to Foch for formal interrogation, and if Marner took him elsewhere, well, the man was tough and would likely take a severe beating before yielding any information. Marner really wanted to get the hotel owner Pichon to take a look and confirm if this was one of the two who had visited Schull’s room. The dilemma for Marner was that, short of knocking the man unconscious and carrying him across Paris to Pichon’s hotel, there was no way of achieving that.
Marner took yet another look around the street; his luck was holding for the moment. He gave his detainee a half-blow to the side of the head with the sap, counting on it being sufficient to stun and disorientate for a few minutes, but not render him completely senseless or unconscious. Marner hauled the man up and half-carried, half-dragged him twenty metres back along the street and then into an alleyway between two buildings. This recess was a private access to the rear yards and was blocked halfway along by wire. Beyond the wire the hungry residents had constructed a meagre mini-garden in a desperate effort to grow some extra food in the centre of this war-rationed city. Crude boxes fashioned from wooden packing crates and pallets held damp soil, from which straggled a few pathetic shoots seeking what light filtered down through the high buildings. A dozen scrawny chickens stopped their scratching in the dirt spilling from the boxes to look up at this human intrusion.
Advancing as far as possible into the alley, Marner threw the man down onto the filthy damp cobbles. The chickens, as if sensing the approaching storm of violence, scattered into the dark recesses beyond the wire. Marner stepped back and withdrew his pistol, took a deep breath and then shot the man in the thigh. This caused him to jack-knife awake from his semi-conscious state, shrieking at the pain and clutching his leg, trying to cover the spurting blood. But his eyes were on Marner and Marner knew that the right message was filtering into his brain: Avenue Foch and friends were a long way away. More: this filthy, stinking alley way was quite possibly where he was going to die.
Marner stepped quickly forward and kicked the knee of the leg that he had just emptied a bullet into, careful to then retire back a few metres from what he knew was a desperate, cornered and still dangerous animal. He waited until the new surge of pain from the kick had subsided and then enunciated clearly and slowly: “The only thing remaining now, between this moment and your death sometime within the next hour in this filthy hole, is the question of how much pain I inflict on you before you die. So listen very carefully. Give me the answers that I want and I will make it instant and painless. Give me something extraordinary and maybe I’ll even call an ambulance for you. But the other alternative is....” Marner feigned another kick at the injured leg but the Carlingue thug was either too slow or in too much pain to flinch.
“They’ll kill me if I tell you anything,” hissed the man.
“You’re already dead anyway,” grinned Marner malevolently. “All I’m doing is offering you a quick exit, versus a slow painful one.”
This gained a moment of consideration from the thug, but he then pulled his lips backs in a grimace which could have been from the pain or a sneer and spat towards the boots of Marner.
Marner cocked his head and pursed his lips, like a parent who has given a child a special freedom, only to be disappointed that his trust and patience has been misplaced. Without warning he fired another shot, this time into the other thigh. Once again he waited patiently for a minute, for the shock to subside and then landed a kick to that leg also. Once again the Carlingue took the pain and snarled back, not a word uttered. Marner was aware that the sound of the shots would have triggered calls to the police from those in the neighbouring houses. Time
Marner took yet another look around the street; his luck was holding for the moment. He gave his detainee a half-blow to the side of the head with the sap, counting on it being sufficient to stun and disorientate for a few minutes, but not render him completely senseless or unconscious. Marner hauled the man up and half-carried, half-dragged him twenty metres back along the street and then into an alleyway between two buildings. This recess was a private access to the rear yards and was blocked halfway along by wire. Beyond the wire the hungry residents had constructed a meagre mini-garden in a desperate effort to grow some extra food in the centre of this war-rationed city. Crude boxes fashioned from wooden packing crates and pallets held damp soil, from which straggled a few pathetic shoots seeking what light filtered down through the high buildings. A dozen scrawny chickens stopped their scratching in the dirt spilling from the boxes to look up at this human intrusion.
Advancing as far as possible into the alley, Marner threw the man down onto the filthy damp cobbles. The chickens, as if sensing the approaching storm of violence, scattered into the dark recesses beyond the wire. Marner stepped back and withdrew his pistol, took a deep breath and then shot the man in the thigh. This caused him to jack-knife awake from his semi-conscious state, shrieking at the pain and clutching his leg, trying to cover the spurting blood. But his eyes were on Marner and Marner knew that the right message was filtering into his brain: Avenue Foch and friends were a long way away. More: this filthy, stinking alley way was quite possibly where he was going to die.
Marner stepped quickly forward and kicked the knee of the leg that he had just emptied a bullet into, careful to then retire back a few metres from what he knew was a desperate, cornered and still dangerous animal. He waited until the new surge of pain from the kick had subsided and then enunciated clearly and slowly: “The only thing remaining now, between this moment and your death sometime within the next hour in this filthy hole, is the question of how much pain I inflict on you before you die. So listen very carefully. Give me the answers that I want and I will make it instant and painless. Give me something extraordinary and maybe I’ll even call an ambulance for you. But the other alternative is....” Marner feigned another kick at the injured leg but the Carlingue thug was either too slow or in too much pain to flinch.
“They’ll kill me if I tell you anything,” hissed the man.
“You’re already dead anyway,” grinned Marner malevolently. “All I’m doing is offering you a quick exit, versus a slow painful one.”
This gained a moment of consideration from the thug, but he then pulled his lips backs in a grimace which could have been from the pain or a sneer and spat towards the boots of Marner.
Marner cocked his head and pursed his lips, like a parent who has given a child a special freedom, only to be disappointed that his trust and patience has been misplaced. Without warning he fired another shot, this time into the other thigh. Once again he waited patiently for a minute, for the shock to subside and then landed a kick to that leg also. Once again the Carlingue took the pain and snarled back, not a word uttered. Marner was aware that the sound of the shots would have triggered calls to the police from those in the neighbouring houses. Time
Similar Books
