Charles L. Grant (ed), page 20
“Not a sound, Herr Tree,” Madame Kunst said softly as she brought up a Smith & Wesson .38 pistol. Her hands were expertly steady as she took aim at his head. “I will use this if I must.”
Saint-Germain’s warning flashed through James’s mind—if his nervous system were damaged, if his spine or skull were broken, he would die the true death and his resurrection would have lasted merely a week—and he stood without moving. He began to dread what might happen if Saint-Germain should come into the room.
“You have been curious about the valise, haven’t you? You have all been curious.” She no longer looked high-strung and helpless; that part of her had been peeled away, leaving a determined woman of well honed ruthlessness. “I have promised to see that it is left in working order—and you will not interfere.” She nodded toward the valise, her aim never wavering. “Open the valise, Herr Tree.”
Slowly, James did as she ordered. He dropped to his knees and pulled open the top of the old leather bag. He stared down at the contraption in it.
“It is a beacon, Herr Tree. Take it out—very, very gently—and put it on that brass trunk by the wall, the one under the window. If you trip or jolt the beacon, I will shoot you. Do you understand?”
With more care than he had ever known he possessed, James lifted the beacon. As he carried it toward the trunk she had indicated, he thought to himself that she had told him what it was, and therefore could not let him live. He put the beacon in place and hoped it was well-balanced.
“Turn around, Herr Tree,” she said, softly, venomously.
James obeyed, hoping that she would not shoot in this little, narrow room. “I’m not alone.”
“Herr Comte?” she asked quickly.
“Yes.”
She walked up to him, just far enough to be out of reach. “And the servant?”
“1 don’t know,” James lied, praying she would believe him. “He … he was told to get the car ready.” He forced himself to speak in an undervoice though he wanted to shout.
“How helpful,” she muttered. She glared at him, apparently wanting to make up her mind, and finally she cocked her head toward the door. “You will have to come with me, I think. You and I.”
James all but ground his teeth. He wanted to rush at her, to yell so loudly that she would drop the .38 and flee from him. Neither of those things was possible, he guessed from the hint of a smile she wore. “Where are we going?” he forced himself to ask.
“Out. After that, we’ll see.” She was wearing her salmon-colored knit dress which in the muted light of the room looked more the shade of diseased roses. “Walk past me, Herr Tree. Hands joined behind your head.” She came nearer to him. “What you feel at the base of your skull is the barrel of my pistol. If you move suddenly or try to grapple with me in any way, I will shoot. If you move your hands, I will shoot. Do I make myself clear?”
“Very.”
“You will reach with your left hand—slowly and deliberately—for the door. You will open it as wide as possible and you will release it.”
James did as she ordered, and when she told him to walk out onto the landing, he did that, too, as the muzzle of the .38 lay like a cold kiss on the nape of this neck.
“Now, down the stairs. One at a time. Carefully.” She was speaking softly still, but the sound of her voice rang down the stones, mocking her.
On the fourth step down, James heard a sound behind him that did not come from Madame Kunst’s steps. Apparently she was unaware of it, for she never faltered nor turned. He wondered if she were so confident of her mastery of the situation that she paid no attention to such things. He moved a little faster, trying to remember where the trip stair was.
“Not so fast,” Madame Kunst insisted. “It’s dark in here.”
Obediently, James slowed. He heard the whisper-light tread behind her, and wished he dared to turn. The trip stair was only a few treads below him. He made his way carefully.
Then, just as he passed the trip stair, something tremendously strong swept by him on the narrow, curving stair, knocking him to the side and catching Madame Kunst on the most unstable footing in the tower.
She screamed, twisted. She fired once, twice, and the bullets ricocheted off the stone walls, singeing and striking sparks where they touched. One of the bullets struck her in the shoulder and she fell, then slid downward, screaming at first and then whimpering. Her descent stopped only when Saint-Germain reached her.
“You may get up, James,” he said as he lifted Madame Kunst into his arms.
Moving as if he were tenanted in a body that was unfamiliar to him, James rose, testing his legs like an invalid. When he was shakily on his feet again, he looked down at the other man. “Thank you.”
“Thank you, James. Your methods were reckless, but your motive laudable.” He looked down at Madame Kunst, who was half-conscious and moaning. “I should bandage her and get her to a physician. There must be a plausible story we can tell him.”
James had not the strength to laugh at this as he came down the stairs.
“But it will arrange itself,” Mirelle said confidently with a nonchalant French shrug. “A refugee woman, she says, came to my farmhouse—and I, what could 1 do but take her in? I did not know that she was carrying valuables and, when there was a commotion, I investigated.” Her minx’s eyes danced as she looked up at James. “It was very nice of you to give me the pistol, Mister Tree. I would not have been able to defend her if you had not been so generous.” She held out her hand for the pistol.
“How do you explain the rest? The beacon and her wound?” Saint-Germain asked, not quite smiling, but with the corners of his mouth starting to lift.
Mirelle gave this her consideration. “I don’t think I will explain the beacon. I think I will present it to a few of my friends in the Resistance and they will see what kind of game it attracts. For the rest, the thief was holding Madame … Kunst, isn’t it? … so tightly that 1 was not in a position to get a clean shot.” She sat back in the high-backed chair that was the best in her parlor. “The physician in Saint-Jacques-sur-Crete will not ask me too many questions because he likes me and he hates the Germans and the war. Beyond that—who knows? The Germans may take her back; the Resistance may kill her. It does not matter so much, does it?” She folded her hands.
“Mirelle,” Saint-Germain said, with more sadness than she had ever heard in his voice, “you cannot simply abandon her like so much refuse.”
“You say that—after she tried to kill James and would have killed you?” Mirelle shot back at him. “You defend her?”
“Yes,” was the quiet answer.
Mirelle got out of her chair and turned her helpless eyes on James, then looked away from them both. “Perhaps you can afford to feel this way, you who live so long and so closely with others. But I am not going to live that long, and I have very few years to do all that 1 must. Extend her your charity, if you must, but do not expect it of me. My time is too brief for that.” She folded her arms and stared defiantly at Saint-Germain.
“You have chosen it,” Saint-Germain reminded her compassionately; he took her hand and kissed it.
“So I have,” she agreed with her impish smile returning. “For the time, I have the best of both, and when that is done, well, we shall see.” She turned toward James. “Would you like to remain here for the evening, James?”
“Thank you, Mirelle, but no.” He glanced out the window to the parked Bugatti.
“Another time, then. 1 will be at Montalia tomorrow night?” Her eyes went flirtatiously from Saint-Germain to James’s face. “You would like that, yes?”
“Of course,” Saint-Germain said, answering for James.
“Then, good afternoon, gentlemen, and 1 will see you later. 1 have a few old friends who will want to hear from me—and the physician to mollify.” Without any lack of courtesy, she escorted them to the door and stood waving as the Bugatti pulled away.
James returned the wave, then looked at Saint-Germain. “What will happen to Madame Kunst?”
“I don’t know,” he said quietly.
“Does it concern you at all?” James was beginning to feel a twinge of guilt.
“Yes. But it is out of my hands now.” He drove in silence.
“Just that easy, is it?” James demanded some minutes later when he had been alone with his thoughts.
Saint-Germain’s small hands tightened on the steering wheel. “No, James—and it never becomes easy.”
Shadows 05, Charles L. Grant (ed)
