Mayhem

by J. Robert Janes

  The girl who had called herself Christiane Baudelaire had left her real papers somewhere. She’d lived elsewhere and could not have come and gone without them. Where … where would a girl of that age and circumstance have chosen to hide her most valuable possessions?

  Search as he did again, he could not find the papers. They weren’t tucked behind the gas meters or behind the cast-iron drainpipe that plunged down the wall in its far corner beside the trash cans. They weren’t beneath any of the worn lino runners on the stairs of a narrow entrance that leapt off to the right to some warren of other rooms a good ten metres from the hotel.

  Marianne … he’d have to force himself to question that one and her Georges. They might have seen or heard something. They might indeed have hidden the papers for Christiane, but if they had, and if they’d known, as they surely must by now, what had happened to her, then why the joie de vivre in that young girl’s voice?

  Always there were questions, and often there were no answers.

  One had to ask because one had to.

  Kohler eyed the concierge. There were twelve coins he’d allow for common viewing, and when washed of their blood, they presented a rather shiny impression to the uninitiated.

  Greed glowed through the exhaustion in Madame Minou’s eyes. ‘It is a fortune, monsieur,’ she croaked.

  ‘Roman, madame. Solid gold aureii from the first century BC. That one,’ he emphasized, stabbing the coin with a forefinger. ‘That’s Julius Caesar himself.’

  ‘And that one?’ she asked. ‘It is smaller, no?’

  Good for her. ‘That’s Nero – first century AD, between fifty-four and sixty-eight AD, to be precise. He’s the guy who burned Rome for the sheer pleasure of it. He watered the money. That’s why the coin is smaller.’

  ‘Was he a Nazi?’ she asked in all innocence.

  He’d have to let it pass. ‘This one’s dated about the second century BC. That’s the head of Mars, the God of War. There’s an eagle on the other side.’

  ‘There were Nazis back so far?’ She couldn’t believe it possible and was deeply troubled, so much so she asked, ‘Is it that you people will burn Paris, monsieur, when you leave?’

  ‘Who says we’re going to leave?’

  The old girl found the coins again. ‘The Russians perhaps.’

  ‘I’ve two sons who say the Russian Front will extend well beyond Moscow by the New Year.’

  It was a hollow boast and one to be given its due. ‘How is it that you know so much about such as these?’

  The coins, none of which were larger than two centimetres in diameter, were lined up in a row on the tiny counter that served as her desk. A letter for Room 4 – 7 hadn’t been picked up. The girl had been in too much of a hurry, and Madame Minou had let her go on up the stairs, thinking she’d catch her later on.

  The Bavarian took the letter. She asked again about his knowledge of the coins.

  ‘We come fully equipped, madame. All things to all situations. Gestapo, remember?’

  And German, and therefore wise and all-knowing. The Gestapo seemed to fancy the head of Mars most of all and when, on picking it up to drop it into her hand, he said ‘Exceedingly rare,’ she knew he would not part with it.

  ‘Those were called sestertii. They come in three denominations – a sixty like that one, a forty and a twenty. Later they made the sestertius out of brass and equal to four copper Asses, and coined the gold into aurei.’

  ‘Why are you showing me these, monsieur?’

  ‘Me? Ah,’ he gave the Bavarian rendition of a Frog’s shrug, ‘information costs money, madame. Instead of there being twelve of these little beauties in my report, I’m willing to let there be ten.’

  She heaved a contented sigh. She had been right about him after all. ‘What is it you wish to know?’

  ‘Choose first. Take one Caesar and one Nero. There are duplicates. No one will question their absence.’

  The coins were heavy but felt hard. One had a small scratch in which there was a trace of green.

  ‘It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it. Here, take this one instead.’

  There was no sigh. Fear had replaced the greed in her eyes.

  ‘The “lover”, the client?’ he asked, towering over her.

  ‘A chubby, older man like your friend. A man with the greying moustache yes, but brushed outwards at the ends. The frank look, monsieur. Dark-brown eyes. Ah yes, he and I understood each other perfectly. No questions, you understand. Not even a spoken word beyond those of Mademoiselle Baudelaire. Simply the lifting of the eyelids and the very quick step for one in his late fifties, but then men …’ She gave a shrug. ‘Perhaps he was fifty-six or fifty-eight, even sixty. It’s hard to tell with men like that. Successful. The good suit, the stiff black bowler hat, eh? The small pin in the lapel – I have decided it must be a diamond. The necktie, the well-pressed knees and polished shoes.’

  ‘Name?’

  Her eyes grew hard. ‘That I never knew, monsieur. The girl, she has called him Monsieur Antoine.’

  ‘How charming,’ breathed Kohler, taking back the Caesar.

  ‘Me, I do not think that was his real name.’

  ‘How many times a week did they meet up there?’

  ‘Once, somtimes twice. The days varied. Sometimes a Monday, sometimes a Friday. It’s been going on for nearly a year.’

  ‘And you asked no questions? Come on, madame. Operating a clandestin is against the law.’

  ‘This hotel is not a secret bordello, monsieur! Who am I to question what goes on behind closed doors when the rent is paid and the book signed?’

  ‘Who paid the rent?’

  ‘She did. Each and every week. In advance.’

  ‘What time did they usually meet?’

  ‘Sometimes eight, sometimes nine at night. Never later, never earlier except for one Tuesday afternoon. Then they met at four p.m. sharp. Of this I am positive.’

  ‘When was that? Which Tuesday?’

  She would stop her lungs.

  He handed back the Caesar, pressing it into her palm and holding it there. ‘Coins with blood on them, madame. Lying causes that, just like withholding information or letting a clandestin operate behind closed doors without a licence.’

  He’d have her charged, she knew it. ‘Last Tuesday. Now three … three days ago. The girl was most distressed. He did not stay long and she … she did not change her clothes or wash herself.’

  So much for keeping things private behind closed doors.

  He gathered up the coins and put them away in a vest pocket. She did not like the way he hesitated, or that he stood so closely to her.

  ‘That your late husband?’ he asked, causing her to jerk in alarm.

  ‘Yes … yes, that is him. He was awarded nothing, monsieur. Nothing!’

  ‘And this one?’ he asked.

  She’d not had time to hide the photograph. Ah Mon Dieu, what was to become of Roland? Of herself? ‘That … that is my son, Roland Minou.’

  A young man of twenty-six. Gott im Himmel but it was a popular age! ‘When did your husband die?’

  She sweltered under the look he gave her.

  ‘In the summer of 1916. Me, I … I had not seen him for nearly two years, you understand? The father …’

  ‘The father of your son wasn’t him,’ glowed Kohler. ‘You old sinner, madame. Never mind, your secret’s safe with me.’

  Safe with the Gestapo!

  The cement of the arrangement was pressed into her hand. Another Nero.

  ‘We’ll keep in touch. We’ll ask the flics to keep an eye on you but just in case, be sure to lock up at night.’

  ‘A café au lait, please, and a croissant.’

  ‘Pardon, monsieur?’

  The mistake was realized. There were no croissants, of course, and there was no milk. ‘A coffee then, and two fists of bread.’

  The proprietor, dwarfed by an oversized jersey, looked perplexed as he waited.

  St-Cyr fished in a pock
et and, dragging out the green ration tickets Marianne had left for him, shrugged and said, ‘Just the coffee then. These are out of date.’

  The small café was next to the bakery. From there he watched for Hermann and for the flics who would cart the girl’s body off to the morgue. The photographer had already left. The boys were just winding things up. The crudities would be over. She’d be covered by a piece of filthy canvas. They’d not be saying dirty things about her now.

  He knew there’d be fingerprints in plenty, that the girl’s killer hadn’t cared a damn about those. That the man had considered himself above prosecution was only too evident, a bad sign these days. Ah yes.

  The roasted-barley water was bitter. There was no sugar. One didn’t even ask.

  Salt would not help.

  When Kohler found him, Louis was sucking on his pipe and staring off into oblivion at pigeons huddled high above the rue Polonceau. An old man, a retainer of some sort, was sharing the last of his bread ration in contemplation of a winter’s funeral and a pauper’s grave.

  Kohler indicated the man. ‘How the hell could he have climbed the stairs, Louis?’

  Hermann didn’t care for stairs. Having been caught once between floors, hanging by a thread, the lifts of Paris were too untrustworthy for him, and in true Germanic style he considered everyone else must feel the same. Stairs had to be conquered.

  ‘The exercise will be good for him.’

  The last few crumbs were thrown into the frigid air. The birds fluttered to the street below. There was no traffic apart from a few bicycles, two vélo-taxis and an ancient gazogène.

  Kohler filled him in, then said, ‘You’re hungry, Louis.’

  ‘A little, yes. Hermann, don’t! Please. Just this once. Be my guest and have a coffee, eh? We’ll eat later. Somewhere else.’

  The Gestapo shield was reluctantly put away. Highly nervous, the proprietor spilled the coffee, but took the trouble to wipe the table with a fistful of apron.

  Kohler thanked him. No one had chosen to sit near them. The talk had all but ceased.

  He lowered his voice. ‘So, Louis, what do you make of things?’

  The traffic posed no danger whatsoever to the pigeons. ‘The Tuesday-afternoon rendezvous presents us with a problem. Quite obviously they had some means of communicating in emergencies. This Monsieur Antoine, whoever he is, said something that upset her.’

  ‘He didn’t stay long.’

  ‘But did the girl?’

  ‘Madame Minou didn’t say.’

  ‘And you didn’t ask! Was it that you were preoccupied, Hermann, and thinking of using those “gold” coins for yourself?’

  ‘No one in their right mind would buy them.’

  ‘But obviously someone did.’

  ‘And sent the killer to pay her back.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  Louis tapped out his pipe and debated whether to ration himself, deciding only with difficulty to tuck the furnace away.

  Kohler asked, ‘Was the client the one who bought?’

  ‘Perhaps, but then why the quick visit of last Tuesday, Hermann? Why the distress, the agitation of our little angel? Was it that she knew this Monsieur Antoine could be hard with her if necessary and if so, where and how did she come by those coins?’

  ‘Perhaps she thought they were for real. An honest mistake?’

  ‘Perhaps, but then if she did, did she steal them from their rightful owner who, in turn, had considered that such a possibility might happen some day and had substituted the fakes?’

  ‘And didn’t think to warn her, eh?’

  The urge to add ‘Perhaps but then,’ was all but overpowering. Instead, St-Cyr finished his coffee with a grimace. ‘That was positively awful, my friend.’

  ‘What? The coffee, or the suggestion that she wasn’t warned?’

  ‘Both, my old one. Both.’

  Kohler knew he’d best tell him. ‘The fakes aren’t all that bad, Louis. The girl might not have known, and neither might their owner.’

  ‘Merde! Why must you torment me this way? At a time like this, Hermann? Come, come, give, you Bavarian son of a bitch! Don’t keep an honest French detective waiting.’

  ‘You’re scared.’

  ‘Damn right!’

  Kohler found three of the coins and thumbed them out into the middle of the table. ‘So, okay, the dies were good and probably made by casting them from the real thing.’

  ‘The letters?’

  ‘All okay. C(aius) CAESAR CO(n)S(ul) PONT(ifex) AVG(ur), et cetera.’

  There were traces of brownish discolouration that both disappointed and disheartened. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he asked. ‘We’re in this together, Hermann. If I fall, so too do you. Isn’t that right?’

  It was – a sheepish grin said so. ‘Sorry, Louis. All right, there was some brown, some gold present. It … it just came over me.’

  To lie about it! ‘How many were there?’

  ‘Twenty-seven.’

  ‘Is that what you confided to Madame Minou?’

  ‘I didn’t tell her about them. I just hinted at it.’

  St-Cyr knew there could well be thirty of the coins, or even forty. Madame Minou might even have heard them being flung at the girl’s body.

  Thirty aurei and sestertii. Damn Hermann for holding out on him. ‘I would have thought you’d have learned your lesson by now.’

  The coins were good and of billon, a mixture of gold and silver with lots of copper, but gold in colour, every gram. A gold-buyer’s file had been used on each. The nitric acid had penetrated to the truth.

  ‘A few are scratched, but that’s in keeping with their supposed age.’

  ‘Touched up?’ demanded St-Cyr.

  Kohler nodded. ‘The counterfeiter’s good, Louis.’

  Given the inflation in such things and the fact that new francs were at the usurious exchange rate of twenty to the mark, they were still looking at a considerable sum. Perhaps 5,000 marks. One hundred thousand new francs.

  For thirty of the coins. If there were only thirty. ‘Don’t try to sell them, Hermann. Not a one. For my sake and for your own.’

  ‘Don’t get in a huff. I would have told you anyway.’

  The Sturmbannführer Walter Boemelburg was waiting for them. Gestapo HQ Paris and the Sûreté’s offices were on the rue des Saussaies, just off the boulevard Malesherbes and the Place de la Madeleine.

  ‘A full report, Kohler. Leave nothing out. Some son of a bitch of a terrorist has shot and killed a Wehrmacht corporal.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Late last night or early this morning. We don’t know yet. Louis, listen to his song and tell me if it’s off-key.’

  Boemelburg’s fist hit the boards that enlarged the antique lime-wood desk Osias Pharand had once favoured. He threw the fairy nuisance of a Louis XIV inkstand into the plain galvanized milk pail he’d chosen as a waste-basket. ‘Commence!’ he bellowed. ‘Don’t piss in your trousers.’

  Hermann started to take something out of a pocket but thought better of it. Boemelburg sat down heavily. A big, tall, heavy man, his bristled grey dome and broad forehead showed the creases of anger and worry. France’s top cop, the Head of SIPO-SD Section IV, the Gestapo, was not happy.

  Boemelburg spoke perfect French, even to argot, the slang of the quartiers. He was a wizard of a cop when he wanted to be, which was usually always.

  St-Cyr turned away to take shelter by one of the windows. The rue des Saussaies looked lonelier than ever. The merry-go-round that Paris had become had suddenly stopped. A dead corporal …

  ‘Listen, Louis.’

  ‘Of course, Walter. You have my ears.’

  ‘And your asses! Don’t either of you forget it!’

  He was in rare form. Hermann began again, but Walter was hardly listening. The killing of the corporal was not good. Ah no. It meant trouble, always trouble for him. There’d not been many of these killings yet. Just a scratch or two.

  Before the war Boemelburg
had been a much respected policeman. They’d worked together on several occasions, notably the visit of King George VI to France in July of 1938, when the government had been worried about yet another assassination and the Vienna office of the International Organization of Police, the I.K.P.K., had been all aflutter.

  Now such an acquaintanceship was worth only so much. Ah merde, what was one to do? wondered St-Cyr.

  ‘Coins!’ shrilled Boemelburg.

  ‘Forged,’ murmured Hermann.

  ‘I want the truth! How many coins were there? Where did they come from? Why hasn’t this forger been apprehended? Who has the real coins if, Hermann, if they even exist?’

  ‘We’re looking into it, Herr Sturmbannführer.’

  ‘You’re looking into it. Gott im Himmel, is that all you have to say?’

  ‘We’ve only just got back. We’ve not even been to sleep.’

  ‘SLEEP? Who sleeps these days? Only the dead.’

  Among Boemelburg’s many duties was the task of taking hostages and choosing those who would be shot.

  ‘Walter, perhaps we could use a little help? A few days?’

  ‘It’s time you don’t have, Louis. Gott im Himmel, why can’t you French behave?’

  ‘The corporal … Where … where was he killed?’

  ‘Where indeed!’

  Kohler held his breath. Louis looked quite ill.

  ‘The rue Polonceau?’ asked the little Frog. It was a cry, a plea to that God of his for some sort of an understanding with fate. ‘I heard no shot, Walter. I was standing at the side of the street. A girl …’

  ‘What girl?’

  ‘A girl of my imagination, Walter. My dead wife. I … I was merely recalling that the two of us had once had lunch in the Bistro Demi-Matin on that street.’

  Kohler was impressed. Even when crushed the Frog could still think fast and not let it show. A good sign.

  Boemelburg ran an irritated hand over the bristled dome. ‘Hostages will have to be taken, Louis. I’m sorry, but that’s the way of it.’

  ‘Six … eight …?’

  ‘Thirty.’

  ‘But … but it’s nearly Christmas …?’

  ‘That can’t matter. I have my orders.’