The Night of the Generals (26 page)

Hartmann obediently crossed the living-room, noting the old and shabby furniture with its thick powdering of dust and the flowered wallpaper hanging in shreds from the walls. The curtains were threadbare and the carpet so worn that only remnants of its original pattern survived.

"Next door," Tanz insisted.

Hartmann had to fight his way through a wall of thick, viscous air. He was met by the same foetid aroma of cheap perfume and stale sweat which he had smelt in the car, only infinitely stronger. His eyes focussed on a large dishevelled bed lit by the rosy glow of a standard lamp. On the bed, like meat displayed on a butcher's slab, lay a tumbled mound of flesh.

It was as white as the belly of a fish but interspersed with thick streaks of crimson. Starting at the throat, the deep gashes progressed across the breasts and belly and merged into an oozing crimson mess between the thighs.

"Have a good look," said Tanz, "but don't stand there too long. I've got to talk to you."

Hartmann backed away from the corpse and out of the bedroom with dragging feet, pursued by the stench of blood. Queasily, he tripped over a mat and staggered sideways, colliding with the door-post like a sack of flour. Feeling a dull throb of pain he clutched his head, and his hand came away covered in warm, sticky moisture. He had struck his temple and broken the skin. It was only a superficial cut, but the pain was enough to clear his head and jolt him out of an attack of anguished retching.

"Sit down," said Tanz. "You look like a drowned rat. But then you're a sensitive lad. It doesn't take much to turn your stomach."

General Tanz sat in the middle of the living-room, picked out with painful clarity by the centre light. He sat there as erect as ever, but there was something almost nonchalant about his contented smile. Nestling elegantly in his right hand was an automatic--a 7.65 mm. Walther.

"You really ought to sit down," he repeated, and this time it was an order. He indicated a chair with the hand that held the pistol, then pointed to a bottle and two glasses lying on the table between them. "Have a drink, Hartmann. I can see you need a pick-me-up."

Hartmann groped for the bottle with a trembling hand. He filled one of the glasses and drained it. His stomach heaved, but he poured himself a second glass and swallowed its contents at a single gulp. Looking at Tanz, he saw that the General was noting his every movement with an attentive smile. A wave of indignation surged through him.

"So now you know what's happened, Hartmann. It's obviously made a deep impression on you. Why, may I ask? Is your experience of death really so limited? I've seen a man staggering across a field of stubble with his entrails hanging out, trying desperately to escape from enemy rifle fire. He fell over, wriggled like a worm and tried to get up, over and over again, but he became entangled in his own guts. So he tore them out with his bare hands, screaming like a wounded horse. He was the only person I ever really loved. When I reached him he was past recognizing me. He died babbling a woman's name--the name of a woman I regarded as a whore."

"What has that got to do with what happened here?"

"It happened."

"But why, why?"

"Must you have an explanation, Hartmann? It happened, that's all. There were a number of reasons, I've no doubt, but it was war which activated them. That's probably part of the price we have to pay for war. A lot of people have to pay one way or another, often with their lives. Human beings have no control over natural phenomena."

Tanz delivered this statement as though he were reading out an operational order. His voice preserved its cool, matter-of-fact timbre, but the frozen fixity of his smile had become tinged with melancholy.

"That may be one explanation," he said, delicately caressing the pistol in his right hand with the fingers of his left. "There must be others, but why should I bore myself and you with them? Let's stick to facts and not waste time on unnecessary speculation. It has happened, and not for the first time. Months or years hence it may happen again, but there's no point in thinking about that now. Pour yourself another glass, Hartmann. You may smoke too, if you like--it won't disturb me. Nothing disturbs me any longer. I feel fresh as a daisy. Take a look at my hands." He held them out. "Steady as a rock, aren't they? You may also have noticed that I'm not drinking or smoking. I don't need to any more, nor shall I for a long time to come, I hope."

Hartmann stared at the General as though he were seeing him for the first time. Tanz's renowned sang-froid was complete and his manner was a combination of rocklike inflexibility and elemental calm. Under other circumstances Hartmann might have found it impressive, but nothing could banish his memory of the corpse in the next room.

"A dead body like that one," Tanz said coolly, "will probably attract a certain amount of attention even at a time like the present--quite unjustifiably, in my view. Who was the woman, after all? Just a worthless, slatternly, degenerate whore, a piece of human flotsam. During the last moments of her life she served a certain purpose, but our age has witnessed a million deaths more deplorable than hers. Can't you see that?"

"No," said Hartmann.

"You will," Tanz assured him. "There are bound to be inquiries. That could be embarrassing, though not necessarily dangerous. However, there's always a chance that unwelcome witnesses will come forward. The very fact that the Bentley may have been seen could cause complications. That's why--and I've weighed my decision very carefully--we're going to leave some clear and comparatively straightforward clues. Can you guess what their implication will be?"

"It's a clear-cut case."

"To us, Hartmann, yes. Not to anyone else."

Tanz raised the pistol and peered at it, but the muzzle pointed at Hartmann. "Do you recall a question I put to you earlier today? I asked you which was more important--to the army, the Führer, Germany, anyone--a general or a lance-corporal."

"And I said: a general." Hartmann's gorge rose. He felt on the point of choking and had to fight hard to overcome the sensation. "But now, after this, I can only say: the general was--was!--more important. Or rather, I thought so at the time."

"You're mistaken," Tanz said amiably, "and it won't be long before you see your mistake. When that time comes you'll do precisely what I expect of you and accept responsibility for this business."

"Never!" cried Hartmann, shaking with impotent rage. "Never! It was a bestial, abominable murder, and you're the one who'll pay for it."

General Tanz leant back slightly, looking as if he might burst out laughing at any moment. He was apparently incapable of any such outward expression of emotion, but it was evident that he was being racked by a spasm of violent, almost painful amusement. His blue eyes sparkled like a sunlit northern sea.

"How little you know me!" he said. "And how greatly you overestimate the strength of your own position. I like you, Hartmann, I find you congenial and I appreciate your pleasant disposition. We have spent two interesting and enjoyable days together. Our visit to the Impressionists in the Jeu de Paume was an event in itself. You have looked after me with tact and discretion, hence my forbearance. I should hate to have to put a bullet through your handsome but stupid head."

Hartmann shrank back in his chair. The graze on his forehead stung violently as rivulets of perspiration trickled down his scalp. His palms were sweating freely and he breathed through his mouth.

"Try to collect your scattered wits, Hartmann," Tanz told him kindly. "As I said, the surest method of avoiding prolonged and embarrassing inquiries is to provide some unambiguous clues. I have already made certain arrangements and shall shortly complete them. My original plan was simply to shoot you out of hand. It would have been only too easy to explain that you had deserted, taking my car and briefcase with you, that I followed you here, caught you red-handed and shot you in self-defence."

"And you think people would have believed you, just like that?"

"Naturally. I'm a general. Who or what are you?"

Hartmann shivered as though smitten with an ague. "You won't get away with it, not this way."

"You overrate the importance of a lance-corporal, Hartmann."

"I'll deny the whole thing."

"Dead men can't deny anything."

"But they'll make inquiries. They'll find out that this woman was at Madeleine's before she was murdered and that you spoke to her. A place like that is always packed with people. Someone's bound to have seen you together."

Tanz raised the hand that held the pistol. His smile grew more sombre and a look of indulgent contempt flitted across his features. "Do you take me for a fool, Hartmann? I must confess that I find it a displeasing idea. You surely know the form in such establishments. There's no need for any lengthy discussion. You just raise your thumb, that's all. I didn't exchange a single word with the creature. She was sitting three tables away from me. No one noticed me make any sort of rendezvous with her."

Hartmann reached for the bottle. In the middle of the movement, he stiffened, remembering with dismay that it bore his finger-prints. So did the glass and probably other objects in the room as well. What was more, there would be blood on the door-frame where he had hit his head.

"I told you they would find clues, Hartmann." The General spoke with quiet triumph. His usually masklike features had become endowed with expression, his eyes sparkled with life and his voice conveyed emotion. He seemed to have emerged from a deep and lasting state of lethargy. "But that's not all. Earlier on, while you were alone in the restaurant at Versailles, I removed your papers from the glove compartment of the car. Your pass is hidden somewhere next door, somewhere where the police will find it. That's just one of many clues, all of which will be supported and corroborated by my own testimony."

A cloying stench of blood came from the next room, so penetrating that Hartmann half expected to see a sticky red stream oozing across the floor towards him. Numb with horror and fatigue, he closed his eyes.

"It's up to you," said the General. He sat there Eke a panther crouching for the kill, the muzzle of his pistol levelled at Hartmann's head. "Either I shoot you or you make a run for it."

Hartmann heard himself say: "I'll try."

"Good." Tanz nodded contentedly. "That's much the best solution--and far pleasanter for me personally. As I told you before, I've grown to like you. You weren't perfect, of course. You even had the audacity to intrude into my private life. Don't imagine that anything escapes me. I know all about your affair with Ulrike von Seydlitz-Gabler, though it's a matter of complete indifference to me."

Hartmann stared at the pistol without answering.

"Get away from here, Hartmann--as far away as possible. Go to ground somewhere. You can have the money in my wallet. You can even have the Bentley. You're already wearing civilian clothes and you've got nearly a whole night ahead of you. Make the most of it."

"What about you?"

"I shall take a little stroll and then go to bed. I shan't notice your absence officially until tomorrow morning. I'll say that I dismissed you on our return from Versailles this evening and that you haven't reported for duty. There will naturally be inquiries, though I can't say what their immediate result will be. It probably depends how soon this--" he indicated the bedroom--"is discovered and how quickly the police get to work. But now get going, Hartmann. You're wasting valuable time."

Hartmann walked to the door, then paused and looked back into the room. "You really think you'll get away with it?"

"I've already done so. You're the one whose life is in jeopardy."

INTERIM REPORT

DEPOSITIONS, COMMENTS, REPORTS, CONJECTURES AND ASSERTIONS CONCERNING THE EVENTS OF THE NIGHT 19TH-2OTH JULY1944 Alexandre Petit, at the time in question a waiter at the Boule d'Or in Versailles; now--sixteen years later--head waiter at Chez Pierre (Mediterranean specialities) in the Avenue Victor Hugo, Paris: "Even in those days I used to divide people into three categories: those who enjoyed eating, those who ate a lot, and those who enjoyed eating a lot. I regarded anyone who didn't fall into one of those three classes as ill-bred.

"The guest in the pearl-grey suit, whom I still remember to this day, probably belonged to the third category. He ate with what might be described as fervour. I heard the man with him address him respectfully as 'Herr General'.

"My recollection of the other individual is far less favourable. He drank Vichy water and guzzled a quantity of kitchen waste, commonly known as sandwiches. I was forced to conclude that he was a highly uncultured and inferior form of life. The General, on the other hand..."

Communication received from Frau Wilhelmine von Seydlitz-Gabler: "I consider it an impertinence of you to pry into our past. Naturally we have nothing to hide, but we find it repugnant to assist notorious subversives and pathological muck-rakers in their unsavoury work.

"I will tell you this much: if any degraded literary hack dares to libel us we shall institute proceedings against him. In particular, we shall contest the insidious and malicious allegation that a personal or intimate relationship existed between ourselves and General Tanz--or was even contemplated.

"My daughter, who is now a married woman with two fine children and lives abroad in an allied country, is immune to any such denigrating and slanderous insinuations. But I give you fair warning--my husband is on intimate terms with the Minister of Justice and is fully able to defend our daughter's honour--and our own."

Madeleine V., formerly the proprietress of L'Ecurie de Madeleine in the Rue Drouot and now manageress of an international art agency with an office in the Champs-Elysées: "Aboîte is aboîte, not a Sunday school. Anyone who comes in, orders something to drink and pays for it, is a customer. Some customers are male, others female. What men and women do to each other doesn't concern the proprietor--so long as they don't actually do it on the dance floor.