by Mark Frost
Ververt stared at him without responding until Eddie felt compelled to take a sudden interest in a book of matches.
“I don’t know anyone by that name,” said Ververt, pausing to light his next cigarette from the butt of his last. “Even if I did, and it happened that he had recently been arrested along with every other man in your battalion, why would I tell you about it?”
“Because you needed him,” said Eddie. “It’s left a hole in your supply chain. I worked closely with Captain Stringer, I kept his books, so I know how much business you did together. We never met, but that’s how I know about you.”
Ververt looked back and forth between the two men, as Eddie’s coffee arrived.
“I misjudged you,” he said.
“Sorry?”
“I thought you were military police. I am so relieved to learn you’re not working undercover,” he said, then turned to Von Leinsdorf. “Such a disadvantage in my business. I take everyone at their word.”
Eddie seemed bewildered by the man’s deadpan cynicism, and looked to his companion.
“What is your name?” Ververt asked the other man.
Von Leinsdorf didn’t seem to hear the question, looking toward the stage. “What’s with the jungle music?”
“They’ve played this way in Montmartre for twenty years. Le tumulte noir; the tourists come for it. It’s as much a part of Paris as our contempt for them.”
“I thought the Germans put a stop to it.”
“When the Nazis took over, they decided it is degenerate music. A Negro-Jewish conspiracy to undermine the morals of the French, as if they had any, but a more particular threat to the morals of the Germans. Theirs, as you know, are more established as a matter of public record.”
“That’s rich,” said Eddie.
Ververt glanced at him again, then turned back to Von Leinsdorf. “My personal theory is that it reminds the Boches of the Jazz Age, Paris in the twenties, and the shame they suffered at Versailles. That’s what it’s about for them, this Nazi business. We’re all paying for rubbing their noses in the shit. So American jazz was banned during the Occupation. The last four years we play only ‘French jazz.’”
“The Liberation change that?”
“Now the locals can’t get enough. And the soldiers, the Americans, they like it, too. And they like our women,” said Ververt, looking out at the audience. “Especially the blacks.”
“So why call it American jazz?” asked Eddie. “Sounds the same to me.”
“These days if I called horse shit ‘American’ I could sell horse shit sandwiches. Paris will tire of you soon enough, you’ll see. Liberators quickly turn into occupiers.”
“You get any British in here?” asked Von Leinsdorf.
“Everyone comes to Montmartre. We create a fantasy here; that sin can be packaged, contained, sold like chewing gum. It appeals to a fundamental part of human nature, whether it’s Nazi, American, British, bourgeois, resistance, collaborator.”
“I don’t see any Brits.”
“They’re not allowed to wear their uniforms,” said Ververt. “Some concern that they mustn’t be seen in any boîte de nuit that traffics in this alleged black market.”
“That’s the English for you. Always erring on the side of propriety,” said Von Leinsdorf. “They don’t approve of premarital sex because it might lead to dancing.”
Ververt snorted, his approximation of a laugh.
“Don’t they have their own officers’ club?” asked Von Leinsdorf casually.
“They’ve taken over Maxim’s,” said Ververt. “Do you know it? The Rue Royale?”
“Who’s been to Paris and doesn’t know Maxim’s?” said Von Leinsdorf, with a Gallic shrug.
“It’s not the same. The gendarmes arrested the maître d’ recently, Albert, a very well-known, a very well-liked local personality.”
“For what reason?”
“For extending the same courtesies to the Nazis that he has shown the haute monde for twenty-five years. This was not collaboration, it was hospitality. An essential part of his business.”
“I’ll bet those same gendarmes who arrested Albert,” said Von Leinsdorf, “have been collaborating with the Nazis in Maxim’s for the last three years. And the only reason was to prevent Albert from testifying against them in the reprisals.”
“You see? Exactement! The perils of Liberation.”
“That’s what you can count on in times like these,” said Von Leinsdorf. “Égalité, liberté, hypocrisie.”
Ververt picked up the two thousand from the table. “Money has no politics. It will outlast ideology.”
“Ah yes, but will we, my friend?”
Ververt snorted in appreciation and pocketed the cash. “Come back tomorrow night. Seven o’clock, before we open.”
Von Leinsdorf stood up to leave and Eddie followed suit. He knew that Von Leinsdorf had forged a bond with the man, and that he’d gotten what they came for, but he wasn’t clear about how or when it had happened.
“Where do the Brits keep their officers’ mess?” asked Von Leinsdorf.
“The Hotel Meurice,” said Ververt. “Rue de Rivoli.”
“The Meurice. Ah yes. Walking distance from Maxim’s.”
“You get the idea.”
Ververt gestured to his flunkies and they escorted Von Leinsdorf and Eddie away. Von Leinsdorf surveyed the cramped, low-ceilinged room as they moved through the mixed-race crowd that included a number of interracial couples. All eyes were on the tiny stage, where the quartet was heating up, sweat pouring off them under the lights, blacks playing saxophone and bass, white men on piano and bass.
“Hey, Dick, you want a drink?” asked Eddie, catching up with him near the door, flushed with success. “They say it’s on the house.”
“I don’t drink with niggers,” said Von Leinsdorf, and walked outside.
The neon sign outside, LE MORT RAT, threw garish red light onto the wet pavement. They turned up their collars against the cold and threaded through the tangled warren of steep, cobblestoned streets toward the small apartment a few blocks away that Eddie had rented with cash after they arrived that morning.
“Have to say, that couldn’t have gone much better,” said Eddie, breaking the silence. “You see that scar on his face? Bet that wasn’t a cooking accident.”
“He’s a Corsican pimp and a drug dealer and he’ll cut your throat the first chance he gets.”
“Be that as it may, according to our books the son of a bitch always paid on time for goods received.”
“It’s one thing him doing business with the army, Eddie; the size of your outfit kept him in line. He knows we don’t have that kind of weight behind us. You’re sure your boys at the depot can deliver?”
“They’re in like Flynn. It’s the Christmas train, le jackpot of jackpots. Bringing in luxury rations for every dogface in Paris.”
“And the branch line runs through Versailles.”
“Yeah, I’ve worked it myself. Don’t worry, this is a bull’s-eye right down the stovepipe, baby. Pull off this one score, we retire to the land of tits and honey.”
“Yes. The American Dream. Hedonism and sloth.”
Eddie didn’t catch the irony. “Man, it’s a beautiful thing.”
36 Quai des Orfevres, Paris
DECEMBER 20, 10:00 P.M.
Earl Grannit and Bernie Oster had been sitting on a bench in the cavernous lobby of the city’s police headquarters for over two hours. A large electric clock ticked directly overhead, above a bulletin board plastered with sheets of official announcements. Grannit’s badge hadn’t made much impression on the harried civil servants manning the desks and scurrying through the halls. They watched as uniformed gendarmes hustled in a steady stream of suspects for processing through their overworked justice system. From a detective’s bullpen beyond the foyer the clatter of multiple typewriters clashed with the sound of raised voices shouting at each other in French.
“Business is booming,�
�� said Bernie.
Grannit lit another cigarette, leaned forward, and ran a hand over his face. The man looked worn to the bone.
“You were a cop,” said Bernie. “In New York.”
“That’s right.”
Bernie looked around the room, turning the MP’s helmet around in his hands. “Is it any different here?”
“The same shit flowing down a different sewer.”
“Never been inside a police station before. Looks like a hell of a job.”
“It’s a hell of a world.”
“Are people just born bad, is that what makes them do this shit?”
“It’s a choice. Everybody’s always got a choice.”
Bernie hesitated. “Von Leinsdorf worked at a death camp.”
Grannit looked at him. “What?”
“Dachau’s a death camp. They’re killing people. Jews mostly, others too. I don’t know how many, maybe millions, all over Germany. Do they know about this back home?”
Grannit shook his head.
“Started with them taking people out of the cities. Deporting them to camps. We all knew about that. Nobody did anything. Then this started and nobody wanted to know.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know. Maybe two years.”
“Von Leinsdorf told you this?”
Bernie nodded. A wave of emotion hit him. “I want to be a good person. But I was in that army. I did what I could, but it wasn’t enough. I don’t see any way to make that right.”
A clerk arrived to collect them. He led them into a warren of cubicles and offices and deposited them outside a door that read le commisaire. The clerk knocked; someone inside bid them enter.
A weary, middle-aged man stood behind a desk lighting a pipe. He wore an ill-fitting hand-knit sweater against the cold, waved them forward, and pointed to chairs in front of the desk. A small sign on his cluttered desk read INSPECTOR GEORGES-VICTOR MASSOU.
“My apology,” he said. “It took time to find someone of sufficient rank who could speak English. I have only just returned. How can I help?”
Grannit showed his credentials, referring to Bernie only as his associate. He unfolded the flyer with the sketch of Von Leinsdorf and handed it to Massou.
“We have reason to believe this man is in your city as of last night. He’s a German soldier disguised as an American, part of Otto Skorzeny’s commando brigade.”
“Yes. The famous Café de la Paix assassins. We are well aware. There were rumors of paratroops landing outside the city last night. Unverified.” From under the jumbled mass on his desk he located another flyer that featured Skorzeny’s photograph. “The café is under constant surveillance. It was my understanding your army is handling this investigation.”
“We spoke with senior security at SHAEF today as well as provost marshal of the military police in Paris. They’ve moved Eisenhower into the Trianon Palace under heavy security. Because only one man is left they feel they have the situation under control. We don’t think that’s the case.”
“How so?”
“We’ve been involved since this began six days ago. This individual we’re looking for is a lot more dangerous than they know or want to admit. They’re military men, not police officers.”
“As you are.”
“New York, homicide. That’s your beat, isn’t it?”
Massou nodded and puffed on his pipe, his gaze sharpening as he looked at them through the smoke. Bernie saw his polite formality fall away, leaving the same dispassionate, assessing eye that he’d seen in Grannit, a frank, collegial accord between the two men. Massou picked up the rough sketch of Von Leinsdorf again, taking a closer look.
“Tell me about this man,” he said.
Grannit gave an account of Von Leinsdorf and his crimes, leaving out Bernie’s role entirely. Massou listened without comment, occasionally taking a note. As Grannit finished, he handed Massou a mug shot and rap sheet on Eddie Bennings.
“Von Leinsdorf is probably in the company of this man, an American deserter and black marketer.”
Massou looked at Eddie’s picture. “Does he know who he is with?”
“We don’t have a way of knowing that. We believe both men have spent time in your city.”
“Then you must have some idea of the legion of places they could hide, yes? A city of ten million, in this kind of chaos? Montmartre, le Marais, Montparnasse. And everywhere scores are being settled. Over five hundred murders since the Liberation in August. Have you ever known such a period in New York?”
“Not while I’ve been there.”
“The number sounds trifling compared to the battlefield, but in cities like yours or mine? Catastrophe, the end of civilization. Entire neighborhoods where our authority has regained no foothold! Paris acquired some lamentable characteristics under the Boches. So, regrettably, did much of the police force.”
The phone on his desk rang.
“I have spent these last years in retirement, returning only three months ago—excuse a moment.” Massou answered the phone. “Oui? Oui, oui, mon cher.” He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and whispered: “Madame Massou.” He went back to the call. “Oui, cher, oui, un cassoulet serait beau. Oui, superbe. J’attends avec intérêt lui. Pas trop tard, j’espère. Est-ce que je puis apporter quelque chose? Oui, cher. Au revoir.” He hung up. “Please pardon, she who must be obeyed, yes?”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“If you could experience her cooking, you would understand completely.” He looked suddenly to Bernie. “You are not a policeman.”
“No, sir.” He glanced at Grannit and corrected himself. “Military, yes, not civilian.”
“It is somewhat different in the military. Doing this job on behalf of a nation, you may feel a sense of legitimacy.” Massou fastidiously refilled his pipe and lit it again. “The lieutenant and I, you see, we are not a part of proper society. Nor can we be. I may have a wife, a pleasant home, an old cat who keeps me company, but the rest of the time we are immersed in these acts of violence. We study the end result to reconstruct the passions which created it. On occasion we find those responsible.”
“You bring them to justice,” said Bernie.
“We bring them here. What happens afterward is someone else’s department. Murder has and always will have a place in the human heart, but no proper person cares to see this, or think about what we do; they simply want it done. Bodies keep appearing, in different form, day after day, so there are no lasting victories. We go on, too, but the work brings a sadness of spirit.”
Grannit’s head was down, nodding slightly in agreement. Massou looked at them both, not without sympathy. He seemed to know something was off center between them, but chose not to pursue it, out of professional courtesy. He focused his warm, liquid eyes again on Bernie.
“This is your first time seeing such things,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” said Bernie, wondering what else this man knew about him from a glance. He felt there wasn’t much he’d be able to hide from him for long.
“The Romans had a phrase for it. If you need to catch a devil, set a devil on his trail.” He turned back to Grannit, reached forward, and handed him a card. “I will do what I can. Reach me at this number at any time, provided the phones are working. Where are you staying?”
“We hadn’t gotten around to that.”
Massou hurriedly wrote down an address on a pad. “This hotel is just around the corner. Very small, very discreet, an estimable kitchen. If you don’t mind my saying, Lieutenant, you both need a proper meal and some sleep.” He ripped off the page and handed it to Grannit. “I’ll call ahead.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“I’m certain you would do the same for me.”
31
Paris
DECEMBER 21, 10:30 A.M.
Walking from Montmartre toward the river, Von Leinsdorf turned a corner and found himself standing in front of the Paris Opera. He stopped to stare at the
grand white wedding cake edifice, looked around the open square, and smiled at the thought of what he was about to do. He crossed the boulevard, sat down, and ordered a coffee at the Café de la Paix. His eyes scanned across the square and intersecting streets, picking out two undercover operatives in the crowded scene.
Looking for Lieutenant Miller, no doubt, he thought, amused.
When his coffee arrived, he offered a silent toast to Colonel Otto Skorzeny and absent members of the 150th Panzer Brigade. None of the men assigned to watch the square glanced his way. He knew he could have sat there all day without attracting any attention.
Von Leinsdorf wore a conservative overcoat, a dark business suit and hat, and he carried an ivory-headed cane. His hair had been tinted steel gray, and to his three-day beard, similarly bleached, he’d added a presentable white mustache. When he rose to leave, he dropped a few francs on the table, along with the morning edition of Le Monde, opened to a prearranged page. If anyone had thought to look at it, they’d have seen a few words hastily scrawled in French in one of the margins. It appeared to be a shopping list. He walked away with a pronounced limp, leaning on his cane. The veteran’s service medal he wore on his lapel, a bauble he’d picked up in a Montmartre thrift shop, dated to the Great War. When he rounded the next corner, he looked up and caught a glimpse of two American soldiers on the roof of an adjacent building, manning a machine gun, its barrel aimed down toward the café. One of the soldiers was stifling a yawn. Von Leinsdorf quietly tipped his hat to them and limped away.
He was astonished to see no signs of the impending Christ mas holiday enlivening the city’s broadest avenues. None of those elegant, swan-necked women in the shopping arcades or haughty restaurants. He had spent Christmas here twice before, once as a London schoolboy with his family and two years ago with the SS, who used trips to Paris as morale-boosting rewards, a tourist attraction for overachievers. The city always wore its brightest colors at Christmas. Now it appeared drab gray and drained of life. Walking through the Place Vendôme, he glanced up at the statue of Napoleon atop its stark central column, fashioned from melted Prussian cannon captured at Austerlitz.
