Stile Maus (14 page)

The lockup wasn’t far from their latest heist.  They arrived in a patter of hurried footsteps, not in fear of being caught or discovered but to escape the sting of blossoming midnight frost.  Michel could not contain his excitement.  He couldn’t wait to unveil the treasure he had pursued so ferociously.  The only downfall was that Gerard wouldn’t be there to see it.  The lights fizzed and the small room became cast within a shadow of dim light.  Michel edged in first and set his bag of loot down upon a work top in the centre of floor.  Stefan followed, his glare fixed to the crinkled neck of fabric that had just departed from Michel’s grasp.  The door shut behind the others and Michel turned around, his arms spread, his grin brushing the curves of his cheeks. 

‘If you’d all like to gather round,’ he announced superciliously.  Stefan, Jacques and Patrice neared the table and watched inquisitively as Michel began pulling his takings away from the poorly stitched sack.  An abundance of clutter met the wooden table top; a gem crested candelabra, a bundle of bronze and silver medals, a second tier snatch compared to the mystifying briefcase.  Michel stalled and attempted to build upon the ongoing suspense but was soon nudged and hounded by a swarm of grunts and smarmy comments from his peers.  With his fingertips curled around the two back corners, Michel slowly pulled the briefcase away from the bag and set it down, glowing with superiority. 

‘That’s it?’ Patrice smirked.

‘This isn’t just any case,’ Michel snapped, ‘this is the case from the cafe.’ 

‘What cafe?’

‘Never mind,’ said Michel, ‘the fact is
, I know there’s something special in here.’

‘You’d better open it up then,’ Jacques said, sharing a look with the others before returning his gaze to the golden latches of the case.

‘These things always have a simple code,’ Michel said, sliding down the golden combinations and pressing down on the latch keys once they read 1,2,3,4.  Nothing happened and Michel tried once more.  Again, nothing. 

‘Hand me that chisel,’ Michel requested, clearly agitated, ‘the mallet too.’  With a careful press Michel nudged the tip of the chisel into the narrow edge of the briefcase. 

‘Careful,’ Jacques murmured. 

The mallet curved into his palm and he brought it down upon the chisel handle with a forceful strike, causing the case to shudder open with little resistance.  His peering audience leaned forwards, desperate to discover what lay inside.  Michel felt at the gap, gently raising the leather edges until the hinges twanged, fully supporting the chisel bitten lid.  A nervous flutter grumbled
from within Michel’s stomach as his eyes fell upon a heap of pristine documents.  In a hurried rush he began to sift through the case, pushing each Nazi marked letter head to one side.  The butterflies within his stomach expanded, transforming into a horde of giant moths.  A smile flourished across Michel’s face, a series of hushed whispers simmered behind him.      

‘I-Is that what I think it is?’ Jacques muttered.

‘Yes,’ Michel grinned, ‘I do believe my dear friends... that this is a bomb.’

For a few moments the room fell silent.  All eyes fixed to the case.  Over the years they had pinched countless objects that were unique and rare and scarcely seen but this was something else and none of the four thieves standing around it were sure of what to make of it.  Stefan would be the first to speak.

‘We can’t keep it here, it’s not safe.’ 

Michel turned around, his hands held above his belt, as if to shield the case from a pack of scavenging marauders,

‘Hold on a second,’ he protested, ‘you’re telling me after years of nabbing trinkets and kettles and worthless paintings... you’re telling me you want to just throw this away?’ 

‘Not entirely,’ Patrice began, striding across the room towards a large bank of wooden draws, ‘we were hoping to sneak it into your pillowcase first.  Don’t think we’ve forgotten where you found this.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning that box right there belongs to a band of drunken Nazi’s who are most probably wondering where their bomb has gone.’ 

‘Don’t be so stupid,’ Michel defended, ‘they won’t be worrying about the case until about nine o’clock tomorrow morning.’ 

‘That being so, don’t you think if we try and sell this thing they could trace it back to us?  Like you said, we’re not talking about some jewellery we pinched from an obnoxious banker, we’re talking about a bomb owned by the SS or the Wermacht or even worse the Gestapo.’ 

‘Patrice is right,’ Stefan mumbled, ‘the risk is too high, Michel.’ 

‘Hold on,’ Jacques said, ‘shouldn’t we at least see what Gerard thinks?  We did agree that everyone should have their say.’

Michel was torn, instinct told him to decline.  Once Gerard knew about the briefcase Michel knew he would almost certainly want it but on the other hand, this bought him some time. 

‘Fine,’ Patrice conceded, ‘we’ll wait for Gerard.  Let’s see what else we’ve got.’  Michel closed the briefcase and carried across it the room, tucking it carefully into a small cabinet below the chest of drawers.  The others sieved through their plunder, stopping every so often to scan the table and see what everyone else had obtained.  Michel wasn’t concerned.  Taking one last, reluctant look at the briefcase Michel closed the cabinet door and walked over to the hustle of conversation in the centre of the room.  A large grin sat across his lips.  Tomorrow couldn’t come any sooner.     

THE PROMISE

‘I’ll give you eleven for it.’

Jacques raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

‘Excuse me?’

‘I will give you eleven for it,’ repeated the bloated merchant from behind the counter.  Jacques relaxed his bemused expression and tapped his finger upon the curved base of the pocket watch that sat above a square stretch of burgundy fabric.

‘This is fourteen carat,’ he said, ‘try fifty.’

‘Huh,’ sniffed the merchant, taking a sip of coffee, ‘try ten-fifty.’ 

‘Look old man, this here...’

‘Probably belonged to a gentleman in the marketplace, who up until five minutes ago thought he was carrying a priceless pocket watch, no?’  The merchant grunted softly, offering an arrogant grin. 

‘Are you sure that’s only coffee in that cup, old man?’  Jacques retorted.

‘Listen,’ spat the merchant, ‘you steal you pay the tax, you bring stolen goods, watches, necklaces whatever in here, you pay the tax.  Nine, that’s the highest I’ll go.  Take it or get out.’ 

Jacques looked at Gerard who shrugged, offering nothing but a purse in his lips. 

‘Ten.’

‘Nine,’ muttered the merchant, ‘and I won’t ask where you got the money to buy the watches and expensive leather jackets you’re always wearing.’

‘You’re a hard man to bargain with, Albert Hardy,’ Gerard sighed, ‘but you’ve got a deal.’ 

A band of notes passed across the counter and the pair left, heading out into the busy bustle of the marketplace. 

‘So what was the take last night?’ Gerard asked as they passed through the square. 

‘Not spectacular,’ replied Jacques, his hand hovered over his lips, ‘the place turned out to be a Nazi safe house for a bunch of Generals.’ 

Gerard shot him a look of concern. 

‘A Nazi safe house?’ 

‘Qui.’

Their words vanished as two uniforms passed, their black boots clattering against the cobbled street. 

‘There was one thing we, well... Michel found.  It’s a funny thing actually. 
It’s future lies in your hands.’ 

‘So what is it?’

‘A briefcase,’ Jacques said.

‘There was me expecting something...
spectacular
.’

Jacques waited until a couple of townspeople passed before replying, his words edging past a wide smirk.

‘We found some kind of bomb inside.’

The sentence halted Gerard for a few moments and when he caught up with Jacques he found a thousand questions spilling from his mouth.  They would have to wait, something big was about to come up. 

‘Anything else, Sir?’
 

‘Four more my beauty... and how about one for yourself.’
  The waitress smiled politely and collected the empty glasses before rushing hastily back into the cafe.  The group of four, polished uniforms joined each other in a chorus of bellowed laughter.  Michel and Patrice watched from across the terrace.  The four young men sitting a few tables away from them had stuck around for a good few rounds, kicking and laughing and joking within a beer induced stupor.  The sun had persuaded them to throw their heavy leather jackets over the back of their chairs. 

‘Aha,’ yelled the uniform who had ordered the latest round, ‘thank you my dear.’  The waitress set a cold glass of froth topped beer down in front of him and rounded the table, smiling uncomfortably as each set of piercing blue eyes followed each graceful move. 

‘One moment,’ spoke the soldier once more, ‘would you be so kind?’  He took a cigarette from his breast pocket and placed it upon his lips, offering the intimidated waitress a tiny box of matches.  She uttered a response but it went unheard and as the quartet continued to glare at her hesitance she pinched gently at the box and shakily struck alight one of the matches.  Settling the flame carefully at the head of the cigarette the waitress pulled away quickly as a cloud of smoke seethed away from the soldier’s crooked grin. 

‘Thank you,’ he said.  Nodding courteously the waitress handed back the match box and began to turn away when the soldier grabbed fiercely at her wrist.  Her eyes became swollen with fear.  The table fell silent and his peers sniggered at her expense.  Offering a wink the soldier chuckled and released his grip, allowing the waitress to skip inside, tears battling to tumble across her cheeks.  Michel took his sunglasses away from the bridge of his nose and looked over to Patrice who shook his head. 

‘Pigs,’ he grumbled.  The four yellow-haired soldiers set down their empty glasses and gathered their effects.  A tip clattered onto the table top and the stumbling Nazi’s passed through the busy terrace, excusing themselves as they carelessly bumped and stumbled into a cemetery of silent customers.  Michel glared at them from behind the darkened lens of his glasses.  The last to leave extended his outstretched arms until they slinked into his jacket sleeves and shot the two Frenchman a smirk doused grin before heading out into the street.  Their presence lingered for a few moments and it took a while before conversation blossomed once more. 

‘Look at these people,’ Michel grimaced, ‘running scared, afraid to cough.’

‘Did I miss the part where you took on the first three with your fists, shot the fourth and then carried the blushing madam to your sports car?’

‘Funny,’ said Michel. 

Stretches of pale grey cloud drifted over the square.  The beaming sun had lost its warmth and its bright rays felt cold and bleak.  Stefan locked the shop doors behind him and headed out, shielding his hair-raised neck with the curl of his jacket collar.  Rain threatened to fall and the citizens of Paris already held their umbrellas high.  Stefan checked his watch.  He figured he had enough time to go home and change before he had to meet the others later.  A flock of squawking pigeons flustered overhead, searching for a dry haven as the first few drops began to plummet.  Stall keepers rushed around the pavements, scampering at cover hooks and dissembling the array of poles dotted around each pitch.  Stefan’s heels stepped off the curb.  The cold began to niggle at his dust smothered knuckles.  The rain was steadily building up to a heavy shower.  A crackle of sound caught his attention.  Squinting against the downpour Stefan turned, almost certain he had heard someone call his name.  He took a few more steps.   

‘Stefan!’ There it was again, this time sharp and clear.  Stopping at the corner of the street Stefan shot another sheltered look back into the crowds of rushing people.  Amongst the sway of tall coats a pale face emerged. 

‘Henry?’ Stefan questioned, swiping a web of gathered rain away from below his eyes. 

‘Stefan!’ the young boy called again as he finally fought through the curtain of rain soaked coats, ‘Stefan you have to come quickly.’ 

‘Calm down,’ Stefan said with a smile, ‘what’s wrong?’

‘We were playing... just outside Mr Rocha’s store, we weren’t making trouble for anyone I promise Stefan.’ 

Resting his hand gently upon Henry’s quivering shoulder Stefan frowned and knelt down so that he could hear the boy’s stuttering speech more clearly. 

‘What exactly is wrong Henry?’ he said reassuringly.            

‘It’s your brother,’ he wept, ‘they hit him.’ 

A cold surge fizzed though Stefan’s arms and legs.

‘Who hit him Henry?’

‘The German’s,’ the little boy cried, ‘it was the German’s. 

Joseph lay against the sofa, his head resting upon a tall heap of cushions.  Stefan’s mother sat beside him, dabbing his dampened forehead with a warm rag.  The room hummed with hushed conversation.  Stefan set his hand down upon Joseph’s arm and glanced gingerly into the eyes of his distraught mother. 

‘Where’s Father?’ Stefan muttered. 

‘Upstairs,’ his mother sobbed, ‘talk to him, Stefan please.’  Joseph groaned, his lips barely parting to release each hint of discomfort.  A thick purple bruise sat under his left eye, a stream of dried blood hung beneath his nose. 

‘For goodness sake,’ his mother cried, wiping away the gathering of darkened crimson red.  Stefan looked around.  His brother, his two sisters, his aunt and uncle, they all stared at him with hopeful yet demanding eyes.  He rose to his feet and edged past the tunnel of back-patting hands and took to the staircase, embarking upon each step until he reached the dimly lit landing.  His fingers felt at the walls.  Their whiteness had been lost in the darkness yet appeared fully restored by a peachy glow flickering out from an open doorway down the hall.  Stefan pushed at the door leading into his father’s bedroom.  A milky moonlight caught his eyes first,
then he saw his father, sprawled against the windowsill, his face enthralled with pain and antipathy.  His hair spilled over his ears and a thick moustache grew across his wrinkle creased face. 

‘Father,’ Stefan grumbled nervously.  The man, seemingly riddled with old age way before his time, stared at his son for a moment before returning his tear inflamed gaze out into the dark night.

‘You see what they did to the boy.’ 

‘Yes.’

‘Struck him down, struck him down for...’ a splutter left his cracked lips and a cloud of hot spittle appeared against the glass. 

‘F-for nothing, bastards...’  Stefan studied his crooked form.  The buttons on his shirt hung by their short blue threads and his shoes were worn beyond a key cutters repair.  A sharp pain would niggle at his insides when he looked deep into the sadness of his father’s face.  He could never figure out what it was.  Despair? 
Pity?  He didn’t know. 

‘Make this right,’ his father sniped, his frail hand reaching blindly for Stefan’s shoulder.

‘I will father,’ Stefan replied, ‘I promise.’  A tear began to rattle within the corner of one of Stefan’s eyes.  His father continued to stare out into the darkness, his words extinguished, his face bearing the mark of a bottomless sadness.

‘Goodbye father.’ 

The old man turned his teary gaze towards the empty doorway.  A thousand words hung on the brink of his tongue.           

The rain pushed him back.  Henry snapped at his heels, sobbing and sniffling and wiping his nose against the rain drenched cuffs of his jacket.  Stefan knew where he was headed, though he didn’t know why.  The reasons were there, hidden behind a bunch of raging thoughts.  He came to the entrance of the lockup and fumbled the keys hurriedly into the padlock. 

‘Wait here,’ he told Henry.  With a push Stefan barged through the doorway into a crowded room.  Four faces turned to him.

‘Ah, we were starting to think old Mr Morel had you working all through the night now.’

Stefan wiped a band of wet hair away from his brow.

‘What’s going on?’ he said.

Jacques stepped forwards, his eyes riddled with confusion.

‘Eight o’clock.  We all agreed to meet here so we could decide the fate of the case, remember?’

Gerard’s eyes rose.  Michel noticed and slinked behind Patrice and out of view. 

‘Right,’ Stefan said, his gaze wandering towards the chest of drawers across the room.  The others watched as he staggered past them.

‘Stefan.’

He ignored them and his shaking hands met the handle of the top drawer.

‘Is everything alright Stefan?’ Patrice enquired.

‘Fine.’

‘Hey,’ Patrice persisted, grabbing his friend by the arm.  Stefan stopped sieving through the drawer and turned to him, his eyes glazed in a transparent blaze of heartache.

‘It’s Joseph,’ he said through a bridge of gritted teeth,

‘They hit him... those bastards hit him.’  

Patrice moved his hand up to Stefan’s shoulder,

‘Who, who hit him?’

Stefan’s response was held up for a few moments, hidden behind a series of sniffles,

‘The Germans.’

Michel edged closer, his attention momentarily diverted towards Stefan’s tear drenched words. 

‘Where are these German’s now?’ said Gerard.

‘A tavern not far from here,’ replied Stefan, his frown bruised face retuning back to the confines of the drawer.   

‘So, what’s the plan?’ muttered Gerard.

‘The plan,’ boomed Stefan, finally fetching a pistol from the drawer, ‘is to go out into the night and find these bastards.’  The others looked at one another, a hidden agreement swapped from face to face.

‘Oh,’ he said, ‘you might want to bring that bomb too.’ 

THE ARYAN QUATTRO

‘That’s it,’ Henry said, pointing towards the tavern, ‘that’s where they went.’ 

‘Good job, Henry,’ Stefan said, ‘Get
yourself home.’

With a sheepish nod Henry scuttled past the others and disappeared into the night.

‘So, what do we do?’

‘Well we can’t just go in there all guns blazing.’

‘Too right, for all we know there’s an entire panzer division in there.’