He began to move away from her and she didn’t like him doing this since it said he was questioning everything she said. Everything, ah no. A grey woollen jersey skirt and Hermés block-printed silk scarf attracted him, then the pleated front of a white silk blouse, then the perfumes where he lingered and asked if they manufactured some of their own.
When she said no, he told her he had a friend in the trade who did this. ‘She’s really very good,’ he said, but didn’t tell her the name of this friend or that of her shop and its location. Instead, he left her out in the cold so that she would wonder what this friend of his would say about Chez Denise and would be unsettled. Gossip was always trouble, jealousy rampant, and compliments too hard to come by but why had he done it to her? Why?
Several of the customers and salesgirls were now stealing little looks at them. An oberleutnant, a hauptmann, their women …
Suddenly having made up his mind, the detective turned to confront her. ‘Your girls, mademoiselle. Every one of them must be questioned. Look, I’m sorry but it’s necessary. A teller was shot and killed. Someone obviously knew that car would be waiting in the street. Let’s begin with the one who brought the news of the robbery to you and Mademoiselle St. Onge.’
She must force herself to give him a hard, shrewd look. She must! ‘Very well, if that’s what you wish. Juliette is the one you will want first.’
‘Did none of them see a thing?’ he asked, caught off stride.
Her little smile must be cruel so as to put him in his place and stop him in his tracks. ‘None, Inspector. One of the girls from the shop next door came to tell Juliette who was, herself, busy with a customer.’
He would have to accept this for the moment. He would have to show the face of defeat, that of the humble detective who would now have to go away and think about it so as to put her at ease. ‘What time is it, please?’
Automatically she glanced at her wrist-watch but had to pull the sleeve up.
The watch was worn on the back of the left wrist but had he seen the scars? she wondered. Had he? ‘3 … 3.14, Inspector.’
St-Cyr gave her that little nod he reserved for those whose actions revealed rare insights into their characters. He wouldn’t ask about the jewellery yet or if she had told her friend and employer or anyone else of the shipment of cash from Lyon. For now he would have to leave it.
‘You have an eye for display, Mademoiselle de Brisson. The shop is lovely. Everything is displayed to best advantage so that the whole collection produces at once intense feelings of delight in its elegance and refinement.’
How cold of him. ‘We deal in nothing else, Inspector, and nothing less. Chez Denise is that happy marriage of employer who knows what she wants and employee and friend who carries out her every wish.’
Two women …‘I’ll show myself out. Please return to your customers. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.’
Just to prove to the customers there was nothing wrong, she forced herself to shake hands with him, and only at the last did her slender fingers betray what a herculean task it had been.
Long after he had left the shop she remained staring at the door, knowing he had seen the scars on her wrist and dreading what they would cause him to believe.
Still in the attic pied-à-terre, Kohler forced himself to slow down and think as Louis would have done. Marie-Claire de Brisson was a tidy thing. Everything about the flat suggested great attention to detail—too much so, he thought.
The girl had been adopted at birth. While at the Sorbonne she had become close friends with Denise St. Onge.
She had also taken up photography—was very good, he thought but, in so far as he could determine from a search of her dark-room and filing cabinets, had given it all up in the late spring of 1940. There were no more recent photographs on her walls or in her files. The bottles of developing solution looked unused in years though none had any dust on them. Perhaps she had wisely thought the hobby too dangerous, too open to question by the authorities? She would have needed a permit in any case. Perhaps the very cost of film on the black market had deterred her.
There were two Leicas, a Hasselbad and a Graflex press camera but all had been packed away. There were lenses, lens tissues, even spare packs of film still unopened and ready but bearing the dates of 2 April and 13 May 1940.
Stubbing out his cigarette and forgetting to pocket the butt, Kohler got up to move about the bedroom, searching the photographs on the walls both here and then in the rest of the flat.
There was in all of them nothing but beauty. Not a hint of the tragedies of life. Children in plenty, but only those with happy faces. Old people smiling. Flowers. Birds nesting. Leaves in autumn in the Luxembourg Gardens.
It was a puzzle, for if she photographed only beauty, how could she have photographed those girls? And in any case, knowing what he now did, he had to ask himself, Was she even aware of what was going on across the garden?
There were no fashion photographs, not even a hint of them. The clothes in the armoires were very chic and, though they looked like some of the clothes in the photographs of the victims, he couldn’t recall sufficient detail to match them.
Opening the french doors, he let himself out onto the balcony. Stone urns, that in summer would hold geraniums, now were cold and bleak but marked the balustrade with regimented regularity round the three occupied sides of the quadrangle. The daughter would have stood out here at night, looking over the garden and beyond the rooftops to that of the Bank of France. She would have had a cigarette. There would have been the sounds of crickets and cicadas in summer, little intrusion of traffic—hell, the city was so damned quiet at night it was like a tomb and dark if for no other reason than that it was illegal to show a light in any window.
When he found a clutch of frozen cigarette butts in the left of the two urns that abutted her turf, he knew she hadn’t just stood out here in summer. Most had lipstick on them and most had been stubbed out in anger or fear.
There was no sign of Louis across the way. He, himself, had sent Madame de Brisson downstairs to her own house thinking the woman would be sure to summon her husband from the bank. This she hadn’t done even though she’d been afraid.
Returning to the flat, he began to search in earnest for the secret compartment the daughter must use to store her negatives, prints and film. It wasn’t in the dark-room, or in any of the other rooms but lying atop the cistern in the water closet.
It was not film or photographs of naked girls whose breasts would be removed but a series of ‘Letters to Myself’ all neatly bound in leather.
Wednesday 23 December 1942
I hear his footsteps on the stairs and know my father is coming up to see me again. The sound is like a hammer in my tortured brain. It makes the chasms open and I see myself as a girl often caught between the pinning walls of his arms. I feel his hands on my naked body. I smell the sweat of him, the pomade, the garlic too—whatever we have had for supper that night. Which night? Ah, jesus, Dear Sweet jesus, I cannot remember, for each time the agony is the same, and each time I weep and pray and vow I will never tell a soul.
From the rue Quatre Septembre to the rue de la Paix and down it to the place Vendôme was not far. Never one to miss the beauty of the city he loved more than any other, St-Cyr tried to slow his steps but, ah, it was no use. Mademoiselle Marie-Claire de Brisson filled his cinematographer’s mind in living colour. Against the lovely long view that ended in that tall bronze column with its statue of Napoleon as Caesar on high, he saw the girl naked in the bath, slashing her wrists with a razor.
Three times, on the left wrist—so, a very determined attempt and one she still tried hard to hide. Blood flowing out to stain the scented bathwater while, with eyes fixed on the wounds, she watched her life drain away until …
She had been found, but by whom? Her mother, her father, her friend and employer Denise St. Onge or by someone else, a lover perhaps?
The scars, though not recent, hadn’t been that old. Th
ough he couldn’t be sure of this, he thought perhaps no more than six months or a year at most.
A broken love affair? Girls sometimes killed themselves for the silliest of reasons. ‘But not this one,’ he said and paused.
The traffic flowed around him—pedestrians whose shoulders jostled. Now a well-dressed, middle-aged woman in a hurry, now an old man with a brown, paper-wrapped parcel under one arm. Antiquarian books, the sale rejected, the disappointment and what it meant all too clear. No food.
There were a few gazogéne lorries, two of which were parked outside very expensive restaurants, lots of the inevitable vélo-taxis filled with German soldiers and officers on leave, staff cars, Gestapo cars … ah, one had only to look at these last to tell them apart from all others.
Had it been the only time Marie-Claire de Brisson had attempted suicide?
She’d been clever and hadn’t run across the street to her father. She’d known the Sûreté would be watching for just such a thing.
But had she tried to kill herself because of what had gone on in the house of Monsieur Vergès? That was the question.
Hermann might have an answer, but Hermann wasn’t with him.
The shop Enchantment was on the east side of the octagon, facing across place Vendôme towards the Ritz Hotel where a gigantic swastika hung above two helmeted sentries with bayonets fixed. Requisitioned by the German High Command, the Ritz was a place for generals and other high-ranking officers. Pedestrians were everywhere and, though that joie de vivre could not quite be snuffed out, most kept their heads down and hurried about their business, for then there would be far fewer questions. Ah yes. Always one must look as if one knew exactly where one was going and was about that business and no other.
The Germans like order and efficiency. It hadn’t taken the Resistance long to learn this simple lesson.
The shop was very classy, very chic and upbeat and very expensive and busy as always. A place of lingerie, perfumes, lace and silk, bath oils, creams and soaps, et cetera, and the most beautiful mannequins in the business, all shop-girls too, for Muriel Barteaux chose them not only for the shapes of their bodies and their posture above all else, most certainly, but also for the quickness of their minds.
‘Chantal, it’s good to see you looking so lovely.’
That little bird from yesterday gracefully turned from a customer, a lieutenant with whom she had been discussing the weather—she never served the customers herself, one must not do such a thing—to delicately touch in hesitation the silk chiffon scarf she wore then press a hand to the base of a throat that bore few wrinkles— one did not speak of such things. ‘Jean-Louis …? Is it really you, mon cher detéctive?’
The eyes were clear and large and of a lovely, warm shade of brown—very sensitive as now.
Gabrielle has informed her of my problem, he said to himself. And taking Chantal’s hand, brought it to his lips. ‘How marvelous you are,’ he said and meant it.
She let him kiss her on both cheeks. Her laughter, though tiny, had a bell-like quality that pleased. Well into her seventies, Chantal Grenier and her lifelong companion had run the shop for over fifty years. As toddlers they had both experienced the Prussians at the gates of Paris in that winter of 1870-71 and, conditioned by such a momentous event, had been wary of Germans and the economy ever since.
He knew they must have a hoard of gold coins stashed away for a rainy day. They had weathered at least three, or was it four, major devaluations of the franc and an equal number of inflations, and all else, very well. They owned the building and had the flat directly above the shop.
The coins would be illegal, of course, but one must not take too seriously the proclamations of the Nazis and those of tax collectors.
Whereas Chantal seldom strayed from the place Vendôme and its little world of refinement, Muriel did the buying, the organizing, the tough jobs, though it was to her that fell the job of manufacturing their own perfumes.
‘So,’ she said, on drawing away from an embrace that could have been better had he been more presentable, ‘the wreckage of Provence and Lyon returns to the bosom of Paris but what is this? What have you done with the new hat, coat, suit, shoes, gloves, shirt and tie we provided?’
The others had been ruined on another case. ‘Criminals are no respecters of detective’s garments.’
The pencilled eyebrows were sharply raised. ‘Apparendy not, but you are forgiven. Let us send them to the cleaners at once.’
‘Ah, another time, Chantal.’
That little head was perfectly tossed. ‘There is no time at present?’
‘Ah, no. A matter of great urgency. Is Muriel in?’
‘My Muriel? Is it that you wish to see only her and not myself?’
‘No, no, of course not. But the matter is for the toughest, Chantal. For myself, you understand, I would not wish to bruise a sensitivity I cherish always.’
Ah, he was such a gendeman. Handsome still, if only he would take better care of himself. Wounded in the heart, divorced from the first wife, a widower from the second—it was such a tragedy that business of the bomb that had been meant for him, but for the best.
‘Your lover was in to see us. It was she who told us to expect a little visit from you. How may we be of service? Please, the shop is at your disposal. I have steeled myself to whatever infamy you must reveal to my Muriel.’
The shop went on about its business. Swathed in its cocoon of undergarments and scent, of pastel shades and lace like air, he watched the girls amid the gilded statues of Venus, Diana and Aphrodite deal with plod-minded, shy German officers and their French mistresses. Other women also, as before at Chez Denise, but wealthier and far more sophisticated. Really classy, class-conscious and discriminating. Not the fringe of the fashion trade, but the centre.
‘Let us go into the office, Chantal, but please, my dear, dear friend, if at any time you feel the matter too much, leave us to it. This business I have, it is not pleasant.’
Delicately she touched the back of his hand and fixed him with a gaze that in itself implored understanding. ‘I am of sterner stuff, my dear detective. I was once eighteen myself, Jean-Louis, and once, yes, abducted by two men. Ah,’ she raised both hands to stop him from saying anything, ‘the matter is closed. I mention it only so that you will understand my reasons better.’
‘You are a friend.’ Nothing else needed to be said. Taking her by the arm, he walked that cloud of rose-pink silk and chiffon through the displays past bemedalled, monocled and jackbooted Prussian giants who fingered lace and satin as if they were explosives about to detonate.
Muriel Barteaux was waiting for him in a cloud of cigarette smoke.
Kohler left Madame de Brisson to her house and her own thoughts. Indeed, he didn’t say a thing to her about the daughter’s ‘Letters to Myself’. Moving purposefully, he entered the garden of the Palais Royal and soon found himself among the lindens.
The daughter had had every reason to take revenge on her father and get out of Paris, but had Louis got it all wrong about the Resistance, had she been the one to ask for the forged papers? Had she played look-out in the rue Quatre Septembre for the two men who had held up her father’s bank? Sweet revenge and eighteen millions?
Storming into the engraver’s shop and flashing his Gestapo shield, he demanded to see the invitation he had found on Denise St. Onge’s mantelpiece, the Reichsmarschall Goering’s invitation for 31 December, to the Jeu de Paume and the Ritz. ‘There’s been a mistake. I’ve been sent to check it out.’
That ought to put them off. The son stopped what he was doing in the back shop, the elder Meunier scrambled up from behind his desk. ‘A mistake …? But that’s impossible, monsieur?’
‘Orders straight from the top, eh?’ Kohler thumped the counter. ‘Well let me tell you, my fine goateed little printer, the Reichsmarschall’s a very busy man. It’s not every day he gets to ferry supplies in to a sinking army the Soviets are about to annihilate. Winter does something unkind to ai
rcraft engines and ground crews in summer fatigues. It’s the frostbite, I guess. Now give me the invitation. Make it two of them and shove over. I’ve got to have a word with your son in private.’
‘My son …?’
Was it such a ghastly request? ‘The invitations.’ He snapped his fingers and lifted the counter flap to let himself through. ‘My partner’s keen on art auctions and late suppers at the Ritz. I want to surprise him.’
Nervously Meunier found the things and handed them over. ‘Your partner …? Was he the one from the Sûreté?’
‘Ja, ja, that’s the schmuck. A real asshole and lazy. Now hurry up.’
The boy had come to stand in the doorway. ‘It’s all right, father. I will tell him what he wants.’
‘You fool!’ cried Meunier, lunging for the Gestapo. ‘Run, Paul! Save yourself!’
It was all over. Kohler eased the elder Meunier into a chair and patted the collar of the grey business suit. ‘Take it easy, eh? You’re too out of shape. Hey, I’ve had lots of practice. Make yourself a cup of that coffee your son gave Joanne Labelle. Try not to think it’s the end of the world. Look, I’m sorry if I frightened you.’
The elder Meunier shut his eyes and bowed his head in defeat. Things had been going so well for them, but Paul had had to listen to that woman, to that Mademoiselle Marie-Claire de Brisson …
Kohler turned to the son and said, ‘I hope you see the shape he’s in. Now spit it all out and quickly. I have to find my partner before it’s too late.’
‘Three sets of documents were forged. Identity cards, work permits, military discharges and laissez-passers to Provins, 24 December, for two men. The third set consisted only of a laissez-passer for Mademoiselle de Brisson dated 1 January 1943, and a certificate stating that she was allowed to travel to Dijon for reasons of health. A past history of repeated bouts of pneumonia.’
To Dijon, of all places? Dijon was synonymous with rain, but the son had had it all rehearsed just in case the Gestapo should come for him ..
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