‘Not a General, a Generalmajor, or even a Major?’ asked Hermann, the Deutsch deliberate.
Garnier tapped cigarette ash into a cupped palm, the dark brown eyes behind those specs not even having to glance down at it.
‘The assistant doorman who delivered the note to the Guillaumet subject’s concierge refused to tell me. His job, he said, and I must agree with him, Colonel, would not only have been jeopardized but forfeited. Decour, the head doorman of the Ritz, is an absolute bastard.’
Agent Garnier was as if of reinforced concrete, thought St-Cyr. No doubt this impersonator of himself ate his meals as though still in the trenches just as Hermann did, stolidly lump by lump while waiting for the next onslaught, but something would have to be said. ‘And how, please, did you learn of her tragic assault?’
Was it to be nothing but the most inane of questions from this Sûreté? wondered Garnier. St-Cyr must have gone through that desk of Hubert’s and his own but had been valiantly trying to hide the fact. ‘Like everyone else, we noticed it in the newspapers.’
‘She takes a good photo, doesn’t she?’ quipped Quevillon who seemed always to be driven to let his gaze flick from this Sûreté to Hermann, as if not just to gauge what the response might be, but to incite it if possible.
‘We were as distressed as yourselves,’ countered Delaroche warily.
‘But none of you had the unenviable task of having to find her, Colonel. Perhaps Agent Garnier would be so good as to tell us who else was tailing Madame Guillaumet?’
‘Yes, tell us,’ breathed Hermann, dragging out his notebook as Quevillon brushed crumbs from the creased knees of trousers that still had the turn-ups of the 1930s.
‘You see, Colonel, your assistant may well have noticed he wasn’t alone in asking questions about her,’ said St-Cyr.
‘Someone sure as hell knew what that “subject” of yours was up to,’ added Hermann.
‘Flavien, did you or Hubert … ?’ hazarded Delaroche. ‘Kohler, must you write everything down?’
There were no bite marks on the colonel’s wrists or hands either, no broken-off, closely trimmed fingernails. In short, none of these three could have assaulted the Trinité victim, nor could Delaroche have been bitten by Élène Artur. ‘Oh, sorry. Force of habit, I guess.’
‘There were two of them, Colonel,’ said Garnier levelly.
‘Two?’ asked Louis who had yet to accuse Garnier of impersonating a Sûreté.
‘Oui. Both of medium height, the one much bigger about the waist than the other, who was built like a wedge, and probably as strong as an ox. They must have seen that I was on to them, for puff, they vanished.’
And how very convenient, thought St-Cyr, but something had had to be given and Garnier had done so. For each advance, first the little retreat; for each lie, the slender element of truth.
Quevillon flashed a knowing grin, but had to lose it suddenly under a scowl from the colonel. ‘And when, please, was that?’ asked St-Cyr.
‘Yes, when?’ asked Hermann.
These two would never be convinced to leave well enough alone and to cooperate, felt Garnier. ‘At first I thought a competing agency must be after the same things, but then they lost interest. Colonel, how was I to have known the subject would be assaulted and robbed? How was Hubert?’
‘Raped and beaten,’ said Quevillon, darting an expectant glance at each of them. ‘But … but wasn’t there something else rammed up inside the …’
‘Hubert!’ cautioned Delaroche.
‘The truncheon of a gendarme de contrôle, peut-être?’
A traffic cop. The press hadn’t known of it, thought Kohler, not even that young doctor at the Hôtel-Dieu had been specific, but Louis wasn’t going to let on and didn’t pause while repacking that pipe of his and making sure his pouch was again filled to overflowing. ‘And with Madame Barrault and Gaston Morel?’ he asked.
St-Cyr had not only stolen more pipe tobacco, he was like a termite with this little interview of theirs, snorted Garnier to himself. Sometimes one couldn’t hear the termites in the night, sometimes they would set up such a racket, sleep was impossible but as with all such insects, it was often best to give them something to gnaw on while one got the paraffin and the match or the solution of arsenic and sugar. ‘They were enjoying each other’s company in secret, or so they thought.’
Hastily Hubert Quevillon pushed that hank of hair back off his brow. ‘But I was able to gain access to that little nest of theirs in the Hôtel Grand and to watch the circus through a crack in the bedroom door.’
‘Hubert …’ tried Delaroche.
‘Toute nue, the legs spread and down on her knees with Morel’s bitte in her hands and …’
‘HUBERT! that is enough,’ snapped Garnier, impatiently flicking cigarette ash into that palm of his. ‘The inspectors asked if you had noticed anyone else tailing the Barrault subject.’
‘Yes, did you notice others were “investigating” the woman’s private life?’ said Hermann.
‘Isn’t that what an agent privé does?’ countered Quevillon. ‘Villeneuve, the manager of the Cinéma Impérial, did tell me that others had been making enquiries. With women like that it’s understandable, is it not? The Barrault subject needed the part-time work and he gave her just enough of it to have the use of her and often.’
Oh and did he? asked Kohler silently. Quevillon avoided glancing at the colonel and for a moment no one could find a thing to say but was this twit of an agent privé confident they couldn’t be touched? Delaroche, having tired of his cigar, had quickly stubbed it out, then polished off the last of the Romanée-Conti, one of the finest of Burgundies, if not the finest and once given to Louis XIV spoonful by patient spoonful, the Sun King’s doctors thinking it might cure the great one’s painful fistula, an outright case of gastric ulcers, no doubt.
Quevillon lit another cigarette, his fifth, or was it the sixth? ‘I have the proof,’ he said, tasting it too. ‘Sworn statements from the cinema’s staff as well as from its manager.’
‘But … but, monsieur, these others who were tailing her?’ asked Louis, gesturing companionably with that pipe hand of his. ‘Could we not have …’
‘Those others, Inspectors, also didn’t maintain their surveillance,’ said Garnier flatly.
‘But were they the same two as with the Guillaumet investigation?’ insisted Louis as if he believed every word of what had been said.
‘That’s correct but we didn’t see them,’ said Garnier. ‘It was only after having been given a description of them, that Villeneuve of the Impérial became certain they were the same. We didn’t expect anyone else to have been tailing the subject, Colonel. Ah! perhaps a slip-up on my part, the need always to be in more than two places at once. One of the usherettes must have let them know we’d been in and asking questions.’
‘Okay, okay,’ breathed Hermann, apparently jotting it all down. ‘Louis and me, we’ll have to check it out. Now give us what you can on …’
Deliberately he thumbed through his notebook, going well back into other investigations before thumbing forward just to let them know the partnership didn’t fool around. ‘Give us what you can on a Father Marescot.’
Had the bell of that church just sounded? wondered St-Cyr, for each of them had glanced at the others.
‘The priest of the Église de Notre-Dame de Lorette, Colonel,’ offered Garnier, having somehow silenced his subordinate. ‘The good father couldn’t tell me what the Barrault subject had revealed in the confessional she repeatedly subjects herself to out of guilt, but he did go so far as to say she had damned herself before God, as had all of the others who attend those special Masses of his and that … yes, yes, he had personally written to the Scapini Commission some time ago demanding that they inform the husband.’
‘A prisoner of war,’ said Delaroche with a sigh, sadly shaking his head. ‘Far too many of their wives are simply taking advantage of their absences. Is it any wonder there has been both outcry and re
taliation, especially since our boys can’t defend their property or even have the use of it?’
‘They’re all making sluts of themselves,’ said Quevillon. ‘Chatte is so common these days, one can get it for a half a cigarette the hour and more if one insists.’
The salaud! ‘But had anyone else gone to that priest with a similar inquiry?’ asked Louis, patently ignoring the use of ‘property’ and all the rest.
‘I had no need to ask,’ went on Garnier. ‘Father Marescot offered the information as was his duty as a concerned citizen. Tell them, Hubert.’
‘With pleasure. We weren’t alone, Inspectors. “A woman comes,” he said. “She is older than that one by a good twenty years and doesn’t have to drag around an eight-year-old daughter.” ’
‘Madame Morel?’ asked the termite, as startled by the news as was his partner.
‘Gaston is known for his affairs,’ said Delaroche amicably. ‘Before this Defeat of ours he employed the Barrault subject’s husband as a lorry driver, clearly putting the woman in debt to him. What better a conquest than the stepsister of one’s wife, especially when poverty and loneliness cause such women to do things they might not otherwise agree to.’
Like getting down on their knees for hire, was that it, eh? wondered Kohler. Sûreté that he was, Louis glanced at that wristwatch of his whose crystal had been cracked in that other war but would never be replaced, for it was at once a shining example of French frugality and constant reminder of what he had survived when so many others hadn’t.
‘Ah, bon, Colonel, for now the wrap-up, I think. Attacks are being committed all over the city. The wives and fiancées of prisoners of war, though not the only victims, are being singled out, wedding rings demanded, handbags stolen, et cetera, et cetera. Gestapo Boemelburg, at our briefing this afternoon, told us that he feels certain there is a gang at work, that the attacks are being planned and carried out with military precision backed by exceptional sources of information and that the violence is being deliberately escalated because the defeat at Stalingrad has made such criminals bolder, but with the result that Berlin has been constantly on the line demanding an immediate end to the crimes and a return to safety on the streets.’
Ach du lieber Gott, how had Louis got it all out in one breath? wondered Kohler. A cigar had best be taken, one for him too, the colonel’s cigar cutter borrowed indefinitely.
These two, thought Delaroche, each was so very different yet they were the same. ‘And that is why the Höherer SS Oberg has engaged the Agence Vidocq in the matter, mes amis, and wishes you to join us when we meet with him at 1000 hours Monday, the avenue Foch.’
‘Head Office, Louis,’ breathed Hermann. ‘I told you but you never listen, do you? That’s why I went there right away.’
‘But what did you find and when did you visit Herr Oberg’s office? Come, come, Inspector,’ demanded Delaroche. ‘Is it not time you let us in on what must have happened to Élène Artur? If we are to work together, and I am certain that is what the Standartenführer Langbehn will insist on, then it is best we know everything.’
‘The Standartenführer?’ blurted Louis.
St-Cyr had just been kicked in les joyeuses but surprise had best be registered. ‘Ah, mon Dieu, is it that you have already met?’
‘Briefly. Colonel, who, exactly, is to be at that meeting?’
Such caution was admirable, but why had Jeannot not returned? Had the Dunand girl given trouble? ‘Myself, my partner, Jeannot Raymond, Flavien, of course, and Hubert, yourselves also and I believe a translator, a Blitzmädel, Sonja Remer, who was, apparently, a victim also of this tidal wave of street violence and crime.’
Oh-oh, here it comes, thought Kohler, sighing inwardly.
‘Herr Oberg is determined to punish the boys who stole the girl’s handbag,’ went on Delaroche. ‘Flavien, were either of you able to pin down their identities? I know the bag has been returned by a devious route but it was, I believe, still missing some items.’
The termites had just choked in the darkness of their little tunnel, the one behind on the shit of the one in front. ‘There’s a photo of them in your out-tray, Hubert,’ said Garnier.
‘Get it,’ said Delaroche, ‘and while you’re at it, if Jeannot is in his office, please ask him to join us.’
The building was silent. The lift had made no sound even after M. Jeannot Raymond had left her, but that had been some time ago, Suzette knew, and talking to Teddy simply wasn’t going to help. Indeed, if others knew she did such a thing, they’d think her crazy and she should stop, would have to now anyways, but she wasn’t alone in this. She couldn’t be. Didn’t the Occupation encourage people to retreat into illusion and cultivate their fantasies and daydreams? Wasn’t that just about the only way to counter the terrible loneliness and uncertainty?
‘Look, I’m sorry I didn’t make us a sauce for the noodles. I was still uncertain, still agitated.’
There, she had confessed that much. He paid not the slightest attention, must really be upset with her.
‘The red-lacquered Chinese gate, Teddy. You can’t miss it if you’re in that far corner of the Bois de Vincennes. The gate is at the entrance to the tropical garden and the Institut National d’Agronomie Coloniale and can be seen from a distance, but it … it’s close to something else.’
Even such a hint failed to move him. ‘Very well,’ she said spitefully. ‘I’m going to meet Monsieur Raymond there tomorrow morning at nine.’
Picked at, the noodles were cold and soggy, the slices of carrot like wood. ‘The gate is near the Annamite Temple that is a memorial to the Indochinois who died for France in that other war. The mother of that girl who was murdered downstairs goes there to pray and to introduce her grandson to his ancestors. Monsieur Raymond said that Concierge Louveau told him the dead girl always went there to visit with her mother and little boy early on Sundays just as I go to Charenton on the last Sunday of every month.’
Still there was nothing but an ever-deepening frown from Teddy. ‘Jeannot feels that someone should tell the mother what has happened, that she will have to claim the body from the city’s morgue and that … that funeral arrangements will have to be made. Oh for sure, the daughter was prostituting herself and was the wife of a prisoner of war, but to kill her for betraying her husband was not right, he said. “What is needed is compassion.” There’s a restaurant nearby, on the Île de la Porte Jaune in Lac des Minimes. He has said he will take me to lunch there afterwards.’
Even this news didn’t move him. He was insisting that he be told everything.
‘Jeannot says there’s a bronze funeral urn in the temple’s courtyard and that perhaps the mother could arrange to have the daughter’s ashes placed there among those of her ancestors. Then her little boy could always visit. The temple, a pagoda,****** was donated to the Colonial Exhibition of 1906 in Marseille and is really called a dinh, he says. A large communal house that was used for worship and where the elders of the village would go to discuss important matters. Frankly, I can’t understand how anyone could let such an important building be taken away but they did, and in 1917 it was moved to the Bois de Vincennes to become the memorial. Is it not good and kind of him to want to see the mother, Teddy, and to offer to help her financially with the funeral? A girl he didn’t even know but whose mother and child shouldn’t be made to suffer more than they already will? He … he thought that if I were with him it might make things easier for the little boy and that … that Colonel Delaroche would insist on our taking something from here. He was certain you could help that little boy.’
Let me have the rest of it then, said Teddy.
‘Look, I’m sorry. Really I am but you’ll see everything I do. There’s a passage, Teddy. Jeannot says it’s well worth a visit. All along its walls are beautiful bas-reliefs that were copied from those at Angkor Wat in Indochina. He’s been there. He really has. He’s seen the ruins of that great temple. He says that among our scholars there were some who at first felt that
the temple at Angkor Wat was Buddhist but that there is a magnificent shrine to Vishnu, the Hindu Preserver, another to Brahma, their god of Creation, and yet another to Siva, their destroyer. I … I hadn’t realized he would even know or care about such things. Honestly I hadn’t, but … but people don’t visit those memorials much now, so we and the mother and little boy should have the place much to ourselves.’
Teddy didn’t say anything for the longest time. His feelings had, of course, been hurt and she was going to have to do something about that.
You fool, he said at last. Wasn’t this Jeannot of yours standing inside the door here when you ran back upstairs? Didn’t he stop you from crying out in panic?
‘He … he did grab me from behind, but …’
He clamped a hand over your mouth and held you pinned against the door. You thought you were going to die. You did! You nearly fainted.
Teddy never missed a thing, not even that Jeannot had come back to tell her what had happened to that girl. ‘When he released me, I saw that he had been badly bitten on the left wrist and thought that I’d done it in panic, but … but I’d only pulled the bandage off.’
It was inflamed and you stood helplessly before him in tears.
‘He knew where I’d been, knew I’d followed him.’
Yet didn’t accuse you of it?
‘He was too polite.’
Admit it, you couldn’t face him.
‘All right, all right, I won’t go. I won’t! On Monday, when I get to the office, I’ll tell him I wasn’t feeling well.’
She would clear things away now, thought Suzette. She would turn her back on Teddy, wouldn’t throw anything out. They would just have to eat it tomorrow for supper. ‘He’s not like the others at the agency, Teddy. He’s decent, honest and kind, and keeps to himself. That’s why he insisted we sit in the salle de séjour among all those lovely things, and that I drink the last of his eau-de-vie. He was genuinely worried about his having terrified me and held my hands. I had no need to fear him and said I would help him. I promised, Teddy. He’ll be expecting us—he really will. I’m not to tell Concierge Louveau where we’re going even if that one asks, which he will. It’s … it’s best we don’t.
Tapestry Page 26