Horseshit! But even back in September 1940, Boemelburg had known he’d have to have at least one flying squad he could count on to fight common crime and be honest about it. A shining example of law and order in an age of officially sanctioned crime on a horrendous scale.
The dog registry wasn’t even here. Uncovered as he removed the article so that Louis could have a read, a card stated that it was now to be found in another building.
Dry as a bone, Louis was waiting for him. Vacillating, shifty-eyed and dark-shadowed, the clerk behind him was as withered as the apple that one was saving for dessert, once the lunch of thin soup and a half-bulb of garlic had been consumed.
‘The préfet has been most kind, Hermann. Everyone wishes to assist us but,’ he confided softly, ‘the offer of ten francs for turning away while I had a look was most appreciated.’
Unknown to the clerk, Louis had pulled and palmed a file card from one of the rotary drums, but even so, had best be told. ‘Just you wait, then, until Talbotte sees the newspapers. We’re never going to hear the end of it!’
The card was for an Irish Terrier bitch named Lulu. The clerk, whose salary couldn’t be any more than his prewar twelve thousand francs a year in this age of rampant inflation and frozen salaries, could easily have taken this Kripo for a thousand, which just showed the difference between Louis and himself.
‘It’s what the card reveals that’s important, Hermann, but for now we’d best find a little peace and quiet.’
‘I know just the place.’
‘I’m not going there. I absolutely refuse.’
‘Don’t be an idiot. You’re as hungry as I am. Besides, it will give us a chance to tap the street if nothing else.’
He was right, of course. These days radio-trottoir was often the only source of information. Pavement radio, gossip but prolific, and what better place to go than the fount of it all? ‘Then I had best tell you that though the theft has yet to be set down in stone by Records, that vélo-taxi must have been stolen from place de l’Opéra. That’s where it was registered to work from.’
And with the Kommandantur itself in full view across the square.
3
At noon, Chez Rudi’s was packed. Wehrmacht and SS grey-green uniforms were everywhere, Gestapo black too, and Kriegsmarine or Luftwaffe blue, with scattered petites Parisiennes and Blitzmädel from home, here to do their duty. Beer-hall big under its brightly coloured murals, the restaurant was still such a bit of home, Hermann was forced to swallow tightly.
All talking had ceased, even the hustle and bustle from the kitchens where Rudi had come to stand, poised in the doorway. A fresh apron girded the 166 kilos. Flaxen-haired, his blue eyes small and watchful, the florid, net-veined cheeks round like a burnished soccer ball, this survivor of the uprising of 8 November 1923, the Munich Putsch, was proprietor and owner of this conquering image to a just reward on the Champs-Élysées and right across the avenue from the Lido.
‘My Hermann,’ he called out, the voice beer-hall big. ‘Your table, mein Lieber, and yours, too, mein brillanter französischer Oberdetektiv.’
They had never had a table reserved for them anywhere in the past two-and-a-half years. The clientele cheered. Embarrassed, baffled and grinning ear to ear, Hermann led the way to the table as Helga, Rudi’s youngest sister, her blonde braids and pale-blue work dress tight, hustled through with two overflowing steins.
‘The Spaten Dunkel, Hermann,’ sang out Rudi. ‘Fresh in on this morning’s Ju 52.’
From Munich, from home. Well, nearly so.
‘Danke, Rudi,’ managed the guest of honour, what honour?
There was a nod, a, ‘I’ve made Lederknödel for you and Rostbratürste, but if the Oberdetektiv St-Cyr would prefer, I can also recommend the Schneckensuppe to be followed by the Geschnetzeltes.’ Snail soup and veal slices in cream, or liver dumplings in a clear broth, and afterwards, small sausages with the taste and aroma of the beechwood over whose charcoal they would have been grilled.
Roggenbrot, too, noted Kohler. Rye bread made just like they used to, and real butter, none of that crappy Norwegian fish-oil margarine the troops usually got and the French had to eat when they could get it.
The beer was cold and dark, not too sweet and with the simple lightness of hops.
‘Helga, what the hell is going on?’ blurted Hermann, as puzzled as his partner.
The girl quivered. ‘You’re back, mein Schatz,’ my treasure, she said with tears. ‘We are all counting on you, Hermann. All of us girls. Every woman in Paris. The men, too. The real men. Not the monsters.’
They had eaten in silence and eaten far better than most in the country, St-Cyr knew, and certainly if the Résistance were to learn of it, which they would, they wouldn’t waste time with this Sûreté, but would shoot first and then ask the questions even though Hermann always seemed to be oblivious to the fact when here.
Conscious of the diners, Hermann had tried not to notice the girls who stole glances at their table while in the midst of conversation. Their trembling uncertainty, their outright fear—some more than others—was all too clear. Bed with the enemy and watch out, eh? he’d be saying to himself. The savage brutality of the Trinité attack, the full frontal and back views, those too of the academy victim. Every one of Chez Rudi’s female clientele had seen Le Matin or editions of the other papers. While their men friends tried to reassure them, there were those who smirked—SS and Gestapo who must know this Kripo and his French partner had a problem no one else wanted.
‘But have we been granted a reprieve, Hermann?’
From the general dislike and the hatred, too, for always pointing the finger of truth no matter where it belonged? ‘It looks like it.’
‘Talbotte’s not just being kind. Our préfet’s gone out of his way to forget my having knocked him out and threatened him with grand theft at the Liberation when all such accounts will be settled.’
‘But has been told to keep us run off our feet?’
By Boemelburg and the Kommandant von Gross-Paris. ‘Perhaps.’
Even Rudi had made certain they would be left alone to discuss things. Cigarettes, pipe tobacco and small cigars had been laid on, cognac too, and real coffee. ‘The Trinité victim,’ said Kohler, lighting another cigarette as that pipe of Louis’s was packed. ‘Madame Adrienne Guillaumet must have been heading somewhere other than home when she left the École Centrale at nine thirty p.m. or close to it.’
The lessons in Deutsch would have been over, everyone hurrying from the building into the teeming rain and the blackout. ‘But had she arranged to be picked up?’
Or had her choice of a bicycle taxi been governed solely by chance? ‘She would have had to go to place de l’Opéra first if she’d arranged the ride ahead of time. Money paid in advance, Louis, the half down probably and one hell of a lot of trust, if you ask me. I’m not sure she could have afforded it, even though the flat she lives in speaks of money.’
Good for Hermann. He had faced up to what the woman could well have been up to.
‘If she did go to place de l’Opéra, Louis, was she overheard by her assailant when ordering that taxi?’
Had he prior knowledge of her? Had he been stalking her, the wife of Captain Jean-Matthieu Guillaumet, resident of the Oflag at Elsterhorst, the POW camp for French officers to the northeast of Dresden? ‘If so, she couldn’t have been aware of it.’ But that, too, could mean, as they both knew, that her assailant must have had ample sources of information.
‘Isn’t that why so many here are afraid, Louis? They’ve sensed that others have been watching them and that they could damned well be called to account.’
For sleeping with the enemy, but perhaps it would be best to ease Hermann’s mind a little. ‘There could have been extenuating circumstances. Reason enough for her having hired it.’
Everyone knew vélo-taxi drivers, like concierges, were funds of information if for a price. ‘The eggs, white flour and sugar, Hermann. The milk also, with which
to bake the forbidden-by-law birthday cake of a child.’
And a simple enough reason. ‘I don’t know if her son or daughter has a birthday coming up. Giselle and Oona might, but I’ve not been back to see them yet.’
Hermann was not only worried about those two women he lived with, he was blaming himself since, through no fault of his own, he would still be considered one of the Occupier.
‘She left her children alone, Louis. Classes would have begun at six thirty p.m. Travel from the flat on the rue Saint-Dominique would have taken a good half-hour, more if she stopped in at place de l’Opéra.’
‘But did her assailant imagine what she was up to, or had he known of her from before?’
That was the question but still it had to be asked. ‘A random attack when there’s been so many?’
‘Had he been following her, Hermann?’
‘There was a fingernail.’
Pipe in hand, Louis looked at that thing. ‘Dirt, blood and grease, Hermann, this last no doubt the same as I felt on the seats of that taxi and on her shoulders. Big hands. Strong hands.’
‘The Drouant attack. It’s not that far a walk from the passage de la Trinité.’
That attack had taken place at 11.52 p.m. and with plenty of time to have gotten into position from the Trinité. ‘And not random but planned—it must have been, Hermann—the whereabouts of the victims known well beforehand but even more importantly, that M. Gaston Morel would have his driver take his wife’s stepsister home early.’
‘And that Morel would accompany Madame Barrault to her flat on the rue Taitbout, eh? She’s not wealthy, but does live near enough to the place de l’Opéra if it was being watched for women like that.’
‘Another POW wife, another stolen wedding ring, but condemnation and punishment this time for committing adultery with a Frenchman, the husband of another. I’m certain Madame Morel is convinced of it.’
‘As is her friend, Denise Rouget.’
‘A social worker.’
‘And socialite. A parasite, Madame Barrault called her.’
‘From the Secours National?’ The National Help.
‘We’ll have to ask her.’ And hadn’t Madame Barrault sat as far as possible from Denise Rouget?
‘Stamps or some other item are then stolen at between twenty and thirty minutes past midnight and not likely by the same person or persons but that clay, Hermann. Were the sewers used to get there?’
It would have to be said. ‘From the passage de la Trinité to that of the Jouffroy isn’t far by the streets, and this must have been known to Madame Guillaumet’s assailant since he damned well knew how to find the Trinité on such a night.’
Whoever was committing these crimes, and there must be several of them, knew the city as if blindfolded. ‘But before any of these, the police academy.’
‘Which we definitely were to have been sent to?’
‘Perhaps. And after that killing, a girl who telephones to let the world know about it.’
A call that had been made from the Lido right across the street from them!
Louis took a moment to glance around at the clientele who now seemed more at ease. Setting his pipe aside, he leaned closely. ‘Are we to wonder then what this one has done to that girl?’
Cupped in his palm was the buttonhole silk of a ribbon whose red moiré, a weak shade of scarlet, had definitely been crimped so as to give it a wavelike pattern as always, though now it looked like water spilling down a series of steps.
‘Three men, Hermann, at least one of whom wore hobnailed boots.’
‘Veterans?’
‘Unless we are to be led into believing it.’
‘And a dog, Louis.’
‘Ah, oui. Lulu, age seven. Breeder: the Kennels Bouchard at Louveciennes on the edge of the Fôret de Marly-le-Roi, the dog’s owner, Madame Catherine-Élizabeth de Brissac, an old and much venerated family now residing on the avenue de Valois overlooking the Parc Monceau.’
And if that wasn’t convenient, what was? The remains would have been buried probably in the late afternoon and just before the gates were closed and locked. The police academy victim had been abducted perhaps from the Lido at about 7.30 p.m., killed between 8.30 and 9.30 p.m. ‘But not enough time for any of his assailants to then steal a bicycle taxi, Louis, and ride to the passage de la Trinité.’
They were up against it. Doubtless there was another victim—the telephone caller—and as yet they had no idea of what else had happened last night. More victims, further killings. The attacks were escalating, the wives and fiancées of POWs were being targeted, mistakes made, of course, the hair taken in some cases, the handbags in all—identity papers, ration cards and tickets—and wedding or engagement rings, especially if worn.
‘Five crimes in one night, Hermann, when invariably we get one or two at most, and certainly these can’t all be connected, and yet … and yet we are …’
‘Kept busy as hell but not supposed to have been assigned to the stamps and not to Lulu either?’
Had some overzealous despatch officer been having fun with them? ‘Not one assailant but several, and though there is still some question with the Trinité attack, certainly in the academy abduction and killing, the Au Philatéliste Savant robbery and the Drouant attack, information must definitely have been known beforehand.’
Especially as certain things had been left in that safe! ‘Noëlle Jourdan, Louis.’
‘There, too, for how, please, did the press know she could be tempted and would be on the night shift and looking after Madame Guillaumet?’
‘And why did she consider it her duty to let those bastards photograph the woman?’
Rudi, who had been watching them, could no longer contain himself. Surprisingly agile on the balls of his little feet, he was all purpose and swift to it. A plate crowded with Salzstangen, the small salt rolls, was in one meaty hand, a tankard of beer in the other.
‘Werte Herren,’ my dear sirs, he whispered conspiratorially as he lowered himself into a chair and spread over the table, ‘our Soldatenheime, our troop hostels, are being watched, our boys tailed on their evenings out. Pigalle, eh? Those bare breasts they love to get their hands on. The Bal Tabarin with its sacrificial virgins or the Naturiste with its snake charmers. Lovesick boys, Hermann. Boys who are easy to tail since like dogs, they return to those they think are in heat.’
Gossip was like flour to Rudi.
‘The Soldatenkino, my Hermann. Those are also being watched. After each film, don’t the street girls with the sweetest voices troll the pavements even though they know it is verboten to approach any man and forbidden also for the men to pick them up and not use one of the licensed brothels that are reserved entirely for us?’
Out of Paris’s 120 legalized brothels, 40 had been taken over by the Wehrmacht but … ‘Ach, mein Gott, Rudi. Tailed through the blackout? You’re being paranoid.’
Stung, the battering ram of a challenging fist was thrust at him only to calm itself and wag a reproving finger.
‘This is serious. There are whispers among the brass and visiting big shots that Gestapo Boemelburg is not just due his retirement but beyond it and that someone with far more muscle even than our Walter is now needed.’
He would let them digest that little mouthful, thought Rudi. He would offer each a salt roll and suggest they take two, since it was entirely due to Boemelburg that they had been allowed to continue fighting common crime and hadn’t been put up against a wall and shot.
‘The French—excuse me, Herr Oberdetektiv—are beginning to doubt us, Hermann.’
A pull at the tankard was necessary, the thick, wide lips pursed, the beer no doubt judged more than acceptable.
‘Things are changing,’ went on Rudi as he fingered a Salzstange before biting into it. ‘Some of those who openly supported the Führer and his many legitimate and necessary causes, and saw those as their own, have begun to drift away. Verdammte Verräter, Kotzscheisser!’
Damned traitors, n
auseating shits. He was really worried. The Battle for Stalingrad had been the Reich’s first defeat that had been publicly announced and followed by three official days of mourning.
‘The Propaganda Staffel, Hermann. My informants there tell me that they have been ordered to constantly splash news of these blackout crimes across the papers and to emphasize during every wireless broadcast that progress is being made and a favourable solution but momentary. I’ve warned them that no pictures or interviews are to be taken here. I can’t have the restaurant being targeted. I simply will not have it!’
‘Rudi, what the hell are you trying to tell us?’
‘That no photographs are to be taken here of the two of you, but out there …’ He indicated the Champs-Élysées and streets too many. ‘Out there you are not safe from prying cameras and reporters.’
‘Us?’ blurted Hermann.
‘You, meine Lieben. You are to be watched and followed. Tracked—photographed while in action against these … these schweinigein Vergewaltiger und Mörder.’
These dirty rapists and murderers but thank God Louis understood and spoke the language.
‘It’s not safe for my Helga, Hermann. You know how sweet she is on you. It’s not safe for my Yvette and Julie either, nor for those two women you cannot seem to leave for my Helga. Take care of these verrückter Sadisten. Get them by the balls and use the knife. Better still, bring them here and I will give them a fry-up they won’t forget.’
The salt rolls that couldn’t be refused were again passed. ‘If I were you,’ said Rudi, ‘I would watch in places like that one across the road where, my Hermann, you questioned only the stage doorman when you should have paid a visit during a performance. The Cercle Européen is still being held there once a week no matter what anyone else says.’
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