He waved his hat and left them to it. He thundered down the staircase, clicking his heels to some unheard dance tune.
When he reached the ground floor, he straight-armed the shop door and was soon absorbed in the traffic’s hush.
Trust Muriel to have named the perfume after the club but why the pearls instead of glass beads or sequins?
Perhaps Sylviane had run out of them.
Kohler was drowning his sorrows in a small café directly across the rue du Faubourg St-Honoré from Fournier’s. He was writing up the next day’s report for von Schaumburg.
‘I thought I’d file it early, Louis, so as to get ahead of him. Boemelburg was pleased with the idea. What did you come up with this afternoon?’
‘Not a blasted thing. Me, I’m beginning to think all my contacts have deserted me.’
‘Well, never mind. Oh, hey, I’ve got something for you. The last can in Paris, Louis. The very last – even with the original seals.’
Five hundred grams of pure gold, Virginia pipe tobacco.
‘The bastard owed me one,’ said Kohler. ‘I thought you’d be pleased?’
‘Me, I am. Certainly,’ exclaimed St-Cyr, raising two fingers for more beer.
But not breaking, not giving in, though it hurt.
‘I’ve got the address book,’ hazarded Kohler.
The Frenchman waited for the beer to arrive before saying, ‘Good. Salut!’
‘I’ve got the monogrammed silver cigarette case,’ offered Kohler. ‘It was in the purse.’
Good again. Another sip. ‘Louis, this thing’s too hot for us. You know that, don’t you?’
The poor guy actually grimaced before saying, ‘Yes … Yes, I’m beginning to be aware of this.’
The Bavarian reached for his refresher and decided to let him have the last word. A guy needed that now and then.
‘What did Records cough up?’ asked St-Cyr, not leaving his beer.
‘Nothing. A mug-shot’s being circulated to all district Gestapo offices and préfectures of police.’
‘Good.’
Kohler silently swore. Louis was being tight at a time like this! Reluctantly he slid the address book along the zinc between them and watched as St-Cyr carefully opened it.
The penmanship was very neat, very feminine. It was not an address book, but a record of assignations.
5 April/42 – the château Which among the hundreds? he wondered.
21 April/42 – the Louvre: Sculptures Gallery, 4.10 p.m. Which piece of sculpture, eh? So many had been taken to repositories in the south. Things were slowly filtering back, but still the galleries had that empty look.
28 April/42 – evening performance. Main foyer of the Opéra during the first intermission of Puccini’s La Bohème Champagne perhaps?
7 May/42 – Fontainebleau: the Palais. Afterwards the Auberge de la Renard d’Or, then a walk in the woods Nice, that was very nice.
18 May/42 – Place de l’Opéra just before noon – 11:53 exactly Did he detect a note of sharpness in the use of the word exactly?
19 May/42 – Hotel Ritz, Room 211 at 10.00 a.m. A German officer then. One of von Schaumburg’s staff? he wondered. The Army had requisitioned the Ritz.
14 June/42 – Fontainebleau Woods, the Crossing of the Thorn Bushes. About 3.00 p.m. From there to the car-park at the Gorges de Franchard.
St-Cyr had forgotten his beer. Kohler watched him intently before asking, ‘What is it, Louis?’
The Frenchman gave a shrug. ‘I was just visualizing the map of Fontainebleau Woods. That crossing is to the east of Barbizon some two, maybe three kilometres; that car-park is south from there perhaps four or five kilometres. I will have to check.’
‘But it’s lonely?’
He knew what Kohler was thinking. ‘Not particularly. But then …’ he tossed an indifferent hand … ‘the woods are not as well visited as before the Occupation, so yes, my friend, it could quite possibly have been lonely.’
‘Anything else?’ asked Kohler, only to see him continue with the list.
18 June/42 – the chateâu This assignation had lasted for two days. There then followed a series of places in quick succession, the first three of which had been in the Unoccupied Zone.
27 June/42 – Marseilles
28 June/42 – Lyon
29 June/42 – Nevers
30 June/42 – Orléans
1 July/42 – Tours
2 July/42 – Angers
And then: 7 July/42 – 4.17 p.m., main floor, Galeries Lafayette (one of Paris’s largest department stores.)
8 July – Barbizon, Hôtellerie du Bois Royal …
‘Do you mind if I keep this overnight?’ asked St-Cyr. ‘I’d like to give it some thought.’
‘Be my guest.’ Louis hadn’t wet his whistle in ages so what the hell was up?
‘And the cigarette case?’ asked St-Cyr. ‘You might just as well let me have everything, Hermann. It’ll make things easier, eh?’
Kohler thrust the thing at him. The Frenchman ran his eyes and a thumb over the Russian silver. Even during the last days of the Tzars, they had produced some outstanding pieces.
The case was of silver-gilt, so a silvery-grey, but with delicate patterns and scrolls in deep, dark blue, pale turquoise, ruby red and golden yellow enamel.
The initials had been inscribed on the inside of the lid: NKM in large letters that used up more than half the available space.
There were twelve cigarettes beneath the clip.
Kohler grinned and said, ‘Go on. Try one, Louis. I already have.’
The cigarettes were Russian. If the woman used them then she had to have the lungs of a T-35 tank!
Eyes watering, St-Cyr went to stub the thing out only to have Kohler grab him by the wrist and pluck the cigarette away. ‘There’s no sense in wasting it, is there?’
He shook his head. ‘Now for Fournier’s, I think, and a look at those stones you held back.’
Must he be so pious about it? ‘I didn’t ask Glotz to have you tailed, Louis.’
The moustache was wiped with a knuckle. ‘Me, I was certain you hadn’t but then … ah, what can I say, Hermann? Sometimes you and I, we ought to confide everything in each other, eh?’
Then why the hell don’t you? demanded Kohler but didn’t bother to say it.
There were eighteen uncut diamonds in the soft brown velvet bag with its drawstring of twisted gold silk thread. Ice blue, emerald green, yellow – a soft, frosted pink, a frosted white – waterworn both of those. Cubes, modified cubes and octahedra with sharp crystal faces and angles.
In weight, the crystals varied from perhaps one to five or six carats. St-Cyr held his breath. It was a stunning collection.
Fournier’s manager anxiously pressed the evaluation sheet down on the glass of the display case. The writing was a scribble, barely legible but beside each stone there was a long dash, then the weight in carats and an estimate of the value as is, and if cut and polished.
‘You won’t say anything about this?’ pleaded the man. ‘It would only cause trouble.’ He dabbed at his brow.
‘Of course not,’ soothed Kohler. ‘You can depend on us.’
The man was stung. ‘Who else could give such an evaluation? The Jews controlled the diamond trade before this … this war. He’s very good. He can cut them for you, Monsieur the Commissioner. He can …’
‘Inspector,’ answered Kohler. ‘He’s the Chief Inspector.’ He tossed his head towards St-Cyr. ‘We work as a team, just the two of us. All alone.’
The little man flicked his gaze anxiously from one to the other of them, wondering what the devil was really up. ‘If you have them cut and polished, messieurs, the stones will be of much more value and far less difficult to sell.’
St-Cyr fixed him with a look he reserved for the worst of the worst. ‘But as is, they are much better than currency and far more portable.’
Russian silver and Russian diamonds? he wondered.
Uncut, their value exceeded 1
,500,000 francs. ‘An estimate,’ offered the man lamely. ‘I hope it agrees with the others?’
Kohler gave him a look that spelled the Santé Prison. ‘How much is that wrist-watch? That one,’ he said, stabbing the glass with a shark’s forefinger.
The dark eyes glistened with suppressed rage. ‘It’s 8,495 francs.’
The Bavarian grimly nodded. ‘At least 2,000 more than it’s worth, wouldn’t you say, Chief?’
St-Cyr trickled the diamonds back into their little bag. ‘What he means, monsieur, is that we have forgotten you already, eh? Just as you have forgotten all about this little business.’
He folded the evaluation sheet and, pocketing the diamonds, headed for the door.
Outside on the rue du Faubourg St-Honoré the evening’s traffic had begun. There were bicycles and more bicycles. ‘Hermann, just what, exactly, would you have done with the diamonds?’
Kohler snorted gruffly. ‘What the Christ do you think? This war can’t last for ever, Louis. We both know it.’
The war in Russia had got to Hermann after all. St-Cyr raised his eyebrows but didn’t bother to warn him to be careful what he said.
They crossed the street and headed along towards the rue d’Anjou. ‘Others must know of them,’ offered St-Cyr.
Again there was that snort. ‘Yes, others now know of them.’
‘Then the matter’s settled and their value can go into your report for Boemelburg and mine for Pharand.’
‘But not the one for von Schaumburg, not yet.’
They passed a hat shop, another with leather handbags and gloves. There were fewer items, more spaces between them. ‘Louis, why not tell me what you turned up this afternoon? This thing …’
‘Yes, yes, I know it smells.’
‘I can’t let you keep the diamonds. Boemelburg will want to put them in his safe.’
Was there a hint of bribery in Hermann’s voice? ‘Only for this evening, Hermann. Tomorrow morning you can have them locked up. Stall a little.’
‘Glotz will try to have you tailed.’
‘But of course. It’s understood, eh? So don’t make so much of it. I’ll be in touch if I need you.’
‘I’ll pick you up in the morning. We’re going back to Fontainebleau to have a look around.’
‘Let’s hope it won’t be necessary. There are far too many seminaries and von Schaumburg will insist we visit every one of them.’
‘Glotz will use three men this time, Louis. One to hang back and two for you to see and lose.’
‘But of course, my friend. I would not have expected less.’
Had Louis been touched by the compliment? ‘Then take care. I’ll be seeing you. Don’t lose the rocks.’
They parted at the boulevard Malesherbes, St-Cyr heading towards the Madeleine and the entrance to the Métro there; Kohler to return to the Sûreté to pick up the car and to file his reports to Boemelburg and to Glotz.
*
High up on the rue Laurence Savart the boys were playing soccer again but stopped when they saw him trudging sadly towards the house.
Guy Vachon was the one to say, ‘He’s lost his wife. First the revolver, then the car, and now the wife.’
‘Next thing you know, there’ll be a funeral,’ said Hervé Desrochers.
‘We’d better let him have the ball,’ said someone else. ‘He looks unhappy.’
‘He’s thinking about another murder,’ whispered Dédé Labelle. ‘He always looks like that when he’s contemplating a case. Let’s just wave. That’ll make him feel better.’
They did so, and St-Cyr waved back only to hesitate at the gate and then to open it.
Marianne, of course, was not at home. Methodically he hung the overcoat up, then plunked the hat on its peg and kicked off his shoes.
Then he went through to the kitchen to put the kettle on and to water the geraniums.
Later he sat by their bed with the light on above him and the diamonds scattered over the lace spread next to the cigarette case, the little notebook, and the vial of perfume.
Hermann was right. The case could only mean trouble for them.
9 July/42 – the Ritz again. Time 9.13 p.m. Stayed until after curfew. Left by the back stairs. Was driven home.
He opened the can of tobacco and began to pack his pipe.
Was driven home … Again he felt uneasy. Berlin wanting to know, von Schaumburg, Boemelburg, Pharand – Glotz as well – and of course the Kommandant of Barbizon, its mayor and chief of police.
Is it what I’m beginning to think it is? he wondered.
There was only one person who could really tell him. Not the maid, ah no, not her.
Reflections caught the shimmering iridescence of the fabric in the open lid of the cigarette case.
Would she be tall and willowy – a chanteuse with blue eyes and blonde hair?
Intelligent? he asked. But of course. Daring? That too. Why else the diamonds?
Someone’s wife? he asked and thought not. The condoms in their little silk sleeves revealed a woman who not only knew what she wanted but went after it.
‘Trouble,’ Julian Nadeau had said. A customer of his shop only once, and trouble even then. ‘A referral.’
Firefly lights and tiny blue flames broke the ever-present darkness of the streets. Occasionally a Gestapo car roared by or that of some German officer, but even then the black-out regulations called for tape across the headlamps and only thin slices of light.
All too soon the bicycles disappeared and the silhouettes of the pedestrians hastened to the nearest entrance to the Métro as the curfew hour approached.
St-Cyr was conscious of the two sets of footsteps: one ahead of him but across the street; the other behind him but on his side of the street.
Like Eros in the ether, we hunt each other, he said.
He hadn’t been able to shake them. Glotz had really done a job this time.
A patrol approached – still some distance from them. Jackboots turned a corner. Their hobnails hammered, hammered at the dank, damp air through which the flakes of falling, melting snow gave but their hush of misery.
Suddenly a figure bolted out of the darkness ahead, and the sound of his shoes clattered on the paving stones. Running … running now for his life.
St-Cyr flattened his back against a wall. A whistle blew – shrill and hurting the ears, alarming everyone. A couple began to run – had they been necking in some doorway? The girl cried out, ‘Henri, my heels …’
Her voice was filled with despair.
The boots hammered, hammered. The patrol broke into chase. Shouts of, ‘Halt! Halt or we’ll fire!’ shattered the night.
Footsteps thundered past. The girl fell sideways into him, only to bounce away and hit the pavement, her boyfriend gone. ‘Henri … Henri … Don’t leave me!’
St-Cyr swore and leapt to grab her. ‘In here. Quickly. Quickly. Sh!’
Lights were flung across the walls. The butt of a rifle hit the courtyard’s wooden wall and burst the door open with a crash.
More lights. More shouts.
Now only this: a German corporal with a torch. He shone it into each nook and cranny. Garbage tins, littered refuse and empty, empty doorways began to appear with excruciating regularity.
Gunfire came from the corner of the street. The girl lunged! St-Cyr clamped his arm more tightly around her waist. She kicked him hard. She bit the hand that stifled her screams. He let her bite him.
‘Don’t. Please don’t,’ he hissed into her ear. ‘There are Gestapo in the street. Gestapo!’
Her hair was soft and it smothered his face.
The corporal’s torch settled on a cat which bolted as the sounds of gunfire came again.
Then there was only silence and the falling, melting snow.
The corporal stepped through to the street, accidentally hitting the courtyard’s wooden wall with the butt of his rifle. Cautiously St-Cyr eased his grip on the girl.
When released, she didn’t run. ‘I’v
e hurt your hand,’ she said, still shaking.
‘It’s nothing,’ he sighed, searching for his handkerchief and then wrapping it around his left hand. ‘The boy will have got away. He’ll be all right. You mustn’t worry.’
‘I’m not. He’s a pig to have left me like that.’
‘Have you far to go?’
They were so close. It was so dark. ‘The rue Vavin. It’s on the other side of the Luxembourg Garden. Number 23. Upstairs. At the top. I live with my sister and her husband. They’ve two kids, a boy and a girl.’
‘Are you a student?’ he asked.
‘Yes … yes, I’m a student. You’ve no need to worry. I’m not a prostitute. I’ve no diseases but you must wash the cut and put some antiseptic on it as soon as possible.’
He’d do that of course, and he told her this. ‘Let’s go together then. The rue Vavin is on my way.’
She seemed relieved.
‘You’ve broken a heel,’ he said, cursing his luck.
The girl removed her shoes. ‘This way I can run better. Have you a spare pocket? Mine, they are not big enough.’
He shoved the shoes into his overcoat and they started out. Her feet would be freezing. ‘You’ll catch a cold,’ he said.
Once on the street, the steps began again. One set ahead of them, the other behind.
At first the girl tried not to notice them. They darted across the boulevard St Michel, leaving the Sorbonne behind them.
The steps were still there on the rue Racine. She gripped his arm. She said, ‘Do you hear them?’
He answered, ‘Yes … Yes, I hear them. Do you know the statues of the queens of France in the Garden?’
‘Who doesn’t?’ she said tensely.
‘Could you become one of them for a little while?’ At this rate he’d never get to the Club Mirage. It would be out of the question.
They passed the Odéon, passed several staff cars with their dozing drivers, and headed down the rue de Medicis towards the entrance to the Garden.
The steps ahead quickened; those behind settled back a little. These boys were good, very good. They had anticipated the Garden; they’d even accepted the girl and had figured it all out.
As yet he hadn’t seen or heard the third man Kohler had mentioned.
‘So, okay, my friends,’ hissed St-Cyr to the girl as their steps speeded up. ‘In and to your left. Find the statues and let me find you there.’
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