‘“Annette-Mélanie Veroche, age twenty-two years, eight months,” mademoiselle?’
This one would know only too well what such a file should contain. ‘I don’t need it read to me.’
‘“Blonde, blue-eyed and a little above average height? Figure, perfect, if a bit thin? Father, deceased, German; mother, of French Huguenot extraction? Home address: bis thirty-two (a) place de la République, Rethel, Ardennes?” Did she give permission for you to record any of this?’
‘Of course not! Why would she?’
‘She refused when asked, did she?’
Ah merde! ‘I … I never asked, not beyond seeing if she’d like to join Les Amies.’
‘So you went after the information elsewhere, having been prompted to do so by your lover?’
Must he? ‘Yes!’
The Paris address was given, also a student, her dissertation being primarily on those early Cistercian monasteries, but he must hurry, thought St-Cyr. All too soon Hermann would be confronting Oberfeldwebel Dillmann and then what? Dillmann to Heinrich Ludin to tell him this half of the Sonderkommando must be onto something big.
Recent and not so recent photos showed Annette-Mélanie on foot and on her bike or at her studies in the Bibliothèque Nationale’s reading room, poring over what had to be a very early illuminated manuscript written on velum in Latin; others at Chez Kornilov with none other than Sergei Lebeznikov and what must be his son. The hungry student, the Mischlinge, the onderduiker was even wearing the dress and no doubt the high heels but not the diamond bracelet and necklace of pearls.
‘Mademoiselle, in none of these would that girl have realized she was being photographed.’
What more did he want? Having ushered Camille out the door in an instant, he had closed and locked it and gone straight to that filing cabinet.
‘Well?’ he demanded.
Hector would make certain it all ended for her. There would be no more salons and soirees, no more dinners or telephone calls from Suzanne Abetz, Nicole Bordeaux, Florence Gould or any of the others, no more perfect clients with unlimited cash. ‘Oh for sure, there are photos. Don’t men like to see what they’re getting?’
‘But they weren’t “getting” this one, were they? “Refuses to join us, gives excuse after excuse, the studies, the part-time jobs, the mother …” et cetera, et cetera.’
Everyone who was anyone would banish her.
‘Mademoiselle, it’s not good to keep me waiting, especially at a time like this.’
‘All right, all right! Hector had someone take those. He had met that girl here and at Madame Bordeaux’s and had thought she’d be perfect for Hauptmann Reineck or even Leutnant Heiss, who is married and missing his young wife.’
‘And the photographer, mademoiselle?’
He would want everything! ‘The Hauptmann found someone, and when batches of photos had been taken, it was he who brought the prints here for me to keep.’
But not the negatives, and therefore an Abwehr-West photographer. Someone so reliable, Anna-Marie would not have known. Also, of course, Reineck would have been a client of this escort service, to which Hermann would have said, How cosy. ‘And has your lover copies of them?’
‘No! He … he looked at them here from time to time.’
‘And the part-time jobs, did you help her get them?’
‘Only the one with Madame Bordeaux and because Hector thought it would be good to show her off. The other jobs she got herself. First the one here in the autumn of 1941.’
‘After having moved in.’
‘And then in the summer of last year, the one at the bookshop. Nicole met her here at the concerts and there, too, and that settled the matter. Me, I made sure of it.’
‘Because Bolduc insisted on it?’
‘Yes, damn it!’
‘A student doesn’t usually have the clothing in these?’ He had held up two from Chez Kornilov.
‘Nicole had those things delivered here.’
‘When?’
Damn him! ‘Mid-August of last year. I … I then loaned the girl a few trinkets but those she always left with Nicole. That’s why they’re not in the photos.’
‘And did either or both of Bolduc’s bank overseers meet her at one or more of the salons at that maison de maître on the rue de la Boétie?’
She would have to say it. ‘Reineck wanted her very badly and Hector loves to tease and constantly needs favours from them, they from him.’
Ah bon. ‘And the boy in this photo?’
Not the man, not the gestapiste française and second-in-command of Rudy de Mérode’s Neuilly Gestapo. ‘The son of the other. Pierre-Alexandre Lebeznikov, a subdeacon or something. She takes rosemary to him for the incense burners.’
‘Grown where, please?’
Why on earth did he need to know that? ‘The Jardin des Plantes, one of the assistant gardeners.’
‘Name, since that lover of yours would have had you find that out as well and Hauptmann Reineck would have had that photographer make certain of it.’
Ah, mon Dieu, mon Dieu, this was all going wrong! ‘Jacques Leporatti.’
An Italian, a former Communist probably. ‘Bolduc certainly got you to check up on this girl, so perhaps you’d be good enough to tell me why, beyond what you’ve already admitted?’
It would have to be said. ‘Hector moves people into and out of Paris in those vans of his. The service is far from free, you understand, but please don’t think it’s completely illegal and against the wishes of our friends. Hauptmann Reineck and Leutnant Heiss both knew of it long ago, and when Annette-Mélanie told Hector on 28 November last that her mother was very ill and she had to get home in a hurry, Hector offered to help and she went to meet him at that garage of his.’
‘Those overseers of his also having known of this?’
‘Oui. Those two have always closely watched everything Hector does, including his affair with myself, and his putting the money up for this escort service.’
‘And at that garage whichever drivers and assistants were present would have seen her?’
Had he thrown her a rope? ‘Hector letting them say what they would of her to themselves and then joking about it and telling them that was exactly what she needed.’
The knife at last! ‘And she returned when, please?’
‘The tenth of December.’
‘Having used the service twice—out and back into Paris?’
‘Oui, but … but it didn’t happen then, and this time she … she lined up at the Kommandantur for hours to get the necessary papers and took the train to Rethel. This I know because he had me check.’
‘He wanted to know why she hadn’t asked him again?’
‘Most certainly.’
‘And that then caused him and those overseers of his to question the matter further?’
Hector would definitely not be happy with her. ‘Oui.’
‘Now let’s be absolutely clear on this. Would Deniard and Paquette have recognized her after an absence of eight months?’
‘Me, I have to think so.’
‘But would they still have tried to do what Bolduc felt she needed?’
‘To please him? Ah mon Dieu, does it really matter so much? She’s just a student and has nothing but a dissertation on those damned monasteries and monks.’
Ah bon. ‘You’ve been in that girl’s room, have you?’
This was not good. ‘Only for a look. She … she has nothing, Inspector. Not a thing from home, just the cork from a champagne bottle on her bedside table.’
‘But did that lead to the broken neck of another in the back of that van, mademoiselle?’
‘It must have, mustn’t it? That’s what Hector and his overseers have just come to believe, and now they want that girl more than ever since she will be able to lead them to
all those diamonds, but she’s out there somewhere and they don’t know where.’
* Paperbacks read and left at a journey’s end.
* By Pierre Souvestre and Marcel Allain, the first published on 10 February 1911. Immensely popular, the original series sold more than 5 million copies and has gained readers ever since.
* Now the Gare de Bercy.
* All for one, one for all, and from D’Artagnan, in The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas, 1844.
9
Having just arrived back from the métro where things had been difficult to say the least, felt Anna-Marie, she had found Monsieur Figeard adamant. Nothing would suffice but that she immediately leave and go next door to tell Pierre-Alexandre that she couldn’t marry him.
‘Mademoiselle, that boy has to stop pestering me. I can’t have him coming here at all hours begging to know if you’ve returned. I’ve told him nothing, you understand. Absolument rien!’
‘I’ll just go up to my room, then I’ll go to see him.’
St-Cyr was still in the building! ‘Don’t! Go now and quickly.’
For emphasis, he glanced at the ceiling, instantly letting her know there was a far greater reason. ‘Should I take my bike?’
Grâce à Dieu, she had understood. ‘That would, I think, be a good idea, but hurry.’
She couldn’t leave her suitcase, couldn’t leave the diamonds, yet could take neither at present. ‘If I can, I’ll duck in to let you know how things go.’
‘In ten minutes I’ll be waiting at the artists’ entrance.’
Ten and not a moment longer. A black, four-door Citroën, its engine at idle, was parked outside Chez Kornilov, the two leaning against it wearing the broad-lapelled suits and snap brims of gestapistes français and smoking cigarettes while waiting for their boss. All of which was terrible, but had Arie had a premonition of it?
‘Arie,’ she said, only to realize she had just kissed the heel of her gloved left hand.
Having retrieved the Sparta and its trailer from the cellars, she now had to walk them under the eyes of those two. Every second told her they would cross the rue Daru to grab her and the bike, but they didn’t. They just looked and looked, seemingly as men will.
There was a side door she usually went to during the week when services were not being held. Opening onto a small grove of trees and a garden, it offered respite and a modicum of seclusion, but she wouldn’t have to knock and wait for Pierre-Alexandre. The door was propped open by an upended wooden shoe, not Dutch but Russian from the days of the Revolution.
Monsieur Sergei Lebeznikov—she couldn’t think of him as Serge de Lenz—was listening attentively to his son’s baritone which melodiously filled the cathedral. On seeing her, he smiled generously and softly said, ‘He’s good, isn’t he? It’s his calling.’
‘Monsieur, can we speak outside a moment, please?’
Did the girl not want to listen? ‘Mademoiselle, the boy will be glad to see you back safely. Was it bad—your mother?’
‘Not at all. Perfect, really. A miracle, but …’
He had taken her by the arm.
‘There will be no buts. When he’s finished, we’ll cross the street and have a little celebration. I’ll get the others to do what I was going to.’
The others—those two. ‘Monsieur Lebeznikov, please speak to Pierre-Alexandre for me. I can’t marry him. Maman is deeply of our Church; my father was too. For me to do such a thing would be to go against everything they’ve taught me. Besides, I hardly know him.’
Perhaps if he gently told her how it really was for most? ‘Knowing often comes. It just takes its time.’
Why must he be so impossible? ‘There’s the war; this Occupation. Everything is so uncertain. Please, I have to hurry to the dentist. I can’t be late. Tell him I’ll see him later but he mustn’t bother Concierge Figeard anymore.’
‘Leave the bike. My men will give you a lift.’
‘It’s not far but afterward I must go to the Bibliothèque Nationale to renew my place in its reading room. If I don’t, I’ll lose it and I can’t have that, not now, not when my dissertation is almost finished.’
She was going to have to listen. ‘Mademoiselle, you’re perfect for him and come very highly recommended by the very best of Parisian society. The boy’s desperate. If you won’t marry him, he’s determined to leave the Church and I can’t have that. Not with the way things are developing.’
Things … ‘He’s safe here, is that what you mean?’
‘You will be too. The Church guarantees it, and you’ll have everything you need. A flat in Neuilly, a place in the south, cash in the bank and lots more.’
‘Please, I really must go. I will speak to him later, I promise.’
‘Can I tell him you’ll think seriously of it?’
‘Of course. If that will help, then certainly.’
‘Now I must rush off myself to the rue de Vaugirard and Porte de Versailles. An Oberfeldwebel who’s been up to mischief. Be good to Pierre-Alexandre. Be gentle. He really is smitten with you, and I don’t think either of us would want to see him hurt.’
The rue de Vaugirard and not far from the rue Vercingétorix. That coin Frans should have had in his pockets but hadn’t. An Oberfeldwebel.
At 1650 hours the Porte de Versailles was busy, noted Kohler, but when dealing with the venomous even detectives who have shown mercy in the past had better tread carefully. Finding a café with a view, he ordered a coffee. Dillmann was doing the usual. Dillmann didn’t give a damn about anything else, even to ratting on them to Ludin about the partnership’s probably meeting up at Chez Rudi’s during Saturday’s cinq à sept. If he had to, Dillmann would probably choke his mother or sell his sister. These days, he had never had it so good.
Three of the Tabac National’s trucks were sent on their way with a rap on the hood and, ‘Ach, I’ll see you later.’ A farm truck, a gazo, took more time. After all, there were papers to glance at, questions to be asked, and were the flics and the Vichy food controllers taking any notice? But would this one and those tobacco trucks be sent to the horse abattoir, or had that son of a bitch changed his drop-off?
Without a cigarette to nurse, Kohler knew he could only wait and be reminded of Schütze Hartmann and those from the previous encounter. Having dropped Louis and Jacqueline Lemaire off at the Salle Pleyel, he had gone straight to Boemelburg’s villa in Neuilly. That letter from Kaltenbrunner had worked its magic—he’d only to show that SD Head Office stamp and that signature—but it had been a mistake, of course. Oona and Giselle were being well looked after but had been more than anxious and not just about themselves, about Anna-Marie, and he’d known he’d have to be truthful. Somehow Louis and he were going to have to get them out of there and away from Heinrich Ludin.
All of which meant first dealing with this cobra.
When a black Citroën traction avant exactly like the one he had parked out of sight on the boulevard Lefebvre nearby, headed in to have a word, he knew the worst. Sergei Lebeznikov was greeting that bastard as though a long lost friend. Questions were being asked and talked over, answers too readily given, the agreement settled with but a clap on the back and handshake.
Louis would have said, God really doesn’t care, Hermann. There are always two sides to any coin.
And we’re not on either, he’d have replied. There was nothing for it but to try the horse abattoir and hope it was still being used. Anna-Marie Vermeulen had sure dug a hole for them and with no bottom in sight, was it to be nothing but a free fall?
‘Monsieur Figeard, what is this you are saying?’
That ten minutes had stretched into a half-hour, and having lied to him again and again as she must have, did this girl he had trusted deserve anything further? wondered Figeard. ‘Mademoiselle Veroche, you have challenged my very judgement, and certainly if he were to know that I had
even listened to you, Chief Inspector Jean-Louis St-Cyr of the Sûreté would be grateful.’
Grateful? ‘Please just tell me. To stand out here on the street with my bike is not good. Pierre-Alexandre, he has refused to listen and might …’
‘Was that his father who roared by earlier in that car with those other two?’
‘It was.’
‘And having “witnessed” two murders, is it that you are in trouble with one such as that?’
‘And others, but only because of a promise I made to a very dear man who was about to be sent away just as were my parents.’
Ah mon Dieu, what was this? ‘As he left, the chief inspector said, “Tell her the tobacco pouch is still empty.”’
Meet him in the Jardin d’Hiver but not today—tomorrow! ‘Let me get my suitcase and say good-bye to the rabbits and chickens.’
‘And the Boche, if they should arrest you?’
‘Will simply be told you knew nothing.’
‘Mademoiselle Lemaire is still in the building.’
‘Then I must wait until she has left or hope the door to her office is closed.’
‘What’s she got to do with things?’
‘Everything, probably.’
‘Then let me go ahead, and I’ll make sure it’s closed.’
‘Don’t speak to her. Don’t tell her anything, for if you do, all will be lost.’
‘Mademoiselle, there is something else you should know. The chief inspector has a partner. While he’s definitely not the usual, he is still of the Gestapo.’
Blinking at him through the autumn sunlight, Dillmann’s keeper of the horse abattoir’s sheet-iron doors said, ‘Ach, Herr Kohler, the Oberfeldwebel told me that if you should come by, I was to give you a few packets of cigarettes. Run the car in, and I’ll open a box.’
The tobacco trucks had just left as had the other one, the smell of the gasoline given clear enough, as were the sacks of potatoes, squash, cabbage, carrots, onions, et cetera. ‘And you are?’
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