Liquidate Paris (34 page)

'Just a minute, Obergefreiter!' Schluckbebier stretched out a shaking hand towards his empty carafe. 'You took it up with the--the G.G.S.A.?'

'That's right,' said Porta.

Schluckbebier's big red peasant face had turned pale. We were not surprised. We all knew what the G.G.S.A. Stood for--Geheimes Gericht der Soldaten und Arbeiten (Secret Administration of Justice for Soldiers and Workers). To this tribunal, any soldier or any labourer, no matter how humble, could take his complaints and know that they would be fairly dealt with. It was a powerful organization, and perhaps the only one feared by the Gestapo.

Schluckbebier, unfortunately for his peace of mind, had no means of knowing whether Porta's claim were true or not. If it were, then Schluckbebier had already said more than he should, from the point of view of his own security. And if it were not, he would never know, because he could not afford to run the risk of finding out. Any chance at all of the Geheimes Gericht being involved in the matter and it was best to get out and stay out while you still had the chance.

Schluckbebier began shovelling papers pell-mell into his leather brief-case.

'Very well,' he said, sternly. 'I shall make my report.' He looked menacingly towards Hoffmann. 'Next time you come running to the Gestapo with tales of Jews and black market and stolen coffee just make sure you've got your facts right or you'll find yourself in bad trouble. For the moment, you're lucky. We've let you off lightly. But don't think it will happen again--and don't think we shall forget it. My report will be in the files, and we shall have our eye on you. All right.' He nodded, 'Clear the hall. Get those men out. You--Obergefreiter--you stay here! I should like a word with you.'

The hall emptied far quicker than it had filled. Schluckbebier placed a benevolent arm across Porta's shoulders.

'Tell me, who is it you know at the Geheimes Gericht?' he asked, coaxingly.

'Top secret,' said Porta, with a grin. 'More than my life's worth to let you have their names.'

'Oh, come on, now!' Schluckbebier attempted a merry laugh. 'Off the record!'

'On or off, it's still top secret.'

'Hm.' Schluckbebier regard him for a moment, then jerked his head. 'Come up to the canteen with me. Talk things over.'

We heard afterwards of Schluckbebier's feeble attempt to uncover the truth.

'I, too, have friends at the Geheimes Gericht,' he began, very light and casual. 'I wonder if you know any of them?'

'Could well be,' said Porta. 'Do you visit them often! Well probably meet up there one of these days.'

'Very possibly,' agreed Schluckbebier, and Porta noticed that he was beginning to perspire rather abnormally.

A short silence fell between them. Porta just sitting with a fatuous grin on his face, Schluckbebier turning his brains inside out to find a new method of approach.

'Have another coffee?' he tried, eventually.

'Why not?' agreed Porta. 'It seems to be in vogue at the moment.'

'You said you never drank it?'

'Thought I'd better give it a try and see what I've been missing all these years!'

Schluckbebier waited until the fresh cups were set before them, then leaned with a sly smile across the table.

'Man to man, comrade! Where have you hidden the stuff?'

'Stuff?' said Porta.

'You know what I mean! The coffee!'

'Ah... yes. Yes, I'm with you now.' Porta nodded his head in an annoyingly imbecilic fashion. "The coffee! Of course!'

'I have friends,' said Schluckbebier, 'who would pay a good price for real coffee.'

'I only wish I had some real coffee to offer them,' said Porta, regretfully. 'But in case I ever find any, who are these friends of yours?'

'Their names would mean nothing to you, but take my word for it, they'd pay well... Fifty-fifty and we can do a deal! How about it?'

'You must be joking! You take ten per cent and I'll think about it.'

'Make it twenty. My friends are very influential people. You could do yourself a lot of good by the transaction.'

Porta considered a while.

'Make it seventeen.'

'Seventeen?' Schluckbebier pulled one of his Gestapo faces, brow furrowed, eyes narrowed, mouth stretched out into a grim line. 'You're being very foolish, my friend. You don't seem to realize that the power of influential people can work either way--to your advantage or to your disadvantage, according to the service you render. We shouldn't want to anger them, should we?'

Porta rose to his feet without a word. Swallowed
his
coffee, tightened his belt, turned to leave. Schluckbebier was after him in one agitated bound.

'My dear fellow, there's no call to take offence! Perhaps my tone misled you? But I was merely having a little joke!'

'I can take a
joke as well
as anyone,' said Porta, with dignity. 'My grandfather was a celebrated clown, and a patriot into the bargain. He used to keep the audience in stitches with a spinning top in the national colours pinned on his backside. So you see, I have as good a sense of humour as anyone. I just didn't care for your particular joke. It sounded too much like a threat to be funny.'

'No, but listen!' Schluckbebier edged close up to Porta and whispered in his ear. 'I happen to know that one of General von Choltitz' ordnance officers is on the lookout for coffee... And not for himself, mind! For the General, no less!'

'You're not suggesting I should go marching up to von Choltitz with a sack of coffee under my arm?'

'No, no, no, of course not! I should manage all that side of things. I should arrange the affair through various channels and neither you nor I would go anywhere near the General. He's hedged about by the spies of international Jewry and it's dangerous work approaching him unless a man knows his way through the tangle.'

'You know people who do?' inquired Porta, pleasantly.

'We of the Gestapo know everything... And now'-- Schluckbebier tucked his arm into Porta's and they walked out together--'seventeen per cent, I think we finally agreed upon?'

The deal was concluded that same evening. We all gathered in the kitchens of the Hotel Meurice for a drink, and were sufficiently mellow to invite Schluckbebier to join us.

'Tell me,' said Porta, suddenly, 'would you call yourself a man of culture?'

'A man of culture? Certainly I'm a man of culture! You don't suppose I should have reached my present position without a good background of learning, do you?'

'
I
didn't know,' said Porta. 'But being as you are a man of culture, perhaps you could help us with a little problem we have.'

'I shall do my best,' promised Schluckbebier, pompously. 'What is the problem?'

'Simply,' said Porta, 'we want to find out the name of Odin's pig.'

'Odin's pig? What
is
all this nonsense about pigs?' demanded Schluckbebier. 'That's the fourth time today someone's asked me about pigs.'

'The point is,' said Porta, '
do
you know the answer?'

We waited breathlessly for the man of the Gestapo to parade his culture before us. We waited so long that our breath ran out. Finally, Schluckbebier shook his head.

'It's a funny thing,' he admitted, 'but even with my background and my education, I simply cannot recall the name of that damned pig!'

The guards in the transit camp known as La Rolande, near Beaune, were men who genuinely believed themselves capable of feeling pity. One among them in particular, Unterscharfuhrer Kurt Reimling, claimed that he understood only too well the mental torments of his prisoners; and, indeed, that he went so far as to share them.

'Kill me with my children!' a Jewish mother one day pleaded with him.

She had three small children with her, and at the moment of death the prison guards' wished to separate them. Reimling countermanded the order. Mother and children remained together until the last moment, and he dispatched the children first, quickly and neatly, so that the woman could see for herself that there was no suffering. Reimling was an expert with a revolver.

Some among the S.S. affirmed that their victims actually thanked them for the pains they took. Oberscharfuhrer Carl Neubourg, attached to the camp at Drancy, was one of those. His humanity and goodness of heart prompted him to go so far as to allow one Jewish family to celebrate the Kaddisch (prayer for the dead) before forcing them to hang themselves, each in the presence of the others. And yet this generosity could have cost him dear. Had it been discovered by those in higher authority it could well have earned him three days of solitary confinement and a six-months' ban on promotion.

But to such lengths were some prison officers prepared to go. No wonder their victims were grateful.

AN EVENING IN PARIS

The arms proposal had been put to us by a double agent called 'the Rat', who was employed as a member of a reception committee for men parachuted into France. The depot was in a disused factory behind the Gare
du
Nord. We met the Rat outside and he took us in and waved a hand towards three shelves full of arms.

'All the best quality,' he assured us. 'Straight from Churchill himself!'

We moved forward to examine them. As we did so the door opened and three men slouched in, each with a hand rather pointedly in the right pocket of his raincoat. They stood inside the door, staring past us at the arms cache.

'Dropped by parachute?' they asked, addressing the Rat rather than the rest of us.

'Word of advice,' drawled Porta. 'If you're enjoying life and want to go on enjoying it, I should get those hands out of your pockets... Know what I mean?'

The three men turned to look at him.

'Are you threatening us?' demanded one of them.

'Not necessarily. Just depends on your behaviour.'

'Those arms are stolen. You realize that? You realize what happens to anyone caught with stolen weapons?'

'Not really,' said Porta. 'Try taking one, and then perhaps we'll see.'

'Don't bother yourself'!'

A voice spoke from the doorway. Gunther, left outside for just such a purpose, had followed the three men inside. He was carrying a Russian M.P.I.

'Just do as we suggest and get those hands out of your pockets and we can all be nice and friendly.'

'Not very well managed,' remarked the Legionnaire, smoothly collecting three Colts. 'I suspect you must be amateurs. However, that's neither here nor there. Let's get down to business.' He waved his hand towards the weapons. 'You want to make an offer for this little lot?'

The youngest of the three men hunched a shoulder.

'We have need of the arms, yes. We're willing to buy them from you. But obviously we're not stupid enough to carry large amounts of money around. Send one of
your
men along with us and well come to an arrangement.'

'One of our men?' The Legionnaire laughed. 'Why not all of us together, I wonder?'

'It could be dangerous.'

'For whom?'

'A crowd of people attracts attention,' protested the youth.

'But there's safety in numbers!' retorted the Legionnaire, swiftly. 'Let's not waste time arguing, friend! We've got the arms, you want 'em... We make the terms, O.K.?'

'But they're not yours!'

The Legionnaire raised an eyebrow.

'Who says they're not?'

'They were dropped by parachute from England.'

'So? Who's in possession of them? You or us? Us. So what do you intend doing about it?'

For a moment they looked mutinous, but the Legionnaire shook his head with a slow smile.

'Don't try it, pal! It's more than your life's worth. This is the German Army you're dealing with. We could put a bullet through your head whenever we felt like it and no questions asked by anyone. Not that we shall,' he added, magnanimously, 'if you're sensible about things.'

The youth shrugged his shoulders.

'All right, if that's the way it is. We thought it was a simple case of black market. If we'd known who we'd be dealing with, we'd never have come. How much do you want for the stuff?'

Porta promptly named a price that even I felt to be extortionate. The man turned on him in disgust.

'Look, you may be the bloody German Army, but we want arms at that price we can get them anywhere in Paris!'

'If other people are selling for that sort of money, why should we be expected to let 'em go cheap?'

There was a moment's pause. I began to feel that the price wasn't perhaps so extortionate after all. Why should we let things go cheap? Risking our necks as we were.

'Oh, don't bother,' said the Legionnaire, at last, in tones of supreme boredom. 'Why waste our time? We can sell this lot anywhere, any time we choose.'

'What'll we do with these three?' demanded Little John.

'Lock them in the bog,' suggested Barcelona. 'They can rot there till the end of the war.'

One of the men held up a hand.

'Just a minute. You're driving a hard bargain, but we're hardly in a position to argue with you. We can find the money all right. Enough for ten Sten guns, a thousand rounds for each and ten revolvers. O.K.?'

'O.K.,' said the Legionnaire. 'I suggest one of you goes off for die money and we'll hold the other two here until you get back.'

'You'--Gunther jerked his M.P.I. at one of the three-- 'you go. And don't be all night about it.'

'How long shall we give you?' said Barcelona.

'Fifteen minutes should be ample. With any luck I'll be back in ten. Twenty at the outside.'

'All right,' said Gunther. 'We'll give you five... And don't try any funny business or your two mates here won't live to tell the tale.'

'I'm not a fool.'

Gunther let him go. Little John had already prepared two. lengths of steel wire with slip knots. Barcelona had set up a couple of chairs in a corner. The two hostages were pushed into them, their hands tied behind their backs, the loops of steel wire slipped over their heads and round their necks. The slightest kick on the chairs would be sufficient to strangle them.

We waited. Not quite ten minutes later the third man returned, panting. He was clutching two brief-cases filled with bank-notes and Porta snatched eagerly at them.