Sandman

by J. Robert Janes

  It had to be asked. ‘What else, Walter? I’ve seen it before,’ said St-Cyr. ‘You always drop your eyes when you want to tell us something but are uncertain of how to put it.’

  A big man, with the blunt head and all-but-shaven, bristly iron grey hair of a Polizeikommissar of long experience, Boemelburg had seen nearly everything the criminal milieu could offer but he was also Head of SIPO-Section IV, the Gestapo in France.

  ‘Three Lebels, the 1873 Modéle d’ordonnance, and one hundred and twenty rounds, the black-powder cartridges. Forgotten during the Defeat and subsequent ordinance to turn in all firearms. Overlooked in the hunt for delinquent guns. Left in their boxes and brand-new, Louis. Good Gott im Himmel, the imbeciles!’

  ‘From 1873?’ managed the Sûreté. ‘But that is …’

  ‘Yes, yes, only two years after the Franco-Prussian War. Look, I don’t know how long they were in that safe. No one does. Each agent-directeur simply thought it best to leave those damned boxes alone.’

  ‘It’s serious,’ said Kohler lamely.

  ‘Are the Resistance involved in this matter?’ shouted the Chief.

  Ah no … thought St-Cyr, dismayed at the sudden turn. Counter-terrorism, subversion, tracking down Jews, gypsies and all others of the Reich’s so-called undesirables were Walter’s responsibility, not just combating common crime. But then, too, in one of those paradoxes of the war, he ran gangs of known criminals who did the Gestapo’s bidding when they, themselves, wanted to remain at arm’s length.

  A cop, and now a thug too, he unfortunately knew the city well, having worked here in his youth as a heating and ventilating engineer. He spoke French as good as any Parisian, even to the argot of Montmartre.

  That grim, grey look passed over them. ‘I’m warning you. I want no trouble with this. Berlin are adamant. The Gypsy is to be apprehended at all costs. Taken alive if possible – there are things we need to know from him – but dead will do. That’s what they want and I must insist on it.’

  ‘And Herr Engelmann … why is he here?’ asked Kohler.

  ‘Why not? The IKPK have card indexes on all such people.’

  ‘Then it didn’t stop functioning at the onslaught of hostilities. Heydrich kept it going?’ asked Louis.

  ‘As the Gruppenführer knew he should have. Herr Engelmann is not just with their robberies division. He holds a cross-appointment with the Berlin Kripo. In the course of his duties in ‘38, and then in ‘40 and ‘41, he went to Oslo several times to interview our friend, and has come to know him intimately, if anyone can ever do so.’

  ‘Then why is he being so difficult? Why doesn’t he take us fully into his confidence?’ asked Kohler.

  Security allowed only so much to be said. ‘That is precisely what I have asked him to do. Full co-operation. A concerted effort to bring this safe-cracker in and quickly before he does us all an injury from which we cannot recover.’

  Boemelburg was clearly worried. Leaning forward, he hurriedly shoved things out of the way, and lowered his voice. ‘Whose agenda is he following? What are his next targets? Where will he hole up and exactly who is helping him?’

  Nana Thélème or someone else?

  The set of fingerprints was very clear, the head-and-shoulders photographs sharp, but to St-Cyr the file card – the top in a bundle of perhaps thirty – was like one of those from the past. It evoked memories of Vienna and the IKPK and worries about the distinct possibility of another high-level assassination, the then impending visit of King George VI to France in July of 1938. Boemelburg and he had worked together on it, a last occasion before the war.

  The IKPK had sent such cards to all its member countries, requesting whatever they had on a certain criminal or type of crime. These cards were then stored in rotatable drum-cabinets and a detective such as Boemelburg or himself, or Engelmann, could in a few moments collate data from cities in France with that from Britain, the Netherlands, Turkey, Italy, Greece and, at last count in 1938, some twenty-eight other countries around the world.

  Lists of stolen property were painstakingly spelled out where possible. Missing persons, unidentified cadavers, murder, arson, counterfeiting, fraud, drug trafficking and prostitution – all were there at the turn of the drum and yes, very early on, even in 1932 and ‘33, there had been concerns about a Nazi takeover, yet the service had offered immense possibilities. A radio network in 1935 linked many of the major cities, allowing policemen to talk directly and informally to colleagues in other countries, very quickly forming professional liaisons that were of benefit to all.

  Special cards were tinted to denote les Bohémiens, though keeping track of their wanderings often proved exceedingly difficult. But in any case, the Gypsy was not one of the Rom, so his cards were like all others, if more numerous than most.

  ‘Janwillem De Vries,’ grumbled a disgruntled Herr Max who didn’t like being told to co-operate with the present company. ‘Father, Hendrick, no known criminal activities but a socialist do-gooder when not pouring out historical pap to stuff the teat of it into the eager mouths of bored Dutch Hausfrauen. Mother, Marina, no suggestions of anything there either. Vivacious, quick-minded, deft with the brush but impulsive and given to wandering off for days on her bicycle, or to working in her studio night after night. A flirt – mein Gott, there is ample evidence of it, given that she often posed in the nude as a statue for her photographer friends. Orpheus and her lute, but that one was a boy, wasn’t he? Died, unhappily, 18 June 1929 of a drowning accident on the Linge near Geldermalsen while trying to reach some lilies she wanted to paint, though to see her sketches is to see nothing but the confused and flighty mind of the avant-garde who should have been trussed up with her apron strings and taught a few lessons!’

  Naked? wondered Kohler idly – was this what Herr Max had meant?

  The visitor lit a cheroot, he looking as if he’d just got out of bed and hadn’t quite had time to dress properly.

  ‘Apprehended 20 April 1938 – caught with his hands in the wall safe of one Magnus Erlendsson, a prominent shipping magnate who should have known better than to keep such things at home and to tell others how clever he was. The tax authorities were most interested and Herr Erlendsson quickly found himself going from one theft to another!’

  Engelmann gave a throaty chuckle – work did have its compensations. ‘Oostende,’ he coughed. ‘Coffee … is there a little, Sturmbannführer? A brandy also und a raw egg, I think.’

  Tears moistened the hard little eyes behind their gold-rimmed specs. He took a breath, then remembered the cheroot.

  ‘Oostende …?’ hazarded Kohler.

  The visitor let his gaze linger on the Bavarian before clearing his throat of its blockage. ‘First, don’t ask until you’re told to. Second, rely on me to lead this little discussion.’

  The matter of the uniform the Gypsy had acquired in Tours was brought up. ‘He didn’t kill him, did he?’ blurted Kohler only to feel Louis kick him under the table to shut him up.

  ‘Reprisals … is this what you are worrying about, Kohler? Hostages to be shot. How many, I wonder?’ asked Herr Max.

  He gave it a moment. Boemelburg’s look was grim and it said, Kohler, how dare you worry about such things? You, too, St-Cyr.

  ‘To say nothing of his embarrassment and the reticence of his tongue,’ went on Herr Max, allowing what appeared to be a smile, ‘our Hauptmann Dietrich Oberlammers is alive and well but he fell prey to the oldest of gypsy tricks, which leads us right back to that villa in the hills overlooking Oslo.’

  ‘A woman,’ breathed Louis, ‘but was it the same one?’

  ‘She rubbed herself against the Hauptmann in the half-light of a corridor or room,’ sighed Kohler. ‘She offered everything she had but gave him nothing more than deep glimpses of bare flesh and sweet caresses, then let him strip off in some maison de passe before heisting his papers and uniform.’

  ‘The wallet of Herr Erlendsson also, and news of the Oslo safe’s location and contents,’ added St-Cyr,
his mind leaping back in time to the spring of 1938.

  ‘The combination also,’ grunted Herr Max. ‘Erlendsson was fool enough to have given it to her in a moment of drunken bravado while she was in his hotel room. Oostende and Oslo were worlds apart, so what could it have mattered eh? But it did! Oh my, yes, but it did!’

  ‘Is she now your mouton?’ asked St-Cyr.

  A little more co-operation could not hurt. ‘That is correct. She betrayed the Gypsy to us in Tours, and she was with him back then in Oostende and in Oslo in April of 1938.’

  ‘But she didn’t tell you everything, did she?’ sighed St-Cyr, taking an apprehensive guess at things.

  There was no answer. They waited for her file cards – the Gestapo’s on her too – but Herr Max didn’t produce any. He simply said, ‘Find her,’ and gave them time to swallow this while he had his egg and brandy.

  Then he pulled the elastic band from the stack of cards and thrust the top one at Kohler. ‘Read it!’

  Hermann’s face fell. ‘Mecklenburg, Louis. 20 November 1932. The estate of Magda Goebbels’s ex-husband. An unknown quantity of gold bars and jewellery. How can anyone have an “unknown” quantity in a safe?’

  ‘That is none of your business,’ countered the visitor.

  ‘The manager’s office, the Kaiserhof Hotel in the Wilhelmstrasse, 17 March 1934. “Cash in the amount of 25,000 marks but also 8000 American dollars and one gold pocket-watch. Property of …” Ah verdammt, Louis, der Führer!’

  ‘Read on,’ sighed Engelmann. ‘It can’t get worse but then …’

  ‘The residence and office of the Köln banker, Kurt von Schroe-der, 5 May 1935, a strong supporter of the Party, I think,’ said Kohler lamely. ‘Jewellery to the value of 7,000,000 marks; cash to that of 28,000,000. Do you want me to keep going?’

  ‘Of course,’ grunted Engelmann.

  ‘The villa of Alfred Rosenburg in the Tiergarten, 15 December 1937. Documents …?’

  Again they were told it was none of their business, but there had been some loose diamonds, gold coins and banknotes, though no values were given.

  ‘The residence of Prinz Viktor zo Wied – Berlin, too, the Kurfürstenstrasse, 17 January 1938, then Joachim von Ribben-trop’s villa in the suburb of Dahlem, 18 January, the same year.’

  Von Ribbentrop had been made foreign minister of the Reich on 4 February, just seventeen days after the robbery. Kohler felt quite ill. How had the Gypsy pulled off those jobs in a police state? Why had the idiot taken on the Nazis, for God’s sake? None of the robberies would have been mentioned even to the IKPK’s member countries, let alone the press, yet the hunt must have gone on in earnest.

  ‘And in Oslo we finally had him,’ sighed Herr Max. ‘That’s when all the pieces came together for us.’

  ‘Correction,’ said Louis. ‘The Norwegians had him.’

  ‘But soon we had Norway.’

  Not until 9 June 1940. ‘Then why didn’t you have him extradited? Surely there was room enough in the Moabit?’

  Berlin’s most notorious prison. ‘Because his willingness to co-operate was absent. Because we had other matters to concern us.’

  ‘You finally made a deal with him,’ snorted Kohler. ‘You let that son of a bitch out of jail but he didn’t keep his word and now you want him back.’

  ‘Correction,’ interjected Boemelburg. ‘We have to have him back.’

  ‘Ah nom de Jésus-Christ, Louis, why us?’

  The stairwell resounded with their taking two and three steps at a time. ‘Because we’re common crime. Because the quartier de l’Europe, that favoured haunt of les Gitans, was once my beat long before I was fool enough to become a detective.’ St-Cyr caught a breath as they reached a landing. ‘And because, mon vieux … because, why sacré, idiot! they’re up to something.’

  Kohler stopped so suddenly they collided. ‘What?’ he demanded, looking his partner over.

  Louis’s heart was racing. ‘Either to rob for them or to set a little souricière for someone.’

  A mousetrap … ‘But he’s decided to rob for himself – is this what you’re saying?’

  ‘Perhaps, but then … ah mais alors, alors, Hermann, is it not too early for us to say?’

  Unsettled by the thought, they went up the stairs more slowly. Hermann wouldn’t use the lifts, not even in a place like this. Caught once and left hanging by a thread, nothing would change his mind, not even the most modern and best maintained of elevators.

  When they reached the sixth floor, the only sounds they heard were those of their shoes. No longer was there that din of hammering typewriters, telexes and the constant ringing of telephones. No one hurried past. No one shouted in German or French. Even from the cellars, there were no sudden screams of terror.

  Records occupied the whole of the top floor. Its grey labyrinth of steel filing cabinets, card-index drums, shelves and mountains of dossiers was separated from all outsiders by the brown and unfeeling plateau of the linoleum-topped counter all such governmental edifices held.

  Turcotte and every one of his clerk-detectives, all thirty or so of the day shift, were standing rigidly to attention, grim-faced, some with tears.

  ‘What the hell has happened?’ breathed Kohler – he couldn’t believe it. Usually Turcotte fiercely guarded his domain and acidly fought off all requests to hurry.

  The intercom brought answer via Radio-Vichy and the shaky voice of the aged Maréchal Pétain, now in his eighty-seventh year. ‘Mesdames et messieurs, it is with deep regret that I must report the nine-hundred-day siege of Leningrad has been lifted. Though the population has been dying at the rate of twenty thousand a day, this is expected to lessen in the weeks ahead.’

  ‘Effort brings its own reward,’ whispered Kohler, giving a well-known phrase of the Maréchal’s. ‘Les Russes are no longer food for the fish of the Neva and the Teutonic generals of this war are being taught a damned good lesson.’

  Hermann was still bitter but seldom showed it. He had just recently lost both of his sons at Stalingrad where von Paulus was about to surrender the last remnants of the Sixth. He had tried to convince the boys to emigrate in ‘38 to Argentina but being young, they had replied, ‘You fought in the last one; let us finish it in this one.’

  The moment of silence following the broadcast was rigidly observed. Not a one of the clerks would have broken it. They were all terrified of their boss and afraid of being sent into forced labour or worse. ‘A far different response than last Wednesday, Thursday or Friday, eh, Louis?’ he whispered. ‘They’re not patting each other on the back and saying, “I told you so.”’

  The Wehrmacht, on a violent whim of the Führer, had dynamited the whole of the Vieux Port of Marseille, evicting thirty thousand souls with but a two-hour notice, and sending most of them to camps at Fréjus and Compiègne. An altercation in a whorehouse had started it all, the Resistance shooting up the place and others paying for it. So many, no one could have predicted it.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Turcotte, lord of his empire.

  Kohler winced. ‘We’re having trouble, Émile, and need a little help.’

  ‘Such subservience is rewarding but we can do nothing for you today.’

  ‘Oh, sorry. Berlin were asking. It was Berlin, wasn’t it, Louis?’

  The little ferret got the message, but when the wheels were turned, the index cards of most gypsies had been stamped with one big black word and Turcotte had his little triumph. ‘Déporté ou fusillé, c’est la même chose.’

  Deported or shot, it’s the same thing.

  ‘We’re looking for a mouton,’ said St-Cyr, hauling him out of harm’s way. ‘A female. Last seen in Tours, Thursday the fourteenth, but also a regular of the Santé or the Petite Roquette or the cells here and over on the ave’ Foch if her conductor feels she needs a change of air.’

  The SS or the Gestapo … The lark-eyed gaze flew evasively over the warren. ‘I know nothing of this.’

  ‘We didn’t think you would,’ came the soft res
ponse, ‘but of course when one has been seen buying sugar and white flour from the green beans to flog it to the butter-eggs-and-cheese boys, one must be careful, isn’t that so?’

  The German soldiers in their grey-green uniforms, the black marketeers …

  St-Cyr the cuckold. St-Cyr the friend of the Resistance who had mistakenly put him on their hit lists but had blown up his wife and son instead.

  ‘Start talking, Émile, or what I have to tell those same people you are thinking of will include the denunciations of old enemies.’

  ‘You bastard …’

  ‘Just give us what we want. It will save us all time.’

  The drum was spun, the card turned up and accidentally ripped from its wheel of fortune to be then spat upon in fury and thrust at them.

  ‘Une roulure rumaine. Une fille de la duperie, la superchérie et escroquerie!’

  A Rumanian slut. A daughter of deception, trickery and swindling.

  ‘Now leave us,’ said St-Cyr. ‘Go back to your weeping.’

  ‘The end’s coming, Émile,’ breathed Kohler, giving him a parting shot. ‘You had better prepare yourself for the worst by sealing your lips. Hey, maybe if you behave, Louis could fix it so that you’ll get the Médaille Militaire and Croix de Guerre with palms.’

  ‘Up against the post,’ muttered St-Cyr under his breath.

  ‘Not until we’ve had breakfast.’

  The file card Turcotte had torn from the drum was replete with entries which went right back to when the Gestapo’s mouton had been ten years old. A charge of stealing two chickens and a round of goat’s cheese had been compounded by the laying on of curses. Sentenced to six months in Bucharest, she had escaped in less than two weeks. A guard was found to have been fooling around with her. Even then she had known how to convince men she was ripe for plucking only to deceive them.

  The name on the card, which had been updated in August 1941, was Lucie-Marie Doucette but St-Cyr knew that such a name could well have meant nothing to the gypsies. A mere formality the Gaje authorities insisted on to control border crossings, entry visas and issue identity papers and passports.