‘Your daughter,’ said Kohler. ‘We have to talk to her.’
‘Then wait. Don’t embarrass us. Hang up your coats and hats. Take a girl. Learn a little so as to silence all questions.’
They’ve come for me, said Nana Thélème to herself in despair. It’s over. ‘Loosen up a little, Colonel. Try not to cling so much.’
Somehow she managed to smile and to laugh a little, but had they finally met her in all of her guises? wondered St-Cyr. Gypsy singer, mother of the son of Janwillem De Vries, finder of diamonds for the Reich, hauler of explosives, purchaser of flypapers and member of a réseau, two of whom were now incarcerated in the Neuilly villa of Gestapo Boemelburg.
Foster mother to the daughter of Tshaya and the Gypsy.
Nana was nearly as tall as her partner and, as the couple circled about the floor, she did it effortlessly but what, really, was running through her mind?
My purse, she said to herself, passing near to them. Will they search it and find the revolver, or can I get to it before they do?
Suzanne-Cécilia had been taken this afternoon. Gabrielle had been arrested yesterday. Everything was falling in on them. They had not realized what had really been going on. They had stupidly thought they could pull it off. Idiots that they had been, they had not thought janwillem would go against them, but had thought only of what they could contribute to the cause.
‘Inspectors, what is it you want of me?’
She had broken off her dancing to stride through the couples. In rapid Spanish she said, ‘Mother, don’t! You’re not involved. Stay out of it. We’ll go into the office.’
‘What have you done, Isabella?’
‘Nothing, idiot! Stay here and teach. Do what you’ve always done. Don’t interfere.’
‘You fool. I warned you to stay away from Janwillem but you wouldn’t listen. He’s never been any good for you and now … now what am I supposed to do? Bury the daughter I sacrificed my life for and raise your son as I raised you?’
Nana stamped a foot. ‘Mother, please, I’m begging you. Leave it. You’ve already said too much.’
In French the woman said, ‘When my daughter was nine, I sent her to live with my father and my brothers in Córdoba so that she could learn to dance and sing. Now look how she repays me!’
The recording changed. Maurice Chevalier sang ‘Boum!’. Nana closed the door to the tiny, cluttered office where billboard posters and press photographs announced her début at the Schéhérazade in 1924.
‘Inspectors, what am I supposed to do? Lead you to Janwillem when I don’t even know where he is and he won’t have anything to do with me?’
Was she still being evasive, or had Gestapo Paris bugged the room? ‘You’re our only link,’ said Kohler.
‘We have to find him,’ pleaded St-Cyr. ‘Someone has to be helping him, not just Tshaya.’
They had come for her and she could see it in their eyes. ‘And you think it’s me?’
‘Exactly how much did the Generalmajor Wehrle tell you of the Reich’s need for diamonds?’ sighed St-Cyr.
‘Nothing!. How could he have? Hans had security clearances you’d be proud to carry.’
Seizing a scrap of paper, he scribbled, Did you relay even that information to London?.
Her eyes leapt. ‘How could I have? Merde, you’re fools! We had a working relationship, that was all. Hans paid me to help him buy diamonds from those who had hidden them away.’
Even this would have been intelligence the British could have used. Kohler hauled her out of the office and into the music. ‘He knew everything about our needs for diamonds. That’s one of the reasons Berlin are so concerned. Now give, before it’s too late.’
‘Then why not ask him? Why not bring us face to face and let him tell you how wrong you are!’
She would get her scarf and coat. She would tell them nothing further since they looked as if ready to arrest her.
She would try to reach the revolver in her purse.
When she went to get her handbag, Kohler was ahead of her and picked it up. ‘Merci,’ she said as she snatched it from him, but had he felt the weight of it, had he realized what it must contain? ‘Now, please, a moment to say goodbye to that kindest and wisest of women. The bane of my existence, but the heart and soul of my life.’
The caviar and the champagne, the Taittinger 1934, were the same: untouched as if waiting yet again for the couple to get together. But a celebration for what reason this time? wondered Engelmann.
Seen from the balcony, the surface of the Ritz’s swimming pool was mirror calm. Wehrle’s body, clad in navy blue bathing trunks, floated face down in the centre to throw its darkened shadow on the decorative tiles below.
‘So, Fräulein Thélème, perhaps you would be good enough to explain this sudden turn of events.’
Engelmann was going to kill her. He knew she was hiding things he had to have. ‘Did he take a cramp?’ she asked, her voice barely audible. ‘He was a strong swimmer. I … I have no idea why he should have drowned.’ Dear God, please help her …
Lies … it was all lies, he thought. Kohler and St-Cyr stood warily on either side of the woman, each trying to anticipate what must happen and what the other would do to prevent it. Kohler had her by the left arm. Her hands were deep in the pockets of that fancy overcoat of hers. The collar was up. There was no hat this time. Her handbag was clamped under the left arm.
St-Cyr had taken a step away from her so as to be free and ready should the need arise, and it would. Büroklammern, both of them. Klötze who should by rights be redeeming themselves by shoving that pretty head of hers under water to make her talk.
‘Berlin,’ he mused, fingering the table settings to see that everything was exactly in its place, and wasn’t that what was needed? he wondered. An order to things. ‘Fräulein, he had been recalled. The telex … Ah! I have it here. He left it beside the pool with the wineglass he used. “Suspected terrorists … an association with one of them. Possible breaches of security … Questions” your Generalmajor could not bring himself to face.’
Ah Christ! swore Kohler silently.
‘Why did he order this little repast?’ shrieked Engelmann, filling the air with the sound of his voice.
In panic, she blurted, ‘I … I’ve no idea. We were not supposed to meet. I … I haven’t seen Hans since … since the night of the robbery.’
There had to be a gun in that purse of hers, thought Kohler. Don’t! he silently prayed. Engelmann will have brought help.
‘“You haven’t seen him,”’ said Herr Max. ‘A correction is necessary, Fräulein. You have not seen him since the night you gave Janwillem De Vries the key to the suite and told him where to find the combination.’
‘No! Why are you still trying to accuse me of such a thing?’
She was quivering. ‘Then why did you say, “Not supposed to meet?” Please explain this.’
She must try to kill herself. She couldn’t let him force her to tell them the truth. ‘I meant only that we had not arranged a meeting. I thought Hans had returned to the Reich.’
‘To see his wife and children.’
‘Yes.’
Below them, around the pool and under subdued lighting, there were deck chairs among the Grecian columns. The wineglass Wehrle had drunk from was with his towel at the poolside, the Beaujolais half gone. ‘I’m going to ask you once more. Why would he have ordered this only to leave it untouched to take his life?’
The grip she had on her handbag tightened.
‘Herr Max, shouldn’t we examine the body?’ asked St-Cyr anxiously.
‘Was it strychnine that killed him, or was it potassium cyanide?’ demanded Engelmann swiftly of the Sûreté.
Merde … ‘Cyanide is very rapid. Strychnine would have taken longer – from five to twenty minutes on average, sometimes an hour or two or even more,’ said St-Cyr, watching him closely.
‘There’d have been time enough for the attendant to have pulled him out,’ interjected K
ohler hurriedly. ‘A doctor could have been summoned.’
The champagne bottle was removed from its ice-bucket. ‘But one wasn’t,’ sighed Engelmann as he began to untwist the wire that held the cork in. ‘Instead, there was an agony so great, Fräulein, it shot needles through his heart. He panicked – anyone would have. Repeated seizures were so violent, he thrashed about and frequently went under.’
Please, she silently begged. Let me kill myself and take you with me.
‘His eyes bulged,’ went on Engelmann, his thumbs easing the cork out. ‘He tried to scream but took in water. He did not know what was happening to him.’
‘All right, all right! He had fallen in love with me!’
The cork flew into the pool. Champagne foamed down over Engelmann’s hands. ‘You betrayed him.’
‘I didn’t! I tried my best to avoid his advances. I meet many men, some of whom become infatuated with me. They’re lonely. It’s only natural but …’
‘But he was different. He was the target.’
‘No! There was none of that!’
She was frantic. ‘Please remove your coat and gloves. Take off your shoes and sweater.’
‘Herr Max, a moment,’ interjected St-Cyr. ‘De Vries has had no contact with her. He blames her for putting him in the Mollergaten-19 in ‘38.’
‘Janwillem was very angry,’ she cried. ‘He wanted revenge and you … you …’
‘Ah! And what did I do, Fräulein? I who know so little of him?’
As champagne filled a glass, her dark eyes glistened with tears. Her handbag was now on top of her coat and accessible.
‘Drink this,’ he said.
Sickened, she frantically glanced about for escape. ‘I … I don’t know why Hans would do this to me,’ she said of the champagne and the caviar. ‘Was he trying to implicate me in something?’
‘How cheated he must have felt,’ breathed Engelmann. ‘Just like Janwillem De Vries.’
Swiftly she smashed the glass he had handed her. Blood ran from her fingers as she clutched the stem and used it to keep him away. Desperately she tried to get at her purse but others ran up the stairs from the poolside, others crowded in on them, tearing Kohler from her, slamming her against a pillar.
St-Cyr fought to get clear of them. A table collapsed beneath him, a chair went over. Seized, yanked up from the floor, his revolver was torn from him and he was held at gunpoint.
She wept as her purse was opened. Frantically she shrilled, ‘Janwillem sent that to me! It’s one of those he took from the Gare Saint-Lazare.’
‘And the others? Where are they?’ shrieked Engelmann.
‘I don’t know. I really don’t! Can’t you see he was trying to implicate me too? Ah damn him, damn him! Why must he hate me so?’
*
The leg of venison had been laced with salt pork and marinated in dry white wine with bay leaves, peppercorns, savory and onions. Drained, it had been roasted for an hour at a medium heat and then for fifteen minutes at a high heat, after which brandy had been poured over it and set aflame.
Brandy as if at a dinner party! and here they were, the two of them, dining with Gestapo Boemelburg in his villa as though nothing had happened and their lives were not in jeopardy. And what was to become of them? fretted Gabrielle anxiously. Suzanne-Cécilia, her nose all but broken and her lips split and swollen, sat across the table from her. Dressed in borrowed evening gowns and wearing diamonds that had, no doubt, been stolen from deported Jews, did they appear to him to be defenceless, demure, sophisticated, poised or just so damned afraid, they could hardly bring themselves to face him?
The Sturmbannführer had come to the château to witness the conclusion of that nothing murder which had brought Jean-Louis and her together. But now, she asked as her plate was set before her, now what was to happen to them all?
‘Enjoy,’ said Boemelburg, gruffly indicating the roast. ‘Try the sauce. You’ll find it superb.’
Furious with them and with how things had gone, he had to ask himself what he was to make of these two? Von Schaumburg and von Srülpnagel were yelling their heads off about the dynamite and the cyanide capsules; Oberg, Head of the SS in France, was demanding an immediate end to things, as was Gestapo Mueller in Berlin. Everyone wanted the loot. Everyone was being greedy. He’d be the laughing stock of Paris and of Berlin if the débâcle continued and the Gypsy escaped.
‘One would have thought you would have left well enough alone and kept out of trouble,’ he grumbled, referring to the murder.
‘But I have, Sturmbannführer,’ replied Gabrielle earnestly. ‘Every night until five o’clock in the morning I sing for your troops. I do it out of loyalty and the goodness of my heart. They’ll have missed me. Personally I hope they will not be too upset and that their morale will still be cheered on by my recordings.’
Verdammt! how could she persist? ‘Don’t tamper with me, Mademoiselle Arcuri. It’s serious. You’ve been under surveillance for some time.’
What did he want from her? A full confession over dinner with her throwing up all over the place? ‘It wasn’t right of your people to have bugged my dressing-room at the club.’ They hadn’t been following her, too, had they?
Sauce dribbled from his fork. ‘Wireless signals were being picked up repeatedly and not just by Gestapo Paris.’
‘Pouf!’ exclaimed Suzanne-Cécilia. ‘Quelle folie, Sturmbannführer! They found nothing – nothing, you understand, and yet they still persist in accusing me? Why did they not ask of the comings and goings I and our gatekeeper have heard at night? Oh bien sûr, some do try to find a place to bed down. Are we to have thrown those poor unfortunates out at such an hour and in such terrible weather?’
‘Transients?’ he asked, bemused.
‘Exactement!’ she exclaimed, blood trickling from her broken lips as she cut into her venison. ‘Sometimes I have to remain in my surgery overnight. A zebra with bronchitis, a wart hog with appendicitis but is this a reason to accuse me of terrorism?’ She used her napkin to staunch the bleeding.
‘Those transients …’
‘How were we to know they had a wireless set? Ah maudit, Sturmbannführer, please ask how many of your soldiers I have given conducted tours to? And then … why then …’ She caught a breath. ‘Ask, please, would I knowingly have taken them into a place where there was a hidden wireless set?’
‘Would I have reported the theft of my car and the presence of those explosives had I been a terrorist?’ asked Gabrielle earnestly. ‘The ones who stole my car must have been the same as had the wireless set.’
He ate in silence and he could see that they were worried they had offended him. He had to go carefully. Sympathies were running high, what with the constant attention of the press. Gabrielle Arcuri, particularly, had a tremendous following and not just here in Paris but all over the Axis world. Three women. Verdammt! what was he to do?
At least one of them had to be broken. That would then cause the other two to confess. With full confessions there could be no questions from von Schaumburg or any of the others. Short of this, the whole affair would have to be handled very carefully. Sonderbehandlung. Berlin would demand no less. An end to them.
He set his knife and fork down and took a sip of the Vouvray demi-sec that had been taken from the cellars of the Château Thériault not two weeks ago. ‘These days people are dropping out of sight all the time. Everyone questions where they’ve gone but no one dares to ask.’
He’d arrange it – was this what he was telling them? wondered Suzanne-Cécilia. Letting her anger get the better of her, she said bitterly, ‘Is it true what people say about Marguerite Vilmorin?’
More sauce was taken. Potato cakes were a side dish and he took another of these and some carrots and peas. ‘And what, precisely, do they say of that one?’ he asked and there was a lifelessness in his voice which made her shudder.
‘That … that when presented with what they were about to do, she bared her breasts herself and that her inter
rogator then talked of philosophy and music while he burned her breasts and ribs and then her vertebrae with a red-hot poker and questioned her for hours. That … that he then served her real coffee which she could neither taste nor feel since he had also torn out all her fingernails.’
Boemelburg threw down his knife and fork. ‘How dare you? Now either you co-operate or you go to Buchenwald where the axe will take that silly head of yours from your shoulders!’
She ducked. She cringed. She blurted, ‘Forgive me. I … I’m so ashamed. The meal …’
‘Quit being a faux jeton, madame! Use that brain of yours which is so capable.’
He was going to kill her.
‘Now have a little wine. Drink it down and Georges, here, will refill your glass.’
Dear Jesus help them.
Boemelburg oversaw the Bickler Unit, a school which trained informers and infiltrators who then penetrated the Resistance. Tshaya? wondered Gabrielle. Had Henri Doucette sent her to such a school or had he simply put her to work, she needing no training in those arts whatsoever?
And what of Nana? she asked herself. Could Nana hold out long enough to say the right things? Everything depended on her doing so. Everything …
‘Now look, you two, I’m giving you both the opportunity to avoid such treatment,’ said Boemelburg. ‘If we could trap the Gypsy perhaps things would be better for you.’
Berlin would be appeased – was this what he was saying? ‘Are you offering us a deal?’ managed Gabrielle.
‘Betray the Gypsy and you will let us go free?’ asked Suzanne-Cécilia. ‘But … but how could we possibly do such a thing when we do not even know him and have had no contact with him other than for me to be tied up in bed – yes, bed, Sturmbannführer – while he boiled dynamite the terrorists had given him? The terrorists!’
She burst into tears and, shoving her plate aside, put her head down on her arms and wept.
He was having none of it. ‘Think of your Marguerite Vilmorin if you wish. Think of baring your own breasts. Those robberies were all targeted, madame, and well beforehand. He had help. Your friends can be connected to at least two of the robberies. More, if persuaded.’
Gypsy Page 23
