Post by redsycorax on Jan 25, 2024 4:34:01 GMT
Once again, we return to the Second World War and Britain's august metahuman defenders, the Victory Legion. Shortly before the end of the conflict, two of their 'non-powered' operatives, the Horned Owl (Georg Von Tregor) and fighter pilot Midnight Angel (Rosalie Ashley) went into faltering occupied France in an attempt to answer a pivotal mystery- why weren't Jewish refugees making it through the underground railway from the horrors of the Holocaust to freedom and sanctuary from the malignancy of Nazi Germany?
++
VICTORY LEGION HEADQUARTERS, LONDON:
"I don't like this at all." Penthesilea/Britannia commented.
"Aye, Penny's right as usual. Parachutin' into occupied Paris when yer not sure who or what yer might find? Not that I doubt yer guts and determination, Rosie an' Georg." Derek Hammond (Sheffield Steel) added his concern to his Amazon companions.
"We don't have any choice in the matter, though." Intangible spoke up as the morning sun shone through his translucent spectral form.
"Exactly, which is why there is no other option. That infernal power screen of the Ratzis will either deprive you of your abilities or invert your moral compass so you become pawns of the Reich. Georg and I have no special abilities like yours, so we won't be affected. Logically, therefore, we are the best choices for this operation."
"Rosalie, my sister, I agree with Derek. No-one here would doubt your courage and grit. However, we are your friends. Please, let us express some concern about this venture."
"Thank you, Penny, but may I point out that not only is Georg here a seasoned European traveller from his time in the UBA, I have gone on several missions into the Reich. And that I was trained alongside Black Canary by Ted Grant, one of the world's foremost heavyweight boxing champions? We are the optimal choices for this mission. We've been given clearance by MI6 and the SIS to do so, and thanks to our good friends at Bletchley Park, we can pass as French civilians until we solve this enigma."
"Remember, though, MI6 and the Abwehr had a too cosy relationship until '37 because of paranoia about the 'evils of communism'."
"I know, which is why this assignment was a 'blind' one and minimal details about our identities were provided up the line."
"Georg? You've been quiet about this, mate." Derek commented.
"Ach, I'm just relieved that you've all provided me with such trust. I won't let you down."
"Considering those murdering Nazi barbarians slaughtered poor young Willi, and that you've fought alongside us for a year, and shared countless intelligence items, Georg, of course we do. You're one of us. The Gestapo and SS have put a high price on your head. And according to Penny's lasso of candour, you're not a double agent." Intangible added.
"It's almost time to change. Don't worry. As soon as that infernal shield of the Nazis is down and inoperative, the three of you will be able to operate at full steam ahead in mainland Europe."
OCCUPIED PARIS, MARCH 1944:
A glider had taken the two of them deep into enemy territory, into an unsettled city. They'd changed into wartime rationed French clothing, with forged identity papers and bonded plastic fingertip guards for Horned Owl's hands if there was any suspicion that he might be engaging in subterfuge. The glider was ditched and Midnight Angel had flown enough missions over the French capital to memorise the terrain. Speaking in French, she commented:
"They're not interested in either of us, so our feint must be working. Now all we need to worry about is a random search and sweep operation in reprisal for a maquis killing."
"Is it my imagination, Rose, or are there less SS and Gestapo thugs on the street?"
"Probably. Things are rapidly deteriorating in the east, according to our friends. They've probably been redeployed to the Ukraine or Baltic front, or to Northern Italy, given their loss of control over its southern provinces." Effortlessly, she had switched to Polish in order to circumvent French collaborator comprehension of their conversation. Horned Owl motioned toward an alleyway:
"There. That's our rendezvous point with the resistance. They'll get us up to the Rue de Carmartin, where all of the trails run cold."
"It's still a beautiful city, isn't it, Georg?"
"Look at the people around us, though, Rose. The ragged clothing, the elusive and calculating gazes, the distance between people on the street, the apprehensiveness. The Nazis and their collaborators and sycophants probably want for nothing, but they're the only ones who do. And the collapsed buildings from the time the Nazis forced their way into this city. And the bloodstains that the Parisians studiously avoid looking at."
"Yes, I'd noticed too. And those obscene Judenraus placards on buildings stolen from their proper owners. Which, of course, is why we're here. Come on. Let's get over to the Ninth Arrondissement and get to the bottom of this."
RUE DE CARMARTIN, NINTH ARRONDISSEMENT:
At first sight, the Rue de Carmartin might excite little interest in those who ventured into its precincts. Created in 1780, it was an affluent area, with several mansions that belonged to the haute bourgeoisie and corporate chief executives, and had been the site of some of France's foremost works of dramatic, musical and visual art. At one time or another, Mirabeau, Stendhal, George Sand, Edouard Vuillard and Edouard du Max had lived in the magnificent apartments overlooking the street below. En route, the Victory Legion couple had changed outfits to those more suited to the salubrious, ersatz glamour of the collaborators who called this home. A Gestapo officer checked their identity papers and with great relief, they passed the test. Now conversing in sign language, the two of them noted their surroundings:
-Well, that proves the quality of MI6 covert ops, I imagine. He didn't suspect a thing.
-He seemed preoccupied.
-Given certain events, that's hardly surprising. Their minds aren't on their jobs, either, you can see that in their faces and behaviour. They're probably frightened of future events, or of being shipped off to the collapsing Russian front.
-To think that so much beauty was created here, and... ah. Numero Soixante-Six. Currently assigned to one Doctor Marcel Petiot. What is it?
-Rose, look at the alleyway. What does that look like to you?
-It's hard to tell without proper chemical testing equipment and we obviously can't use that. Anyhow, you're the chemist. However, my guess is that's a broken syrette or syringe. As for those white granules, diacetylmorphine, or...
-Heroin. This Doctor Petiot appears to be a drug addict. Well, that'll make our job easier. We all know what prolonged exposure and use does to those poor wretches habituated to the substance.
-Georg, what if ... what if this Doctor Petiot had somehow intercepted the fleeing Jewish refugees en route to Spain or the coast and betrayed them to the Nazis?
-There's been no upsurge in deportations to the camps in the east, though. Or identification matches or descriptions of the missing asylum seekers that correspond. No, Rose. Horrific as it is to entertain the prospect, I fear we are dealing with some form of psychopath, some ghoul who has descended on these poor people and abruptly ended their lives. And then probably disposed of them somehow.
-You do realise you don't have to protect me from another unsavoury aspect of this, don't you? Yes, I noticed it too when MI6 provided us with the reconnaissance intelligence that the Resistance supplied them with. The list of missing parties are almost all exclusively female.
-Forgive me. I should have realised that you would not shirk away from the implications.
-All right, then. I'll say it. Maurice Petiot is some sort of depraved sex monster who preys on Jewish refugee women.
She didn't flinch from saying it, even in gestural form. To some extent, although he had noticed the expressions of disgust and loathing in her face, it was unalloyed with any trace of fear. And having seen his comrade in action over the last year, Horned Owl knew all too well that she would give no quarter to cowardice or hesitation until this task was over with. She produced a metal shard:
-Time to go in for a closer look and see what this latter day Doctor Crippen is hiding in there.
No 66 RUE DE CAUMARTIN:
As their torches shone over the darkened rooms, Horned Owl directed his partner's attention to the bookshelves.
-Look at this.
-That's Polish. It's about the Katyn Forest massacre. And that's about the Peenemunde mission in Norway. Double agent?
-It's one way of getting access to the women he wants, I suspect. Ugh. Look at the rest of his bookshelf. Gobineau, Quebecois anti-Semite Adrien Arcand, French translations of American Nazis like Virgil Effinger, William Dudley Pelley and "Father" Charles Coughlin. And homegrown anti-Semitic ordure like Alphonse Toussenel, Eduoard Drumont, and the gutter dweller Louis-Ferdinand Celine. Our Doctor Petiot is one for the demon's cauldron, judging from his repulsive choice of reading material.
-Someone's coming.
Midnight Angel and the Horned Owl concealed themselves behind dark, spacious curtains and a dusty bookshelf, as the stench hit them almost immediately, as did the fragments of acrid smoke.
-Is that...
-Mein Gott, Rose. T-that butcher... h-he's burning the remains of his victims. That's what that charnel house odour must be.
-Yes, that would make sense, I'm afraid, Georg. He's trying to dispose of them before this tottering collaborator regime of theirs collapses and he's doing it in the basement. And that smell from the luggage around this room and the others, and the discolouration and putrid fluid around them? My guess is those are his other victims. And did you notice the forged documents on the table and counter?
-How can his neighbours not smell this wretch's work and realise something is badly wrong?
-We haven't got much time, Georg. Sooner or later, one of them will call in the Parisian fire brigade or the French Gestapo. Actually, no, probably not the latter. It's my guess that they've been aware of this monster's aberrant behaviour for several years and given he was doing the Nazi regime's will, they wouldn't interfere with his demonic actions.
-Let's go, then. And Rosalie... you are one 'tough broad' as our friend Mr Grant would say.
-He has, repeatedly, but we're just friends. He knows his stuff though. Derek's a fan, apparently.
-He never stops talking about Ted Grant and that championship match he saw in Birmingham before the war.
-Just as well MI6 gave us gas masks...did you notice...?
-Jah. Quicklime out in the backyard as we came in. Odds are that it's out there to dispose of human remains.
-One thing this hellsmoke is doing is shielding our movement toward him.
And then, they reached his basement and saw the cadaverous figure. Georg had seen it too many times before, and had hurriedly directed Willi away from any drug addicts that they encountered on the streets in Frankfurt. From the look on Rosalie's face, she was obviously familiar with them too- probably from her days as an Anglican vicar's daughter engaged in social rescue work elsewhere in the country. The heat from the furnace was intense and nearly unbearable. In coal urns around it, they witnessed skeletal remains mixed amidst the black nuggets. And then there were the grisly remains of further victims. The figure looked up and a demented, disoriented rictus grin was directed at the two intruders. Fortunately for them, he was too slow when it came to his Luger pistol, and one of Horned Owl's owlarangs hit him on the wrist while the two assailants closed the distance. Midnight Angel punched him in the midriff and was struck by his cold, clammy body. His pupils were mere pinpoints. Sputum, phlegm and liquid nasal fluid had made a mess of his face.
Given his addiction, Dr Marcel Petiot proved no match for the couple, who were able to tie him up and met little resistance. His nose bled, but he blinked at them, his teeth chattering, his eyes unfocused, his heart rate visibly accelerated. An acrid smell arose from his torn trousers. Had they had time, they would have delivered him to the Resistance where he would have no doubt been summarily executed. However, distant sirens alerted them to the fact that their time there had finished. And frankly, why execute this pathetic specimen when the evidence was obvious for one and all? And then the room was silent and the intruders had gone and Dr Petiot uttered a shaky moan of relief.
EPILOGUE: 1946:
Time passed. D Day dawned in May 1944, and Paris was liberated several months later, in August 1944. At that time, French provisional government authorities found a filthy, derelict figure in one of the French Gestapo/Carlingue cells, for the disclosure and enormity of La Goule de Paris' crimes forced even the corrupt, criminal collaborators police force to take notice and prevent him from undertaking any further offences. There were ample dossiers on his depradations and slaughter and the celebrated Commissare George-Victor Masseau took over the case, expertly providing the copious grisly evidence of flesh, bone and charcoal from Petiot's basement furnace. His garage, stables and basement sinks, rusted shackles and a peephole were all now mute witness to Petiot's demonic evil, sadism and wanton depaved brutality. He did himself no favours by ravings about "resistance ties", which existed only in his demented, disoriented mind. Whether they were facile lies or a desperate attempt to evade the inevitable penalty for his crimes is unknown. Perhaps it was a mixture of both motivations. Ultimately, the judge and jurors found Marcel Petiot guilty on twenty six counts of murder and sentenced the field to death.
No-one noticed the tall, well-spoken blonde German man and his attractive, equally tall red-headed softly spoken English wife who attended the trial. Many assumed that they were journalists, foreign legal scholars or police officers and none were even remotely aware of their hidden role in the apprehension of the demonic creature before the merciless scrutiny of judicial retribution for his manifold acts of torture and murder. Their presence was overshadowed by the grim forensic detail as the evidence unfolded and when the trial ended, the elegant couple travelled to the airport and boarded a plane back to London.
On May 25, 1946, Petiot was decapitated by the guillotine and his remains buried in a desolate corner of the Ivrey cemetery in Paris. From time to time, the grave site is used in satanic rituals. The headstone is cracked and pitted and the bones of its occupant are now discoloured and fragmented themselves.
THE END [5.35 PM, JANUARY 25, 2024]
++
VICTORY LEGION HEADQUARTERS, LONDON:
"I don't like this at all." Penthesilea/Britannia commented.
"Aye, Penny's right as usual. Parachutin' into occupied Paris when yer not sure who or what yer might find? Not that I doubt yer guts and determination, Rosie an' Georg." Derek Hammond (Sheffield Steel) added his concern to his Amazon companions.
"We don't have any choice in the matter, though." Intangible spoke up as the morning sun shone through his translucent spectral form.
"Exactly, which is why there is no other option. That infernal power screen of the Ratzis will either deprive you of your abilities or invert your moral compass so you become pawns of the Reich. Georg and I have no special abilities like yours, so we won't be affected. Logically, therefore, we are the best choices for this operation."
"Rosalie, my sister, I agree with Derek. No-one here would doubt your courage and grit. However, we are your friends. Please, let us express some concern about this venture."
"Thank you, Penny, but may I point out that not only is Georg here a seasoned European traveller from his time in the UBA, I have gone on several missions into the Reich. And that I was trained alongside Black Canary by Ted Grant, one of the world's foremost heavyweight boxing champions? We are the optimal choices for this mission. We've been given clearance by MI6 and the SIS to do so, and thanks to our good friends at Bletchley Park, we can pass as French civilians until we solve this enigma."
"Remember, though, MI6 and the Abwehr had a too cosy relationship until '37 because of paranoia about the 'evils of communism'."
"I know, which is why this assignment was a 'blind' one and minimal details about our identities were provided up the line."
"Georg? You've been quiet about this, mate." Derek commented.
"Ach, I'm just relieved that you've all provided me with such trust. I won't let you down."
"Considering those murdering Nazi barbarians slaughtered poor young Willi, and that you've fought alongside us for a year, and shared countless intelligence items, Georg, of course we do. You're one of us. The Gestapo and SS have put a high price on your head. And according to Penny's lasso of candour, you're not a double agent." Intangible added.
"It's almost time to change. Don't worry. As soon as that infernal shield of the Nazis is down and inoperative, the three of you will be able to operate at full steam ahead in mainland Europe."
OCCUPIED PARIS, MARCH 1944:
A glider had taken the two of them deep into enemy territory, into an unsettled city. They'd changed into wartime rationed French clothing, with forged identity papers and bonded plastic fingertip guards for Horned Owl's hands if there was any suspicion that he might be engaging in subterfuge. The glider was ditched and Midnight Angel had flown enough missions over the French capital to memorise the terrain. Speaking in French, she commented:
"They're not interested in either of us, so our feint must be working. Now all we need to worry about is a random search and sweep operation in reprisal for a maquis killing."
"Is it my imagination, Rose, or are there less SS and Gestapo thugs on the street?"
"Probably. Things are rapidly deteriorating in the east, according to our friends. They've probably been redeployed to the Ukraine or Baltic front, or to Northern Italy, given their loss of control over its southern provinces." Effortlessly, she had switched to Polish in order to circumvent French collaborator comprehension of their conversation. Horned Owl motioned toward an alleyway:
"There. That's our rendezvous point with the resistance. They'll get us up to the Rue de Carmartin, where all of the trails run cold."
"It's still a beautiful city, isn't it, Georg?"
"Look at the people around us, though, Rose. The ragged clothing, the elusive and calculating gazes, the distance between people on the street, the apprehensiveness. The Nazis and their collaborators and sycophants probably want for nothing, but they're the only ones who do. And the collapsed buildings from the time the Nazis forced their way into this city. And the bloodstains that the Parisians studiously avoid looking at."
"Yes, I'd noticed too. And those obscene Judenraus placards on buildings stolen from their proper owners. Which, of course, is why we're here. Come on. Let's get over to the Ninth Arrondissement and get to the bottom of this."
RUE DE CARMARTIN, NINTH ARRONDISSEMENT:
At first sight, the Rue de Carmartin might excite little interest in those who ventured into its precincts. Created in 1780, it was an affluent area, with several mansions that belonged to the haute bourgeoisie and corporate chief executives, and had been the site of some of France's foremost works of dramatic, musical and visual art. At one time or another, Mirabeau, Stendhal, George Sand, Edouard Vuillard and Edouard du Max had lived in the magnificent apartments overlooking the street below. En route, the Victory Legion couple had changed outfits to those more suited to the salubrious, ersatz glamour of the collaborators who called this home. A Gestapo officer checked their identity papers and with great relief, they passed the test. Now conversing in sign language, the two of them noted their surroundings:
-Well, that proves the quality of MI6 covert ops, I imagine. He didn't suspect a thing.
-He seemed preoccupied.
-Given certain events, that's hardly surprising. Their minds aren't on their jobs, either, you can see that in their faces and behaviour. They're probably frightened of future events, or of being shipped off to the collapsing Russian front.
-To think that so much beauty was created here, and... ah. Numero Soixante-Six. Currently assigned to one Doctor Marcel Petiot. What is it?
-Rose, look at the alleyway. What does that look like to you?
-It's hard to tell without proper chemical testing equipment and we obviously can't use that. Anyhow, you're the chemist. However, my guess is that's a broken syrette or syringe. As for those white granules, diacetylmorphine, or...
-Heroin. This Doctor Petiot appears to be a drug addict. Well, that'll make our job easier. We all know what prolonged exposure and use does to those poor wretches habituated to the substance.
-Georg, what if ... what if this Doctor Petiot had somehow intercepted the fleeing Jewish refugees en route to Spain or the coast and betrayed them to the Nazis?
-There's been no upsurge in deportations to the camps in the east, though. Or identification matches or descriptions of the missing asylum seekers that correspond. No, Rose. Horrific as it is to entertain the prospect, I fear we are dealing with some form of psychopath, some ghoul who has descended on these poor people and abruptly ended their lives. And then probably disposed of them somehow.
-You do realise you don't have to protect me from another unsavoury aspect of this, don't you? Yes, I noticed it too when MI6 provided us with the reconnaissance intelligence that the Resistance supplied them with. The list of missing parties are almost all exclusively female.
-Forgive me. I should have realised that you would not shirk away from the implications.
-All right, then. I'll say it. Maurice Petiot is some sort of depraved sex monster who preys on Jewish refugee women.
She didn't flinch from saying it, even in gestural form. To some extent, although he had noticed the expressions of disgust and loathing in her face, it was unalloyed with any trace of fear. And having seen his comrade in action over the last year, Horned Owl knew all too well that she would give no quarter to cowardice or hesitation until this task was over with. She produced a metal shard:
-Time to go in for a closer look and see what this latter day Doctor Crippen is hiding in there.
No 66 RUE DE CAUMARTIN:
As their torches shone over the darkened rooms, Horned Owl directed his partner's attention to the bookshelves.
-Look at this.
-That's Polish. It's about the Katyn Forest massacre. And that's about the Peenemunde mission in Norway. Double agent?
-It's one way of getting access to the women he wants, I suspect. Ugh. Look at the rest of his bookshelf. Gobineau, Quebecois anti-Semite Adrien Arcand, French translations of American Nazis like Virgil Effinger, William Dudley Pelley and "Father" Charles Coughlin. And homegrown anti-Semitic ordure like Alphonse Toussenel, Eduoard Drumont, and the gutter dweller Louis-Ferdinand Celine. Our Doctor Petiot is one for the demon's cauldron, judging from his repulsive choice of reading material.
-Someone's coming.
Midnight Angel and the Horned Owl concealed themselves behind dark, spacious curtains and a dusty bookshelf, as the stench hit them almost immediately, as did the fragments of acrid smoke.
-Is that...
-Mein Gott, Rose. T-that butcher... h-he's burning the remains of his victims. That's what that charnel house odour must be.
-Yes, that would make sense, I'm afraid, Georg. He's trying to dispose of them before this tottering collaborator regime of theirs collapses and he's doing it in the basement. And that smell from the luggage around this room and the others, and the discolouration and putrid fluid around them? My guess is those are his other victims. And did you notice the forged documents on the table and counter?
-How can his neighbours not smell this wretch's work and realise something is badly wrong?
-We haven't got much time, Georg. Sooner or later, one of them will call in the Parisian fire brigade or the French Gestapo. Actually, no, probably not the latter. It's my guess that they've been aware of this monster's aberrant behaviour for several years and given he was doing the Nazi regime's will, they wouldn't interfere with his demonic actions.
-Let's go, then. And Rosalie... you are one 'tough broad' as our friend Mr Grant would say.
-He has, repeatedly, but we're just friends. He knows his stuff though. Derek's a fan, apparently.
-He never stops talking about Ted Grant and that championship match he saw in Birmingham before the war.
-Just as well MI6 gave us gas masks...did you notice...?
-Jah. Quicklime out in the backyard as we came in. Odds are that it's out there to dispose of human remains.
-One thing this hellsmoke is doing is shielding our movement toward him.
And then, they reached his basement and saw the cadaverous figure. Georg had seen it too many times before, and had hurriedly directed Willi away from any drug addicts that they encountered on the streets in Frankfurt. From the look on Rosalie's face, she was obviously familiar with them too- probably from her days as an Anglican vicar's daughter engaged in social rescue work elsewhere in the country. The heat from the furnace was intense and nearly unbearable. In coal urns around it, they witnessed skeletal remains mixed amidst the black nuggets. And then there were the grisly remains of further victims. The figure looked up and a demented, disoriented rictus grin was directed at the two intruders. Fortunately for them, he was too slow when it came to his Luger pistol, and one of Horned Owl's owlarangs hit him on the wrist while the two assailants closed the distance. Midnight Angel punched him in the midriff and was struck by his cold, clammy body. His pupils were mere pinpoints. Sputum, phlegm and liquid nasal fluid had made a mess of his face.
Given his addiction, Dr Marcel Petiot proved no match for the couple, who were able to tie him up and met little resistance. His nose bled, but he blinked at them, his teeth chattering, his eyes unfocused, his heart rate visibly accelerated. An acrid smell arose from his torn trousers. Had they had time, they would have delivered him to the Resistance where he would have no doubt been summarily executed. However, distant sirens alerted them to the fact that their time there had finished. And frankly, why execute this pathetic specimen when the evidence was obvious for one and all? And then the room was silent and the intruders had gone and Dr Petiot uttered a shaky moan of relief.
EPILOGUE: 1946:
Time passed. D Day dawned in May 1944, and Paris was liberated several months later, in August 1944. At that time, French provisional government authorities found a filthy, derelict figure in one of the French Gestapo/Carlingue cells, for the disclosure and enormity of La Goule de Paris' crimes forced even the corrupt, criminal collaborators police force to take notice and prevent him from undertaking any further offences. There were ample dossiers on his depradations and slaughter and the celebrated Commissare George-Victor Masseau took over the case, expertly providing the copious grisly evidence of flesh, bone and charcoal from Petiot's basement furnace. His garage, stables and basement sinks, rusted shackles and a peephole were all now mute witness to Petiot's demonic evil, sadism and wanton depaved brutality. He did himself no favours by ravings about "resistance ties", which existed only in his demented, disoriented mind. Whether they were facile lies or a desperate attempt to evade the inevitable penalty for his crimes is unknown. Perhaps it was a mixture of both motivations. Ultimately, the judge and jurors found Marcel Petiot guilty on twenty six counts of murder and sentenced the field to death.
No-one noticed the tall, well-spoken blonde German man and his attractive, equally tall red-headed softly spoken English wife who attended the trial. Many assumed that they were journalists, foreign legal scholars or police officers and none were even remotely aware of their hidden role in the apprehension of the demonic creature before the merciless scrutiny of judicial retribution for his manifold acts of torture and murder. Their presence was overshadowed by the grim forensic detail as the evidence unfolded and when the trial ended, the elegant couple travelled to the airport and boarded a plane back to London.
On May 25, 1946, Petiot was decapitated by the guillotine and his remains buried in a desolate corner of the Ivrey cemetery in Paris. From time to time, the grave site is used in satanic rituals. The headstone is cracked and pitted and the bones of its occupant are now discoloured and fragmented themselves.
THE END [5.35 PM, JANUARY 25, 2024]