Salamander

by J. Robert Janes

  Must God do this to them? ‘Now what?’

  ‘Someone with contacts enough to borrow a couple of lorries, Louis. Someone smart enough to have known or taken the time to find this place was empty and then to have used the name.’

  ‘Which will now have been removed from the lorries.’

  ‘Did that little maid tell you the truth?’

  There was that shrug Kohler knew so well but then, ‘She had no reason to lie about this.’

  ‘Yet she didn’t tell you everything.’

  ‘No, but then did that mouchard you beat up tell you everything?’

  ‘Péguy? He can’t have known anything about the house. We dealt only with the robbery.’

  ‘Then perhaps this is the link we’re looking for? The name of a firm that is no longer here but which would cause no suspicion if its lorries were seen by the neighbours.’

  ‘I was hoping we would find the negatives. More photos— other things than we’re permitted to see in the prints they left us. Shadows, an arm, a leg—the woman who helped out’

  ‘But why empty the house, Hermann? Oh, bien sûr there may well have been thoughts of their leaving fingerprints we would find, but all the furniture? And three days later? It doesn’t make sense. Even if interrupted, as obviously they were, why clean the place out like that?’

  ‘Maybe the stuff was simply stolen.’

  ‘By someone else? Is this what you’re thinking?’

  ‘Or by the kidnappers who’d become used to having such nice things around them, or simply moved by the drooler, the owner’s son.’

  The drooler … ah, merde … ‘We never thought to check the photos, Hermann, but for myself, I don’t think we’ll find any fingerprints other than our own.’

  ‘Let’s see where the bastards from the robbery dumped the getaway car and its chauffeur.’

  It was not far. Just back into Montmartre a little way.

  The courtyard of 9 rue des Amiraux was so close to the goods yards, they could hear the constant shunting of locomotives. Various small ateliers gave on to it. A carver of tombstones, an ironworker who threaded bolts for the railways … All were at it behind closed doors and shutters for it was winter and damned cold.

  Only a woman of forty or so, with a thick and tattered black shawl over her shoulders, stared impassively at their entry from a distant doorway.

  ‘No one will have seen a thing, Hermann. It’s useless to ask and will take much time.’

  ‘But why this courtyard, Louis? Why not any of the countless others?’

  It was a good question for which there were no ready answers, except the nearness of it to the warehouses of Dallaire and Sons, its obscurity and a knowledge of the area. ‘Two men, two very fine suitcases crammed with banknotes which were hastily emptied, then left for someone to steal,’ said St-Cyr.

  ‘While the chauffeur, bound and gagged, was out cold,’ snorted Kohler.

  ‘Why didn’t they kill him? A perfect witness?’

  ‘Maybe they were afraid to, seeing as he was a member of the Occupying Forces.’

  ‘Then who freed him?’

  ‘Perhaps the mistress who borrowed the car can tell us, Louis. Perhaps the chauffeur himself. And if not either, then the owner of the car and the guy who’s fucking her, the Sonderführer Franz Ewald Kempf of the Propaganda Staffel.’

  ‘Have fun. I’d best return to the house of Monsieur Vergès for another look around and a quiet think.’

  ‘Do you want the photographs with you?’

  Good for Hermann. ‘Some of them. Please drive by the house you have so kindly had repaired for me. I’ll collect my briefcase but make the selection elsewhere, I think. Yes, that would be best.’

  ‘Chez Rudi’s then, for breakfast. Hey, I can smell the coffee and the croissants, and to hell with ration tickets and your principles. The soul needs to be fortified before tackling the ass of the mistress!’

  Hermann always had to have the last word. One ought to object. Privation was a national pastime and heroic but … ah, heroes were not always so and the meal would be good. Perhaps a simple thermos could be provided and a few sandwiches? He would leave the details to them.

  ‘You okay?’ asked Kohler.

  ‘Yes, I’m okay.’

  ‘Those photos the Chief laid out for us, they’re not bothering you, are they?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘Hey, we’ll find her. She’s going to be okay. I’ve got a feeling about it, Louis. Joanne’s alive but only because the house had to be emptied in a rush.’

  A feeling … How comforting. St-Cyr stared out the side window at the bleakness of what Paris and France had become. A cinematographer at heart and fascinated by the cinema, he could not help but see with the camera’s clear eye the last and final moments of those girls.

  He heard them begging for their lives, their frantic screams and saw their pathetic struggles as they tried to escape. It was now nearly ten o’clock. He and Hermann hadn’t been on the case twenty-four hours, yet could he not do more? Had the lack of vitamins numbed his brain?

  The car had stopped outside his house. ‘A moment, Hermann. I’ll just dash in. Please tell Dédé we’re on urgent business and can’t delay.’

  Kohler dug into a pocket as the boy came down the street towards him but found the sweets all gone.

  The boy was ashen.

  He rolled the window down and managed a grin. ‘Hey, kid, she’s alive. We’re going to get her soon, eh? Unharmed. Not a hair touched.’

  Without a word, the boy stood watching him, unyielding in denial until at last Dédé said, ‘You’re lying,’ and turned away.

  Coming quickly from the house with his briefcase, St-Cyr caught him by the shoulder. The boy swung on him in tears, in rage, but stopped himself from cursing the only one who could help them.

  ‘Dédé, listen to me. It’s serious. We’ve had a major setback this morning but are working on it and hope to have something positive very soon.’

  The flat was three storeys above the boulevard de Beauséjour, not a stone’s throw from the Bois de Boulogne and the apartment of Louis’s chanteuse, which was just to the north on the boulevard Emile Auger at number 45. A tidy neck of the woods that smelled all too evidently of old money and young inheritors with too much time on their hands.

  Gabrielle was an exception.

  Kohler finished his cigarette in the car at the side of the road. Becker of Gestapo Central’s internal records hadn’t liked fishing for details on the Sonderführer Kempf. ‘Betrayal of a sacred trust’ and all that shit. Money had had to change hands. Lots of it— 5000 francs to put it blundy.

  One could never quite get used to paying for information that ought rightly to have been given freely by one’s own associates and subordinates, but what the hell? It was the Occupation. All the rules had had to be rewritten. Paris was expensive.

  He thumbed open his wallet and saw that he had exactly 20 francs left for house money and everything else. Pay-day had been and gone and would not come again until 5 January at the earliest, unless the Führer decided to make it later.

  Mademoiselle Denise Celine St. Onge was twenty-seven years of age, a graduate of the Sorbonne with a degree in Ancient History and French Literature, absolutely useless to her should she have to earn a living as a riveter.

  There was a villa in the south of France at Le Lavandou where the parents had retreated for the Duration. A brother resided in the Reich as a guest at a POW camp. Another fed the daisies in summer.

  The Sonderführer didn’t live with her but sometimes stayed the night. Her place or his, whichever was convenient or gave that added little thrill.

  It was nearly noon and time she was up. A maid noticed the Gestapo shield in his upraised palm, a finger to his lips as well, and let him in.

  Flustered, she went in search of her mistress and left him to a tapestry-hung salon with sofas, deep armchairs and throw cushions in cream and gold silk on Persian carpets. Bibelots were scattered like ple
asureful playthings, bronze-green trinkets from ancient tombs—were they Sumerian? Venetian glass beads—he knew a little about very old glass from a recent case in Provence. Gold signets with hieroglyphics, clay tablets too. Egyptian. Falcons, slaves and snakes among other things.

  There were books, of course—mostly on ancient Egypt. Hell, who really wanted to read about the present? A linen-draped table was in a corner by a sofa that still held imprints for two. There were snuffed-out candles on the table, late-night caviar and champagne probably and, with the drapes open as now, a view of the night sky over the Bois. How lovely. Heat on. No shortage of coal. Soft murmurings of passion.

  Amid the clutter on the mantelpiece, there was an invitation to an auction of works of art at the Jeu de Paume, 31 December, viewing from 2.00 to 5.00 p.m., sale at 8.00 p.m. and a late supper afterwards at the Ritz.

  Hermann Goering had done the inviting. Well, not actually. An assistant of course. But, still, the Reichsführer himself and supreme commander of the Luftwaffe.

  Probably flying in for a little bit of fun in spite of the disaster at Stalingrad. A busy man and an avid collector.

  The heavy and embossed bond had the deckle edges of quality. The gilding and black lettering were really very nice.

  There was a discreet logo on the back. ‘Our engraver,’ he said, a whisper …

  Nearby there was a chummy photo of Kempf and his lady friend outside the Alcazar, 8 rue du Faubourg-Montmartre and in daylight of all things. Kempf was a typical blond Aryan in uniform with a nice grin. No battles for this one. He had come in after the blitzkrieg. Thirty-two years of age and married, with the wife and kids back home in Köln and under the ashes, incinerated by the RAF’s firestorm of last May 30 and 31.

  The grin must have been from before the loss, the photo taken in the early spring. A man from an old and well-established family who had suddenly lost everything in that fire. A man then, wondered Kohler, with a grudge to bear and a need to recoup his family’s fortune?

  It was a thought, but how long had the romance been going on and how heavily?

  The shadow of a woman’s wide-brimmed hat was behind and off to the right of the couple. Hats like that had been all the rage this past spring and summer, but not the year before. And hadn’t it been a marvel the way the girls had used just any old thing to make hats like new? Amazing really and very chic.

  The hat must have belonged to a friend, but not to the photographer, since it would have cast a different shadow.

  ‘Inspector …?’

  Black silk crepe clung to Denise St. Onge like a second skin but below the lower thighs, sheer black see-through lace fell to the ankles exposing lovely legs. Flowered white ceramic clasps held the twin straps of high-heeled, black leather shoes. There were thin straps over bare shoulders—nice shoulders—a nice chest, with a faintly ruffled neckline, long, slender arms, long fingers, thick, dark brown hair brushed and pinned tightly and parted on the left, a high, smooth brow, not a wrinkle, angular face, thinly arched and well-plucked brows and large brown eyes. Deep brown and grave. Could they melt iron or were they always so hard?

  ‘Inspector, what is it you want with me?’

  Mein Gott, the accent was lovely. ‘A few questions. Nothing difficult.’

  ‘Then please sit down. An apéritif, or is it that you mustn’t drink while on duty?’

  ‘A glass of wine would be nice. White, if you have it.’

  ‘Certainly. Excuse me a moment. Jeanne has had to do the shopping, you understand.’

  She had deliberately sent the maid away and he was all too aware of this, she felt. He didn’t offer to get the wine for her but took the opportunity to study her and was impressed, ah yes. Most men who liked looking at women were. It didn’t please her, of course. He was trouble, and trouble wasn’t wanted at this moment in her life.

  When she came back with a bottle, two glasses and a corkscrew, Kohler watched her hand them to him as her lovely red lips gave a little pout.

  There was a diamond-encrusted bracelet on her left wrist, loose and slipping down over a slender hand. Ear-rings to match that dangled, framing arrogance betrayed but only for a moment.

  ‘The Château Grillet, 1939 … To think they could even bottle anything then,’ he said wistfully.

  ‘Wine must never be wasted, Inspector. Not even if it’s a bad year.’

  Actually it had been a pretty good year for wine, among other things. ‘It’s all the same to me,’ he said and grinned and yanked the cork out. ‘I prefer beer. I’m from Bavaria.’

  ‘Yes, I gathered you were, but how is it, please, that you speak our language so well?’

  He tossed his head. ‘Oh that. I was a guest of your country from 17 July 1916 until the Armistice.’

  ‘Ah, a prisoner of war.’ She, too, tossed her head and then, accepting the glass he held out to her, took it without touching his fingers.

  Enfolding herself fluidly on to the sofa with knees together and towards him, and one elbow resting on the back so that she sat sideways, she tilted her forehead a little forward in the manner of such women, to study him better.

  The hand whose elbow rested on the sofa, plucked at the bracelet of the one that held the glass.

  ‘So, a few questions, Inspector. Nothing difficult.’

  ‘It’s about the robbery.’ She was making him feel like a dolt with that look of hers!

  ‘Yes, I gathered it would be about the robbery but you see, Inspector …’ The lovely shoulders were raised. ‘I couldn’t possibly help you since I saw nothing of it.’

  ‘I thought so. There you are, Mademoiselle St. Onge. That’s Gestapo Central for you. Send a poor detective out on a wild-goose chase. Sacré-bleu, another waste of time!’

  He downed his wine. She wasn’t fooled in the least and took but a sip of her own just to wet her throat. Would it hurt to offer him a crumb? she wondered. Would it help or merely cause more suspicion? Ah, what could she say about him but that he was most definitely suspicious.

  For this there was no apparent reason, and she put it down merely to his manner. He wished to unsettle her, as he would all others he had to question no matter how innocent.

  She took another sip and let him watch her lovely throat. ‘Harald wasn’t killed, Inspector, and for this I’m truly grateful and much relieved.’

  ‘Harald?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Franz’s driver.’

  ‘Franz?’

  ‘Oh come now, Inspector! How else could you have found my name and address if not from that same Gestapo Central who would, I’m sure, have told you of my lover?’

  ‘The Sonderführer Franz Ewald Kempf.’

  Again there was that teasing little pout and then a shrug. ‘He lets me have the use of his car from time to time.’

  The inspector set his glass aside just as Franz had once done while sitting in that same armchair, watching as she had undressed, she touching herself, he searching her splendid body for its every soft nuance, his eyes rapt, the grin of hunger on his lips until at last …

  But Franz didn’t do that any more, though the detective could not know of this.

  ‘Tell me about the driver,’ he asked, having not read her mind at all.

  ‘There’s nothing to tell.’

  Kohler saw her swallow. Her wineglass was forgotten. ‘How often do you have the use of the car, Mademoiselle St. Onge?’

  How often were things still going on between her and Franz, was that what he really wanted to find out? ‘Once or twice a week, it depends.’

  ‘Usually for the day?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He took out his cigarettes and offered her one but she refused. There was a lighter on the side table. SS and of stainless steel. A gift he studied but didn’t use. Indeed, he put it down and thought better of having a cigarette himself.

  ‘Do you often go to that shop in the rue Quatre Septembre?’ he asked.

  At 12.47 p.m. on a Thursday? Was that what he wanted? It was. ‘Not often. Only some
times.’

  ‘Once a week?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Here, let me refill your glass. The wine’s really okay, isn’t it?’

  He got up so swiftly, he was all but on top of her. He stood there tall and big and brutal, yes, yes—a scar down his left cheek, a duelling scar?

  Inwardly she shook her head and told herself this one doesn’t do things like that. He has no use for them and is of far too humble a birth. A peasant.

  She covered her glass with a hand and said, ‘Ah no, Inspector. I have sufficient.’

  ‘Then maybe you’d better tell me how often you visit that shop and why.’

  To blink her eyes up at him, to fill them with tears, would be of no use. ‘I’m usually there once or twice a week. Sometimes, as at this time of year, far more. You see, I own the shop. It’s called quite simply Chez Denise.’

  ‘That’s nice. We’re getting on a lot better. What do you sell?’

  ‘Clothes.’

  ‘Only clothes at an address like that?’

  ‘Designer clothes, things of quality.’ Again there was that pout and shrug. ‘These days there is not so much and it’s very hard to find suitable stock, so we remember.’

  ‘Soie sauvage?’

  Wild or raw silk. ‘Yes. Yes, I do like to have it.’

  ‘I’ll bet you do,’ he snorted but didn’t return to his chair. Instead, he remained standing over her with the bottle gripped by its neck. He had big fingers, thick and coarse, fingers that when doubled …

  Kohler gave her a moment. She wouldn’t back down, was too highborn for that. ‘So, mademoiselle, you would leave the car of your lover outside your shop and there’s a good chance you did so often enough that others would see this and note that the car would be available.’

  ‘I … I don’t know what you’re implying?’

  ‘You don’t? Gott im Himmel, forgive me. You either told a friend the car would be there at 12.47 p.m. with its engine running, or someone else, another friend or acquaintance, knew you would be there because you always were.’

  ‘The … the times varied.’

  ‘Oh no they didn’t. Your little life is like a clock. Sleep until noon, get dressed and drop into the shop to see how things are going, then off to lunch at Maxim’s with your lover.’