Sandman

by J. Robert Janes

  ‘God, they’re a bugger, aren’t they?’ he said of the shoes these days. ‘Mine are killing me.’ And from a tattered pocket, he rescued a forgotten cigarette and broke it in half.

  Lighting them, he handed her one and said congenially, ‘Hey, don’t worry, eh? No one will see us, and if I have to, I’ll tell them it’s business.’

  Business? She swallowed and began to do up the belt and buttons she had released to give a tired waist a little room.

  ‘The robbery,’ he said. She ducked her eyes away and cringed – knew he had seen the rose petals, knew he’d noticed the two tickets she had found for the Opéra, the magazines and the newspapers, all in German he would know only too well she could not understand.

  ‘The pictures,’ she managed. ‘I look at them.’

  ‘That’s what the Propaganda Staffel count on, but like I said, don’t worry. I simply want to ask you a few small questions. Nothing difficult.’

  Her bunions were swollen, the corns aflame. The toenails had been painted but some time ago. The uniform, a dress of thin black cotton with a starched white lace cap and an apron, needed attention. The shoes had been made of ersatz leather and cardboard, their soles of softwood.

  At the age of sixty-seven, life had been unkind. Bony in places, sagging in others, she had been a girl of the streets and brothels until married to the night shift at the Ritz and to cleaning up after others.

  ‘So, the robbery,’ he said again and she didn’t know whether to fear him or to be beguiled, for he was formidable with that slash down his face and the other one across his brow, but there was laughter in his faded blue eyes and it was not unkind, or was it?

  ‘I saw nothing. I heard nothing. I was occupied in another part of the hotel.’

  ‘Don’t be stubborn. The rose petals came from room 13. It’s the Opéra tickets that worry me.’

  ‘They’re no good now. The performance will be …’

  ‘Your name? Papers … Papers, bitte, eh?’ He snapped his fingers just like Engelmann had done and hated himself for doing so but it was no time for her to be stubborn.

  ‘Mademoiselle Georgette Bernard,’ he breathed, scanning the ID photo and glancing at the guilt-ridden, swimming brown eyes.

  Self-consciously she touched a curl and then her cap. ‘Monsieur …’

  ‘It’s Inspector and hey, I really do want us to cooperate.’

  ‘I found the tickets on the carpet in the corridor outside room 13.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Sometime after … after the Generalmajor had left to play with the birds.’

  ‘And the rose petals?’

  ‘A rose with its stem had fallen and was lying between the tickets. I …’

  Had the Gypsy a sense of humour? Had the bastard left them in the hall as some sort of calling card or a reminder for Nana Thélème? ‘Now start by telling me if that’s your master key up there on the hook, then why is there another hanging from your belt?’

  Things would not go well. ‘That is Mariette’s key. She’s the day-girl. When she leaves at six, she changes out of her uniform and hangs it up, the key also.’

  ‘Good. And when you come on to change and get your key, do you leave the door to this cupboard locked?’

  She crossed herself and silently said a small prayer. ‘The door is never locked. I …. I am away from here for some time – the carpets, you understand. The mirrors, the endless dusting – I can see that you appreciate my absences and that, the back, it was often turned and I could not possibly have known always that … that Mariette’s key had remained constantly in its place.’

  ‘And would anyone else have known of this?’

  ‘The Mademoiselle Thélème? Ah no. No, Monsieur l’inspecteur. It’s impossible. That one comes only by the lift. Never the stairs and certainly not the ones you have climbed, since they are only for the staff and the notice forbids entry to all others.’

  She was really doing well. ‘When did the Generalmajor leave to play badminton?’

  ‘At about ten minutes before eight. Always when he is in Paris and not out for dinner, he does so. Always after the little birds, he has the shower bath and then takes to the pool, and then … well, whatever suits him. Who am I to say?’

  Ah now … ‘Pardon?’ he asked.

  She tossed her head. ‘Mademoiselle Thélème always comes by the side entrance, the one that is on the rue Cambon and reached by way of the garden-restaurant. After he’s done with her, she leaves by the same route, sometimes happy and light of step, sometimes wounded. Who’s to say what makes the heart beat faster than at other times. An hour or two – Mariette is the one you should talk to. She has to clean up and make the bed in the morning. That is not my duty.’

  ‘Okay, so the Generalmajor went out at about eight this evening. Your back was turned and the day-girl’s master key was up there on the wall. Did you see anyone in the halls, anyone who was not of the usual?’

  ‘I saw many. They come and go. Most wear the uniform and I must continue working and duck the eyes away so that they will not notice me. Several carry the attaché cases. All are very important, and some do take their women with them to their rooms. Yes, I have seen such things. Others live here with them. It’s allowed.’

  ‘But number 13 is at the end of the corridor and therefore a little out of the way. Was there anything else? Think. Please try to remember. It’s important.’

  In dismay, she sadly shook her head but her deceitful toes were playing with each other in the swimming pool of their basin. ‘Okay,’ he breathed, and taking out a thin roll of banknotes, unsnapped the elastic band and gave her 200 francs.

  ‘A night’s wages,’ she sighed pityingly. ‘You do not tip?’

  500 more were found. ‘There was a captain, a general – they are all the same to me, you understand. Oh mais certainement, he was fair-haired and blue-eyed but a Dutchman, I think. The Dutch are even more conceited and arrogant than les Allemands. He carried himself well. A man of forty years. Tall, handsome, very sure of himself and quick of step. Ah! to pass unnoticed, it is only necessary to let others see you living normally.’

  The song of their times.

  ‘The scars on the face like yourself, though not so terrible. Three of them – both cheeks and the nose. The chin, it was sharp; the lips, those of a teenaged boy like the one I once knew. The eyes with laughter, yes, but also the gaze that constantly searches, the heart most especially.’

  ‘But … but you just said you were not to look at the guests?’

  ‘Ah! this I could not help since the mirror I was polishing faced him and I could not stop him from pausing to straighten his tie. He was very smartly dressed, wore the pistol in its holster and had the Iron Cross at his throat. The attaché case … ah, now. Could there have been explosives in it, Inspector? L’eau de vie de nitroglycérine? He has set the case very delicately on the table before straightening his tie and looking at me.’

  ‘At about what time?’

  ‘I cannot tell you. The watch, it is in for repairs.’

  ‘The mont-de-piété?’

  The pawnshop. ‘Yes.’

  He sighed as another 500 francs were found. ‘That’s to get your watch back.’

  The Boches were such fools! ‘At 8.15 he has gone along the corridor towards room 13. I have had to dust the spare suite that is always kept for the Reichsmarschall Goering, even though that one has a villa in Paris. My back, it was turned for some time.’

  ‘At 8.15.’

  ‘Yes. And then, Inspector, at 8.47 he has taken the lift. This I have also seen.’

  Verdammt, and so much for her not having had a watch!

  ‘Henri will tell you what I have just said, but to grease the elevator operator’s memory you will need much more. 2000 at least.’

  A bargain, then. He was half-way down the narrow staircase when she hesitantly called after him. ‘Monsieur, has Mademoiselle Thélème been detained? It … it is only that she could not possibly be involved. You se
e, she has a little boy who is the light of her life. She would do nothing to endanger him. A mother’s love is beyond all loves. This I know though the heart, it has been broken now for more than forty years.’

  ‘She’s okay. She’s in good hands. My partner’s looking after her.’

  The suit was very much in vogue, yet sensible, thought St-Cyr. Four stag-horn buttons complemented the finely woven, soft, grey-blue mohair, while a chain of gold links caused the jacket to flare over the hips, emphasizing the slender waist and long and shapely legs beneath the midcalf-length skirt.

  The ribbing of the wool ran the length of Mademoiselle Thélème. The high-heeled shoes were of glossy blue leather – Italian and pre-war but perfectly kept.

  A woman, then, who knew how to dress and was proud of it, even to following his scrutiny, not denying herself that little pleasure yet keeping her mind acutely alert to everything else.

  It was disconcerting to have to question her in front of Engelmann while the Generalmajor flitted nervously about in the background, uncertain still of her responses and of where things were heading.

  Hans Wehrle definitely didn’t like the attention he was getting but that could simply mean he understood only too well the sort of things that could happen. Ruefully St-Cyr wished his partner was with them, but Hermann had chosen to forget about the coffee and was, no doubt, engaged in other matters.

  ‘So tell me, please, about the Gypsy?’

  She shrugged. ‘I know nothing of gypsies. Who cares about them?’ She tossed a dismissive hand. ‘They’ve all been arrested and sent away, haven’t they? Pah! We don’t see any of those people any more and if we did, we would have to report them.’

  Or worry that they were working for the Occupier – he could see her thinking this and acknowledged it with a curt nod. Safe … she had been so very safe and cautious in what she had said.

  ‘But you sing at two of the gypsy places?’ he hazarded.

  ‘Fiercely loyal White Russians, Czech and Hungarian balalaika and fiddle players. Sentimental songs that have been around for ages. They aren’t real gypsies. Oh mein Gott, Inspektor, they couldn’t be, could they?’

  And the Occupier does enjoy slumming from club to club until forced to leave before curfew or risk being locked in for the rest of the night, getting drunker and drunker until the sentimental tears came, or sleep.

  ‘I have a friend who sings,’ he offered and she knew he was watching her closely for the slightest suggestion of alarm. ‘A chanteuse. The Club Mirage.’

  ‘That’s nice. It’s over in Montparnasse, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. The rue Delambre and eight hundred war-weary men a night. It’s quite a crowd.’

  ‘But a living, I think,’ she said so softly her voice was like a caress.

  ‘I thought, perhaps, you might have met. You wear the same perfume. Mirage.’

  She didn’t drop her eyes or give a hint of disquietude but steadily returned his gaze. ‘It’s very expensive. A general gave it to me. Not Hans, another.’

  ‘And you’ve not met her?’

  ‘No. No, six nights a week allows too little time to socialize. I’ve a son, also, and whatever free time I have is devoted entirely to him.’

  ‘But not on evenings like this.’

  Touché, was that it? she wondered, cursing his questions but giving no hint of this. Herr Engelmann had expectantly sat up at the exchange. Hans had stopped fiddling about and was waiting anxiously for her response … ‘My son understands that occasionally his mother must visit with a friend for an hour or two.’

  ‘But he isn’t aware of the nature of those visits?’

  And just what do you think was the nature of this visit? she wanted to demand of him but looked, instead, into the distance, perhaps to the welcome of a long-lost camp-fire.

  ‘My Jani understands that sometimes mummy has to sing at private dinner parties and that she cannot always refuse.’

  Not these days.

  Her breath was held for just a split second. St-Cyr knew that tough exterior had at last been truly dented but she recovered so quickly, he had nothing but admiration for her.

  Herr Max’s scrutiny was now hard and penetrating. Hans Wehrle found himself lost in doubt and forced to sit down.

  ‘These private dinner parties, Inspector …’ grunted Engelmann sourly.

  ‘It’s Chief Inspector.’

  ‘If you insist.’

  ‘I do.’

  There was a nod and then the firmness of, ‘Please ask her to tell us about them. The most recent, I think.’

  ‘Hans, is this necessary?’

  The look she gave was swift, hard and damning.

  ‘Nana, I can do nothing. It’s up to them. Please try to understand it’s not me who has been robbed but the Reich.’

  Engelmann cleared his throat and, focusing on the gaping maw of the safe, let her have it. ‘Nothing you may well know, Fräulein, but someone made the Gypsy aware of the contents and the vulnerability of that safe, and someone alerted the authorities not only to a robbery by him but …’ He paused. ‘… also the timing of it. Not quite, however, thus his apprehension has unfortunately eluded us for the moment.’

  There was dust everywhere, still the stench of bitter almonds, of nitroglycerine.

  ‘Nana, mein Gott, don’t be so stubborn. Tell them!’ leapt Wehrle.

  She shrugged. ‘It was nothing – how could it have been? The villa is mine but it has been requisitioned for the duration, so I had the opportunity to see at first hand if it was being properly cared for. One does wonder, isn’t that so? And, yes, many of the guests were in uniform – the men, that is. And, yes, I took some of my little orchestra with me and we sang a few “gypsy” songs for them.’

  ‘When?’ breathed Hermann who had slid so quietly into the room none had noticed him and all wondered how long he’d been there.

  ‘Last Monday.’

  A week ago … ‘SS, Gestapo and friends of friends?’ he asked, pleasantly enough.

  ‘Collaborators, yes. Some of the big boys.’

  ‘In the butter-eggs-and-cheese racket?’ went on Kohler.

  The black market. ‘Perhaps. I really wouldn’t know about those types.’

  ‘The rue Lauriston?’ he asked.

  The French Gestapo. ‘Yes, perhaps those also.’

  The Gypsy had been seen in Tours heading for Paris at 1030 hours, 14 January. The dinner party had been on the eleventh. ‘Where’s the villa?’ he demanded.

  ‘In Saint-Cloud.’

  ‘Pas mal, pas mal, mademoiselle. Saved up your sous, did you, to buy it?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Present address?’

  ‘It’s on my papers.’

  ‘Just give it to me.’

  ‘Above the Club Monseigneur, on the rue d’Amsterdam.’

  The quartier de l’Europe and perhaps the dullest, noisiest, ugliest of neighbourhoods in Paris. ‘That’s quite a comedown.’

  ‘But a lot closer to work.’

  ‘Were there any other singers present at the dinner party?’

  Ah maudit! why could he not have left it alone? ‘No. No, there were no others. Not that I knew of.’

  Kohler saw her throw him a look so poignant he winced and felt a fool. There had been others, and now she knew he was as aware of it as she and so was everyone else. ‘The coffee’s here,’ he said. ‘I thought a little brandy might help, Herr Max, and found they had a bottle of Asbach Uralt rucked away for connoisseurs like ourselves. There’s some Beck’s Bier in case the dust has made you really thirsty.’

  The Ritz was full of high-ranking German officers on leave or stationed in Paris, and had been since the Defeat, hence the availability of the refreshments, among other things.

  ‘You think of everything.’

  ‘We try to, my partner and I. It’s a habit we’ve grown accustomed to.’

  Not one to waste time, Engelmann closed with Nana Thélème and was soon getting his turn at the wheel. The Gene
ralmajor remained agitated – Wehrle knew Berlin weren’t going to like the loss. Would he be held responsible? Would restitution be demanded in hugely increased requests? Absolutely! But … but was there something else …? Only time would tell. ‘Louis, our visitor from Berlin is trouble. He’s not happy. Something has upset him.’

  ‘A robbery he was told of but not quite!’ snorted the Sûreté.

  Kohler offered a cigarette, cadged from the Generalmajor. ‘Berlin are never happy. Hey, we’ll sort the son of a bitch out before things get heavy.’

  There was a sigh that, after working with Louis since September 1940, Kohler knew only too well.

  ‘Let us hope there is time, mon vieux. The cigarette is perfect with real coffee, real sugar and milk. You’re learning.’

  Kohler humbled himself. Sometimes Louis needed this. ‘A key was available, Chief. Probable entry was witnessed at 8.15 p.m., exit at 8.47. Our Gypsy knew the Generalmajor would be playing shuttlecocks, but he took the trouble to find the pistol, uniform and attaché case of a Wehrmacht Hauptmann.’

  The coffee was spilled as the cigarette was stubbed out. ‘Why didn’t you say so before you gave me a moment to myself? Have we a body on our hands, Hermann? A German body?’

  If so, reprisals would have to be made by the Kommandant von Gross Paris and others, namely Hermann’s boss. Three, five … ten would be taken from the cells or streets and shot.

  ‘It’s too early to say, but the son of a bitch must have got the uniform somewhere.’

  ‘Was he tall, blue-eyed, blond and forty years old? Handsome, distinguished, and very much the ladies’ man?’

  ‘It was him all right. The whip scars on the face are much tidier than mine. A Dutchman, the femme de chambre thought.’

  One could nearly always count on Hermann. ‘He earned the scars as a boy. In the spring of 1914, at the age of eleven, he left home in Rotterdam to wander with the gypsies. The parents were very understanding – the threat of war was imminent, I think you will recall. The father was a writer of historical romances, the mother an artist, whose paintings Berlin will no doubt have trashed and burned if aware of them. Bohemians at heart, so they knew their son was doing what he thought best and that he would come home a much wiser boy.’