Sandman

by J. Robert Janes

  Still they waited. A little later he said, ‘When breaking railway lines, bridge abutments or gun emplacements we used to put down a patty of wet clay first. A good daub of it. Then the sticks lying side by side but never ones like those, and only one would have the cap and fuse, or cap and wires if we were to use electrical blasting. It’s all really very simple once you get the hang of it and quit being afraid. More clay covers the charge – a thicker layer. Works every time. Defused them too, the other side’s. Had to. Orders were orders. I want the truth, mademoiselle, ‘cause you and those damned things are scaring the hell out of me.’

  ‘He’s the father of my son, my Jani.’

  ‘Janwillem De Vries, the Gypsy.’

  ‘Yes, but we never married. He was arrested in Oslo and was sent to prison.’

  ‘That why he hates you?’

  ‘I … I don’t understand what you mean?’

  ‘Then I’ll make it plainer. Did you tip off the authorities in Oslo so that they could put him behind bars?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I hadn’t seen him in ages by then. Nearly two years. I thought … why, that he’d gone completely out of my life.’

  He hated to correct her. ‘When was your son born?’

  Ah damn! ‘5 November 1938.’

  Kohler didn’t say anything. He let her think what she would, but as sure as that God of Louis’s had made birds to sing, the Gypsy and this one had been together in late January or early February of 1938. De Vries had been arrested 20 April of that year. Would the news of fatherhood have pleased him? he wondered, then thought briefly of Giselle and looked again at the dynamite.

  ‘So, now he’s turned up in Paris again and he’s aware you’ve moved from Saint-Cloud to here.’

  ‘Yes, but … but don’t ask me how he became aware of it.’

  ‘Tours,’ he said. ‘Was he the reason you went there last Tuesday?’

  ‘No! I went there because of the diamonds. Monsieur Jacqmain, the prospector, would not sell them to Hans unless I … I personally guaranteed his safety by making yet another visit.’

  ‘You’re a busy woman. You go to a party on the previous night. You sing your heart out for the SS who are occupying your villa, then you catch the 5 a.m. express to Tours.’

  ‘Not quite. The train did not leave until eight.’

  ‘Tell me something, mademoiselle. Who attended the party and why was it given?’

  ‘Now listen, I’ve already told you at the Ritz all I know about who was there. As to why the party was given, those kinds of people don’t tell people like me anything. We played and sang for them, that is all.’

  But was it? he wondered. ‘And on Thursday the fourteenth the Gypsy is seen in Tours boarding the train for Paris.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry those men were killed at the house in the rue Poliveau and I’m sorry he tried to kill you but …’

  ‘“The” house – you said “the”, mademoiselle? That implies you knew of it.’

  Ah no … ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘But maybe you did, and when my partner gets back we’re going to sort you out. Oh by the way, in case you were wondering, Jean-Louis St-Cyr’s name is still on some of the Resistance’s hit lists. Could that be why your Gypsy’s trying to put paid to us?’

  ‘I … I wouldn’t know. The Resistance …? Please, what the hell do I have to do with those people?’

  ‘That’s what I’m asking myself.’

  The two detectives spoke quietly, and Nana Thélème wished with all her heart she could hear what they said. The bomb-disposal unit were packing things up. The car on the street below was being given another going over. The sewer had been opened to find the blasting cap.

  They’d trace the dynamite – this would cause them some delay but she really didn’t know how she could possibly stop them from doing so. She still could not understand why Janwillem had left such a device below the apartment of his son, the little boy he’d never seen.

  Had the bomb gone off, it would, at the least, have sent flying glass inwards, perhaps killing Jani and herself.

  Letting the edge of the velvet drape fall from her hand, she stood a moment undecided – wished then that she had not been trying on the loose-fitting, rose-coloured, striped silk chiffon trousers with their long waistcoat of rose and gold lame and the outer one that came to just below her waist but was of many vibrant colours and much fine needlework. She wished she had not had her dancing shoes on. The heavy, black high-heels with their sturdy straps gave her height, strength and that overt alertness and suppleness of body she did not want at the moment.

  St-Cyr was studying her. He’d remember that her hair was still loose and that there was the look of the gypsy about her. He’d see the gold ear-rings, the heavy gold bracelets and rings. He’d think there was more to her than met the eye.

  Tshaya … A fly in amber. Vadni ratsa. Why had Janwillem asked for such a thing as that cigarette case? Was it to have been her final insult?

  No. No that was the bomb in the car below.

  ‘Louis, the Resistance have to be involved. They’re the only idiots desperate enough to fool around with stuff like that. We’ve got to find the quarry and quickly, and then trace the stuff to whoever took it.’

  The Resistance and Gabrielle, and was this not the reason Herr Max wanted a certain Sûreté’s head? ‘Perhaps but … ah mais alors, mon vieux, is it that others wish simply to make it appear as if the terrorists are involved?’

  The SS of the avenue Foch, the Gestapo of the rue des Saussaies, or the French Gestapo of the rue Lauriston. Louis couldn’t know he had talked to Boemelburg. Not yet. ‘I’ve thought of that too. Engineer a crisis, eh? so that you can then have all the authority you want to stamp it out.’

  The relief of Leningrad, the defeat at Stalingrad were excuses enough but so, too, were increasing acts of ‘terrorism’ and related evasions of the forced labour draft, the hated Service de Travail Obligatoire which was sending so many workers to the Reich but also driving the young men to swell the ranks of the maquis.

  ‘Knock off a few places to make sure the loot taken more than compensates for the effort, eh? since if the plan works,’ said St-Cyr, ‘all those involved in it will be handsomely rewarded with a lot left over for the bosses.’

  ‘But it isn’t working, is it?’ said Kohler sadly. ‘He’s buggered off on them.’

  ‘And now they have to have him back.’

  Louis dragged out his pipe, only to ruefully examine the meagre contents of his tobacco pouch and, momentarily furious with life, put both away. ‘There’s no denying his parking the car outside her flat can do nothing but cause her trouble.’

  ‘He can’t be happy with her but is he with anyone?’

  ‘Someone’s been helping him and not just with that uniform and ID he got in Tours,’ muttered St-Cyr. ‘He knew Wehrle’s safe would be loaded. He knew all about Cartier’s, knew the Gare Saint-Lazare kept its receipts too long, and knew enough of the house on the rue Poliveau to take the keys to it.’

  ‘He had to have help getting from the Gare to that house. Two suitcases, a large rucksack … The patrols, the risk of being stopped … He was carting dynamite too, wasn’t he?’

  ‘A bicycle would have been sufficient, Hermann. He has all the recklessness and nerve needed to ride one when fully loaded and on ice. No problem.’

  Louis was just evading things. ‘A car,’ breathed Kohler sadly. ‘Who do we know in the Resistance who has one?’

  Hermann had finally got to it. ‘I was hoping you wouldn’t ask, but even Gabrielle can’t drive about after the curfew without a laissez-passer.’

  ‘I’ll check it out. I’m going to have to, Louis. Someone had to haul that dynamite around. Someone had to find it first and then store it. Boemelburg and Herr Max will expect it of me. I’m sorry, but I have no other choice.’

  ‘Tshaya … we have to find her too.’

  *

  ‘Lucie-Marie Doucette. I know nothing of her,’ said Nana Thélèm
e. ‘The name, it is unfamiliar to me.’

  The flat grew still.

  Herr Max had arrived at the departure of the bomb squad. Furious with her, and with Kohler and St-Cyr, he said quietly, ‘Nothing, Fräulein?’

  Louis started forward. Kohler grabbed him. Still she stood defiantly in those all-but-Ali-Baba trousers – that was the way Engelmann would see her – with arms tightly folded across her chest. And all around her, the Turkish and Afghani leavings of the Marché aux Puces, the flea-market stalls in Saint-Ouen, threw back their throw-rug colours and kilim-patterns. Dark reds, blues, greens and yellows, the geometry of their patterns and the pseudo-mid-Eastern attire so foreign and repulsive to him, they could only bring anger at her obstinacy.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said.

  The hammered brasses glinted. Gilded, carved neo-Gothic chairs were caught in wall-mirrors that must have come from some circus, the beautifully sculpted head and shoulders of a gypsy patriarch too, a Rom Baro, a ‘big man’, a leader with a fiercely bushy moustache that drooped at its ends. The Rassenverfolgte, the racially undesirable and here she was keeping images of them.

  Herr Max removed his bifocals, letting his gaze pass myopically down over her. Untidy wisps of hair fell across his brow. ‘Tshaya?’ he asked again.

  All around the room, watercolours gave scenes of gypsy encampments and caravans. Portraits too. The smoke, the scent of camp fires, of women and young girls washing clothes in a stream, of an ancient matriarch pouring Turkish coffee from a superb brass jezbeh, of another wearing heavy necklaces and earrings of gold coins. Holland, Belgium, Normandy, the Auvergne … Provence, Spain and Andalusia, where hadn’t Janwillem De Vries travelled with them?

  The paintings were exceptional and St-Cyr realized then that De Vries could so easily have become an artist of a far different sort but … she had got the message.

  ‘All right, I … I did know of her once,’ she said sharply.

  Engelmann gripped her by the chin. She yanked her head away. ‘But … but your former lover slept with her, Fräulein, with this marhime lubnyi you hate so much? That unclean whore took him from you, yes you! She could have had any man she wanted, but chose instead that which was forbidden by gypsy law. A Gajo. Always it was your Gypsy she wanted right from when she was seven years old and he but a boy of eleven. When marriage to De Vries was refused absolutely by her father and all the others of the kumpania, she ran away to Paris to find him. Age fifteen then, in 1922.’

  Her nostrils pinched. The smile she gave was swift and cruel. ‘She found she had a sudden likeness for muscles, for the smell of male sweat and the thrill of being splashed by blood during a fight!’

  Oh-oh, thought Kohler.

  ‘Henri Doucette,’ sighed Herr Max, pleased that he had got her to respond with such acrimony. ‘The Spade, Fräulein, a guest at that party in your villa a week ago Monday. Her husband, her conductor. She was his mouton, his informer. Tell me, please, did he applaud your singing?’

  Dear Blessed Jesus, help me, she said silently and then acidly, ‘He was too drunk and loud to have noticed.’

  ‘But had brought her along?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And she knew who you were?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you were forced to sing gypsy songs in front of her, knowing you were no gypsy yourself but that she had taken the father of your son from you?’

  Her voice leapt. ‘What would you have had me do? Refuse those loudmouthed, arrogant pigs?’

  His eyebrows arched. ‘The SS? The Gestapo and the French Gestapo who were their guests?’

  ‘It was my house! Doucette deliberately tried to humiliate me. They thought it a great joke. They were drunk. There was food everywhere. On the walls, the ceiling, the carpets – my carpets! They threw it. They encouraged their whores to do so and when one of them tried to dance naked on the table, they clapped and roared and slapped her behind.’

  ‘No. No that is not quite correct. Tshaya danced for them fully clothed as a gypsy. While you remained silent, your little orchestra played for her. She showed you how it was really done. If anyone humiliated you, it was her.’

  ‘He … he had sex with her on the table afterwards while they all shouted encouragement. He … he stripped her naked and she … she spat in my face when I tried to cover her.’

  Ah Gott im Himmel, swore Kohler silently. Louis was thinking the same. Debauchery – her villa, everything she had once owned and had taken pride in but for these few things, the paintings …

  ‘I don’t know where either of them are, nor do I know if they are hiding together or who, if anyone, is helping them.’

  ‘Then why the tears?’ asked Engelmann. ‘Is it that you are afraid for them?’

  She clasped her mouth to stop herself from vomiting and turned away. ‘Because you can’t control a man like that! Because wandering is not just a way of life, it is life! Lock him up and he’ll go crazy. Crazy! do you understand? That is what you have to deal with now.’

  ‘And is she helping him?’ said Herr Max.

  ‘She must be!’

  ‘But … but you were the only one other than the Generalmajor Wehrle who knew the contents of his safe?’

  Stung, she turned back to face him. ‘No! that is incorrect. Everyone who sold diamonds to Hans knew those things were in his safe. Others, I don’t know who, would have known he made his shipments to the Reich once a month or even once every two or three months. It all depended on how much there was.’

  ‘Where will she go?’

  When Nana Thélème shrugged, Engelmann hit her. Shocked, dazed and bleeding from the nose and mouth, she stumbled back and fell to the floor.

  He stepped between her legs and she waited defiantly for the kick he would give.

  Doucement! ‘Now just a minute, Herr Max,’ swore St-Cyr. ‘Janwillem De Vries has at least one bottle of nitroglycerine. If we waste any more time here, Berlin will be certain to question the delay.’

  ‘The Spade, Louis. Let’s go and have a talk with the son of a bitch!’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Herr Max, grinning at them for having given him exactly what he had wanted from them. ‘Perhaps she should join us. Then if Doucette says something she disagrees with, she can clarify the matter.’

  ‘I’ll have to change,’ she said, sucking in a breath while silently cursing him.

  ‘No you won’t. You’ll come just as you are. It’ll do you good. It’s never warm in the camps in winter.’

  ‘Buchenwald … is it that you are going to send me there?’ she blurted.

  He did not answer. Shattered, she found she could not move.

  Louis took her gently by the arm and quietly confided, ‘For now we must do as he says. Here, be sure to put on your overcoat and boots, a scarf and hat. Mittens … have you no mittens?’

  ‘I’ve done nothing.’

  ‘That won’t matter.’

  Buchenwald … Why not any of the other camps? Why had she said it if not knowing, too, that Tshaya’s father had been sent there?

  Déporté 14 September 1941.

  * crap.

  Buy Gypsy Now!

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  copyright © 1996 by J. Robert Janes

  Cover Design by Linda McCarthy
/>
  978-1-4532-5188-1

  This edition published in 2012 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media

  180 Varick Street

  New York, NY 10014

  www.openroadmedia.com

  THE ST-CYR AND KOHLER SERIES

  FROM MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

  AND OPEN ROAD MEDIA

  Available wherever ebooks are sold

  Otto Penzler, owner of the Mysterious Bookshop in Manhattan, founded the Mysterious Press in 1975. Penzler quickly became known for his outstanding selection of mystery, crime, and suspense books, both from his imprint and in his store. The imprint was devoted to printing the best books in these genres, using fine paper and top dust-jacket artists, as well as offering many limited, signed editions.

  Now the Mysterious Press has gone digital, publishing ebooks through MysteriousPress.com.

  MysteriousPress.com offers readers essential noir and suspense fiction, hard-boiled crime novels, and the latest thrillers from both debut authors and mystery masters. Discover classics and new voices, all from one legendary source.

  FIND OUT MORE AT

  WWW.MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

  FOLLOW US:

  @emysteries and Facebook.com/MysteriousPressCom

  MysteriousPress.com is one of a select group of

  publishing partners of Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

  Open Road Integrated Media is a digital publisher and multimedia content company. Open Road creates connections between authors and their audiences by marketing its ebooks through a new proprietary online platform, which uses premium video content and social media.

  Videos, Archival Documents, and New Releases

  Sign up for the Open Road Media newsletter and get news delivered straight to your inbox.