‘My father knew nothing of it, monsieur. Nor my mother and sister. Only myself.’
How helpless. How utterly naive and stupid to think that by saying this he could save them.
Sadly Kohler gave him a nod. ‘Tell me about the two men. Their assumed names, ages, height, weight, all other such details.’
‘The boy didn’t back away from it. Still thinking that the only hope for his family lay in the truth, he said, ‘Both were engineers, one electrical, the other mechanical. I’ll write it all down for you and sign it.’
‘Their ages? They’ll be false but approximate.’
‘Thirty-two and thirty-six. Both wounded during the invasion of 1940 and subsequently released with medical discharges. Raoul Chouard and Claude Deschamps, both lieutenants in the infantry. Both were assigned to the Provins municipal works department. Chouard has blue eyes, blond, curly hair. Deschamps has straight black hair and dark brown eyes. There were scars, the wounds of course. These could not be faked, could they?’
‘Yes, yes, write it all down. Don’t bother to sign it.’
Kohler took out a cigarette and, lighting it, went out to the father. ‘Here, you need this more than I do. Look, Monsieur Meunier, let me give you a piece of advice. Get out of Paris while you can. Claim health, sickness in the family—hey, use your German friends and if not them, then get your son to do a job for you. Lyon, Marseille, Toulon—choose a city in the south. Things are still better there, but go.’
‘Leave?’
‘Was it such an unthinkable thing? ‘Yes.’
Since the travel permits for the two men had been dated 24 December, they must have ditched the car and headed straight for the appropriate railway station, the Gare de Lyon.
Marie-Claire de Brisson had specifically asked that her laissez-passer be for 1 January 1943, the day after the auction. Dijon, verdammt! What did it mean?
The boy was thin, tall and not a runner. Too sickly an occupation, thought Kohler ruefully but his judgement had to be harsh if their lives were to be saved. ‘Listen to me carefully. You can’t possibly tell when someone will blow the whistle. Eighteen million are involved and maybe the murders of fourteen girls.’
‘Murders …? That house …?’ faltered the boy.
‘Look, if you know something, tell me.’
‘Mademoiselle de Brisson, she … she came here often at night to see how the papers were progressing and to offer me advice, Inspector. I … I sometimes wondered if she had just come from seeing someone or something she … she did not like. She was often most distracted and … and sometimes very upset.’
‘Who let her in through the gates?’
‘I did. The shopkeepers have spare keys so that we may come and go if necessary but it’s not something that is commonly known.’
It still wasn’t much. ‘At any time did she say where she’d been?’
‘A party, a dinner, the flat of her friend or simply her own place and a small gathering. Once she was most distressed at not being able to find her mother’s cat. She said that Madame Lemaire’s maid must have taken it in again and that she would have to speak to the girl, but I do not know if she ever did.’
‘The men you forged papers for, did she know them well?’
The boy shrugged. ‘They were friends, that’s all I knew. Friends who needed help. Nothing dishonest—they hadn’t done a thing, she said.’
‘Spit it out.’
‘They … they had to leave Paris so as to avoid the … the forced labour in the Reich.’
‘And she paid you the going rate?’ he asked harshly. ‘1000 francs for each identity card and 3000 for each set of the other documents?’
‘5000 for each job. She was very kind to me, Inspector. Very pretty, very well dressed. Once she came in a black evening dress, more often a simpler sweater, skirt and blouse, but always the perfume.’
You sap, thought Kohler but only nodded and said, ‘She sweet-talked you, so what else is new? Women have been doing it for thousands of years. But you’re certain it was Mademoiselle de Brisson?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’
‘Paul …’
Stricken, the elder Meunier stood in the doorway.
‘Father, what is it?’
‘There are others.’
‘Others?’
‘The screech of brakes, the sounds of …’
‘Ah Gott im Himmel, run!’ swore Kohler, cursing their luck. ‘Go! Vite! Vite! Merde, idiot! Don’t just stand there blocking the way!’
They ran. He watched through the windows. Father and son entered the stark rows of lindens but didn’t know which way to turn. There was the shrill blast of a whistle, then hard steps on icy gravel, the hammering of many boob and steel-cleated shoes on the paving stones of the arcades.
Paul Meunier dragged his father after him as they ran towards the fountain that was out of sight near the far end of the garden. Kohler thought to shout to the flics in dark blue and the boys in field-grey that they should slow down and take things easy. Then he realized the latter would toss a few bursts from their Schmeissers his way, shattering the shop windows and himself, ah Christ!
There was a burst of firing—oh how he knew that sound. The father would see his son suddenly throw up his arms in shock and watch as the boy collapsed. He would try to pull the son to his feet. He would plead with the boy as the dark shapes swarmed after them among the trees.
In his mind’s eye Kohler saw that the boy didn’t move. In panic, the father tried to make up his mind. They were almost upon him now. He would turn. He would start to run again. The light wasn’t good. He would hit a tree and stumble backwards fighting for balance …
Another burst and another ripped through the commotion.
Kohler swept up two blank cigarette cases that had been waiting to be engraved. He gave the troops a few seconds to gather about the bodies, was ready when an SS-Haupsturmführer entered the shop with some others, pistols in hand.
‘Idiots!’ he shrieked at them. ‘I had those two right where I wanted them and you had to come along and spoil it!’
There was surprise at his presence in the shop, there was suspicion. Tossing the cigarette cases on to the desk, he said gruffly, ‘Kohler, Gestapo Central, you dummköpfe. Pick up the pieces and while you’re at it, tell me who gave you the buzz-word and when?’
The SS-Haupsturmführer didn’t like him being here at all. For several seconds Kohler saw reassessment being put to the test, then at last the pistol was slid away.
‘It was an anonymous call, Herr Kohler, at 1507 hours.’
Not that long ago. Had it been Madame de Brisson? ‘Was it a woman or a man, Haupsturmführer? Well, come on?’
‘A man.’
Had she telephoned the banker who had then called in the alarm? he wondered, or had she called the daughter who had got someone to do it for her? Kempf, perhaps, or someone else?
Marie-Claire de Brisson wouldn’t have asked anyone to do it for fear of bringing the Gestapo down on her head should the Meuniers have talked …
‘Herr Kohler, how is it, please, that you knew those two were hiding Jews?’
Jews, not forgers? Ah verdammt, then it could have been the daughter after all, or her father, or Kempf or someone else! ‘Let’s just say I had my suspicions. Don’t wreck the place. They aren’t here.’
Picking up the two cigarette cases, lovely pieces really, he gave the bastards an abbreviated version of a Heil Hitler and left the shop.
Darkness had fallen. Suddenly exhausted and badly in need of a drink, he made his way to the street.
The boy’s mother and sister would be deported. There wasn’t a thing he could do for them and he knew it, was thankful Louis hadn’t been with him because Louis would have insisted they try to help them.
When he found the note Louis had left for him in that empty house, he knew where his partner was but wouldn’t intrude. ‘Kempf,’ he said to himself. ‘I’ll go and find that bastard and ask him about his girlfriend.
’
Muriel Barteaux grimly passed her stern grey eyes yet one more time over the photographs that covered her ample and very cluttered desk.
‘First, there are the clothes and the way they were asked to model them, Jean-Louis,’ she said, her voice one of gravel. ‘And then there is the matter of the photographs and the manner in which they were taken.’
He waited. More than a hundred years of accumulated experience was before him in these two so vastly different women. The office held remnants of fabric from ages ago, sample books, pattern books, patterns and perfumes—he loved to explore this world of theirs, renewing old memories and finding new things always. But for today they had the business at hand.
‘The clothes are good copies, not originals,’ said Muriel. ‘The delicate ecru silk of this dress is very feminine. I like the cut of it, the tiny pleats, full sleeves … even the allure of this décolletage of crocheted lace.’
The pudgy, beknuckled and beringed fingers automatically reached for her smouldering cigarette without even a glance at the ashtray. The grey pinstripe suit, with its broad lapels, had ample pockets that were always useful for keys, scissors, measuring tapes, cigarettes, order books and other things.
‘This crêpe georgette is really quite elegant, don’t you think, dearest?’
Still stricken by the horror of row on row of murdered—yes, murdered—girls, Chantal Grenier could only try to answer but without success. ‘Be brave, little one,’ said Muriel. ‘Why not attend to the tea? You know we always take it together in here at the close of each day. There’s a good girl, there’s my love.’
They waited while that little bird in pale rose chiffon hurried from the office. They heard her give a ragged sob and retch, and knew she would go straight upstairs to the flat and stay there until composed.
‘Louis, if this has anything to do with that shop of Denise St. Onge, then we should begin with it,’ said Muriel firmly. ‘Mademoiselle St. Onge fancies herself at the very pinnacle of the fashion trade yet still refuses to stock originals—they’re too expensive. That one uses copiers, not originators and sticks to the styles of the thirties. That, in itself, is fair enough if one doesn’t wish to rise to the top. But she shouldn’t run her business on the knife edge of bankruptcy and should pay off her creditors and suppliers, not threaten them with the Gestapo if they don’t cough up or give her more time.’
He was grateful for the information and sighed deeply to show his appreciation. The pipe and pouch were taken out. They could now get down to work.
‘Does Mademoiselle St. Onge have a line of credit at that bank of Mademoiselle de Brisson’s father?’
Muriel nodded. ‘The word is that Denise will only be allowed to stretch that little friendship so far.’
‘The father has been after his daughter to speak to her boss?’
Again there was that nod. ‘Denise St. Onge will never rise to the top, not if those among us who care are around to stop her.’
‘The shop is good.’
‘And why not when you’ve friends who can ask others to make certain you get the best materials available?’
‘But … but you all do this? You couldn’t survive otherwise.’
‘But not in the way she does, Louis. We don’t threaten and we do try to pay up on time and sometimes even in advance.’
‘Tell me about the modelling.’
‘A woman, not a designer, told them how to model these. Her judgement wasn’t always right—that is to say, she didn’t accurately match each of these girls to the clothes they were asked to wear. There are subtle differences. Some girls just can’t wear certain things. Also, this girl is a little too tall for that skirt. They should have lowered the hem but didn’t bother to.’
Muriel picked up another of the photos. ‘Well off the shoulder is lovely if you have good shoulders. If not, then less of the shoulder is exposed. It’s only natural. To each figure, the patient adjustment so that the dress, the suit, slip or whatever looks its very best. Spaghetti straps and mid-thigh slits take talent. These girls were instructed by someone who was very positive about what she wanted but blind to the subtleties of variation or in far too much of a hurry.’
Slivers of emerald satin, midnight lace and blue silk undergarments showed between the photographs as if to emphasize the horror of what had happened and to call all such frivolities into question.
‘It was definitely a woman in your opinion?’ he asked.
‘A woman,’ she said, not backing away from it. ‘Look at each of these girls as they came to bare themselves. Go on, don’t be ashamed. I know you enjoy the naked female body as much as I do. It’s a work of art, a gift from God, not a curse.’
‘They … they are hesitant but …’
‘But she has reassured them, and they have done as she asked. The woman was a partner in this business, Jean-Louis. I could be wrong, but you have asked my opinion. Shall I give you another?’
‘The photographer?’
‘Was an amateur.’
‘Ah nom de Dieu, how can you be so sure?’
Immediately she gestured with a hand, letting the stub of her cigarette cling to her lower lip. ‘Photography, like good painting, good modelling, good anything, isn’t just experience but art which is that joyous combination of the soul, the subject, the camera or whatever, the light and the lighting, the mood, Jean-Louis. The willingness to give everything even if it takes for ever. Intuitively there is an understanding of this. One either knows how to do it or doesn’t. For me, it can’t be taught. I think one has to be born to it. Picasso and Braque would probably agree most heartily.’
Muriel had paintings by both artists in her collection. Like all good collectors, she had bought early so as to encourage the artists and had held on to their works even in hard times or when profit tempted.
‘An amateur photographer,’ he said.
‘A good one—oh he’s had some experience. I won’t deny that, but he shows his lack of judgement by trying for special effects that only distract. The reflections of this girl in this vitrine, the shadows that are cast on the breasts of this other one—did he think to show that fate was closing over her life like the Nazi shadow over Europe?’
‘A man?’
‘Mais certainement. A woman would have concentrated on the tragedy of those lives even though she took part in the killing. There is … there is also the suggestion of an eagerness I do not like.’
‘Pardon?’
The rheumy eyes were sad. ‘The photographer and his assistant, Jean-Louis. Were they both about to humiliate and destroy these girls right after their final entrapment had been recorded?’
‘Have sex with them?’
‘Yes!’
Their tea came. Composed at last, Chantal followed one of the shop’s mannequins in. The girl said a quiet, shy hello to St-Cyr. She was an absolutely gorgeous creature—exquisitely formed, with superb hazel eyes and wavy, curly hair.
Wearing only briefs and a flimsy brassière, she asked how he took his tea and said, ‘It’s Darjeeling. May I suggest it clear?’
‘You are absolutely beautiful, mademoiselle, and very, very charming.’
‘She’s very special,’ said Chantal. ‘Spoken for, of course, and exceptional in her work. Dominique, darling, I bring you in only to refresh my Muriel’s eyes and to illustrate to Monsieur the Chief Inspector that, in my humble opinion, only two of the girls in those photographs had any hope of ever being mannequins.’
‘Two?’ he asked.
‘Your little Joanne, Jean-Louis. If you find her alive, you may send her to us so that she does not have to search the newspapers ever again for such … such advertisements!’
‘And the other?’ he asked. Anger was helping Chantal to overcome the tragedy.
‘Renée Marteau, of course. Had we known Renée was desperate for work, we would have taken her in. She was good—very dependable, very keen to please and very professional. Indeed,’ said Chantal fiercely, ‘I have to ask, Why shoul
d she have answered such an advertisement? Why would she not have come to us or to others?’
Something had to be said however feeble. ‘Perhaps she did? Perhaps you were not in the market at the time?’
That wasn’t good enough. With her teacup in hand, Muriel went over the photographs again. ‘Chantal, please come and help me. Your eye is often better.’
‘This one, I think, dearest. The lips, that smile—it’s so like Renée’s. The forehead, the eyes … ah, the hands, Muriel, and the way she holds them. Exactly. Exactly!’
They both looked up at him. ‘Did Renée have a sister? A younger sister perhaps? This girl,’ asked Chantal.
He felt so helpless. ‘I … I don’t know.’
‘Then you must find out. It may well be that Renée followed in her sister’s footsteps to find out what became of her,’ said Muriel firmly, holding up the photo.
Two girls, taken from one family … Was it possible? A terrible tragedy in itself …
‘This the police may not have realized,’ said Chantal quietly, ‘and thought, instead, that poor Renée was simply out of work and looking for a job.’
‘The jewellery?’ he asked with a catch in his throat.
‘It’s not new but stock, perhaps, that has been rescued from another time,’ said Chantal.
‘The twenties and the early thirties,’ said her companion. ‘Eighteen carat gold and superbly crafted. Far, far better than most of such pieces we have seen, but perhaps first brought on to the market after the demand for such things had fallen off. Timing is everything, luck but a figment of the imagination.’
Their shop had never carried jewellery so whoever had first offered it for sale, would not have come to them. ‘Mademoiselle de Brisson …? Have you anything to say about her?’ he asked.
‘She’s good at her job,’ confessed Chantal, ‘and we would wish she were employed elsewhere but that one … ah, what can be said? She refuses all offers and stays with her friend. Perhaps it is that such loyalty stems from an attraction to Mademoiselle St. Onge, perhaps from something else, a debt still unpaid. Together their little shop must float or sink.’
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