‘I am.’
‘Inspector, please. I beg you …’
Herr Kohler grabbed the corpse’s toe tag and she heard him reading it out. ‘Location: Pigalle, eh? Date: the thirteenth; Time: 1020 hours? This isn’t—I repeat, isn’t—the body of Adrienne Guillaumet, you idiot, so tell us where the hell she is and don’t keep us in suspense any longer?’
‘Not her? But …’ managed Thibodeau. Something would have to be said, some rational explanation given. ‘Since her name was known, Inspector, the remains must have been consigned to the funeral home of the next-of-kin’s choice or …’
‘Cremated—is that what you’re saying?’
‘There is no necessity to raise the voice!’
Ach, mein Gott, the French sometimes! ‘There is every right, mein Lieber, but just tell me. I thought the Hôtel-Dieu put them into no-name coffins.’
‘Ah, oui, oui, certainement, especially those without known names, and certainly bureaucratic mistakes are unfortunately made from time to time, and certainly the earth will, perhaps, be frozen or soaking wet and inopportune for such excavations. As a consequence, and with due process, I assure you, some are despatched to a crematorium.’
Ach, mein Gott, Louis should have heard him! ‘Which one?’
To suggest something close would not be wise. ‘La Villette’s. I have it on good authority that there is one there, I think. The greater the distance from the city centre, the greater the economies, since the state and taxpayer must …’
‘La Villette.’
‘Oui.’
And out by the abattoir and just to the northeast of the Parc des Buttes Chaumont, home territory to the boys on that street of Louis’s. ‘Would the family have been notified?’
‘Of course.’
Oona would really need him, if only for a few minutes. ‘Come on, you, and don’t argue.’
‘I won’t,’ managed Germaine, her lower lip still quivering. ‘I … I’ve seen enough not to.’
‘Good. Then you can be the one to tell her kids who was responsible.’
The others had gone on ahead in this flat, this place Denise knew she had heard so much about over the years but never seen until now, but why had the chief inspector not wanted to follow? Surely he must realize she would be needed? Maman would continue to say things that must never be said. Maman would tell Papa to look closely at that dead lover of his and understand what he had caused her to have done, that she could no longer have lived with his philandering and squandering her family’s fortune, that he had to stop if for no other reason than his own safety and position but that he must also think about those he ought to love and protect. Things could not continue as they had. These days one had to be so very careful.
‘No sound comes from that innermost bedroom, does it?’ said this Sûreté. Having deliberately packed that pipe of his, he now lit it but watched her closely through the smoke before saying, ‘Sit down, Mademoiselle Rouget.’
Must he stand in front of the mantelpiece so as to further draw attention to the framed poster of that … that dancer Papa had been so infatuated with, he would have had children by her had it not been for Maman’s having had the slut arrested and convicted of theft? Une nuit à Chang-Rai, 7 Mai 1926 at the Magic City. Chantelle Auclair, ‘Didi’ to her friends. ‘Une sacré bonne baise,’ Papa had yelled at mother once too often: a damned good fuck! A handbag containing jewellery and banknotes to the tune of 250,000 old francs had been found in this ‘Didi’s’ dressing room, found, ah, oui, oui, by Colonel Delaroche and then by the police he had summoned. Prison hadn’t been good for the career, and the long absence of even those three years had put an end to the affair, especially as brief encounters had been readily found for Papa by that same colonel.
But the inspector would know none of this. At last he waved out the match and, having wetted it with spittle, tucked it away in a jacket pocket—a creature of habit? she had to wonder.
To ask if Élène Artur had suffered more than he had already stated would only invite his, Why not go and see for yourself? To ask if there was blood everywhere in that room would elicit but, Can you not smell the carbolic?
She could give him only what he wanted. Nothing else would suffice.
‘A few small questions, mademoiselle. Nothing difficult, I assure you.’
How could he be so calm?
‘The forensic staff and our coroner will be able to pin things down,’ he said, indicating the bedroom. ‘That stamp collection, Mademoiselle Denise Rouget.’
‘Actually it is Catherine Denise Rouget, Inspector.’
‘After your mother’s lifelong friend.’
‘That is correct.’
The wavy, permed, thick auburn hair, carefully made-up, chiselled face and big brown eyes that could, at times, be soft perhaps, were there but so was the strain. ‘Ah, bon, mademoiselle. One tries, doesn’t one? While at the Tour d’Argent your mother stated that she had purchased the stamps only after much deliberation and from a very reputable source. Her statement indicates that she viewed the collection on more than one occasion.’
Must he be so pedantically precise?
‘Well?’ he asked.
‘That, too, is correct.’
Companionably the pipe-hand lifted. ‘You helped her to choose it?’
Ah, merde! ‘Oui.’
‘From whom, please?’
‘I … I’d rather not say.’
‘Then let me remind you, mademoiselle. To not answer is to …’
‘The Baron Kurt von Behr. He and Colonel Delaroche are friends—good friends. More than acquaintances, you understand.’
And wasn’t that a cosy way of putting it? From Mecklenburg and speaking fluent French, this son of an aristocratic family was totally unscrupulous and as a consequence, had recouped the family’s fortune tenfold. ‘The Baron …’
‘Oui. Colonel Delaroche … Abélard put us in touch with him.’
But she and her mother and Germaine de Brisac and others would have met von Behr at any number of the socialite parties that had been thrown for his benefit and that of his British wife, or thrown by them, since extravagance was their style and everyone who was anyone always said that people should see what Von Behr was up to. ‘You first viewed the collection where?’
‘At an office on the avenue d’Iéna.’
And but a short stroll from the SS and the avenue Foch. ‘Number fifty-four?’
Did he have to hear it from her? ‘Yes!’
Head Office of the French branch of the Reich’s Ministry for the Occupied Territories, but one must be pleasant. ‘And then?’
‘Again, but … but at a large warehouse on the …’
‘A former store whose owners once specialized in making furniture?’
And whose large, once neon-lit letters atop the building hadn’t been removed but simply overhung by a huge swastika. Once again the chief inspector was making her say things. ‘Oui. In … in the rue du Faubourg Saint-Martin.’
‘The Lévitan?’
‘If you know, Inspector, why force me to admit it?’
‘Because, Mademoiselle Rouget, you and your mother must have known you were buying stolen goods.’
‘It wasn’t stolen! It had been legally expropriated!’
The day of reckoning would come—one had to believe this, otherwise what hope was there? ‘Look on it any way you like. This reputable source of your mother’s is none other than the director of that office you went to. Until last month, though, the Baron Kurt von Behr was also deputy director of the Einsatzstab Reichlieter Rosenberg to which he will have retained close ties since he is a much-valued associate of the Reichsmarschall Göring, for whom he often finds important works of art.’
Paintings, Old Masters, porcelains, coins and tapestries, thought Denise, all of which had been ‘stolen’ and to whom, everyone who was anyone knew, Von Behr and his wife had gone to Berlin last year on 12 January, the forty-ninth birthday of Göring, to present to him the original of
the Treaty of Versailles with all its signatures.
‘A letter to Napoléon III from Richard Wagner was also included, mademoiselle,’ said St-Cyr, having read her thoughts. ‘He moves in nothing but the highest of circles, this reputable source of your mother’s. Oh please don’t trouble yourself about the mess in that bedroom and what is delaying your parents. The Standartenführer is patiently explaining to them that they must understand that the Höherer SS und Polizeiführer Oberg has only their best interests at heart and that the Sicherheitsdienst are watching over them at all times, even to having tidied things up so as to deny my partner and myself the victim’s corpse as proof and to allow that father of yours to continue to pronounce nothing but the stiffest of sentences.’
‘The night-action courts …’
‘And those trials of juvenile delinquents, mademoiselle, that come before him, the littlest of black marketeers also, and unlicenced prostitutes, especially those unfortunate enough to be married to absent prisoners of war. The price of the stamps was negotiated, wasn’t it?’
‘Colonel Delaroche …’
‘How much did your mother give him to deliver to the Baron von Behr?’
‘Three hundred and fifty thousand francs.’
‘Old ones?’
‘New ones. Mother … Mother had me count them for her since …’
‘You had contributed your share.’
Must he continue to blame herself?
It could only be said with sadness but one had best sigh heavily and then let her have it. ‘A new folio was ordered but the stamps went missing and the colonel discovered who must have taken them.’
‘Please, I … I don’t understand?’
‘Of course you don’t, but for now that is all I want from you.’
Through the rain and darkness, the headlamps shone fully on the Fountain of Mars. Kohler rubbed away the fog that kept collecting on the inside of the front windscreen. Germaine de Brisac was cold and soaked through yet hadn’t complained, had kept silent since the Hôtel-Dieu except for having guided them through a city that had shut down so hard, they’d met but one patrol and had had no further difficulty. Simply empty streets at 0221 hours Sunday and not a soul.
‘Hygeia,’ he said of the fountain as if relieved to have found it at last.
‘Inspector, do I really have to apologize to those children of Madame Guillaumet’s? I’ve two of my own and know how they must be feeling.’
‘Nothing worthwhile is ever easy, is it? My partner brought me here in the autumn of 1940. He was “educating” me, showing me a city he said I had not only to get to know, but also love, and even after everything the two of us have had to go through, I still did until now.’
‘It is beautiful. It doesn’t always rain.’
‘Old soldiers counted most for us then and still do, since we’d both had enough of war and of this one also.’
Old soldiers … ‘Former compagnons d’armes?’
‘Former enemies, Mademoiselle de Brisac. Stay here, then, but I’ll have to switch off the headlamps and the engine, and take the key.’
He didn’t trust her. He got out of the car and left her for what seemed with each passing minute to take longer and longer. She would say nothing further to him, because she had already said far too much. What should have been a simple assault, a lesson, a rape, yes! had turned into the murder of Adrienne Guillaumet, and Denise and herself were as guilty as any since they’d both known Vivienne and Maman had gone through the case files to find names for Abélard to deal with and then … yes, then, Denise and she had hired the Agence Vidocq themselves for Madame Morel.
‘I’m a murderess,’ she softly said to herself. ‘I’ve allowed my hatred of a dead husband and my yearning for a father I hardly knew but blamed for betraying Mother come to this, and my children will learn of it if I don’t do something.’
What could she do to stop Kohler and St-Cyr? What would Denise advise? Denise, without whom life would have no meaning.
Germaine got out of the car and let the rain hit her. Quickly she crossed over and took the rue de l’Exposition, would go down it until she reached the rue de Grenelle, which would lead her out to the boulevard de la Tour-Maubourg and the esplanade des Invalides. Herr Kohler would never find her if he chose to drive round and round searching for her. She wouldn’t be followed by anyone, not at this time of night.
Dieu merci, her shoes didn’t make that horrible clip-clopping of the wooden-soled hinged ones most had to wear these days since there were no others available to them. Hers were of leather but they did squeak and would give her away—was someone following her?
Step by step she became more certain of being followed but when she turned suddenly and started back defiantly, there was no one.
‘I KNOW YOU’RE THERE!’ she heard herself shrill. ‘LISTEN, YOU. I’M A WAR WIDOW. MY HUSBAND WAS KILLED DURING THE INVASION.’
There was no answer. Was there more than one of them? Denise … Denise, my love … ‘Please,’ she heard herself saying. ‘I have two children.’
She waited.
‘Listen, you, I’m one of Abélard’s people. You can have my jewellery and handbag, just don’t hurt me or cut off my hair. I won’t resist.’
Again he said nothing. Again she wasn’t even sure he was there.
Retracing her steps, Germaine at last found the car still parked beside the fountain. Forced by nature to urinate, she did so in the gutter like a common prostitute, had never had to do such a thing before, was both ashamed and embarrassed.
The smoke from a Gauloise bleue filled the car. Herr Kohler was sitting behind the wheel.
‘Get in and behave yourself.’
‘Please, I … I didn’t think. I should have. It’s … it’s horrible out there on those streets.’
‘Just tell me everything you can about Jeannot Raymond and the others. Leave anything out and you really will be finding your own way back.’
He’d do it too. She knew this.
‘They came and they took Oona, mademoiselle. Maybe it’s that they couldn’t find Giselle le Roy and needed Oona as bait, maybe it’s that they’ve the two of them, but they took the woman those kids of Madame Guillaumet’s had come to depend on as I knew Henri and Louisette would because they needed her desperately.’
They didn’t use the lift in this house on the rue La Boétie where Denise’s father kept a flat, had been told by the maître d’ at the Tour d’Argent that this is where they had best go. Germaine winced when she saw the broken seals around the door. She knew it was a reaction she couldn’t have avoided. Herr Kohler noticed it, as he did everything. He didn’t remove the handcuff that bound her to him as a common criminal.
‘You’re hurting my wrist, damn you.’
‘Be quiet. Speak only when spoken to.’
He checked his gun, said, ‘Don’t make me use it.’ Was very upset and worried about this Oona Van der Lynn but wouldn’t let such concerns interfere in the slightest with what he had to do.
He opened the door and made her walk in front of him, nudging her when she paused to pry off her shoes. ‘My coat,’ she said. It now dangled from that wrist. Her dress was ruined, her hair, her everything. How could he do this to her? Did he not know who she was?
Abruptly he stopped her in the entrance to the salle de séjour and she knew he would not let her go any further until he wanted her to. He must be looking around the room at everyone, must be taking it all in.
Broken glass littered the carpet at Louis’s feet amid the shattered wreckage of the mantel’s theatre poster. Denise Rouget had looked up suddenly, the daughter sitting tensely on the edge of a distant settee with that mother of hers whose hands were bandaged but who showed every sign of being about to leap up and smash something else—the vitrine? wondered Kohler.
Judge Rouget couldn’t find the will to even notice green eyes or this Kripo or that wife of his, nor was he enjoying the cigar whose smoke must cloud the thoughts when clear thinking was demanded. H
e’d been told exactly where things stood and hadn’t liked what he’d heard. Undying loyalty to the Führer and the Reich even if things were beginning to look doubtful and the Allies might just possibly invade en masse as so many were now hoping.
The Standartenführer Langbehn simply remained supremely confident with knees crossed and cigarette in hand. Sonja Remer, having gone into the kitchen to get herself one of those chairs, sat by that exit with handbag in lap, intently watching the proceedings without expression beyond a blankness that unsettled because one had still to ask, as always, was there nothing that could be done to change her mind?
‘Hermann …’
‘Louis, this one told me Madame Rouget arranged and paid for the killing of Élène Artur.’
‘I did no such thing,’ spat Vivienne, sucking in a breath and darting a look at everyone but her daughter.
‘Kohler …’
‘Standartenführer, don’t get in the way of a police officer exercising his duties.’
‘A moment, mon vieux …’
‘Not now, Louis. Just let me handle this.’
‘There is no body, Hermann.’
‘Cleaned it up, did they?’
‘Kohler …’
‘Be quiet, you. An SS-Gestapo Mausefalle, eh, and two honest detectives dead because of the marksmanship of this one? Try it and see what happens, Standartenführer. Madame Rouget? Madame Vivienne Rouget of the rue Henri Rochefort?’
Hermann gave the house number and said that his partner would take down her procès-verbal, her statement.
‘I arranged nothing. You have no proof, not now.’
‘Ach, but I have.’
‘Let’s see it, then,’ she said in French.
‘Aber natürlich. Bitte, though … Merci, un moment.’
Hermann was flying on Benzedrine—taunting her with that mix of languages. Nudging Germaine de Brisac ahead of him, he went over to the Blitz and took the handbag from her at gunpoint, tossing it on to the carpet some distance from her. ‘That’s to even things up,’ he said and nudged her with the Walther P38. ‘Just try to get it, mein Schatz, and you’ll never try another thing.’
Tucking his pistol away, he dug deeply into a pocket, had to finally release the Mademoiselle de Brisac but told her, as only he could, not to sit down. Fist clenched and then opened, he let Vivienne Roget look at what had, no doubt, been promised her by the killers but hadn’t been found until later.
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