Free Stonekiller by J. Robert Janes

rubber was unpleasant.
    â€˜I warned you,’ seethed St-Cyr. ‘I have tried to tell you to expect the unexpected on our roads but ah no, no, the Gestapo are invincible. They know everything. They steal a car so as to hurry to a murder scene before everything is removed, and all but kill its only passenger. Grâce à Dieu , I have not soiled my trousers. Excuse me, Inspector, while I relieve the bladder.’
    Kohler could hear him pissing against a rear tyre, a favourite French trick, since it gave the lie of big, proud, brave dogs in a nation defeated.
    The horse-dealer, a member of the nouveau riche , was not so pleasant. Having recaptured two of his nags and burned the skin off both palms, he approached the car in a hurry. ‘ Imbécile! Salaud! Did your mother have the syphilis, eh? Did she not obtain the certificat sanitaire before conceiving you?’
    There was more. Age, some fifty-six years perhaps, did not interfere. Barnyard bootscrapings were referred to. Horse shit was furiously flung at the car.
    At last the dust settled. The nags snorted and tossed their wild-eyed heads. The moon face of the dealer began to lose its colour. The dark brown eyes under that cap and thatch of grey hair, began to worry. The half-smile was crooked.
    â€˜Your name?’ breathed Kohler, still from behind the wheel of the car. He had the sun above and the world at his feet.
    St-Cyr did up his flies. The engine cooled.
    â€˜My name …? What has that to do with things? Are you so stupid you cannot see what you have done? Those horses — all thirty-six of them — were for the Russian Front! ’
    â€˜Louis, check his licence.’
    â€˜My licence …?’
    â€˜Illegal dealers, a lack of labour, and enforced shipments of produce to the Reich are the curse of French agriculture,’ mused the Gestapo whose only proffered identification was a wallet badge that was held up in the palm of a giant’s hand. ‘Production has fallen drastically and since there are so few horses left in the zone occupee , the farmers there are forced to plough using the wife and kids while here in the South, the Reich employs whatever means it can to get what remains.’
    â€˜But… but you’re one of them?’
    â€˜Hermann, we have work to do.’
    â€˜The fact that I’m “one” of them does not matter.’ One of the few good things Vichy had tried desperately to do was to save what few horses remained.
    Kohler calmed the two horses and from a shabby pocket, found the stray carrot he had picked up in the market — a piece of good fortune, a future snack. ‘We’re waiting,’ he said, giving each of the horses a half-carrot.
    The man winced and tossed the wounded hand of inconsequence. ‘My licence … oh, well certainly, it is …’
    â€˜Not so good, right? Then you’re under arrest, my friend. Climb in the back. You can help the boys in blue remove the corpse we found. Maybe they’ll let you ride with her.’
    â€˜Hermann, please. He will only be an inconvenience. Let us tear up his licence. Let us remove his boots and make him walk down this road as his horses will eventually do.’
    There was a nod the Sûreté understood only too well. The man’s undershirt and drawers were used to clean the bonnet and windscreen, the tweed cap gave a nice shine. Water was no problem for the river was close and the labour free.
    The current caught the jodhpurs and other things. It took the jacket and the bits of an identity card that would be very hard to replace. It took the torn scraps of a dubious licence.
    They left the man without a stitch, to bathe his hands and think about breaking the law for profit, no matter for whom.
    Hermann had a thing about horses. ‘Those poor old nags wouldn’t have come home from Russia, Louis. I had to do it’
    â€˜Of course.’
    When they reached the glade, the body had already