‘Especially if hidden valuables are involved, and women are to behave themselves, aren’t they?’ said Kohler. ‘They’re to stay at home where they belong, with the children no matter how tough things get.’
‘Most of us veterans wouldn’t be a party to targeting anyone, but many would, I think, find it difficult to forgive the wife who strays even after what has become such a prolonged absence.’
Every request by Pétain and his government in Vichy to let those million-and-a-half POWs return to France had fallen on stone-deaf ears. ‘A popular cause, then?’
‘One that would at least engender the tacit approval from many if nothing else. Noëlle Jourdan could call on shopkeepers, some of whom were veterans and probably fellow UNCs.’
‘Her father wrote to others and voilà not only are his papers missing but his most recent letters.’
‘Unless earlier posted by the daughter.’
‘And Adrienne Guillaumet is the wife of an officer, Louis.’
‘Whereas Madame Barrault is that of a common soldier, the Agence Vidocq making sure that we would be assigned to both.’
‘But why the Tokarev? Why not a Luger, a Lebel or any other?’
‘Why, indeed, unless such a weapon, having easily been obtained on the black market, and later left at the scene of yet another assault and murder, would definitely point the finger of blame at the Communists.’
The Francs-Tireurs et Partisans . ‘Along with the bodies of two honest detectives.’
There were a number of upright wine barrels in the loft, and among them one whose lid, when removed, yielded wood shavings and sawdust that were to protect the rest of the contents and give comfort to gerbils. ‘A terra-cotta nymph, dated 1784, Hermann, and signed by Joseph-Charles Marin. The boy in those photos with Noëlle Jourdan had good taste.’
‘A silver breadbasket, Louis. Russian, I think.’
‘Gilded and enamelled to give the appearance of its having been woven.’
‘A Fabergé egg.’
And another. ‘Jewellery, Hermann. Earrings, bracelets … No diamonds that I can see, only trinkets perhaps, but …’
‘Good goods all the same.’
And stolen.
The concierge of Number 2 place des Vosges was bundled up in pink kneesocks, pompom slippers and housecoat, and not about to be forthcoming.
‘WHY DO YOU ASK?’ she shrilled when shown one of the most recent snapshots of Noëlle Jourdan and friend.
The cat was clutched. Turning on the charm with this one wasn’t going to work, thought Kohler, but he’d try it anyway. ‘Look, it’s only a general inquiry.’
‘AT THIS HOUR?’
Incredulous at such a thought, she tossed the mangled heap of auburn curls with their bedtime twists of paper and threw still heavily made-up eyes to the ceiling. The damp fag end that clung to her lower lip miraculously remained in place. ‘Here, have one of these.’
A light was also offered but such politeness from the police should not be viewed with anything but suspicion, though the generosity was that of one of les Allemands, it was true, and he did speak French. ‘What is it you really want, Inspector? Has my little Max done something he shouldn’t?’
Max. ‘No, not at all.’
Had he done things in the past—was this what the inspector was now wondering? ‘He’s away in any case. In Lyon, on another pickup.’
Lyon. ‘It’s the girl we want to question, madame … ?’
‘Auger, Nina. And the madame is really quite immaterial since I was fool enough to have married him and mine went to his maker when that one was five years old.’
As did Noëlle Jourdan’s mother. The things one learned. ‘Life is never easy, is it?’
‘WHAT’S SHE DONE?’
‘Let some nosy photographer take some pictures.’
The Hôtel-Dieu. ‘Ah! I thought so. You didn’t find her with that father of hers?’
‘He said she’d gone out.’
‘With the curfew coming at us like an express train?’
Louis should have heard her but was arranging for the district’s iron man to photograph the victims and the local flics to secure the sites.
‘She’s a tease, you know,’ said Nina, flicking ash away from the cat that was now draped across the claw-frayed back of an armchair that should have been thrown out years ago. ‘Always the promise,’ she went on, ‘never the little capital. That father of hers would have killed her too, I think, if she’d let my boy have her.’
Gott im Himmel, she was a treasure, just like Bénédicte Mailloux, but a conspiratorial tone had best be used. ‘What, exactly, happened to her mother?’
‘Ah! who knows? Who can blame her for straying from such a man? The screams in the night, the agony of the shelling relived at the slightest bump and hour by hour. Mine was made of better stuff perhaps. Who’s to say? One day she had a fall and so did my Henri. Two places. The first in that house at Number 25, the second here in the stable out back and a little later. An accident, both of them.’
‘And the boy?’
‘Finally has a good job that pays well and has a future. The colonel saw to it. My husband’s colonel. Things are better now that les Allemands are here, of course, yourself included.’
Two further Gauloises bleues were laid on the slim oak counter of the loge she had ‘inherited’ from Henri, who’d been fucking Madame Mariette Jourdan up in that stable’s loft. Everyone had known of it. Everyone. Noëlle least of all.
‘Your son, madame. When do you think he’ll be back?’
‘Not for a few days. He’s often away on a job.’
‘A pickup, you said?’
‘Did I?’
‘Zut alors, I’m only trying to fill things in. My partner will ask. He’s a stickler for details.’
A partner … ‘Furniture and other household items. It’s a furniture company, isn’t it?’
‘Which one?’
‘The Lévitan. Very classy, you understand, very expensive in the old days, but a little something for everyone. Business must still be good.’
‘Furniture?’
‘That is just what I said, is it not?’
The Lévitan store was in the Faubourg Saint-Martin, in the Tenth, huge and with several warehouses and shops like carpentry ones, ah yes! ‘It was good of your son to come by and let you know he’d be away. Parents always worry, don’t they? Oh for sure, a mother most of all, but fathers too. I know I did.’
Did … ‘You have children?’
‘Had. Two boys, Jurgen and Hans, but … but they were both killed at Stalingrad.’
Hurriedly Nina crossed herself and kissed her fingertips but did this one with the terrible slash and the faded, warm blue eyes want more from her? ‘The boy didn’t come by. Always he is told at work if he is to be away, and I never hear of it until he’s back and worry just as you’ve said, but …’
He waited, this one. Gently he held D’Artagnan under the chin to look at him and then scratched him behind the ears as a cat lover does. ‘But Colonel Delaroche was passing by and thought to come in to tell me.’
‘Today?’
Why should it matter? ‘On Thursday afternoon. This last Thursday.’
Noëlle would have been at work. ‘That was good of him. Colonels are usually a bitch to put up with where I come from. Mine certainly were.’
He’d a nice smile, this inspector. Had he still a wife back home in that country of his? Was he lonely for her like so many of them were?
‘Merci, madame. You’ve been most helpful. I’d leave you some of my matches but am nearly out.’
‘And don’t have a lighter?’
‘You wouldn’t know where I could get one, would you?’
‘For a price, yes.’
‘And full of good fluid, not that black-market crap that singes the eyebrows and torches the clouds?’
‘Oui.’
‘How much?’
There would be no sense in this one’s haggling and he obvi
ously knew the system well enough not to bother, but was offering to purchase, not threatening to steal. And weren’t friends needed, especially at such times as these?
Max wouldn’t mind, not really. Max would find her another. ‘Five hundred, I think.’
It was from Cartier’s, was easily worth thirty or forty times that and she knew it too, or knew something of it. ‘Here, take a thousand just to be on the safe side.’
Lost in thought, Louis fingered the lighter as they shared a cigarette in the Citroën, the darkness of place des Vosges all around them. The flics were taking their time in getting here and most probably were checking in with their headquarters at the Préfecture de Paris who would then check in with the rue des Saussaies, who would then do so with the avenue Foch, who would then notify the Höherer SS Oberg and maybe wake him up.
‘Did you tell her about her son, Hermann?’
‘I couldn’t. She deserves better, has had a hard life.’
‘Yes, yes, but …’
‘Verdammt, we needed information not tears. And as for her having earlier heard that shot of yours, forget it. That one would only have shrugged if asked, and sucked on her fag. You know as well as I that these days everyone clams up and no one admits to having heard a thing.’
‘Or seen anything.’
‘Why kill him if he was working for them?’
‘Them being the Einsatzstab Reichleiter Rosenberg, Hermann.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘The Aktion-M squads? One of those furniture squads that go around the city and the country raiding the houses of its citizens?’
‘And clearing them out, even of their Jewish toothbrushes and long-handled shovels, this last if not borrowed from that stable? All right, I admit he must have broken the rules and could no longer be trusted, but why kill him in such a fashion and then let the press know of it?’
Hermann was far from being naïve and knew the answer well enough but was blaming himself for the sins of his confrères and desperately needed support. ‘To set an example for others, especially as the Agence Vidocq must use part-timers, but still, you’re right. To have killed him in such a rage begs answer just as it did with the passage de l’Hirondelle victim.’
‘Max Auger took the stamps, Louis, and must have shown them to Noëlle Jourdan.’
‘Who then took them to Félix Picard of Au Philatéliste Savant.’
‘Having first sized up the shop.’
‘Which can only mean that the girl was working with Max as his partner and fence, Hermann. If not the shop, then Ma Tante, but gradually so as not to arouse suspicion.’
‘Except that someone went looking for the collection and noticed that the stamps were no longer in the Lévitan’s former furniture store.’
‘Where the Aktion-M squads deposit the furnishings of countless homes for further sorting, packing, repairs, if necessary, and shipment.’
‘To the Reich, to party officials who’ve been bombed out or to others of them who are setting up house in the eastern territories.’
The first such shipment had been made in April of 1941, the second in October of that year, but in July of 1940, the Maréchal Pétain and his government in Vichy had passed a law allowing the sale of such confiscated property after six months had passed. All proceeds were then to have gone to the Secours National, which, in spite of continued protests from Pétain and others, hadn’t yet received a sou, nor would it. But Hermann would never taunt his partner with such complicity and collaboration on the part of this country’s government. Hermann was just too conscious of his partner’s feelings, especially at times like this.
‘We have to face it, Louis. The Agence Vidocq aren’t just working for themselves and Oberg, but also for the ERR.’
‘As are others, each supplying the ERR with targets.’
‘As well as giving the SS the names and locations of résistants.’
‘Business must be really good.’
‘And we’ve stepped right into it.’
A late supper was in progress, the Tour d’Argent that epitome of culinary majesty. Ach, mein Gott, how the other half lives, thought Kohler, taking it all in from behind the grill of the patron’s cash desk and head waiter’s stand. Uniforms everywhere, beautiful Parisiennes too. BOFs, of course, in suits and ties, and Bonzen sporting their Nazi Party pins and gongs. Paris-based administrative types too … Dr. Karl Epting of the Deutsche Institut no less, with wife Alice, a Swiss, the legendary hostess entertaining another crowd of writers, artists and musicians: the latest going-away exchange group that would tour the Reich in the name of Kultur, not forced labour or worse, and no ration tickets needed here. Absolutely none. Would Epting even have heard that one of his part-time teachers had been savagely raped and beaten?
‘Messieurs …’ began the maître d’.
‘St-Cyr, Sûreté. Just go about your business and leave us to ours.’
‘But …’
‘No buts. Kohler, Kripo, Paris-Central. Is this the register you keep the duck numbers in?’
It was. Pages dated from 1890 when the great Frédéric Delair had bought the place and started smothering six-week-old ducks brought all the way from the Vendée market at Challans. Every last one of them had been given a number. His canard à la presse ou canard au sang. Both the same. Pressed duck or duck with blood.
‘Hermann …’
A battery of silver presses was available, the front row tables next to the heavily draped windows best for viewing as sous-chefs screwed the briefly roasted creatures down. ‘Twenty minutes in a hot oven, Louis. Slice the filets thinly, then squeeze hell out of the carcass to catch the blood. Add a dash of lemon juice, if such is still available, a little salt and pepper, spices—only the current chef knows the alchemy of those—the mashed raw liver of yet another duck, though, and a touch of Madeira, a glass of good port—nothing but the best champagne aussi, the Heidsieck perhaps, or the Dom Pérignon—and cook for another …’
‘Yes, yes, Hermann. Twenty-five minutes and don’t you dare take any more of that Benzedrine.’
‘Serve piping hot from a silver plate, but don’t boil the juice. Look, Louis. The Grand Duke Vladimir of Russia ate number 6,043 in 1900; King Alfonso XIII of Spain bit into number 40,362 in 1914 just as we were pulling on our boots and saying our prayers and good-byes to loved ones. Hirohito, Emperor of Japan, had number 53,211 in June of 1921, so why is he now an ally of the Reich?’
‘HERMANN …’
‘Franklin Delano Roosevelt ate number 112,151,******* though, in 1929. I hope he enjoyed it. Göring … The Reichsmarschall and head of the Luftwaffe had numbers … Ach, I always wondered how many times that one had caused young ducks to be smothered. Ten … fifteen … Surely a trencherman and avid art buyer like Göring wouldn’t have passed this place up?’
‘HERMANN, WE SIMPLY HAVEN’T TIME!’
The restaurant would have been taken over had the owners refused to cooperate and closed the place back in June of 1940. ‘Oh, sorry, Chief. I was just curious and trying to keep myself sane and not worry about Giselle. Found them, have you?’
‘Table thirty. Monsieur …’ Louis turned to the maître d’. ‘If you or any of your staff so much as clear away, I will personally empty my revolver into the ceiling. This is a murder inquiry and my partner and myself have had it up to here.’
‘With bodies,’ confided Kohler, pulling down his lower left eyelid to buttonhole the starched shirt and tails. ‘Young girls who had all of their lives ahead of them, grands mutilés, dancers, boys. Bring us two chairs and hurry.’
‘But … but, please, Inspectors. Madame Rouget has a bad heart. Could it not wait a little? Surely they can have nothing whatsoever to do with …’
Louis let him have it. ‘They have everything to do with our inquiries.’
‘But it is Monsieur le Juge’s birthday celebration?’
‘Then that makes it even better.’
Not bothering to remove that fedora or overcoat, Lou
is started in among the tables, a dark-blue, gold-lettered Vuitton leather secretarial case tucked under each arm like a government accountant on a tax fraud. Records … case histories that Denise Rouget had brought home from work and that the judge’s sleepy-eyed little maid of all work, having been awakened, had not been able to prevent them from ‘borrowing’ from the entrance hall’s table when they had called at the house to find that he was here.
‘Judge Rouget? Judge Hercule Rouget?’
Others were taking notice. ‘What is the meaning of this?’
Stung, Louis tossed that head of his. ‘The meaning? There’s the body of a dancer in that flat you keep on the rue La Boétie, Judge. We understand that you knew her well.’
‘How dare you?’
‘Élène Artur …’ gasped Vivienne Rouget, unable to prevent the name from escaping.
Quickly the daughter laid a hand over that of her mother, Germaine de Brisac—it must be her, thought Kohler—taking the other. Two very well-dressed, beautiful girls in their mid- to late thirties. Friends for life, ardent social workers. The first, brown-eyed like the father, but not mud-brown, the second with fabulous green eyes and absolutely perfect reddish-blonde hair and what else? he asked and had to admit, she’s uncertain and damned afraid.
‘A few questions, Judge. Nothing difficult. We’ll save those for later,’ said Louis, clearing the plates and glasses aside to set down the cases. ‘But first, Mademoiselle Denise Rouget, I gather from questioning the family’s maid that it was your custom to bring such records home.’
‘My daughter’s caseload is heavy, Inspector. Would you not want her to go over things in the evening in preparation for each following day’s interviews?’
A cool one when the chips were down. ‘Ah! Bien sûr, madame. It’s perfectly understandable. It’s just that …’
‘Well?’
‘May I? It helps the thoughts and makes what I have to say easier.’
Pipe, tobacco pouch and matches came out. Ignored, the judge was far from happy but conscious of the Walther P38 that had been laid on the table and was pointing at him.
Tapestry Page 29