Gypsy

by J. Robert Janes

  The rue Lauriston, the French Gestapo … ‘How long has your association with her been going on?’

  ‘Two years. She …’ Wehrle threw Mademoiselle Thélème a look of anguish the woman could not fail to notice. This caused her to pause in her response to Max Engelmann and the Berliner turned swiftly to glare suspiciously at them.

  ‘She …?’ asked St-Cyr, dragging the victim back to things.

  ‘She’d had word at last from a source she had been trying to secure for some time. Nana’s not just a singer. She and her mother run a very successful school of popular dance. You’d be surprised how many lonely men want to learn to dance or to just be with someone for an hour or two. These days more than ever.’

  And so much for her working six nights a week at two clubs and spending all the rest of her time with her son.

  ‘Nana’s patient and yes, because of the villa in Saint-Cloud and her life in Paris before the war, she knows a great many people. Even prospectors want to learn to dance and listen to gypsy music when on infrequent visits.’

  ‘Prospectors?’

  ‘A former prospector of the Congo, South Africa and the Niger. Illegal stones then, in the thirties, illegal now. Nearly a full kilo of crushing boart – superb in itself. Samples from a prospect he still remains excited about. But …’ Wehrle took a moment to nervously run a finger through the dust on the coffee table. ‘But 1800 carats of mixed stones, mostly industrials suitable for cutting tools but among them, 657 carats of Jagers, Top Capes and Capes. The first of these are good, clear white stones with a bluish tinge due to fluorescence; the latter two are also flawless, but with faint yellowish tints. It was an exceptional haul and well worth the trip.’

  The truth at last. ‘And when was this trip made?’ hazarded the Sûreté.

  ‘Nana can’t have been involved. Damn you, how many times must I say it?’

  ‘The trip, please?’

  ‘Last Tuesday. To Tours.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘To Tours, damn it!’

  ‘Name and address?’

  Wehrle sighed. ‘Émile Jacqmain, a Belgian, a Walloon who has lived in France since 1930 when not abroad in Africa.’

  The brandy and the cigarette were savoured, the Sûreté waiting expectantly like a bullfrog for its dragonfly.

  ‘The house is on place Plumereau. The flat is right above a butcher shop. Jacqmain can’t have had anything to do with this. It’s ridiculous you should think he could. I checked him out thoroughly. I don’t as a rule walk into any of these arrangements carrying a million or so francs and not examine the credentials well beforehand and, I might add, discreetly.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Good? Is that all you have to say?’

  Cigarette ash was tipped into an empty coffee cup. ‘Did Mademoiselle Thélème travel to Tours on Tuesday so as to pave the way for you?’

  ‘She’d have needed a laissez-passer. I’d have had to sign for her.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Yes but … but we couldn’t celebrate until this evening.’

  ‘But I thought you said you couldn’t be seen together?’

  ‘We can’t, but he insisted nothing would go through unless she spoke to him first on that Tuesday. My hands were tied.’

  ‘Did you travel together?’

  Wehrle was frantic. ‘How could we have? We didn’t even see each other except briefly at the station. She went into his flat at about 2 p.m., I didn’t meet with him until seven that evening. As it was, I had to stay over.’

  ‘And keep everything in your hotel room, not in the safe?’

  ‘Yes! Now are you satisfied?’

  ‘Generalmajor, forgive a poor detective. One questions everything but is never satisfied. Always there are so many things to remember.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘That this deal was not only a big one, n’est-ce pas? but also apparently quite different.’

  St-Cyr took a moment. Longing for another cigarette, he borrowed two. ‘That safe was full but how full, please, in terms of your usual collections?’

  Ah Gott im Himmel, the bastard! ‘Very. It … it was a superb shipment. One of the best, if not the best so far.’

  The truth again. ‘And eagerly anticipated in Berlin?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘And you had paid Jacqmain how much, please?’

  Would this infernal idiot from the Sûreté look for dirt under everything? ‘850,000 francs. About a tenth of their value. Usually I offer a little more but one always starts low.’

  ‘Yet Jacqmain accepted this?’

  It was not a question. A faint smile would therefore be best. ‘Could he really have argued, since his name was known to me? He was afraid for his life, Inspector. The diamonds had become a liability.’

  Soon after the Defeat of 1940, all items of personal property in excess of a value of 100,000 francs had had to be declared and lists submitted to the authorities. Failure to report such valuables carried an automatic penalty of confiscation and, if serious enough, a lengthy jail sentence or forced labour in the Reich.

  No doubt Nana Thélème had reminded Jacqmain of this but, still, for him to have been afraid for his life could well imply something more serious.

  ‘Louis …?’

  Hermann was looking like death. ‘Well, what is it?’

  ‘The son of a bitch knocked off Cartier’s in the rue de la Paix.’

  * dried fish and rye bread.

  * all those other than gypsies.

  2

  Shadows fell on bejewelled finches in locked little cages of gilded wire. When torchlight found them, their encrusted emeralds, topazes and other precious and semiprecious stones suddenly lit up as if, now awakened, the birds would begin to sing. It was curious.

  The cages were a window-dressing, their padlocks of gold perhaps a statement to the Occupier that some things would not be sold. And to be fair, the shop would have been lost had it not been kept open. Yet business had been extremely good, the temple of haute joaillerie booming, as were all the exclusive shops of the rue de la Paix.

  ‘The Reichsmarschall Goering purchased an 8,000,000 franc necklace here,’ said St-Cyr, letting the black-out curtain fall back in place. ‘Diamonds and thumb-sized sapphires perhaps, and for his wife, his Emmy.’

  The conquering hero. Head of the Luftwaffe. ‘Louis …’

  ‘Hermann, I am merely trying to get a fix on things. Unlike our Generalmajor’s suite, this place has locks upon locks and the best of burglar alarms.’

  An iron grille guarded the door during off-hours; steel shutters the display windows. ‘Every two hours, and at random, a patrol goes along the street and, as is his custom, the Feldwebel in charge checks every door to see that it is locked just in case the flics should miss such a thing.’

  ‘Impregnable,’ offered Kohler lamely.

  Black, velvet-lined boxes littered the floor. At the far end of the shop, every one of the floor-to-counter individual safes had been opened and their trays pulled out for perusal. The little dressing-tables at which only the wealthy would sit looked decidedly lonely.

  ‘The bastard’s moving too fast for us,’ said Kohler grimly. ‘What’s next, eh?’

  ‘He must have got in somehow.’

  Cartier’s were famous for their art deco approach and the mingling of precious and semiprecious stones. The style was simple, the lines straight, the pieces often one of a kind, exquisitely worked and fabulously priced.

  ‘He can certainly pick his places,’ offered the Sûreté, hands jammed into the deep pockets of the decidedly shabby overcoat the Occupation and frugality had allowed, the brown fedora much damaged. ‘Please tell the boys in blue to wait outside in the cold.’

  Herr Max was grumpy – the lack of sleep perhaps, or still smarting from the Ritz, thought Kohler. ‘So, what is missing, ja?’ asked the visitor from Berlin, distastefully taking it all in.

  There were travel cases, combs to fix the hair in place,
beaded handbags and watches, and all had that decidedly bright, sharp, angular look. Frivolity in wartime, was that what was bothering Herr Max?

  ‘The sous-directeur and his assistants are trying to tally things,’ said Kohler.

  ‘Und who reported the break-in?’

  ‘A flic found the front door open at 0127 hours.’

  ‘Did he help himself before notifying others?’

  ‘I’ll check.’

  ‘You do that. He’s blown a hole in things, hasn’t he, our Gypsy? Here we were believing the woman had let him into the Generalmajor’s suite and had told him where the combination of that safe was kept, and now this. What are we to think?’

  Brushing the dribbled sparklers from a chair, Engelmann sat down to moodily soak up what had happened and to relight the stub of the cheroot that had steadfastly clung to his lips ever since leaving the Ritz at a run. Hell, the shop was just down the street anyway.

  ‘Sonderbehandlung, Kohler. That is what my superiors have insisted, and since they are also your superiors, you and that French fart will take note of it.’

  Special treatment … Verdammt! ‘I knew there had to be something to bring the IKPK out of hibernation. What’s he done then, our Gypsy? Decided on an agenda of his own?’

  ‘This we do not know. We only know that he was sighted in Tours on the fourteenth, boarding the train to Paris. He “surfaced”, Kohler, and my superiors want to know why he did so, how he got there, and what he has in mind.’

  ‘And you can’t tell us who reported seeing him?’

  Must Kohler always be such a nuisance? ‘The same as notified us of the Ritz but failed entirely to warn us of this.’

  The mouton then, the informer. A woman the Gypsy obviously must know.

  The office was spacious, the desk immaculate. The cigarette case was of platinum, with an oblong, octagonally shaped plaque of Baltic amber raised at its centre and from which incised rays sparkled as if the amber was some sort of strange sun and the entrapped fly its prisoner.

  ‘“Tshaya”,’ said St-Cyr softly of the inscription. ‘“Vadni ratsa”. The first is a woman’s name; the second means the gift is from the wild goose of Romani legend.’

  Agitated, the clerk blurted, ‘The client came in on Saturday, Inspector. He insisted it be ready for today – ah! for Monday, yes? It is now Tuesday. It’s not easy to acquire amber like that. We worked all day Sunday and half of Monday. Enslaved, that’s what we are. Enslaved.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. A Hauptmann – you’re certain of this?’

  ‘Herr Oberlammers. He … he has signed for it, yes? Everyone has to these days. It’s the rule.’

  ‘And he was to pick it up yesterday afternoon?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘At what time, please, did he come into the shop on Saturday?’

  The salesman’s expression grew pained. ‘At just before closing.’

  ‘And were there any other customers?’

  ‘Seven. We’re short-handed. I …’

  A breath was taken and held in anticipation of further questions not long in coming.

  ‘Do you mean to say you left him alone while you served others? You took your eyes from him?’ demanded the Sûreté accusingly.

  ‘Inspector, how was I to know he was looking the place over? He was in uniform. He asked if he might use the telephone so as to get the inscription correct.’

  Kohler gave his partner a nudge. ‘The burglar alarm, Louis. The bastard recircuited the wires so that the alarm remained off but the light came on when the switch was thrown.’

  The control box was in the office, on a wall. ‘Entry?’ asked St-Cyr of his partner.

  ‘A rear door. A tradesman’s entrance – grilled, but no problem. Forced with an iron bar, muffled with a horse blanket.’

  ‘And the safes out front?’

  ‘All drilled and punched. Bang on each time, Louis. First the hole to locate and expose the cam of the locking bolt, then the hammer and chisel.’

  ‘He came equipped but did he come alone?’

  ‘Apparently, but he couldn’t have carried the tools in that attaché case he walked into the Ritz with.’

  ‘Then did he knock this place off first, Hermann, before leaving his little surprise at the Ritz, or vice versa?’

  ‘He would have had to come back here to open the front door for the flics to find.’

  There was a nod. ‘Then he did the Ritz job first, and while we were brushing the dust off ourselves, he took his time with this, having prepared the way well beforehand.’

  Clément Laviolette was sous-directeur, a far different person from his sales clerk. Clearly he didn’t want the Kripo and the Sûreté asking too many questions. ‘Inspectors, it’s nothing – nothing, I assure you. Those little safes we have out front are merely for show. Our vault in the cellars is inviolable. Please … a few trinkets are missing. Mere baubles.’

  He was positively beaming, and when he sat down in an Empire fauteuil to benevolently fold his hands in his lap, he said, ‘Two millions at most when he could have had thirty. The rectangular, chain-linked diamond necklace with matching bracelets. Two rings with step-cut, rectangular, blanc exceptionnel stones of 31.98 and 19.53 carats respectively. A wider diamond bracelet than the others – stronger, yes. More distinctive, more of a statement. The latent pugiliste in the female perhaps? A pair of ear-rings – single droplets those – he could have had the proper ones to go with the chain-links but passed them up. A ruby pendant, a diamond brooch, an epidote-and-diamond necklace which was exquisite for the delicacy of its platinum lacework and for the warm and enticing combination of its soft green and pale yellow tints.’

  He sucked in a breath, never letting his eyes leave them. ‘But it is as if this perceur de coffre-fort was searching for something he had had in mind for a long time yet couldn’t quite make up his mind when presented with the confiserie of our establishment.’

  The bonbon shop, ah yes. ‘Seven years between sheet metal in Oslo, Louis, the sentence commuted by our friends in Berlin for all we know, but time enough to dream. Then one empty safe and a fortune left behind.’

  ‘One empty safe …? Ah! messieurs, the vault in the cellars was not touched, as I have only just informed you.’

  Kohler let him have it – St-Cyr knew he would. ‘Then why weren’t the little safes out front emptied and their contents locked away below? Isn’t that the normal procedure at the close of each day?’

  There wasn’t a ruffle of discomposure. ‘The pressures of business. The shortages of suitable staff. It’s understandable, is it not?’

  ‘Five millions,’ grunted Louis.

  ‘Perhaps a little more,’ conceded Laviolette. ‘When we have the final figure we will, of course, be quite willing to divulge it.’

  How good of him. ‘Ten at least, Louis.’

  ‘The insurance, Hermann.’

  They turned to leave the office. ‘Messieurs …’ bleated the sales clerk. ‘The cigarette case … It … it has only had the deposit.’

  ‘Tack it on to the rest, eh? Lose it if you have to.’ Kohler slid the thing deeply into the left pocket of the greatcoat that, had he worn a helmet instead of a broad-brimmed grey fedora, would have made his appearance all the more formidable.

  Touching a forefinger lightly to his lips and shaking his head, he whispered, ‘Don’t even mention it to the detective out front. It would only upset him.’

  The vault was indeed inviolable. Even tunnelling under it would have been of no use. ‘He had to have known the staff had become complacent, Hermann, and that things were being carelessly left overnight in the safes upstairs.’

  ‘Someone has to have looked the place over for him. A woman, no doubt. One who could have made several visits. This piece, that piece …’

  ‘See if there’s a record of the clientele. Try for a singer, for Mademoiselle Thélème. The shop is on her way to the Ritz.’

  ‘Done, but why did the son of a bitch leave the cigar
ette case behind? He must have known they’d have it ready? He’d have had access to the office and to the sous-directeur’s desk during the robbery.’

  ‘Perhaps our Gypsy was too busy. Perhaps it was only a means to his looking the place over and to hot-wiring the burglar alarm.’

  ‘Perhaps he simply forgot it in the rush,’ said Kohler, lost to it.

  ‘Then why have it inscribed in such a manner?’

  ‘That’s what I’m asking myself, Louis. Why did he deliberately go out of his way to identify himself with the Rom while wearing the uniform of those who must at least officially hate them?’

  The house at 3 rue Laurence-Savart was in Belleville, on a street so narrow, the canyon of it threw up the sound of the retreating Citroën.

  As Hermann reached the corner of the rue des Pyrénées, the tyres screeched and that splendid traction avant grabbed icy paving stones. Then the car shot deeply into the city St-Cyr loved, and he heard it approach the Seine – yes, yes, there it was – after which it reached place Saint-André-des-Arts and coasted quietly up to the house on the rue Suger. Five minutes flat, from here to there. No traffic. There seldom was at any time of day or night, and in ten minutes one could cross the city from suburb to suburb. The cars all gone. 350,000 of them reduced to 4500 or less; 60,000 cubic metres of gasoline a month reduced to an allocation of less than 600.

  As one of the Occupier, control of the Citroën had passed instantly into Hermann’s hands. They were capable, of course, and occasionally Hermann did let him drive his own car just so that he wouldn’t forget how to. And yes, they had become friends in spite of it and of everything else. Two lost souls from opposite sides of the war, thrown together by the never-ending battle against common crime.

  ‘War does things like that,’ he said aloud and to no one but the darkness of the street. ‘We’re like a horseshoe magnet whose opposing poles agree to sweep up the iron filings. All of them.’

  The city proper held about 2,300,000; the suburbs perhaps another 500,000 and yet, even with 300,000 or so of the Occupier, on any night at this hour or just after curfew it was so quiet it was uncomfortable. And at 4.47 Berlin Time, it was all but ready for the first sounds of those departing for work. Not a light showed, and the time in winter was one ungodly hour earlier than the old time; in summer it was two.