‘Could it have been two women?’ he asked, ‘The one to instruct the girls and the other to photograph them?’
‘Mademoiselle de Brisson and Mademoiselle St. Onge?’ asked Chantal.
It was a thought repugnant to them. Vehemently they shook their heads, but he could tell they would have to think about it.
And he would have to be satisfied with that for now. As he gathered the photos, he said, ‘There is one further matter.’
They waited and when he handed them the announcement of the engagement between Angèlique Desthieux and Gaetan Vergès, Muriel gripped Chantal’s wrist and said, ‘Steady now. Be brave. Don’t embarrass yourself again with tears.’
It was Chantal who sadly said, ‘They made such a beautiful couple, Jean-Louis.’
Muriel lit another cigarette and fiercely blew smoke through her flattish nostrils. ‘Angèlique would have put even our Dominique to shame.’
‘She had such gorgeous hair and eyes. That deep chestnut shade of hair, long and thick and lustrous, the eyes …’
‘Dearest, please,’ said Muriel.
‘She was lovely,’ whispered Chantal. ‘Is it that you can still remember her nakedness, my Muriel? The sweet and delicate breath, the loveliness of her composure—grace in every movement, even the simplest turning of the little finger? Her laughter, her smile, her warm and outgoing nature? The exceptional quality of her skin—isn’t that what you once said, Muriel? The texture of boiled almonds that have lost their overcoats!’
Even after all these years Chantal was still fiercely jealous. Muriel chose the mannequins. Muriel …
‘She came to us, Jean-Louis, and we used her but only for special occasions,’ said Muriel tartly. ‘Angèlique Desthieux was very good and very expensive.’
‘She had an agent who guarded her talents as the Shah of Persia his harem!’
‘Chantal, stop it! This attitude of yours will get us nowhere.’
‘An agent, Jean-Louis. A business manager.’
‘Albert Tonnerre,’ snorted Muriel with obvious dislike.
‘Luc,’ whispered Chantal. ‘Albert Luc Tonnerre. Though a ladies’ man and a seducer, a deflowerer of silly young teenaged girls, he … he has fallen in love with her several times, Monsieur Louis. Love, he has called it. Love! The fornication! And if you ask me, she believed him. Oh yes she did! It was most unprofessional of him, especially since she was pledged to another.’
Muriel tapped the announcement and said, ‘To the son, the drooler.’
‘What happened?’ he said, suddenly at a loss to fathom the depths of their memories.
‘Did she take up again with Monsieur Tonnerre after she had rejected the horror of her fiancé’s face?’ asked Muriel, harshly giving him his very thoughts. ‘No, she did not’
‘Someone … someone threw sulphuric acid into her face, Jean-Louis. Where once there had been beauty and such inner calmness, there was now destruction, the end of a promising career, and … and the banishment of her young life to the house of her parents in Dijon.’
5
ALL ALONG THE CHAMPS-ÉLYSÉES, THE RUSH-HOUR traffic struggled valiantly against the darkness and the ice, while up from the Seine came a freezing ground fog that gave the ether of surrealism to the fatalistic winkings of so many pinpricks of light. Still deeply troubled by the shootings of the two engravers, Kohler watched the traffic for a chance to cross. Swarms of bicycles and vélo-taxis were forced to part for occasional cars and gazogène buses or lorries. White studs on the paving stones formed a passage clouté, a miniature runway beckoning pedestrians to take their chances.
Occasionally there was the sound of a bell or a shout. For the most part, though, progress was mute and determined. Several thousand people were on the avenue. All over Paris, along every major artery, it would be the same, but now even the passengers in the vélo-taxis had ceased to laugh and think it all a great joke.
Had the Sixth Army fallen? he wondered apprehensively. Had his two sons been killed or taken prisoner?
Suddenly the need to know was too great. Recklessly pushing through the crowd, he started to cross the avenue. The Propaganda Staffel could never keep a lid on news like that. The BBC London would trumpet it loud and clear, ‘Ici Londres,’ Here is London calling …
Though it was illegal to tune into that waveband, lots did. There would be whispers—open hostility among the French and smug looks of triumph that would say, Now it is our turn, monsieur. Our turn …
He was nearly hit by a bicycle. The man skidded onto his side, the crate clattering beneath the wheels of a honking bus.
‘Monsieur, attention!’ shrieked the traffic cop, the shrill blast of his whistle and frantic flagging of the arms somehow bringing traffic to a standstill.
‘My sons,’ blurted Kohler. ‘Jurgen and Hans, they’re … they’re only boys.’
He hadn’t realized he’d spoken deutsch. For a moment he stood in the centre of the avenue, collared by a French flic nearly half his size. Ah nom de Jésus-Christ, the lights, the pinpricks—everyone was watching. Breath billowing. Waiting. Poised. Angry …
The man whose bicycle had been ruined, dragged it up and began to scream invective. A woman went to calm him. ‘Gestapo!’ she shrieked and the street went to silence.
Nearly 150,000 Wehrmacht troops had been killed at Stalingrad in what must surely be the fiercest campaign of the war. House-to-house fighting, unbelievable hatred on both sides, and still there were nearly 100,000 men trapped in a pocket no more than 50 kilometres in diameter with all their equipment and virtually no supplies.
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he said to the flic. ‘If he’ll give me his name and address and not think he’s about to be arrested, I’ll see that he gets another bike.’
The flic raked him savagely with a glance. ‘Beat it, idiot! Can’t you see you’re but one against many?’
The Feldwebel on the desk at number 52 gave him the latest news. ‘No change, Haupsturmführer. We’re still waiting for a miracle.’
They were still holding out. Ah damn Goering and his fucking Luftwaffe, ah damn the Führer for biting off too much and not realizing gains should always be consolidated.
The Propaganda Abteilung was spread over several floors. Newspapers, films, books, radio broadcasting, the theatre and the arts—even the allocation of paper—had offices here. News bulletins streamed in from the Reich. The Staffel selected these for distribution, censored the French reporters’ columns and told them what and what not to print or say, then rewarded those who obeyed and punished those who didn’t. Anyone who was anyone in the media and the arts had to come here for permission. But at 1800 hours, though there were staff about, and the censors worked in shifts until midnight, the place had emptied like a sieve.
Sonderführer Kempf was in charge of Luftwaffe news releases from an office on the fourth floor at the back. Never one to trust the elevators—the French ones particularly—Kohler climbed the stairs and fought to overcome the sudden weariness of it all.
The boys would die at Stalingrad—he had that feeling. Christ! why did it have to be that way?
Gerda … his Gerda … would leave him for a conscripted French farm labourer.
There would be nothing for him back home when this lousy war was over, just as there would be nothing for the Sonderführer Kempf, ah yes.
One of the grey mice, the Blitzmädchen from home, held the fort in an outer office. She had started in on the hors-d’oeuvres— a custard tart with blackberry jam and white icing sugar—while having a coffee and typing up yet another heavily censored news release.
Wiping jam from her hairy upper lip with the back of a hand, she threw him a watery look of surprise and said, ‘He isn’t here. What … what has he done now?’
Kohler gave her a wolfish grin of thanks for such a choice little insight. ‘Relax and finish your supper. It must be a bitch having to work late every night.’
She thought this over while tidying her hands. He asked her name.
> ‘Fräulein Schlaak, Herr …’
‘Kohler, Kripo. Gestapo Central.’
Common Crime … A giant with a savage scar—had he been a soldier? Had it been shrapnel? There were the scars about the face and hands but shrapnel had not caused the one from the left eye to chin. A duelling scar …?
‘Barbed wire,’ he lied, throwing himself into a chair. ‘Ah Gott im Himmel, Fräulein Schlaak, I’ve just seen some poor bastard crushed to a pulp under the wheels of one of their lousy buses. You wouldn’t have a drink handy? I’m about done in.’
He did look badly shaken. Sonderführer Kempf would not even notice a drink was missing. ‘Schnapps?’ she asked. ‘There is a bottle in …’
‘Hey, that would suit me fine. Stay right where you are and I’ll get it. The bottom right drawer?’
‘The … the cabinet.’
As she watched from the doorway, the giant downed three straight glasses and then took another before offering her some, to which she vehemently shook her head and gushed, ‘The reports. I … I must finish them.’
‘A cigarette?’ he asked.
She indicated the desk and watched helplessly as he took a fistful, then lit up. ‘So, take your mind back to last Thursday the 24th, fräulein, and tell me where he was.’
Wariness showed in her dark blue eyes. ‘The truth, eh?’ he asked. ‘Hey, it’s not too hard, seeing as he isn’t around and will never know I’ve been here if I put these back.’
One by one he replaced the cigarettes and tidied the desk.
‘The … the press briefings are always on Tuesdays and Thursdays, Herr Kohler. Sonderführer Kempf, he … he must always be on hand for those.’
Kohler blew smoke towards the ceiling. He’d try a long shot and see what happened. ‘But he wasn’t here last Thursday, was he?’
Her throat rippled. The tightly corseted bosom swelled then deflated with a sigh. ‘No … no, he … he was called away but Harald, his driver, had the car and that one, he … he was kidnapped.’
‘The robbery, Ja, ja, we know all about it. So, where was the Sonderführer when the bank was being robbed?’
‘I … I don’t know, Herr Kohler. The …’ She thought madly. ‘The dentist, I think.’
‘Did he come into the office at all on that Thursday?’
‘No … no, he didn’t. I … I gave the releases to one of the others.’
‘Then let’s have a look at his appointment book. Maybe that’ll refresh your memory.’
She winced. ‘He … he complained of pulled muscles—the racket ball, the “squash”, he said. He … he went for heat treatments and a massage; afterwards a swim at the health club and then … then to lunch at Maxim’s.’
A nice life. ‘Gut. Now tell me where I can find his driver.’
‘Harald has gone home on a five-day pass to see his wife who is pregnant.’
‘How convenient.’
There was a photograph of Kempf’s wife and two children in better times, another of the Sonderführer astride a handsome gelding, yet another of him in a racing car. A regular playboy. ‘When you asked, What has he done now, fräulein, to what exactly were you referring?’
He waited. Trapped in the doorway, she sweltered under the scrutiny of faded, lifeless blue eyes.
One by one the cigarettes were again removed from the box.
‘Gambling, the … the expenses—the borrowings against his pay cheque for dinners and holidays everyone knows he … he cannot possibly afford, not now that he … he has lost everything. The wife, the children, the house of his father and mother, the family business, everything.’
Kohler indicated he understood and was sympathetic. ‘Did Mademoiselle St. Onge ever come here?’
‘Sometimes, when … when she needed help.’
The woman looked as if she was digging her own grave. ‘Relax. What sort of help?’
‘Help with her creditors and … and suppliers. The Sonderführer has many contacts.’
‘Did they ever talk about having a litile fun?’
‘Fun?’ she bleated.
‘A threesome,’ he said. ‘Two women and your boss. The one perhaps much younger than Mademoiselle St. Onge. A teenager perhaps.’
Fortunately the telephone rang and when she had grabbed it and understood who was calling, she blurted, ‘Gestapo!’ and thrust the receiver at him.
It was the Sonderführer just checking in. ‘The Press Club,’ said Kohler, hanging up. ‘A rätskeller?’
‘In one of the cellars of the Lido. He … he usually goes there for a drink after work.’
‘So let’s have an answer to the fun, eh? Two women and one man. Your boss.’
‘I … I wouldn’t know about such things. I’m only his secretary.’
‘How long have you been with him?’
She could feel the Gestapo’s breath on her forehead, Herr Kohler was now that close to her. ‘Since … since the beginning. Since the summer of 1940.’
Kohler nodded. ‘Once again I’m going to ask you, Fräulein Schlaak. A young girl with chestnut hair and deep brown eyes, Mademoiselle St. Onge and your boss for a little fun. French girls who didn’t matter.’
The puffy eyelids blinked. Fragments of conversation came to her from over the past two years. Had it begun right after his arrival? First that cousin of his, this Mademoiselle St. Onge— beautiful, leggy, smartly dressed and knowing her way around—and then … then other girls. ]a, ja. Lots of them. Mademoiselle St. Onge had seen it, too, in his eyes, in the way he had looked at her and had …
‘I cannot say, Herr Kohler. I do not know of such things.’
‘He would have left the office early, would have stayed out late and not used his driver.’
She shook her head but when Herr Kohler had left the office, she felt as if gutted and wept openly until another tart was found but the coffee was cold.
The Sonderführer was so handsome and well educated. Very sure of himself, very well placed and with lots of important friends. The Reichsmarschall and Reichsführer Goering himself had personally seen that an invitation to yet another art auction had been sent over from Luftwaffe HQ Paris but this time there was a late supper at the Ritz. Mademoiselle St. Onge and the Sonderführer were to attend both the auction and the dinner together. They were still friends. The woman still clung to him. Women like that always did even though often ignored.
‘You should get yourself a man,’ he had said to her several times, to his secretary who was such a credit to him. But he had never once asked her to the Press Club for a drink.
St-Cyr didn’t like it one bit. The emergency call from Hermann to the shop of Muriel and Chantal had said only that he was to come at once.
The Lido had an entrance in the middle of the Arcade des Champs-Élysées. As a warren with escape routes it was ideal. In addition to the dancing-saloon, floor show and rotating stage, there was a swimming pool where the girls and customers could take the plunge. Lots of distractions, then, and cellars off the main area. Sewers below. Back stairs as well. Pour I‘amour du ciel, what the hell was up?
Hermann was standing next to the brass railing that sealed off the most expensive tables nearest the stage. Girls—women— naked from well below the bellybutton and up, except for ostrich plume head-dresses and sequins, went round and round in a tableau reminiscent of a circus, while others, on swings high above the decorated pool, cavorted to music as the chorus line kicked their gams and jostled their boobs and the crowd, mosdy officers, collaborators, SS or Gestapo and their girlfriends ogled them and grinned while still others bathed to hoots and shouts.
‘If you can tear your eyes away from that Alsatian wet nurse, mon ami, please tell me why the urgency?’
‘Louis, verdammt, idiot! What took you so long? The bastards may have buggered off. I can’t watch everything myself.’
The gaze hadn’t altered. Hermann was clearly agitated and in need of calming. ‘What took me so long? Discussions, of course,’ said St-Cyr drolly. ‘Besides, you ha
ve the use of my car; myself, that of my feet! The place Vendôme is …’
‘Don’t get bitchy! Look, I’m sorry I had to tear you away from those two old girls in the underwear trade but nom de Jésus-Christ, idiot, we have trouble.’
A cigarette girl in meshed stockings rubbed shoulders, spreading her wretched scent of cheap perfume, garlic and toilet water. Fake flowers were being sold in lieu of cigarettes. ‘Trouble?’ bleated St-Cyr.
At last the Frog was listening. ‘This one is an excellent shot with the pistol. Three times champion of the Reich. Two Olympic gold medals. Rides in the steeplechase, plays polo when there isn’t snow and ice, drives a racing car, swims the marathon, fucks like a tiger and was absent from his job the day of the robbery. Absent, idiot! Absent!’
A German … Must God do this to them? ‘Kempf?’ asked St-Cyr. Hermann was keeping his eyes on the entrance to a distant cellar beyond the stage and to the left.
‘Have you got your shooter?’ he snapped. Being Gestapo, it was Hermann’s responsibility to take charge of their guns and only release them when needed.
‘My shooter,’ mused St-Cyr, wishing his partner would slow down long enough for a little conference. ‘Ah yes, Inspector, my revolver. The Saône, remember? The ice and that little swim we had to take? I lost it in Lyon on that last case.’
So he had. ‘Wouldn’t Stores issue you another without my okay? Hey, you’re making me feel sick—you know that, don’t you? The son of a bitch is over there in the Press Club’s rätskeller. He’s with a Frenchman, one Michel le Blanc of Paris-Soir, a reporter. Their … their descriptions, Louis … They exactly fit those the engraver’s son gave me.’
The dancers smiled and kicked their stockinged legs. The girls above the pool peeled off everything so as not to spoil their costumes …
‘Forged papers?’ asked St-Cyr. Had things come to a head so soon?
‘Ah yes,’ snorted Kohler. ‘Kempf is the blond, blue-eyed, curly-haired playboy in Luftwaffe blue whose new name is Raoul Chouard. Le Blanc wears a grey business suit, white shirt and dark blue tie, all pre-war. Straight black hair, dark brown eyes and maybe three or four years senior to our boy, so about thirty-six years of age and bang on for the robbery. New name, Claude Deschamps. I couldn’t get a line on him. Becker at Gestapo Central knew nothing of him when I called in but promises to do a little digging if I pay him 10,000.’
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