, was pragmatic. “We ain’t got much ammunition left, sir. I don’t know how long we can hold them off, I truly don’t.”

“No ammo or weapons, eh?” Candle shook his head. “Don’t worry, boy. Jerry’s coming by and he’s bringing plenty of guns and bullets with him. All we gotta do is give him a good welcome and pry them from his dead fingers.” He looked back at his soldiers. “Now, I’m gonna speak truthfully here. There’s not much chance of all of us walking away from this. We can fight it, and we can even win it, but not without a cost. So I need to know that you fellows will stand with me – for Weatherby – until the bloody end.”

All of them nodded. Charlie was the first to speak. “I won’t let him down, sir. I won’t let you down.”

That was all that they needed to say. “Okay.” The soldier in Morton took over. “I give them about a couple of hours before they show. I want this place fortified like Fort Knox. Dutch, Newt, you can dig a trench around the church. Tiny, make sure the .30 cal’s got plenty of belts, and a good range of fire. Elkins, set up a sniper’s nest in the steeple. Take up every shell you’ve got.” He narrowed his eyes. “And set up a place for captured heaters. Sub-guns by the first pew, rifles next to them. Let’s move it, ladies!”

He leaned against the wall as they hurried off, watching his breath come and go. Soon he heard his soldiers at work, swearing and muttering like any set of workmen at the beginning of their day instead of men facing a fight that could end their lives. Candle heard a stirring in the small tent near the altar. He walked over.

Weatherby Stein poked his head out through the tent flaps. He was still recovering from his wounds, and Mort helped him out and into one of the pews. Weatherby still wore his schoolboy suit, though it was ragged and under a spare thick army coat for warmth. He glasses shone in the low light. Morton sat down next to him.

“We wake you?” he asked. “I’m sorry, kiddo. I didn’t mean to do that.”

“It’s quite all right, Mr. Candle,” Weatherby said softly. He blinked his eyes and ran a hand through his dark hair. His voice was piping and nervous, a strange mix of upper class English and delicate German. “I was not sleeping well, I think. I don’t know why. In Castle Stein, there were all kinds of creaking and strange noises. My father explained that it was haunted by at least a dozen ghosts.”

“Well, there’s plenty of ghosts here,” Morton said. He looked down at Weatherby. He didn’t want to lie to the boy. “Look, kiddo – things are gonna get bad. The SS wants you and I think they’re gonna come and get you today. Hopefully, we can hold them off until help arrives. Patton’s Third Army is burning through these woods, and they should be here soon. But it’s gonna get bad.”

“You’ll fight?” Weatherby asked. “And maybe die?”

It wasn’t a matter of maybe. “Yeah.”

“For me?” Weatherby’s voice was scarcely more than a whisper.

Morton Candle smiled at the little boy. He ruffled Weatherby’s dark hair. “For you, for your parents, for this whole goddamn world, kiddo. We’ll send those monsters right straight to Hell.” He stood up, and pointed back to the tent. “Now, I want to listen real carefully. You stay there and don’t run out — no matter what. We’ll put some coats around you, keep you safe, and Charlie won’t be far. You like Charlie, kiddo?”

“He’s an exemplary doctor, of rare skill and kindness.” Weatherby always surprised Morton with his vocabulary. The kid was a child prodigy. He ought to be winning chess tournaments and impressing schoolteachers, not hiding for his life in a bombed-out church.

“Charlie’s swell,” Morton agreed. “So he’ll look after you, and it’ll be okay. But if things get real bad, then we’ll have to run. Through that side door there, and out into the woods. You’ll have to be ready to move, and to move fast. I know you’ve been slapped around some, so do you think you’re up for that?”

“I t-think so, sir.” Weatherby nodded. “Yes. I can run.”

“Aces. All right. Get back to your tent and get those blankets and coats around you, and try to get some sleep. You’ll be woken up soon enough.”

Weatherby nodded. He hopped off the bench and crawled back into the tent. Morton leaned inside and wrapped Weatherby up, tucking him in like he was some proud parent.

“Mr. Candle?” Weatherby asked, as Morton stood up.

“Yeah, kiddo?”

“Thank you, sir. I really want to thank you, and Mr. Dutch, and Mr. Newt, and Mr. Tiny, and Mr. Elkins, and Charlie. For everything.”

“Sure thing, kiddo.” He patted the kid’s head and stepped up, feeling his heart pounding like a roaring engine. He breathed out and stumbled for the exit, fumbling for a cigarette. He was more comfortable leaping out of a C-47 into clouds of flack and gunfire than chatting with the little orphan.

Candle stepped outside. He pulled out his entrenching tool and got to work, helping Newt and Dutch dig out their trench and fox holes.

They worked in silence, each man alone with his thoughts. Sergeant Morton Candle thought a little about the coming fight, but the tactical side of his mind worked by itself, like a machine you wound up and left alone. He worked out cover, good firing positions and all the means to succeed in the coming fight. But the other side of him, the human side of him, thought back to his time in New York, and the smuggling and violence and death that he had swam through like a filthy river.

He thought about what had brought him to the Airborne, and his first jump, and then the mission briefing, just a few weeks ago, before they went to Castle Stein and he saw Weatherby’s parents die before the eyes of their little son.

They had hauled him into Patton’s headquarters, in the center of his camp. The Third Army’s camp always seemed alive with activity, and there was nothing permanent about it. Trucks, jeeps and tanks rolled through the rows of hastily assembled tents, columns of soldiers marched behind them, and planes roared overhead, their blaring engines never quite fading away. Candle was led into the general’s tent in the mid-afternoon, his boots crunching in the mud.