Pulled. ‘It’s the same at home, Louis. Some things never change. See that Hermann behaves himself. Drop everything. Satisfy von Schaumburg we’re doing a good job. Berlin has asked for this.’
Berlin.
More couldn’t be said because Kohler had entered without knocking. The Bavarian strode up to the desk and dropped the purse in front of his boss. With heavy hands Boemelburg shoved aside the day’s mountains of paperwork before emptying the purse on to the desk.
A hand spread the contents out, then he stood up to get a bit of distance and have a better look at things.
‘A woman of substance,’ he said, indicating the crystal perfume vial, the ivory cigarette holder, monogrammed silver cigarette case, lipstick, compact, small, tight roll of ten-thousand-franc notes, condoms in their very own little silk purses, a tiny pencil in its silver tube …
‘Address book, where is it?’ demanded Boemelburg, saving the whereabouts of the diamonds for the last.
Kohler drew himself up. ‘Not present, Herr Sturmbannführer.’
Was that pity in Walter’s gaze? wondered St-Cyr.
‘And the diamonds?’ asked Boemelburg quietly.
‘Being evaluated, Herr Sturmbannführer.’
Evaluated! Bullshit! ‘Where?’
‘Fournier’s on the rue du Faubourg St-Honoré.’
Boemelburg glanced at his watch before fixing Kohler with a general’s eye. ‘How are things going for our boys on the Russian Front, Hermann? I ask because I haven’t the time to listen to the wireless.’
Kohler swallowed before lamely saying, ‘Not too well, I guess, Herr Sturmbannführer.’
‘Then you’d best go and get them, eh? Oh, and Hermann, take a velo-taxi. Don’t you show up in front of the Kommandantur in that car Louis has been forced to let you drive. We’re to be seen as needing an increase in our gasolene allocation. Be late for your meeting with von Schaumburg. Five minutes, so as to emphasize we’re overworked. Oh, and leave the guns here. You’re not going to impress him with those. You’re not members of the Carbone* gang, not yet. And have a strategy,’ went on Boemelburg. ‘The two of you back to the site of the crime for some spadework then on to the seminaries – work on the red herring of the novice priest. Lay it all out for him and listen to what he has to say. Don’t mention the purse or the diamonds. Let him tell you about them. Berlin … I’m warning you, Hermann. Berlin has asked for this.’
‘Berlin?’ bleated Kohler as they beat a retreat down the hall.
St-Cyr gave a magnanimous toss of his hands. That just shows you what happens when generals talk to generals.’
‘And the Wehrmacht has to give in to Himmler’s wishes and let the Gestapo look after the policing of France. No doubt that little vegetarian fart has addressed a joint meeting of the Oberkommando der Wehrmacht, the High Command itself!’
Everyone knew that the honeymoon was over. In the first years of the Occupation the Army had been very correct with the people – far more decent with the French than if the shoe had been on the other foot. True, the economy had been and was being plundered, and now the young and not so young were being taken away to enforced labour. And true, in spite of all protestations to the contrary, more than 1,500,000 French soldiers still languished in prisoner-of-war camps within the Reich.
But acts of violence had increased – some of which had been set up on Himmler’s orders – and now the Wehrmacht had been forced to relinquish the policing to the Gestapo.
Understandably they weren’t happy about it.
‘Who is this guy anyway?’ demanded Kohler, glaring at one of the photographs.
‘A nobody, Hermann. A flea in the elephant’s ear.’
‘Or up his ass!’
‘You should have told me about those diamonds.’
‘I couldn’t.’
‘Any special reason?’
‘No … No, nothing special. Just a feeling I have.’
‘Walter’s asked me to keep an eye on you, Hermann. I think I’d better.’
‘Want a fag?’
‘Yes … yes, I would like that very much, and a canister of pipe tobacco if you can find such a thing.’
Kohler knew he’d have to let him have the last word but couldn’t resist saying, ‘You’re learning, Louis. Gott in Himmel but you are!’
Turcotte was in charge of Records, lord of his empire. The Sûreté’s card index files and dossiers occupied the whole of the sixth floor, the top floor, and the card indexes before the war had been as good if not better than the Gestapo’s in Berlin. Even the innocent had cards just in case they should stray from the straight and narrow or be related to someone who did. Apply for a hunting licence, a marriage certificate, passport or visa and automatically one got a card. Age, sex, marital status, number of children, closest relatives et cetera, et cetera … It was all here.
Beyond the maze of lead-grey filing cabinets, neglected windows gave back the surrealistic smearings of careless pigeons.
More rain, thought St-Cyr – his mackintosh was leaking. He’d have to find some glue or varnish – waterproofing compound was unheard of with Stalingrad so much in the news and the Russian winter begun.
Idly he wondered what would happen here if the Germans should lose, which they would. He was certain of it. A faint glimmer of hope. It was what kept one going. That and Marianne and the boy, and thoughts of the small farm he’d like to have …
Provence and retirement from all the slime, but now … why now, there was only Stalingrad.
Turcotte came back into view. ‘Well, what is it this time?’
Kohler showed him the worst of the photographs. ‘We need an ID on this one. He’s very dead.’
The lark’s eyes snapped light. ‘Do you always carry a purse like that, or is today something special?’
‘It’s St-Cyr’s birthday plus one, so we’re going out to celebrate. Now give, eh? The boss has to know.’
‘The boss … Your boss.’
St-Cyr got ready for the load of wind but it didn’t come. Boemelburg must have phoned upstairs.
He shot the green requisition ticket over the counter but didn’t receive any thanks.
Turcotte had a staff of seventy detective-clerks in grey smocks but dealt with this request himself, disappearing into the warren to find the photographic section and and the missing persons’ bank. ‘When was he killed?’ came the shout, fast fading.
‘Three a.m., 3rd December,’ called St-Cyr, not wishing to complicate things. ‘A back road from Fontainebleau to Barbizon.’
‘No other leads?’
‘None, I’m afraid.’
‘Thanks. Thanks a lot, my friend. Why don’t you guys do your homework before you come up here to demand the world?’
He was at the photographic desk now. They could hear him saying, ‘Top priority,’ but then his voice must have dropped to a whisper.
Kohler pulled down a lower eyelid and made a face. ‘Are you really serious about that tobacco?’ he asked quietly.
‘Yes, of course I am.’
‘Won’t half a tin do?’
‘At a pinch, yes. Yes, of course.’ Anything. I’m desperate, St-Cyr wanted to say but didn’t.
The Bavarian glanced around before flicking open the counter door and stepping through. He had perhaps ten seconds and he used them all to reach Turcotte’s frosted, glassed-in cubicle, wing open the lower desk drawer, find the tobacco and return.
He was beaming when the lark came back and demanded the return of his tobacco. ‘Don’t you ever let me catch you doing that again!’
‘Sorry, Émile. You know how it is. Louis, here, is fresh out. His wife’s buggered off and the poor bastard has the humps.’
The lark clucked his tongue. ‘Come back this afternoon. We’re to do a full search. The Sturmbannführer Boemelburg has demanded it.’
‘You could have told us.’
‘You’re not trustworthy. I had to find out.’
‘The diamonds …? But, monsieur, they are
not here.’
Kohler gripped the edge of the bevelled Victorian glass counter. ‘What the hell do you mean, they’re not here?’
The manager of Fournier’s was a frightened little man who couldn’t keep still. ‘We had to take them to an expert – one who is very well qualified, you understand?’
‘A Jew?’ snapped Kohler, rocking the air.
Frantically the manager’s eyes flew to his customers who were scattered about the fashionable shop. ‘Yes … Yes, I’m sorry, monsieur, but …’ He threw up his hands in despair. ‘I can have them back by five o’clock.’
Kohler’s fist hit the glass. ‘You’ll have them back in one hour or else.’
‘Hermann, please. Allow me,’ soothed St-Cyr with a brief smile. ‘Monsieur, you did not let the diamonds leave this shop. To do so would be to lose all credibility and your licence. So …’ He ran his eyes over the sunken treasure that lay beneath the glass. ‘So you will have the diamonds here by five o’clock as you’ve said, or else.’
‘But…’
St-Cyr raised a silencing hand. ‘No buts, my friend. Your messenger won’t be followed. Just see that the stones are ready and have your evaluation clearly recorded on the packet, signed by yourself and witnessed with the date as well, so that we can compare it with our other appraisals.’
‘Tour other …?’
‘Yes. It’s always best to get three or more appraisals before selling, isn’t that so?’
Of course it was.
Out on the rue du Faubourg St-Honoré they climbed back into the velo-taxi and told the girl to take them to the Kommandantur. ‘As fast as you can, eh?’ said St-Cyr.
Kohler was all shoulders and arms, the twin wicker baby carriages just big enough for one of them. ‘Louis, I’m sorry about the diamonds. I really do apologize.’
St-Cyr shrugged. ‘Think nothing of it, my friend. What are a few little things like that between partners? But the woman’s address book, Hermann … That I should most certainly like to see.’
‘It’s in my room at the Boccador, under the carpet.’
St-Cyr shook his head in wonder. ‘And you’re supposed to be a Gestapo detective. Care to tell me about it?’
The girl’s rump was going from side to side, the jacket creeping up above her slender waist to reveal a pink sweater and blouse. ‘Later, perhaps. Look, I still want to think about it, Louis. This thing …’
This little murder. ‘Yes, I know it’s trouble.’ Mon Dieu, he wished Hermann wasn’t so big across the shoulders!
The wheels of the velo-taxi breathed over the rain-slicked stones, adding their lack of sound to Paris’s general hush. Apart from the few German cars, and occasional Wehrmacht lorries, there were no other motorized vehicles in sight. Only bicycles and more and more of them, and the inevitable velo-taxis of course.
It was like riding through creamed soup on a spoon.
The girl signalled a left as she turned on to the rue Royale and the grey light made greyer still and more majestic the splendid Corinthian columns of the Madeleine.
St-Cyr wept for France when he saw the church. Always it was like this. Dry tears and unspoken thoughts, a tightening of the throat.
The girl was wearing trousers of heavy twill and, with a start, he realized they’d been dyed and that they were from among the leftovers at Dunkirk.
British Army fatigues – sometimes half the nation was partly dressed in them. ‘She looks quite good in them,’ confided Kohler with an appreciative grin. ‘Cute, wouldn’t you say? Gott in Himmel, Louis, I’d like to see those trousers down around her ankles.’
‘Don’t get any ideas, Hermann. We’ve work to do.’
The Kommandantur rose out of the near end of the Place de l’Opéra, one of twin buildings on either side of the avenue de l’Opéra. A great big, black-and-white signboard was curved above its entrance to fit the curve of the wall.
No one could have missed it, but German road signs gave the directions anyway.
Every Parisian who wanted to do anything had eventually to turn up here. It was the house of papers and rubber stamps.
The girl pulled into the kerb and swung breathlessly around to smile at them. What the hell, one had to. ‘So, one hundred and fifty francs, if you please, messieurs.’
‘Your name?’ snapped Kohler.
She lost the pretty smile. ‘My name …?’ she began, looking for a fast exit.
‘And the address,’ announced Kohler, dragging out his notebook.
St-Cyr found two one-hundred-franc bills and said, ‘Come on, Hermann, we’ve better things to do.’
Unfortunately the clock on the wall above the entrance gave the bull’s-eye of ten past eleven.
Von Schaumburg wasn’t pleased. In fact, he wasn’t even there.
‘He’s gone to the morgue. The general has suggested that if you two gentlemen can spare him the time, he’d be glad to meet you there.’
Out on the Place the girl with the velo-taxi had vanished.
The corpse was only one of many. Three nuns were weeping over the shrouded bier next door, while a priest thumbed his prayer book as if unable to decide which page to use for cigarette paper.
Cold … it was so cold, the condensation had frozen on the walls. Great yellowish-grey-green curds hung like snot awaiting a thaw.
Sounds echoed. White-coated, solemn grey men, their pill-shaped white box hats often smeared by bloody thumbprints, moved about the place as if butchers drifting through ether. Some dragged rubber hoses, others pushed brooms or pulled window wipers across the puddled floor. One carried a meat saw, another a clipboard.
There was a cough, and then a cloud of filthy cigarette smoke.
The grizzled moon-face of their attendant turned to them and the fleshy lips parted to betray a set of rotten teeth. ‘So, my friends, do you want the shroud removed or merely pulled back?’ He indicated the nuns.
Kohler said, ‘Remove it.’
‘Entirely?’ asked the man, with surprise.
‘We’re detectives,’ came the answer.
The nuns turned away in horror. The youngest one stole a further glance. The boy was beautiful – like Christ in alabaster, rigid with rigor and so pale.
‘I was right,’ breathed Kohler. ‘The bugger’s been circumcised, Louis. Will you take a look at that.’
‘I am. How many times must I tell you that little surgical procedure is as much for hygiene’s sake as for religion’s? He’s no more Jewish than you are. Now cover him up.’
‘Frightened by the sight of death, eh?’
St-Cyr shook his head, but as the priest and the nuns had fled, there was no sense in fussing. ‘Where’s the general?’
‘Talking to the Chief,’ replied the attendant.
‘Then tell him we’re here.’
The man departed, leaving them alone with the corpse. The boy was slight, he had an angel’s build. Bluish shadows had grown beneath the eyes which were now closed.
The lips looked cold.
‘Let’s tell the general the boy’s Jewish. It’ll go a lot easier for us, Louis. Don’t be a stick about it.’
‘Von Schaumburg’s a Prussian of the old school, Hermann.’
‘A real Junker’s bastard. He hates you French.’
‘And you Gestapo, so we’re even.’
‘Then you handle it, eh?’
‘He won’t let me.’
‘He’s a dyed-in-the-wool bachelor, a real shit when it comes to protocol and morals – marital fidelity and all that crap.’
‘He won’t have heard about Marianne.’
‘He probably has. Nothing much gets past him. Look, I’m going to show him the boy’s wanger. I’ve got to.’
‘Scars … are there any scars?’ asked St-Cyr loudly, as the sound of highly polished jackboots broke from across the marble floor.
‘One under the left arm, across the upper ribcage. Looks to be about five centimetres long. An old scar. Not stitched. Probably a fall as a child.’
; St-Cyr wrote it all down. The steps grew closer. ‘Anything else?’
‘Right nipple has a small nick below it. Recent, Louis. The wound’s not even closed. Now what the he … e … ll?’
‘Attention!’
Kohler crashed his heels together without even thinking. St-Cyr let the hand with its notebook fall to his side. ‘General …’
Von Schaumburg was taller, bigger than Kohler. The shoulders of the open greatcoat betrayed none of the advanced years, the peak of the military cap shone sharply through the perpetual gloom.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ he demanded – not quite a shriek.
Rock of Bronze to his staff, Old Shatter Hand to others, von Schaumburg waited. Kohler began.
The general listened. One meaty hand crushed black leather gloves that could be swung. The other hand irritably stuck the monocle over its eye, magnifying the blue intensity. ‘You … your names?’ he demanded. ‘Gestapo,’ he spat. ‘Imbeciles. Who is he, why did he die, and who killed him?’
Kohler began it all again only to be interrupted by, ‘His name, damn it?’
‘We don’t know that yet, General.’
‘Why?’
Round and round it would go, sighed St-Cyr inwardly only to have the thought interrupted by, ‘The Führer should never have let you people into France. I warned him there’d be trouble. The Army are perfectly capable of looking after things. This could have been settled in an instant.’
‘By burying the boy?’ asked Kohler. ‘He’s Jewish, General.’
Kohler reached for the boy’s penis.
‘Jewish my foot! That’s not always the case, you idiot! This matter must be settled and quickly. I want full reports on my desk each morning at 0700 hours until the case is solved.’
‘Even if he’s Jewish and a nobody, General?’ tried Kohler desperately. 7 a.m. was just a bit too early. Jesus!
Kohler… Munich … One of Mueller’s boys.
Von Schaumburg took in the sagging jowls, the shrapnel scars … Kohler … Artillery … Yes, yes, he’d been in charge of a battery of field guns on the Somme. A lieutenant then. No decorations for bravery. Taken prisoner, 17 July 1916.
Mayhem Page 4
