‘12.15, Monsieur the Chief Inspector. I followed in her steps and …’
‘Pardon?’
There was such a look of hardness in the Chief Inspector’s eyes. ‘We … that is, myself and the other boys, decided to follow in her steps.’
‘To where?’
Had they done the wrong thing? wondered Dédé apprehensively. ‘The bank and … and then back towards the station Bourse and down past the Bibliothèque Nationale to … to the Théâtre du Palais Royal.’
This in itself was trouble, but one must go easy. After all, how else were the boys to stand the awful waiting? ‘The bank then. At what time would she come close to it, before retracing her steps to turn down the rue de Richelieu and make her way to the theatre?’
Disappointment registered and then a massive frown. ‘12.27 perhaps, so she might not have seen anything of the robbery, Monsieur the Chief Inspector.’
‘Good.’
‘But … but Joanne, she has had plenty of time? She might have …’
‘Window-shopped, is this what you mean? Those shops … those places, Dédé, they make us feel uncomfortable. Besides, the prices are far too high for her, myself also.’
Again there was that frown. ‘But Joanne was going to have to model such clothes, Monsieur the Chief Inspector? Seeing them is to learn something of them, is it not? We … we think she would have taken a little of her time for this.’
Though he would have to check it out, he knew the boys were right. ‘So, she might well have been in position at 12.47 when the robbery and shooting took place …’
‘Did one of them follow her? That is the question,’ said the boy with all the gravity of his tender years.
‘You should become a detective, Dédé, but I wouldn’t wish the life on my worst enemy!’
Someone had followed her, thought Dédé. He was almost certain of this now. Why else the sudden outburst from the detective? Why else the compliment? But had it been one of the robbers?
If not, who could it have been? ‘Was she followed, Monsieur the Chief Inspector?’
‘Ah, Dédé, you have me. Yes. Yes, she was followed but by whom?’
More he couldn’t say. Concluded, the conference ended with his gruffly pressing the tin of mints into the boy’s hands and telling him to share them up. ‘Don’t go around looking for any more answers, eh? Wait for my instructions. I may need you for something special.’
But then at the door, he said, ‘Stay out of trouble. It’s dangerous. We don’t want to ruffle any feathers until we’ve found Joanne and got her safely away.’
St-Cyr was thinking of Paul Meunier, the son of the engraver, as he closed the door. He was thinking of the world he found himself in. One of watchers upon watchers. Why the hell had someone followed her? Had it been someone from that house making sure she was alone?
In pencil, with a fine and very artistic hand, Paul Meunier had deftly sketched Joanne as he had seen her in the shop, even to etching the worry in those lovely eyes, the strain of her not knowing why she was being followed though certain that she was.
Giving life to her, so much so, he could still hear the sound of the pencil on paper and how the younger Meunier’s breath had quickened as the girl had grown before him.
To have such a remarkable recall was not common. Clearly the engraver’s son should have been free of the shop and allowed to follow a career as an artist.
Young Meunier had broken all the rules of his class and his father’s establishment and had offered Joanne a cup of coffee which the girl had taken standing up with, yes, two heaping teaspoons of white sugar and milk. Yes, milk.
Some have all the luck, especially engravers of cigarette cases and other knick-knacks for the Germans.
Now where was Hermann? Suddenly the need to see him was all-consuming.
* * *
Pigalle was usually fun, but the Bar of the Broken Cat, in a cellar off the rue Fontaine, was most definitely off-limits to the Occupier. Kohler wet his throat as he stood in the entrance. The music had stopped and so had all talk and motion.
From a smoke-filled sea of tables, huddled gangsters stared at him while in the distance, a three-piece orchestra waited. There was only trouble for him here and he had walked right into it. A ‘friend’ at Gestapo Paris-Central had given him the address. A friend, the laughing bastard!
Where the girls clung dolefully to each other circling round and round on glass that scratched and scoured the music, there was now only an electrified stillness. Not even a look from half of them, the breath held.
He wished that Louis was with him. Louis was good in situations like this. But Louis wasn’t with him and they needed answers quickly if they were ever to find Joanne alive.
The préfet had his informants, his mouchards. The ‘word’ from Gestapo HQ, such as it had been, was that the one who would have the most to say could be found here. Henri Roland Péguy, one of the durs, the hard ones who had spent time in prison and would wear the three dots on the web of skin between the right thumb and index finger. M.A.V.—Mort Aux Vaches, Death to the Cows, the cops. Ah yes.
He had last been in the Santé awaiting trial for the murder of two pensioners from whom he had been trying to squeeze their life savings. But that had been in the fall of 1940. The jails had been emptied of their most useful occupants who had then gone to work for the SS and the Gestapo.
Péguy had been passed over in the first rush but then miraculously sprung by the very man who had put him there, the préfet of Paris, though that little bit of information was supposed to remain a secret for ever.
Now the secret was in jeopardy and Péguy waited.
He was a mean-eyed, hard little bastard of forty-four with one prominent gold tooth, the upper right lateral incisor. Hence the nickname of ‘Fortune’.
Kohler found him at last, three tables back of the postage stamp dance floor, holding court with four others amid a clutter of wine bottles and cigarette butts. ‘Now, look, all I want is a little information,’ he said quietly.
There were five empty bottles and spills of red wine on the linoleum table-top.
‘Eat dung. Kiss your mother’s ass.’
‘Don’t be tiresome.’
A flick-knife came out; the blade leapt! Fifteen centimetres of highly polished, hardened steel straight from the Reich and bearing the much-coveted logo of the SS, the death’s-head.
A man of few words, then, but with them, the sickening realization that, though it was forbidden to kill any member of the Occupying Forces, there was one exception. Hermann Andreas Kohler. Fair game and no one’s loss.
‘Put the knife away. Please. Let’s not get heavy, eh? Just a few small questions,’ breathed Kohler.
A bottle fell, the table quivered, neckties and faces were blurred. Kohler grabbed another bottle and smashed it. The sound of breaking glass shattered the silence. A girl screamed but was slapped into silence.
Péguy got slowly to his feet to face the spines of glass. ‘Give me room,’ he hissed, tossing the words out of the side of his mouth.
The others backed away. Soon there would only be the two of them on the dance floor, ringed by spectators all thirsting for blood. Mine! thought Kohler. Ah merde.
The table was flipped out of the way, the knife flashed. Kohler lost the broken neck of the bottle. Blood ran from his right forearm, flooding over the back of his hand. ‘You cut my overcoat?’ he said, feeling no pain. A puzzle.
‘Now the liver!’ spat Péguy. ‘You have no friends.’
To one side, revolvers had come out but were not yet pointed at him. Was it but a taste of things to come when this lousy war should end and everyone else had gone home?
‘Look, I’ll walk out of here. Okay? No problem. No questions. Nothing said.’
The knife didn’t move. Balanced lightly, it was held close in, with the elbow braced against the base of the ribcage and the muscles knotted.
Slowly Kohler pulled off his scarf and gathered it as best he could ar
ound his bloodied hand. If he drew his pistol, the bastards with the guns would even the score. Ah Christ, there was nothing for it.
‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ he said. ‘I’m bigger. I don’t like to pick on little guys.’
The knife flashed, the wrist was grabbed, Péguy taking to the air to land on his back with a crash that broke the floor and sent the bottles spinning.
Kohler swept up one and smashed it.
The Frenchman began to back away on his ass, to throw his pals looks of desperation. So, a court of last appeal and everything not exactly going one way, snorted Kohler inwardly. The rest of them had figured it out by themselves.
The bastard scrambled up and made a run for it through the parting crowd. Kohler got to him in the toilers. Throttling him from behind—seizing him by the belt and lifting—he crammed the pomaded, black-haired, jerking head into the stained trough of the urinal and shrieked, ‘Kiss it, you son of a bitch! Kiss it and puke!’
Blood ran from battered lips to mingle with the piss and other things. ‘Now talk,’ he whispered, letting up a little and catching a breath. ‘Talk!’ he shrieked in good Gestapo form.
Down on his knees, with his face still squished to one side and his eyes fighting for a way out, Péguy spat blood and his gold nugget and winced. ‘Air,’ he managed, vowing to rip open Kohler’s other cheek and cut off his balls. ‘Air.’
‘Okay. Don’t choke on your puke.’
Straddling him, Kohler eased up a little. ‘So, what did you find out for our friend?’
He waited. He shook the bastard. ‘The robbery, eh?’ he hissed. ‘Eighteen million straight in from Lyon that very same day, am I right?’
Vomit joined the blood. There was a ragged gasp up the nose. A breath was caught and swallowed. ‘My knees …’
‘Fuck your knees. You’re one of the préfet’s mouchards, piss-head. Where did the money come from, when did it arrive and who the fuck knew about it?’
That was too much to ask. The préfet would kill him. ‘Silence. I keep the silence!’ came the watery hiss.
‘Jesus, a hero!’ shouted Kohler, slamming him back into the trough. ‘I’ll piss on your head, you little fart!’
‘Lyon that … that same morning by banker’s dispatch. Eighteen millions, in 1000- and 500-franc notes. New francs.’
‘Ja, ja. Now who told who about it?’
‘We … we do not know that yet!’ shrieked Péguy, struggling to escape.
He was throttled like a dog and forced to kiss the urinal but there was nothing more to come on that aspect. ‘So, now tell me about the suitcases. Start with those and see if you can remember everything.’
Kohler let go of him suddenly. He would give him time to think that maybe … just maybe it would be possible to get up.
Then he cocked his pistol and pressed its muzzle to the back of the bastard’s neck. ‘A girl is missing, you greasy son of a bitch. A friend. The robbery may have nothing to do with it. We’ll have to see. Just start talking or we’ll have an accident.’
Kohler … Kohler had a pretty little pigeon named Giselle le Roy …‘Two suitcases. Leather. Alligator. Louis Vuitton 1934 to ’36. Two men, one woman.’ Péguy angrily spat blood and other things. ‘The men to take the money, the woman to watch the street. One motorcycle for the getaway.’
‘Come on. Two big, heavy suitcases and two guys on one motor cycle? Hey, you can do better than that. Why not throw in a vélo-taxi just to speed things up?’
A bicycle-taxi.
A nostril was cleared. ‘They … they stole a car.’
‘Talk louder.’
‘A car!’
‘Good. Let the others in there know you’re telling me everything, eh? Then it won’t be Talbotte who cuts your throat but your friends.’
‘My usefulness…. Please, the préfet is counting on me to …’
‘Aw, stop whining and get on with it. A car in Paris? A German car?’
The bastard nodded but banged his forehead and cursed Kohler’s ancestors until the gun was pressed a little closer and he was told that, since Talbotte had not wished to co-operate on such a delicate matter, there had been nothing for it but to ask his sources. ‘It’s simply your tough luck, mon fin, so spit it out.’
‘Then yes. Yes! The car of one whose mistress was in a shop across the street. They forced her driver to take them to Pigalle and they ditched him here.’
‘Now wait a minute. Whose car was it?’
‘Ah nom de Jésus-Christ, foutez-moi la paix!’ Bugger off!
Kohler waited.
‘The … the Sonderführer Franz Ewald Kempf.’
A special officer, Section II of the Propaganda Staffel, in charge of news releases for the Luftwaffe. An arrogant smart-ass, a real ladies’ man. ‘Pigalle in broad daylight?’ scoffed the Gestapo’s strong-arm. ‘Maudit salaud, don’t be such an utter idiot!’
‘Montmartre, up on the hill … a farm lorry, a gazogène …’
That was better but still not good enough. Kohler leaned down to whisper in his ear. ‘Is your ass as tight as your lips, or do I have to bring one of your friends in here to find out for myself?’
Both nostrils were cleared. There was some choking. ‘A courtyard off the rue des Amiraux. Number 9. The driver was knocked out and left in the car. They … they walked away.’
‘With two big suitcases like that? Near the goods yards? Hey, you must think I don’t know my way around.’
Péguy swallowed. Two rucksacks. They … they left the suitcases but these were then taken by someone else and we have not yet been able to find them.’
‘Did they leave a little of the cash as hush-up money? Well …?’
‘Yes, yes, most probably. Maybe a bundle of 500s. We do not know as yet!’
‘Didn’t the chauffeur get a look at them?’
‘One wrenched the rear-view mirror aside, the other put the gun to the back of his head. Things moved too fast. He was hit pretty hard and has suffered a concussion.’
‘So, tell me about the two men.’
‘They … they were dressed as mackerels but …’
‘Dressed like pimps so as to point the finger elsewhere? Good Gott im Himmel, how dumb do you think I am?’
‘As maquereaux!’ spat Péguy desperately.
‘Hey, mon fin, pimps don’t have the guts to rob banks, nor would they smash a teller’s face with lead. Come to think of it, why that teller?’
‘He … he reached for the …’
‘Ja, ja, the alarm bell. Hey, look behind the shit to find the ass that left it. Why that teller?’
His nose was broken, raged Péguy silently. His teeth were smashed. ‘He … he may have recognized one of them.’
‘Or?’
There was a sigh, that of a departing soul perhaps.
‘Or known of the shipment and … and foolishly passed the word so as to obtain the pay-off.’ Marseille … could he manage to go into hiding there?
Again Kohler leaned down. ‘Don’t even think of Marseille, mein Schatz, my treasure. You’d stand out like rotten fish. Hey, you’re really very good. If you had udders, you’d make a farmer happy. But let’s hope your milk hasn’t turned, eh? Because if it has, I’ll be back. Oh by the way, those two guys. How old were they?’
He’d kill Kohler if he could! ‘Thirty … thirty-two to thirty-six, no more, not much younger.’
Things must have happened pretty fast. ‘And they didn’t talk or act like pimps, did they? Well, come on. Empty the udders so that I can put you out to pasture.’
The head was shaken. A hair was savagely spat. ‘Well-educated, eh?’ asked the Gestapo.
The head gave a nod. ‘So, good. Yes, that’s very good,’ said Kohler, straightening to stand over him. There was only one language a bastard like this would understand. ‘Don’t move. I’ve got to put the pistol away and take out the other one.’
Giving it a moment in which Péguy cringed and waited himself, he said, ‘The woman. The one who wat
ched the street. Let’s not forget her.’
‘She … she lost herself quickly.’
‘Just walked away? No bicycle? No motor cycle or vélo-taxi?’
‘None.’
‘How old?’
‘Thirty to thirty-five, maybe a little older.’
‘Okay. Was it a Resistance job?’
‘We … we don’t know. Perhaps not. It … it’s too early to say.’
‘So you told Talbotte no.’
The head leapt, the bastard tried to face him.
‘Yes, yes, I told him no! Do you think I want trouble with those people? If they find out I’ve squealed on them, they will slice me up.’
It had best come softly. ‘Maybe that’s what you deserve.’
Péguy raked his mind for details. Giselle le Roy liked to dance in the Bal Saint-Séverin and to while away her time watching old movies in any of three most favoured cinemas. Sometimes she would go around the corner to pay Madame Chabot a little visit and to talk over old times. Since she could no longer offer the use of her body to anyone but Kohler, the girl was bored.
In boredom would there be vengeance. The sword with the serpent entwined.
‘Thinking about tattoos and vowing you’re going to kill someone close to me, eh?’ snorted Kohler. ‘Hey, I’d watch it if I were you. Ah merde, the battery’s dry. You’re in luck!’
No piss.
For good measure, he leaned on Péguy’s head and ground it into the trough a last time. ‘Don’t even think of touching Giselle or Oona. I’ll kill you if you come within a block of either of them. If your friends out there allow you to leave. If. Bonne chance, you’re going to need it!’
The battered lips quivered with rage, the bloodshot eyes were smarting. ‘I … I will have the protection of the préfet and they will know it.’
‘Then I pity you for its worthlessness. Au revoir, mon fin. Sleep lightly.’
The Cluny was at 71 boulevard Saint-Germain, not all that easy to find in the darkness. Kohler stood in the middle of the street. Hell, there was so little traffic, a drunk could have slept out here.
Mannequin Page 5