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section7mfu2019-12-27 06:00 pm
The twelve days of Christmas
The twelve days of Christmas Part Nine
Depardieu glanced at his watch, before, without any further comment, he turned on his heel and retreated rapidly into his study. Napoleon shrugged lightly in Illya’s direction, before glancing up the stairs at Regina Depardieu, still standing motionless on the landing above. He ran up the stairs towards her, only to collide with the heavy door of her bedroom as it slammed unceremoniously in his face.
By the time he returned downstairs, Kuryakin had vanished. Only the faint sounds of raised voices emanating from Depardieu’s study drifted into the hallway. He retraced his steps up the stairs, passing the desolate, swung open door of Denise’s room before reaching Illya’s bedroom. On the unmade bed a small sprig of a plant lay, partly hiding a note. He picked it up, the pungent smell of the herb invading his senses as he read
‘Meet where I flourish’
It was typical of Kuryakin to write these obscure things, he thought, just at a time when things were about to be resolved, or spin hopelessly out of control. He pocketed the herb and, sprinting down the stairs, walked rapidly towards a distant hedge at the back of the estate, where he thought he could just discern something glinting in the penetrating winter sun.
Kuryakin was standing motionless behind the hedge, frowning at his watch.
‘Seven minutes and forty-five seconds. Your reaction times are slowing, Napoleon.’ Solo produced the sprig of Rosemary and waved it in the Russian’s direction.
‘Very amusing’ he replied. ‘You know, one day your hair will be the death of us both. I could see you glinting from the house.’ Illya grimaced, involuntarily smoothing down his hair before kneeling down behind the hedge’s solid barrier.
‘I thought we needed to talk’ he said, his manner now at odds with the glorious sunshine. He rummaged in his trouser pocket before pulling out something.
It was a newspaper clipping, and by the look of it, quite old. A photograph drew the eye forcefully before the text could tell the story of the horrific scene captured in the grainy black and white picture. A makeshift gallows in what looked like an open barn was surrounded by a large group of men and women, the solitary, shocking figure of a woman hanging pitifully from the beams as they stared on. By her side, a man stood, his manner expressing both power and satisfaction. Napoleon stared at the scene.
‘If you look carefully, I think you’ll recognise at least two, if not three people you know’ Illya said quietly. Solo started at his partner’s voice, before returning his gaze to the photograph. He didn’t need Illya to help him see clearly who the executioner was. The years had increased his girth and the greyness of his hair, but Justin Depardieu was instantly recognisable. Illya gently ran his finger from the figure on the makeshift stage to a couple amongst the crowd.
‘Look carefully, Napoleon’ he sighed.
The man was taller than the woman he shielded from the horror in front of her, but not that much. Something about him seemed familiar. Solo followed the direction of Kuryakin’s finger, running down the man’s body until it rested on his hand, poking out from the raincoat he wore. In the hand, a familiar object rested. A briar pipe. The woman’s face was hidden, but her hair, a mass of curls, indicated immediately to Solo who she might be.
Napoleon glanced at Illya, before once again staring at the clipping. It was dated 1945, the paper a local edition in what must have been until then, a part of occupied South-West France. Solo scanned the text.
‘It appears that she was executed by these men for collaboration’ Kuryakin said flatly. ‘There was a lot of it around, summary justice, revenge for real and sometimes imagined crimes’ he said. ‘They often got the wrong person.’ He gently prised the paper out of Napoleon’s hand and turned it over. On the edge of the sheet, something had been written in pencil.
‘To the memory of my darling sister Cecily. There will be retribution. R.’
Illya folded the cutting and handed it to Napoleon.
‘I found it in her bedroom last night. You will need to return it to the place where I found it’ he added. ‘I think we know now at least in part, why Mr Waverly has such a personal direction in this affair.’
Depardieu was not in his office when they returned, the sound of Regina’s car in the drive alerting them also to the fact that it would be comparatively easy to return the clipping to its home under the rug in her room. Illya walked back to the dining room, reasoning that breakfast was still important if they were to get through the day successfully. As he thoughtfully dipped his pain au chocolat into his coffee, he picked up and opened a letter addressed to them both, which had been left on the table. It was simple in its message. Below the rather austere letter heading there was a simple sentence, or rather a command.
Meet me at 9.00 pm outside the Casino Barrière de Menton. JD
***********
The bright skies of the day had given over to a distinct chill as they waited outside, the sea providing a dark, lapping backdrop to whatever awaited them. Solo had attempted to contact New York but Waverly was uncharacteristically unavailable. Gerard at UNCLE in Nice had assured him both of the reliability of the arrangements about the diary, and of ‘Monsieur Kuryakin’s arrangements’ as he rather obliquely referred to them. Illya had checked his watch for the fifth time when Depardieu appeared.
He was obviously and worryingly in a good mood. Two men appeared out of the shadows behind him, one of whom disappeared almost instantaneously, having been handed something which made Illya’s heart beat a little more irregularly. He acknowledged them rather less warmly than before, Napoleon thought.
‘Bonsoir. Je suis prêt, messieurs, je suis prêt.’ Illya frowned and wondered exactly what he meant by ‘being ready.’ Depardieu’s car, a Citroen DS appeared at the front of the casino. He motioned to them to get in, before barking instructions to the driver. The car gracefully pulled away from the kerb and they picked up speed along the road to Nice and the diary. Kuryakin remained silent, the darkness of the interior only yet again slightly illuminated by the mass of his hair. Solo leaned forward to speak to Depardieu but the man’s back was faced relentlessly against him. After what seemed like a very short time, they pulled up in front of the same dilapidated house that they had entered what felt like an eon before.
The car, walrus-like, settled down onto the pavement with a sigh of its pneumatic suspension. Depardieu motioned the chauffeur outside before turning round, the kind of supercilious expression on his face that reverberated in Napoleon’s bowels.
‘Messieurs’ he began, with worrying formality. ‘As we speak, my courier is heading towards the Église Sainte-Dévote to free my daughter from your little sideshow of a kidnapping’ he hissed, looking directly at Kuryakin. As he looked away, he was aware that the light from the pavement had been blocked by someone standing outside the car. He frowned and returned his gaze to the Frenchman. Depardieu was now looking intently at his partner.
‘I have to confess that I was quite impressed by your little insurance policy gentlemen, but vraiment, you do not have to worry. I really won’t kill you until I have everything.’
‘Well that’s gratifying to hear’ Napoleon said, his face creasing into as false a smile as the one on the Frenchman facing him. ‘I was just wondering however, whether what we have to offer is becoming…. well just a little out of your range.’
Depardieu’s smile froze and then he appeared to relax, before aiming his revolver towards them.
‘Monsieur Solo, n’inquiete pas. Sometimes one has to gamble everything to gain everything, non? Tonight, at the casino, there was a special game, blackjack. You know it? I’m sure you do. At that game there were some very important, and very rich people. Alors, to cut a long story short, tonight they lost, and I won. So, gentlemen, there really is no problem now to my gaining exactly what I want, is there?’
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Thanks so much. This area of France was an occupied zone so there are many memorials to those who fought the nazis, often hand to hand in the street. However there were cases like the one above, where old scores were settled.
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Thank you. I am delighted that the story is set in France.