Duvivier leaned forwards, confidentiality tightening his mouth.
“There’ve been too many anicroches. Our Hauptsturmbannführer likes his Operations simple. Cut and dried. Which is why I don’t need to volunteer our cock-ups.”
“The queer, The Pigface, the Judas...?”
“Of course. But because I walk the tightrope, we move on. The only way is west. To the King David Hotel. As agreed.”
The garçon kept the bill under his thumb, but as he set the new coffees down, it fluttered to the floor. “Éxcusez-moi.” He bent down and noticed how clean were the workers’ shoes and the legs of their bleu de travail. “New job?” he ventured as Vidal counted out centimes.
“You could say that.”
“My father started today, too. Twenty floors up. Éspace de Loisirs. You know it?”
“Course. Big place.”
The boy stared for a moment. There was something odd, about the older one, especially, he thought. His eyes, and that terrible skin.
“He tried to get me on it, but the thing is, I like meeting people.”
“So I see.”
The boy’s expression changed when he saw no tip was forthcoming. He flounced away scowling.
“Cheeky sod,” said Vidal. “I could lose him his precious job.”
“Not now, Robert, eh?”
And when the pest had gone, the two edged in closer, shutting out the world that was beginning to encroach. Their hands almost touching, their coffee breaths intermingling.
“Would you say, all things considered, that our Faith has made us more whole than we were before?” Vidal suddenly asked, licking his spoon.
“Only the woman with an issue of blood could answer that, my friend.” And before either could finish, two more police cars swung into the square, sirens clamouring, and stopped in front of the Cathédrale.
LVI
Twenty-two-year-old Leila Fraenkel deliberately kept her bedroom window open, letting the westerly wind from along the Loire blow her long hair back from her face. Three full days to the start of Yom Kippur. Three more days of small indulgences before the fast – so she took another waffle from the pack; felt its sweetness, honey and icing sugar, melt on her tongue.
She opened her boyfriend’s letter again. Singapore, September 3rd. The flimsy airmail seemed to represent the rest of him, and she soon gave up trying to extract the most meaning, the most possibilities from his easy words. Water from a stone, she thought bitterly, screwing it up and throwing it in the bin.
“But God matched you and Ben the moment you both were born,” her mother would insist whenever mail or a call from him came through. But these had become ever rarer, and the last few times Leila had tried the Compasun office where he worked, the receptionist, always chatty, nevertheless apologised for his absence and seemed genuinely sorry.
“That’s it, then.” Leila finished the waffle, realising that ending the relationship would be like pulling teeth. For when Pauline Fraenkel had threatened like a good Jewish mother, to fly out and confront him, the generation gap that had simmered for years, exploded.
“I want to live my own life, mama. Just because papa was the first boy you met... It’s not like that for me. I have been five years in Paris, remember?”
“I do. Only too well.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“When you’re my age, you’ll understand that memory lengthens like an evening shadow, bearing with it all the mistakes, the heartbreak of the past...”
And then she’d not spoken for a week, smiling to the hotel guests in her best silk pleated skirts, but coldly sweeping by when her only child appeared. Leila went into the bathroom to wash her hands, but no water came. Instead, just a hollow gurgle from the gold tap. Even the toilet had no flush.
Damn and blast.
She sprayed perfume on herself instead.
The members of the Touraine Cultural Committee would be arriving soon. All of them over sixty. All of them either musical or artistic, or both, but none had been deterred from their mission by yesterday’s terrible tragedy in Paris.
Leila was grateful for their fortitude, especially as she’d spent time and money framing her latest paintings for the Treasurer, an American woman now living in Tours who was interested in promoting her. Working for a patron with contacts was better than working in the hotel, and success and involvement might help her forget the useless, long-distance love affair. Besides, she missed the Art School, her friends, the whole Parisian thing...
She brushed her hair again and checked her blouse buttons. Pink and pale pink. Happy, happy. Then she took the lift down to reception.
“Got a little problem with my bathroom.” She gave Simon Müller, trainee manager, a wry little flirty smile. “No water.”
“I’ll tell Monsieur Fraenkel right away, and we’ll do a check on the others as well, though there’ve been no complaints so far.”
“Thanks,” then she hesitated. “Oh, by the way. Simon?”
“Yes?”
“I know you’ve got other more important things to worry about, but, from a male perspective, what do you think I should do about about... you know... Ben?”
Her huge dark eyes that in a certain light seemed edged with gold, fixed him like a specimen on a pin. He was clearly embarrassed, but it had been his dutiful nature that had appealed to the Fraenkels in the first place and now it prevailed again.
“You both seemed to get on brilliantly whenever he stayed here, but it’s like, well...”
“Go on.”
“He’s not bothered any more.”
Her heart plummeted in her chest.
“It’s that obvious?”
He nodded.
“I know what I’d do if I was him. Stop messing you about. ”
“Oh Simon.”
Then, as if by looking at this younger man, barely out of technical college, her lover’s memory was sharpened and honed so as to be almost unbearable. The quiff like a little black wave on his forehead. His laughing mouth...
“Are you alright?”
“No, not really.”
But he’d turned to straighten his tie. People were coming in. “By the way, I won’t forget about the water.”
“Thanks.”
Next moment she saw her mother, and could tell by the swing of her skirt that something was up. Pauline Fraenkel’s strong, immaculately made up face was seized with fear. In her hand a cassette tape. Plain, with no cover, no details of contents. She passed it over to her daughter without a word.
“Just play it. Came with the afternoon post. At first, I thought it might have been another bomb.”
Leila shivered.
“Does papa know?”
“Not yet. I wanted you to hear it first.”
Her daughter took it upstairs, grateful that at last her mother was willing to share something with her other than Ben Lokolieff. The thing felt dirty, strangely heavy. She held it with trembling fingertips. What on earth was going on?
She was aware of the expected company milling around in the foyer below, and that her patron had spotted her and called her name. But somehow this felt more important. No sign of her father.
Comme d’habitude.
From under her bed she pulled out her old ghetto blaster, with INXS still in place. She held her breath as she traded the simple joys of teenage bedroom dancing for something strange, darker. And dangerous.
“So who’s left?”...
“Fill him up. When wine goes in the secret comes out, n’est-ce-pas? And what’s yours my friend. What are you hiding from us?”
“I loathe all Jews. They’re the black worms of our planet... I see them as a plague on all our earthly lives.”
“He’s lying. Lose him before it’s too late.”
“I disagree. Our new friend’s quite delightful.”
“Fill him up again. I’m fascinated.”
“I have never knowingly lied in my life. The Black Death will come again. I have seen
it in dreams. I also believe the notion of roasting a sheep’s head as opposed to the rest of it, is to promote the illusion that they are superior. That they think they are the head of things and the rest of us are arseholes...”
“Better and better...”
Even before the tape had finished, Leila extracted it using a tissue. She’d already thought of fingerprints.
Too late. Mine, mama’s and God knows who else’s must be on it...
She flew down the stairs, gripping the foul thing as though it had symbiotically become a part of her – an extension to her hand. A key to the door of Hell and all the chambers it had spawned.
“Papa!”
Michèle in reception pointed to the salon, her dark eyebrows raised.
The chandeliers were lit even though it was afternoon and still light. Four of Leila’s paintings took up one wall, deliberately for Della Schwarz to see her latest work. Close-ups of food for Rosh Hashanah, yellows and greens for the New Year.
A pianist in the corner beyond the suits and smart dresses, persevered with a Chopin Étude – a sound so light and delicately cadenced it was almost lost among the earnest talk and sudden laughter. But when he saw the hotelier’s normally sober daughter charged through the gathering, he stopped playing altogether.
“Papa! You must get the police. Now,” she shouted. “It’s us who are in danger now.” She thrust the cassette at him, but Mordecai Fraenkel seemed nonplussed, aware, as a sensitive host that his guests looked disorientated, even frightened. “I’m going to try and find the packaging,” she said. “See what the postmark was.”
“My dear Leila, I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about. This is all very embarrassing. You know these good people are dipping deep into their pockets to save our Synagogue...”
“I do know, but I don’t want to die for it.”
He watched her weave back through the room, her dark hair flying. He saw too, his wife’s distracted expression despite Gidéon Zupert’s attentions. The last time he’d seen her like that, was after news of what had really befallen her aunt Agathe and her twin sons near the yellow Vistula. This was serious.
Fraenkel quickly excused himself to his immediate guests and made his way over to her, his frown deepening with each step. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Not here.” She led him out into the foyer, to a corner next to the main display cabinet. Porcelain titbits and animaux boîtes twinkling under the lights. A cocooned and tempting world now easy to ignore.
“Pipi, I don’t think you and Leila understand. I’ve worked hard to get all this organised.” He checked his watch. “I can’t really leave these good people. They’re our guests.”
“I’m sure they’d understand.” She said wrily. “I think someone’s been considerate enough to send us a warning. Oh, Mordy. It’s frightening. Four or five men talking such filth...”
“Filth?”
Leila emerged from the study. In one hand the tape covered in a pink tissue, in the other a padded envelope.
“Reims. Posted yesterday. 2 p.m.”
Reims?
Through the cabinet glass she saw the receptionist staring as she answered the phone, so Leila turned her back on her. “Take them, Papa, and call the police. Please. For all of us.”
“Kvetching. Kvetching... OK. OK. Let’s hear the thing first. It’s too easy to be emotive. Knee-jerk may not be the best response in this instance...”
Mother and daughter looked at each other in despair and Simon Muller who was too polite to ask what was wrong, coughed before he spoke.
“Monsieur ’Dame, Mademoiselle here asked me to mention there’s a problem with the water supply to her en suite...”
“I forgot to tell you,” Leila said quickly, colouring. “What with all this...”
“I’ve already seen to it,” the receptionist announced from her desk. “Kitchen had reported a blip with the waste disposal as well, so I took the liberty of getting the firm from St. Cyr. They’re due here at sixteen thirty.”
“Thank you, Michèle. Much appreciated.” The hotelier smiled back at her. Another of his top class recruits proving indispensable.
Once inside the study, he listened to the recording with his eyes closed, hands becoming fists as the conversation in the Hôtel Marionnette unfolded. A chill descended on the room, normally warm and welcoming. Death fixing their paled faces, planning their destiny.
Fraenkel leapt to the phone and asked for ‘his friend’ at the Angenay Gendarmerie.
“Tell him to come over now,” Pauline urged pulling on his sleeve, but he covered the receiver.
“He can’t. Got a meeting with the Examining Magistrate.”
“I’ll take it, then,” Leila’s voice high with anxiety. “I can be there in ten minutes.”
“You’re needed here, my good girl, with our guests. We keep calm, that’s the most important thing.”
“Exactly what Uncle Auguste said when the first tank turned the corner into the Herengraacht.” Pauline scoffed, but there was no smile, instead that family’s spectres haunted her eyes. “Come on.” She took Leila’s arm. “Tell Mademoiselle Schwarz her protégé will be back before the meeting.”
The two women left by the main revolving door and, for a split second, Leila noticed that Michèle Bauer-Lutyens had left her post.
***
At four thirty precisely, while the Touraine Cultural Committee were ensconced round the occasional tables in the salon, with sweet muscat and honey cakes for refreshment, the pair of plumbers from St. Cyr rang the bell at the entrée de service and were shown to their stations.
LVII
Dominique Mathieu spent half an hour in the toilettes at Tours Centre Gare shaving the stubble that in twenty-four hours had turned his jaws brown. Something was triggering the follicles into overdrive – probably guilt and fear. Whatever, twenty-four hours was all it had taken, and nerves now gave him a damaging hand. His clean shirt collar was soon marked by blots of dark drying blood.
But this is the least of my punishments.
“In a hurry, eh?” A salesman stood alongside snicking his nostril hairs with a miniature pair of scissors. “Can’t keep a girl waiting.”
“You’re right.” Mathieu didn’t want to talk at all, but silence might arouse suspicion.
“Where’s she, then?”
“Oh, some hotel. Near the river.” And before Mathieu could cultivate more lies his companion clapped him on the shoulder.
“Aye, aye. One of those, eh? Here. Try this.” He passed him a Calvin Klein body spray.
Eternity. Yes, yes please...
“Works bloody wonders. Just a whiff and wow, you have a pair of legs open at the ready.”
“Thanks.”
He tried to avoid the other man’s eyes, for his own imagined photofit lay already reflected by the mirror. Him and the others set out in a line of hatred in Le Monde, Figaro, Paris Soir. Deadly half-tones with gloomy lowering gazes.
He’d sent the complete, traitorous Kodak film off to his father with a note of sorrow and regret begging him to act. Anonymously, if need be. And urgently. Also to clear out his flat and contact Raôul Boura for a prayer. His mother Angélique was not to know.
“Well, good luck, then.” The salesman zipped up his case, and Mathieu watched him swagger through the door. When his soles had tap-tapped him away up the steps, he crammed a beret on his head and unfolded a Michelin of Tours and its historic environs.
Ah. The Forêt d’Essecotte. I remember Duvivier mentioning it for later... Something useful at least from the swine... Could be 20 kilometres from here... but how on earth to get there...?
His finger traced the journey with increasing despair. He couldn’t use a taxi and the railway went either south-west, the wrong side of the Loir, or north-east, towards Orléans and Paris. Nor could he hitch, having to stay as anonymous as possible.
After a final dab at his cuts, Dominique Mathieu moved swiftly, driven from behind by the rising wind t
hat suddenly seemed autumnal, and the desire to make some amends for his weakness, his shocking collaboration.
Loose leaves from the plane trees along the Champ Malgagne spun like bats and fastened themselves on his body. His face even, blinding him for an instant before he found what he was looking for.
A Peugeot bike. No lock. Ready and waiting. A miracle when he needed it most, except he’d resolved he would no longer be recognising such things. Tyres hard, and a narrow saddle he could just about live with.
Thank you, whoever you are. You don’t know what this means to me.
Early evening traffic sang its own repetitive dirge as he diverted through Luynes on the D76 and found the road to Essecotte. Colder, sharper than Marseilles, where his tiny attic room in the Pension Bienvenue near the Gare St. Charles had been almost suffocating. He sneezed twice. Then he saw the sign.
Le Manoir King David. Tout confort. Restaurant gourmand.
Hunger and thirst had silently devoured him to the point where his stomach began to hurt. He thought of a steak Béarnaise and melting frites, until he remembered why he was there.
All at once, the sound of a speeding car behind him made him pull over, his heart wild with fear, made his near-side pedal catch on a clump of weed.
Damn you. Damn.
A silver Clio veered past. A fleeting glance showed two dark-haired women. The younger one driving was stunning. He stared after her, noting the Paris number plate and a Euro Disney sticker on the boot.
She’s obviously lived away and come back home. For what? Doesn’t she realise?
Mathieu had instinctively known they were from the hotel, and too beautiful to die. He pedalled harder, vainly attempting to catch them up as the road through the Gatine Plateau levelled, brushed on either side by heathers and huge russet ferns.
Soon he was on a driveway lined by young poplars and soft with chippings that skewed his tyres and threw him off balance.
Just then, behind him, the keening whine of a gear too low coming closer, like the scream of an eagle nearing its prey. Headlights, even though it wasn’t yet dusk, and two men inside, their faces urgent and troubled. Faces he recognised.
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