Tapestry

by J. Robert Janes

  ‘Rudi, what is it you want?’

  ‘Of you? Well, there is a long list, but your undying loyalty to the Führer and Party must come first. The blood oath, I think, and then … why then you could start paying sufficient attention to Helga. Dinner twice a week when you’re in Paris—slow things down a little but not the current investigation, of course. With others it’s not necessary that you solve every crime in a matter of minutes. Try to leave a few. And no more of these other women of yours, Hermann. It doesn’t look good. A film—she loves them. Dancing …’

  ‘It’s illegal both here and in the Reich, but ja, ja, get on with it.’

  ‘Be patient. You’ll cooperate in all matters, especially by taking the Fräulein Remer and myself fully into your confidence. Knowledge is power, Chez Rudi’s by far the best source of all gossip, but to maintain such an enviable reputation—and I do have one—that gossip must be founded on the cement of absolute truth.’

  Gaston Morel was that cement, of course, and Rudi must know of him but was fishing for something else: the judge. ‘And if Louis and I agree?’

  ‘Then I can help you with this handbag and its owner. Helga will simply tell the Sicherheitsdienst*** that it was thrown on to the doorstep by the driver of one of those bicycle taxis. The Red Cockade or Rooster’s Tail, isn’t that korrekt, Helga?’

  ‘It happened so quickly, Rudi.’

  ‘But between four thirty and five in the afternoon. Not earlier and not later.’

  ‘Yes, Rudi.’

  ‘The licence had an RP, of course, but you can’t possibly be certain if it was followed by a fifteen or a ninety-eight.’

  And definitely Luc Desrocher’s The Red Comb of the Magnificent Cock, owned and operated by Hervé’s dear papa but leased last night to Albert Vasseur whose Take Me was still in police custody.

  ‘The boys who stole this handbag, and their families, could then rest more easily,’ went on Rudi. ‘Otherwise I can tell you duty calls, and that should word of what I know get out, I have it on good authority the Höherer SS will not turn the other cheek. He will seize the opportunity to make an example of them, one the French will not forget.’

  ‘Mont-Valérien,’ blurted Louis, aghast at what had been revealed.

  ‘Or the rue Laurence Savart, outside of number 3,’ said Rudi, watching them closely.

  The execution ground of the fort in the industrial suburb of Suresnes and just across the river, to the west of them. It was that or outside Louis’s house, in his beloved Belleville.

  ‘Now eat,’ said Rudi, getting up to leave them to think about it. ‘Enjoy—don’t waste a morsel. Helga, a glass or two of that stuff we used for the marinade. We’re about to accomplish the impossible. We’re going to make a good Nazi out of this Landsmann of ours. That, too, is something the Höherer SS demands, and that, my friends, is not gossip.’

  * * *

  The restaurant had grown quiet. Rudi did bang pots in the kitchen and hum the Horst Wessel Lied, the marching song of the Nazi Party, but Helga had gone off to dream the dream of dreams.

  ‘God always extracts a price, Hermann, and then squeezes a little more.’

  ‘I’m going to have to tell Rudi something.’

  ‘But only a little. You can’t be perceived by Oberg as wanting to protect the boys and their families, nor can you go to that one without first reporting to Boemelburg. The chain of command, n’est-ce pas? Offend the one and you offend the other. Besides, Walter can perhaps find a way to cushion the theft of that Ford, especially as Himmler is demanding his recall should the perpetrators of these blackout attacks fail to be immediately apprehended.’

  ‘You’ve been busy, but I’m not going to let them use Giselle. I can’t. Not anymore. You’ve seen her, haven’t you? She’s okay, isn’t she? She’s with Oona and the kids …’

  ‘Hermann, listen to me. I did what I could but obviously needed more time. There are still places where she …’

  ‘Could have holed up? Madame Chabot’s?’

  ‘Not there. Not at the flat either. Look, I’m sorry. I was going to tell you.’

  ‘You were going to break it to me when convenient, eh, like Rouget?’

  ‘Sit down. Please! Giselle is probably fine.’

  ‘Safe is the word you want, mein Lieber. Safe!’

  Even Rudi had stopped humming, but Hermann mustn’t be told of the rape and killing in the passage de l’Hirondelle and all the rest of what this partner of his had yet to impart. He must be shielded from it, had had enough for one evening, had already forced himself to do the impossible. ‘Oona may have heard from her. Giselle might simply have been delayed by a film. You know how she is. I didn’t stay. I only checked in briefly.’

  ‘And then tried to find Giselle. What’s happened to her, Louis?’

  ‘I don’t know but wish I did.’

  Louis wasn’t telling him everything.

  ‘We’ll leave the Ford out in front of the Propaganda-Abteilung, Hermann, but will have to siphon off what’s left of their petrol.’

  ‘And take the food. I’m not leaving that. We’ll drop the keys in their tank so that no one will try to steal the car unless they smash a side windscreen first.’

  The sound of a carrot being crunched was followed by that of another. St-Cyr opened his eyes but otherwise told himself not to move.

  More of each carrot was taken. They were standing in their pyjamas, woollen socks and pullovers, staring curiously down at him: Adrienne Guillaumet’s Louisette to his right; Henri to the left. The curtain of the puppet theatre had been opened.

  ‘Did you put the coffee on?’ he asked.

  ‘The acorn water. I told you so, Henri,’ whispered his sister, cupping the carrot to hide it.

  ‘We had to move you in here with me,’ went on St-Cyr. ‘Hermann …’

  ‘Needed to be with Oona,’ said Henri severely.

  ‘We heard him, Monsieur l’Inspecteur Principal. He was very distressed.’

  ‘Giselle,’ said the brother.

  ‘Is she dead?’ asked the sister.

  ‘Don’t say that. Never say it until certain. We’ll find her. Don’t worry. Ah! help me up. These cushions, this rug, that left shoulder of mine, the left thigh … Old bullet wounds, you understand. I slept, can you believe it?’

  They hadn’t cut into the baguettes from the Ford, had valiantly resisted that temptation. Potatoes were sliced thinly, onions diced. There were no eggs but there was a sprinkling of dill, some oregano too.

  ‘Add some of the meat,’ said Henri.

  ‘Just a little,’ said Louisette. ‘A taste.’

  ‘Don’t forget the garlic,’ said the brother.

  It was nearly noon.

  ‘You should have gone off to school. It’s still Saturday, isn’t it? And don’t tell me you’re on strike. I’ve already heard that one. I’ll just have a wash. There isn’t a razor, is there?’

  ‘Papa’s extra one,’ said Louisette. ‘We were not allowed to send it to him. Prisoners of war are not allowed such weapons.’

  ‘Good. Take over here. Turn the hot plate down in a moment. Add more oil from time to time. It’s good, isn’t it? From Mouriès in Provence, I think. The village is close to Arles, which became Caesar’s number-one city, even better than Marseille. There’s an amphitheatre that would seat more than twenty thousand. Bullfights are still held. Well, they were before this Defeat of ours. I’m not sure since, having been too busy.’

  ‘And the wine?’ asked Louisette.

  ‘First take a sip and tell me what you think.’

  ‘It is thin,’ she said.

  ‘It’s been watered, idiot!’ said Henri.

  ‘It’s a village wine, a blend of Pinot Noir and the Gamay. A Clos Saint-Denis. The vineyards are not far from the tiny village of Morey-Saint-Denis in the Côte de Nuits and perhaps twelve or so kilometres to the south of Dijon where our mustard used to come from. You are both right, though, but since it’s all we have, refill my glass. I won’t be lon
g.’

  ‘He’s nice, isn’t he?’ said Louisette when she had Henri to herself. ‘He has lost his little son and wife. Everyone in this house of ours has lost someone.’

  ‘Maman’s not lost. She’s just waiting to get better.’

  ‘Of course, but I was thinking of Papa.’

  From the rue Saint-Dominique to the quai d’Orsay wasn’t far. Once there, they would follow the Seine upriver to the Pont d’Austerlitz. Hermann hadn’t insisted on driving, a bad sign, nor had he asked where they were going. Clearly he was still worried about Oberg, the judge and Giselle, but miracle of miracles, the sun was out. Those in the endless queues outside the shops had taken heart. One old woman had even allowed a young mother to step to the head of the line, obeying the rule from Vichy. A twenty-year-old cyclist really did walk his bike, forgetting entirely that the STO thugs could immediately grab and transport him into forced labour, but was it all some sort of sign God wished to give, wondered St-Cyr, or was He merely getting the hopes up so as to make the crunch all the harder?

  ‘Hermann, I’ll just have a quick word with Armand, if he’s here. If not, perhaps his autopsy on the police academy victim will have been completed.’

  ‘Oona, Louis. Giselle’s become like a sister to her in spite of their both living with me when I’m here.’

  A clipping, hastily torn from some newspaper, was smoothed out. It was the notice Hermann had repeatedly placed in Paris-Soir.

  ‘I found it under the pillows. She’d been clutching it.’

  To say, ‘I warned you Madame Guillaumet’s children would remind her of her own,’ would do no good. To say, ‘Wait, let me be the one to find out about Giselle,’ wouldn’t suit either.

  ‘Oona’s convinced her children are dead, Louis. I can’t shake her thinking on this. I wish to hell I could and now what have I done but made certain Giselle will be …’

  He couldn’t say it, was blaming himself for what could well have happened.

  At the confluence of several arteries, and near the Gare de Lyon, the place Mazas and its adjacent streets were busy—there was panic, though, at the sight of the car, vélo-taxis and bicycles turning away. ‘I’ll park on the quai Henri IV, Hermann. It’ll be warmer there and you won’t have to keep the engine running.’

  ‘Stop mothering me. You know damned well Giselle could be in there under a sheet. Just go in and find out for me.’

  Louis pressed cigarettes into his hand but held on to them. ‘When we get to Walter, you’re definitely not to take any of these out. Walter has marked them.’

  ‘Don’t tell me we’ve a petty thief at HQ, other than myself?’

  ‘Apparently, but I’ve yet to determine how the head of Gestapo Section IV marked his pipe tobacco and these.’

  Identity cards, ration cards and passes … Ausweise, laissez-passers and sauf-conduits … Five sets, only five? Not one for Giselle—was that it, eh, or was Louis not planning to join them?

  There were tears in Hermann’s eyes. His hands shook but he realized the dilemma too, for if Walter Boemelburg had marked his cigarettes, had he not also marked and counted these?

  ‘You really have been busy, haven’t you?’

  It still wasn’t the moment to let Hermann in on everything but a start had best be made. ‘Rouget, mon vieux. Give me a little on that flat of his.’

  The cigarette was passed. Hermann was always best when kept busy. Out came his little black notebook. Pages and pages—how had he written them, knowing what had happened?

  ‘Concierge Louveau says that the judge let others use the flat from time to time. “Important people.” Some older than the judge, some younger, but none in the past five weeks—he was certain of this because the last one, a retired general smoked a cigar on the way up at two thirty p.m. on a Wednesday and also at six thirty p.m. on the way out and both times with the same brunette. She’d a nice, if timid smile and “he wore leather gloves, real ones, and had a beautifully trimmed, snow-white moustache and hair just like the Maréchal Pétain’s.” ’

  ‘A general.’

  ‘In a French army greatcoat with ribbons and medals. Do you want more?’

  ‘Give me something on Élène Artur, if possible.’

  ‘Half Indochinese and not permitted to use the front entrance for fear of upsetting the other tenants. Had a key to the other entrance. Wasn’t to take the lift, either. Used the side staircase. Never came with, or left with, the judge. Had a key to the flat. Both keys used by her assailants who must have known of them.’

  Merde, how had Hermann done it? ‘And?’

  Kohler took a deep drag, though God alone knew what Vichy’s state-run tobacco company was using now to cut the tobacco. Last autumn’s oak leaves, pine needles perhaps …

  ‘Entry at between 0030 and 0100 hours Friday. Dead by 0130 hours at the latest. It can’t have gone on for much longer but they took their time and knew they must have been able to. One of them a butcher, or former butcher—he sure as hell knew how to gut. The knife not the usual—it spurted blood a good metre and more when he withdrew it. A week ago the girl showed up around midnight, but the judge didn’t. Louveau was positive about this. His loge is only a few steps from the lift, so he definitely would have heard it, especially as he claims to have stayed awake listening for Rouget.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because a week prior to that Friday evening, the judge had done the same thing—not come—and on the following Tuesday and Thursday, and this Tuesday as well. The girl hung around after that last visit to ask Louveau if he thought the judge had been acting strangely. “It’s not like Hercule to pay me in advance and not want me.” ’

  ‘ “In advance”?’

  ‘Apparently Rouget had taken to slipping her the money at the Lido, but it definitely wasn’t his usual way of doing things. “Always after he has finished with me,” she said. “Never before.” ’

  ‘Had she a pimp?’

  ‘The concierge didn’t think so. “She was too independent,” he said, and claimed she “wasn’t like a woman of the streets or houses.” ’

  No pimp could only mean, as Hermann must have realized, that the academy victim definitely hadn’t been hers. ‘And on the night of her murder nothing was heard?’

  ‘Not a thing. Earlier though, on the previous visit, the girl “thought she might have done something that had offended the judge.” She couldn’t understand how Rouget could possibly have found out about it. “He’s too busy,” she said to Louveau. “He never goes there. Not anymore and certainly not with me, not since last October and only once then. Others would have seen us together.” ’

  ‘What others?’

  ‘She didn’t say.’

  ‘But where? The location, Hermann?’

  ‘I couldn’t establish that either.’

  ‘But others must have seen them. Others who went to the same place regularly …’

  ‘And guess who must have discovered she was carrying his child?’

  Another cigarette was needed. Dieu merci, it was like old times.

  ‘She would have had to tell the judge, Louis, but who else found out? Rouget isn’t just a member of the Cercle Européen. He also belongs to the Cercle de l’Union Interaliée.’

  God had definitely not smiled at them. ‘Your Pétain-look-alike general could well be a fellow member, as could, perhaps, the former captain I may have uncovered in the taxi theft, if indeed he was a captain, but let me hold that one in reserve. Please continue.’

  ‘Are you sure you want more?’

  ‘You know I don’t like to be kept in suspense.’

  ‘Good. At the repeated insistence of Henriette Morel who believes that husband of hers is having a torrid affair with her stepsister, that one’s social worker hired a …’

  ‘Permit me, mon vieux. A détective privé who impersonates a Sûreté and who calls the pipe he is fortunate enough to constantly smoke, his little friend.’

  ‘Monsieur Flavien Garnier of l’Agence Vidocq?’


  ‘The Arcade de Champs-Élysées. It’s a small world, isn’t it? Adrienne Guillaumet had asked the owner-operator of Take Me to drive her to the Ritz.’

  And more generals but definitely not French. ‘Did Garnier find this out?’

  ‘He must have. Three men were involved in her assault. One to set it up and get the timing down—that’s my “captain” who is the same, I’m sure, as was at the police academy and who lost his little red ribbon, though it wasn’t his to lose, and two to carry out the taxi theft, one of whom made certain that the other did. These last two were of medium height, the other almost as tall as the General de Gaulle, the Trinité rapist having broad shoulders like a wedge.’

  ‘And the one with the gut and smelling of fish oil?’

  ‘Our Drouant assailant, no doubt, and from Montmartre, but both likely wearing worn oilskins that must have needed a little help on such a night. A supply of Norwegian margarine, Hermann, that obviously didn’t need its ration tickets.’

  Quicksand, were they stepping into it? ‘Now tell me why not this “captain’s” own Légion d’honneur ribbon?’

  ‘Because I’m all but certain I’ve encountered the owner of it in Noëlle Jourdan’s papa, but for now the judge’s flat, Hermann. Let’s stick to that.’

  ‘Two assailants, one of whom must have been to the flat often enough since he was tidy even after what they’d done. When he went through her handbag, but didn’t take it, he spilled cigar ash and took time out to try to wipe it away but failed entirely to find her wedding ring. I did.’