Really the Blues

by Joseph Koenig

  One was gray, the other very young, and they were interested more in the rich appointments of the apartment than in the corpse hanging from the bathroom ceiling. They spun it like it was a book rack with the same old story on every side. The gray one said to Eddie, “Don’t touch anything,” and the young one asked, “Where is the phone?”

  They went out, and Eddie heard from one of them the long, lilting whistle that begins low and rises in pitch before tapering off breathlessly and means, well, will you look at this? Left alone with Carla, he set the chair upright and climbed onto it, imagining her final step. Then he took her around the waist, lifting her slightly as he pulled the loop over her head, the full meaning of dead weight brought home suddenly as the chair tottered, and he would have dropped her if he hadn’t caught the shower curtain rod and come down on his feet. The gendarmes returned, and the older one asked, “Who gave you permission to do that? We said not to.” Eddie brushed past them, saying “I need to make a call,” and dialed Roquentin.

  “Tell Weskers he’s in the spotlight tonight,” he said. “I won’t be coming in.”

  “What is it this time? You miss so many shows, I might as well turn over the band to him and bill him as the star.”

  “It doesn’t matter what it is. I can’t make the first set. Even if I could, I’m not in any shape to play.”

  “I have no idea what you are getting at,” Roquentin said.

  “You can read about it in tomorrow’s paper.”

  He went back to the living room and stared into space while the gendarmes made themselves comfortable on the sofa. It didn’t seem possible that his sorrow would lift and he’d be anything like he was before. Seized by the idea that Carla had done him a favor in eliminating the threat hanging over his head, he decided that he was the worst person in the world for even contemplating such a notion, a bout of self-hatred interrupted by the arrival of the coroner, a man perfumed in chemical vapors, who looked at the body on the bed and bellowed, “Who took her down?” and when Eddie answered, “I did,” said to him, “You are the boyfriend? It was the human thing to do. I can’t fault you.”

  Why bother, thought Eddie, when he was doing an excellent job himself.

  “What has happened is obvious,” the coroner said before remembering to introduce himself as Dr. Doucet, “but I am required to ask of you questions of an intimate nature. Give me, first, the full name of the deceased, her age, the date and location of her birth? I assume this is her permanent residence, and that she had been living here at the time of the unfortunate—”

  The questions came one on top of the other until Eddie wasn’t thinking before he responded, a realization that stopped him cold. Was it this sweet-natured doctor’s job to lull him into lowering his guard and giving information that could be turned against him? What could be laid at his feet that was more sinister than being the inspiration for tragedy? There was no law in France that prohibited driving the woman you love to suicide.

  He avoided mentioning that Carla had been pregnant. The coroner would find out in the morgue. By then he would know whether to pretend the baby was news to him. In the meantime, he’d keep his answers short, his secrets to himself.

  He had a question for the coroner, but couldn’t ask it. Would the autopsy reveal whether the baby would have looked black? If not, Carla had killed herself for nothing. Otherwise the largest part of her shame would be posthumous, and all the worse for how she handled it. In his grief was a great deal of anger. She had committed crimes against five people, herself, her parents, the baby, and him. It seemed unjust that none of that was in the statutes.

  The coroner didn’t let up. Eddie was answering by rote again when he was asked, “Do you want me to give you an injection?”

  “What for?”

  “To settle your nerves. We can’t have you going into hysterics.”

  He would have laughed in the coroner’s face if he hadn’t seen Doucet closely observing his reaction. What clearer indication of hysteria was there than inappropriate mirth? He fastened a lugubrious stare, fearful that what Dr. Doucet had in store was not a sedative but a drug that would destroy his inhibitions, leaving him to babble defensively. The stare prompted another intense look, a shake of his satchel full of goodies before the coroner put it down.

  Next were bland requests for information that could be obtained just as well from papers in Carla’s purse. Eddie was braced for invasion when the coroner announced that he was done with him, which produced a soothing effect better than medication. He was free to go, but not to travel. The police would want a word. Home by 11:00, he was amazed at how well he slept until it occurred to him that he was thinking about it half awake in the middle of the night. Alert, his nightmares were more vivid, and he couldn’t focus on anything else. When he opened the shutters, more darkness seemed to pour inside the room. The phone rang, and although he knew it was nothing good—no call before the sun came up ever was—he was glad not to be alone with his thoughts.

  The Sûreté requested his presence to discuss the unfortunate death of Mlle de Villiers. He shaved and went out for a hard time.

  The investigator assigned to the case was quick to mention that he had been at Le Bal Tabarin a year before when Eddie had performed at a benefit concert for war relief. He’d never cared for jazz and had to be dragged by his wife, who had received complimentary tickets, but he was pleasantly surprised by the music, which wasn’t all that bad. Concerning the suicide, he expressed his condolences and counseled Eddie not to eat his heart out over something that probably could not have been prevented.

  “Have you a realistic idea of why a woman with a promising future would have acted as she did?” he asked, and said, “These things happen. She was something of a Bohemian, a hyperemotional type, wouldn’t you say? That may be all we ever know. All that we have to.”

  Eddie’s only discomfort was razor burn from the hurried shave. The kid-gloves treatment mystified him until the investigator said, “I am Inspector François Bernard. Don’t forget to extend my sympathies to Monsieur and Madame de Villiers.”

  There he had it. He was sheltered by the de Villiers mystique. Scandal in a family with a lesser name would be bathed in bright light instead of swept into the shadows at every turn. Carla hadn’t exaggerated her father’s power and influence.

  A serious investigation would be conducted at some time. The de Villiers needed to know what had brought about their daughter’s horrible death. It would be handled discreetly by officers whose loyalty had been bought by the family and whose silence was guaranteed. For now Eddie had nothing to fear. The single lie he’d told was to Roquentin, who would find nothing in the papers.

  Someone else had questions, he was told. It didn’t alarm him. Under the de Villiers umbrella, nothing did. His immediate concern was in getting back the lost sleep he needed to stay sharp through the late show tonight. Expecting to be traded off to another prober like Bernard, who would tap-dance around sensitive areas, he was hustled out the rear of the building, where a black Mercedes-Benz was idling. That he didn’t go weak in the knees, he attributed later to his morning fog. Instead he yawned. His only visible reaction, it didn’t reflect what he felt inside.

  A Wehrmacht officer, a lieutenant, sat with him on the back seat, saying nothing. Not even the limousine that Carla occasionally borrowed from her parents was as luxurious or ran as smooth. He wouldn’t speculate as to where he was being taken, though he had an idea that he wasn’t being summoned for a command performance. A shameful fact he’d discovered about himself: Without his horn to cling to in uncertain situations, he was as anxious as a five-year-old deprived of her doll.

  Too soon, the ride ended in a slow sweep around the Tuileries. Marched inside the musee at the northwest corner, he lost the rhythm of his footsteps in the martial clatter. Upstairs, a Nazi major squinted at him through a veil of cigarette smoke. Eddie borrowed a Gitane and sent up a smokescreen of his own.

  “I am Major Weiler.”

 
Eddie was put off by his lightly accented Parisian French. German francophiles with ambitions to remake France under the Reich were more doctrinaire than the bureaucrats and careerists force-fed the language after the takeover.

  “You know who I am,” Eddie said.

  “The trumpet player. Tell me why your girlfriend killed herself in the gruesome manner that she did.”

  “I can’t.”

  Weiler exhaled more smoke and blew it away. “Two lies in one breath are not an auspicious way to start. Let us place our cards on the table. You don’t wish to give me what I want, though you can. That is your hand. Here is mine, which trumps it. You will.”

  Scratching at the rash on his jaw, Eddie struck a thoughtful pose. Weiler frowned.

  “Mlle de Villiers was not emotionally disturbed, as many suicides are,” Weiler said. “To her horror, she had been impregnated by a Negro and feared her child would be born with African traits and coloring and the other unfortunate aspects that go along with that. As the scion of aristocrats, she could not endure the humiliation and revulsion that would cling to her for the rest of her life, and chose to end it.” He paused to study Eddie through the smoke. “True or false?”

  “Since you believe you know everything,” Eddie said, “perhaps you can tell me what she’s thinking even where she is now.”

  “I doubt you would wish to hear it,” Weiler said, “or to know what her last thoughts and words about you were.”

  He told himself the Nazi was the best bluffer he’d run up against. But poker wasn’t a German game, and how did Weiler have so much intimate detail? Certainly Carla hadn’t made her confession to her parents, or to the Nazi, and then gone ahead and killed herself. Simone knew his secret, at least in part. But if he gave it up, what did he have left to trade?

  “Mlle de Villiers is a sympathetic figure, hardly deserving of her fate,” Weiler said. “Typically, in instances of fornication with the lower orders, the victim is aware of what she is letting herself in for, or, with the truly depraved, invites it. Here the opposite is true. The young woman was an innocent exploited by a seducer. If my daughters were to find themselves in a similar situation, God forbid, I hope that they would act as heroically. What is your comment?”

  “You don’t need my opinion.”

  “This is the second honest thing you’ve said. The de Villiers are the finest exemplars of modern France, proud patriots who loved their daughter deeply. They are demanding severe punishment for the criminal who destroyed their family. They have great influence and prestige. A judge will take their wishes into account when hearing your case.”

  “What am I charged with?”

  “In Germany, the crime would be Rassenschande, meriting the penalty of death. France is not so progressive, yet something in the existing legislation may be found to give the same result. As of the moment, I have not recommended a formal charge.”

  Good news, except that nothing having to do with Germans ever was. Since when did the absence of a provable crime interfere with Nazi justice? A bluffer himself, Eddie said, “I’ll just go, then.”

  “If only it were that simple,” Weiler said. “I am doing what I can to save you. For that I need your cooperation.”

  “Since I’m not charged, I can save myself.”

  “If you were to disappear, who would ask about the charge? Do you think your fame protects you? Aside from your fans on Place Pigalle, would anyone notice that you were gone? The de Villiers want your head. Literally. I am all you have to keep it on your shoulders.”

  “What have I done to deserve such tender care?”

  “Nothing,” Weiler said. “That is to say, you haven’t done it yet. We are interested in a number of jazz musicians in Paris.”

  “I don’t suppose you’re asking about club dates.”

  “Joke at your peril,” Weiler said. “They’ve been linked to anti-German activity. You are acquainted with them and can give us the information we want.”

  “I won’t be your spy.”

  “Did you know that everyone expresses the same lofty sentiment when we approach them to work for us? In the end, they all do. Consider this: If you refuse, we will cut off that precious lip of yours and suture it to the tip of your nose where you can observe your error closely. How does that appeal to you?”

  Eddie shivered. He couldn’t help it.

  “That’s what I thought,” Weiler said. “The first musician we wish to learn about is Anton Goudsmit.”

  “Who?”

  “I should remove your lip now. You performed with him.”

  “I did?”

  “It was at your nightclub. At the request of the SS, I took him there myself.”

  “I don’t remember—”

  “A piano player.”

  “I still don’t know who—”

  “The Dutchman.”

  “That was you up on the bandstand that night,” Eddie said.

  Weiler stubbed out his cigarette.

  “It was the only time I met him,” Eddie said. “We didn’t say two words to each other besides calling out the numbers we were going to play. You saw—”

  “What did you hear about him?”

  “Nothing.”

  “None of the other players said anything?”

  “All of them did,” Eddie said. “They agreed that the officer who smashed his fingers must be a monster.”

  “Oh, and what are their names?” Weiler lit another cigarette. “Never mind. Do you now deny knowing Borge Janssen?”

  “He was my drummer.”

  “You played with him every night?”

  “Six nights a week, yes.”

  “You must have discussed other topics besides the music.”

  “If we did, I don’t recall.”

  “You deny knowing that he was active against the occupation?”

  “All I know about him is that he had problems keeping three quarters time.”

  “He was also a suicide. Your acquaintances have a proclivity for killing themselves. What is it about you?”

  Whatever it was had followed him from New Orleans and didn’t end with suicide. Janssen hadn’t taken his own life, but it had been made to look like it. If he hadn’t forgotten, then neither had Weiler, who fashioned a hard stare intended to provoke answers that weren’t well thought out.

  “Goudsmit and Janssen are gone,” Eddie said. “How can I get you what you want?”

  “Begin with Janssen’s friends.”

  “I don’t know that he had any.”

  “The other members of your band. Try them.”

  “They had even less to do with him than I did. How can Goudsmit and Janssen harm Germany now?”

  “Their deaths create a false impression that they were heroes in opposing us. France doesn’t need new heroes. She has St. Joan, who is enough. You must help to bring out the truth about them. As they are already dead, you cannot injure them.”

  “I’m a trumpet player,” Eddie said, “not a detective.”

  “Now you are both. Prove your ambidextrousness,” Weiler said, “or I will prove mine by making a present of your head for the de Villiers, while keeping your lip as a souvenir.”

  “Do I know him?” Colonel Maier asked when Weiler briefed him about his interview with Eddie.

  “The American sought by Interpol.”

  “Why haven’t I heard of him before?”

  Weiler knew better than to contradict the colonel. Playing dumb was Maier’s way, one of them, of challenging him to weave disparate elements into the framework of the larger case.

  “Piron is the Negro trumpeter in a jazz band on Place Pigalle sought for attempted murder in the United States.”

  “Does Interpol headquarters in Berlin know you found him? After they’ve been apprised, you won’t be bothered with him again.”

  “I have more ambitious plans for him.”

  Maier cupped a hand behind his ear. Weiler had made a bold statement. He would have to back it up.

  “
The information came from our wiretap on the other American, Simone,” he said, “from which we concluded that Piron had impregnated the de Villiers girl.”

  “What has this got to do with my investigation here?”

  “She was a trollop. Her parents should be flogged in the public square for raising her without morals, and will have the rest of their lives to regret it.”

  “There’s no rush to tell them what awful people they are,” Maier said. “Some of their business activities necessitate German participation.”

  “By establishing Piron’s blame for her death, I was able to instill the fear of God in him,” Weiler said.

  “Why should I care if he is afraid of God?”

  “The bomb-maker found in the Seine—Janssen—played in Piron’s band. Goudsmit, who was head of Janssen’s organization, operated under the cover of a jazz musician. I will increase the pressure on Piron until he exposes their plot, and his role in it, and gives up the Cartier woman and the rest.”

  “Why didn’t you threaten him with torture, give him a taste of it, and skip all of this fancy footwork?”

  Weiler had no qualms against torture, other than that it was also Maier’s way, but he was determined to show his ways more effective. His brains were being wasted playing second fiddle to the doctrinaire colonel—unless he’d misjudged Piron, in which case he had none, and was begging for a posting on the eastern front.

  “Let us try subtlety,” he said. “If it doesn’t yield better results, then we will break him physically.”

  Maier didn’t appear to be listening, but held up one finger, wagging it. “Don’t we always?”