Vengeance 10

Memling regained his feet and staggered away from the wall gasping. He was shoved back beneath the lamp.

‘First, I must admit to an unfair advantage over you. I know your name, Herr Diecker, but you do not know mine. I am Captain Jacob Walsch of the Geheimes Staatspolizeiamt. The Secret State Police,’ he translated.

There was a pause and then his hand was shaken.

‘Perhaps now we can become friends. The German government does not wish to inconvenience Belgian citizens any more than the needs of the occupation require. But in times like these we must be ever vigilant, heh?

‘Now.’ There was the sound of turning pages again. ‘You were seen in the gardens of the Place Emile-Dupon yesterday, about midday? Is that correct?’

The man’s French pronunciation had a curiously guttural flavour, overlaid with the intonations of the south. He was clearly a German speaking French in the accents of that area. The only German he had spoken, the name of his police organisation, carried a singsong lilt that suggested the Schwarzwald.

‘I asked if that was correct, Herr Diecker?’

‘Uh…. yes,’ Memling mumbled, trying to sound dazed even though his mind was working now. The blow that followed was as sudden and unexpected as the first. The man seemed to have mastered the technique of striking high on the spine, just below the shoulders, while kicking the victim’s legs away so that he landed head first. Half-conscious, head lolling from side to side, he was yanked to his feet and slapped hard.

‘Herr Diecker’ — the voice was annoyed — ‘I must ask you once more not to provoke my associate. You must speak up immediately and clearly when I ask a question. Please repeat your answer.’

‘Yes …. he managed to force out.

‘Yes what?’ the man prompted.

‘I was in the Place Emile-Dupon… yesterday.’

‘Was it not rather an unpleasant day for taking the air?’

‘Yes… but Sunday is the only day I have, otherwise…’

‘I see. And while you were at the Place Emile-Dupon did you meet anyone?’

Christ, Memling thought, they know. The bastards were playing a game with him.

His vision was clearing as his eyes adapted to the glare, and the faces were beginning to take on detail.

‘Yes.’

‘And who would that have been?’

Memling twisted his hands together as if embarrassed, and drew a deep breath. Dissemble, they had told him in the all-too- brief training classes. Confirm enough of their story that they may believe your lies.

‘I… met’ — he took a deep breath — ‘a girl.’

‘Ah. And why should you be shy? Certainly you are a normal, healthy young man. Tell me, please, what you and this young lady talked about? By the way, what is her name?’

The Gestapo officer was watching him closely now, and Memling realised with a shock that he had seen that gaunt, skull-like face before: the man on the train! My God, he thought, as fresh waves of fear coursed through him, turning every muscle in his body to water. Do they know who I am?

He struggled against the panic, knowing that if he gave way now he would lapse into grovelling terror, and the thought brought such intense shame and self-loathing that he stopped wringing his hands and tried to stand straight.

As if to encourage him, Walsch chuckled. ‘Herr Diecker, whatever you tell me remains in the strictest confidence. Now, what was her name?’

‘Maria… Kluensenayer,’ he choked. There was nothing to be lost by telling him. Walsch was certain to know anyway, probably had known the instant she sat down beside him. He could anticipate the next question, and the answer was beginning to form in his mind as it was asked.

‘My my, the secretary to the director of production. Now, what would you two find to talk about?’

Memling took a deep breath. ‘We did not talk very long, sir. I …. asked — I asked her to come to my room,’ he finished with a rush.

‘And?’

‘She left.’

‘Left? Just like that?’

Memling let his head droop a little more. ‘Yes…. no. She slapped me.’

‘I shouldn’t wonder. Whatever possessed you, young man? Do you know her very well? Did you have reason to believe that she might agree? What a dog you are! And so hasty. Don’t you know you must first court a young woman? They are all prostitutes and whores at heart, and so you must go about it correctly. First a present, then the theatre, and perhaps a meal in a fine restaurant.’ There was a dry chuckle. ‘Then you take the lady to your bed. Not before — and never, never ask.’

‘I… I do not have the money for that sir.’

‘Not enough money!’ Walsch shook his head in exasperation. ‘Why, you have an excellent job, a responsible job. Surely you are not complaining about the salary paid you by the Reich?’

‘Oh no, sir,’ Memling replied hastily, already weary of the game. ‘It is not that, only… I…’ He shuffled his feet and rubbed his nose. ‘I… I am quite shy. You see, I am an orphan — ‘

‘Yes, yes, I know all that.’ For the first time Walsch had departed from the gentle chiding tone. ‘Where did you go after the whore rejected your advances?’