Mayhem (12 page)

Boemelburg was worse. He kept them waiting for an hour, then standing in front of his desk as he slid two freshly signed telexes over to them.

‘A transfer for you, Hermann. To Gestapo Centre Kiev, effective three days from now. You'll see that Gestapo Mueller has signed it.'

‘But, Herr Sturmbannführer, we've two suspects …'

‘Have you searched the woman's flat?'

‘No, sir. Not yet.

‘Then do so and don't tell Glotz about it.'

St-Cyr read his deportation order – forced labour in Silesian salt mines. Three days hence as well.

So much for past acquaintances.

‘Now the diamonds, Louis. Let's have a look at them.'

When handed the pouch, Boemelburg hefted it as a good cop would. Then he found a sheet of white paper and poured the stones on to it.

The eyebrows went up; the lips went down at their corners. There was a nod, bags under the eyes – the frames of past cases clicking over. ‘Russian, Louis?'

‘Perhaps, Walter. It's hard to say. They'll have come from South African mines.'

‘Who evaluated them?'

‘A Jew, but we guaranteed his being left alone.'

Again there was that nod, the blunt head moving only slightly.

‘We'd like to keep those for another day, Walter. It'll help when we confront the suspects.'

Boemelburg ran a stumpy forefinger through the stones. They were such pretty things. ‘Blackmail?' he asked.

Was there sadness or resignation in the look he gave? ‘Blackmail perhaps,' said St-Cyr. ‘But until we confront the woman, we won't really know.'

‘Herr Himmler is insisting that I send him daily reports. I'm sorry, gentlemen, but I have no other choice but to demand the names of your suspects.'

Kohler wrote them on the paper, dotting the i's of Gabrielle Arcuri's name so hard that the diamonds jumped.

‘Be quiet about this, the two of you, and I'll see what I can do about those telexes.'

Pharand was feeling very left out of things. ‘You've not been straight with me, Louis. You've betrayed the good name of the department. As of now, this moment, your rank is back to that of inspector with the consequent loss of pay.'

St-Cyr knew that it was useless to argue. Kohler grinned hugely.

Pharand began the onslaught again. ‘Talbotte, Préfet of Paris, demands to know why you have not consulted him about a murder in his territory.'

Talbotte was a real bastard.

‘Well?' demanded Pharand.

St-Cyr let him have it. ‘We have hardly had a moment's sleep, Major. We're already working round the clock. If we have to deal with the Préfet of Paris
and
that of Barbizon
and
the General Staff
and
the Gestapo in Berlin, we'll …'

‘Berlin …? What is this, please?'

Insidious, territorial himself, Pharand gripped the edge of his desk.

‘It's nothing, Major. You know how Berlin is,' offered Kohler. ‘Herr Himmler is always suspicious of you French.'

‘Herr Himmler …' Pharand dropped his gaze. ‘You should have warned me, Louis. It was most inconsiderate and unwise of you to have neglected this.'

‘We only just heard of it, Major. I was about to tell you.'

‘And the suspects – have you suspects?'

St-Cyr glanced at Kohler before shaking his head. ‘Not yet, but we've some pretty good leads.'

Pharand touched the pasty brow. Three fingers … always it was with three fingers. ‘Then I must tell you, Louis, that I have better sources of information than yourself.'

Fortunately, perhaps, the Americans chose that precise moment to direct one of their daylight bombing runs over Paris, heading for the Reich. But as the sirens wailed, Pharand refused to move. ‘Their names, Louis. I must have their names and the value of the diamonds.'

The anti-aircraft batteries across the river had begun to open up. A duty sergeant stuck his head into the office and shouted, ‘Air-raid!'

‘Piss off,' said Pharand. ‘They're not leaving this office even if a stray bomb should fall on us!'

St-Cyr gave him the names and the value of the diamonds.

‘Was it a crime of passion?' demanded the major.

Did he like to hear it? ‘Yes … yes, I think so,' said St-Cyr, ‘and with your permission, Major, I think I can prove it to you.'

‘Within three days,' said Pharand – had the Germans actually hit one of those blasted planes? The scream of shattered engines roared overhead. He waited for the crump of the explosion and when it didn't come, he said, ‘So, that's all for now, Louis. A full report this evening, eh?'

Records still didn't have the boy's name and Glotz proved very difficult when Kohler went to see him alone.

‘I warned you, Hermann. We've managed a bit of film and we'll have more by tomorrow.'

‘Philippe!'

‘Papa!'

Kohler parked the car two streets from Gabrielle Arcuri's flat on the boulevard Émile Auger. Marianne and the boy had obviously been for a walk in the Bois de Boulogne.

‘I'm sorry, Louis. I didn't mean this to happen.' He felt a fool.

‘It doesn't matter, Hermann. Me, I've missed the boy and his mother.'

St-Cyr started across the road. Released, the boy ran to him and, in spite of knowing there could be no traffic, St-Cyr tore his gaze away to search the street.

Relief flooded through him. The boy leapt into his arms and he lifted him up.

Marianne looked well. The straw-coloured hair had been braided into a rope which fell from under the scarlet beret to hang over the right shoulder against the dark blue overcoat. The face and brow were strong and wide, the eyes clear blue with crinkles at the corners. There was the blush of youth and weather in her cheeks.

‘Marianne, there's no need to say anything. Me, I understand.'

St-Cyr rubbed the boy's back and gave him a hug and a kiss but didn't set him down. Not yet.

The dark blue gloves and black leather boots were new, not so the scarf he'd given her with the beret.

‘How have you been?' she asked, searching his eyes – feeling perhaps some twinges of remorse.

Was she having second thoughts?

‘Me? Busy on a case as usual. I've hired Madame Courbet to look after the house. There'll always be a key under the mat. I suspect you'll want to get in from time to time.'

‘Are you hurting?' she asked. There was such sensitivity in her eyes.

‘But of course I'm hurting. To be cuckolded by a German officer …'

‘Would it have been any better if he'd been French?'

‘No … No, of course not.'

They walked along the street, each feeling lost with the other, Philippe playing with his water pistol and saying, ‘Bang! Bang!' at his father.

The poor sap, thought Kohler. He's mush before the woman when he ought to have smacked her face at least a couple of times.

They reached the corner. Kohler lit a fag and leaned against the car. There was only one thing to do for Louis. Keep the poor bastard hopping until he forgot about the woman. And as for Glotz and his film … von Schaumburg would tear the roofs off Paris if he found out what was going on.

‘You must take what you like from the house, Marianne. Please, I insist. The boy's things … It's not easy to find good warm clothing these days in the proper sizes.'

‘Erich's very generous. There is no problem, Louis.'

‘Is he also married?'

‘Of course. Look, it doesn't matter, eh? I couldn't go on. I had to escape.'

‘You should have told me how you felt.'

She found the will to smile – she had such a warm and generous smile but this one was all too brief. ‘Would you have listened? Louis, you were never home. Nights I'd lie awake wanting you beside me. A woman can
want
a man, can't she?'

St-Cyr nodded. He shrugged. He said, ‘So, it's okay now, eh? He's there beside you.'

Louis could see through anything. ‘I know he'll leave me, but it doesn't matter.'

He set the boy down. She took Philippe by the hand. ‘Isn't Papa coming with us to our new house?'

‘Ah no, chéri. He has to go to work.'

‘Always he's going to work. He never stays at home.'

‘Take care of yourself, Marianne. Me, I really mean it.'

‘And you,' she said, giving him a moment more. Poor Louis, he looked so lost in his shabby overcoat and rubbers. ‘Find someone else. Quit that lousy job before you do.'

St-Cyr watched as they crossed the boulevard Henri Martin. When they reached the other side, the two of them turned to look back – Marianne still emanating that strength of character and determination he had so much admired.

‘Don't forget the key will be under the mat,' he shouted and gave a last wave.

Kohler raised his eyebrows. ‘Come on, Louis, let's have a look at the woman's flat.'

‘Yes, let's attend to business. We both know those papers Boemelburg shoved at us are for real.'

‘I can't see you working in a salt mine.'

‘Kiev is full of partisans, Hermann. You'd be assassinated on the second day. Me, I'm positive of this.'

‘Then tell me just who the hell wants us out of the way and has taken the steps to see to it?'

‘You tell me. You know the Berlin Gestapo better than I.'

‘Mueller wouldn't have signed those papers of his own accord.'

‘Then Himmler must have ordered it.'

‘Three days – why three, Louis?' The number three had come up again!

‘Why?' shrugged St-Cyr. ‘Because it's one more than von Schaumburg gave us.'

‘Do you get the feeling everyone's after us?'

‘God included,' said St-Cyr. ‘Him most of all.'

The building at number 45, boulevard Émile Auger was like all the rest. Flat, square, unfeelingly modern, cold, and facing the street and the world as if through hooded eyes.

The black-out curtains were still closed in one of the second-floor apartments though it was nearly noon.

‘You or me?' asked Kohler, looking up at the curtains.

‘Me, I think, Hermann. Yes, let me handle it.'

In the late 1920s and 1930s many of Paris's upper middle class had moved out of the old and fashionable areas of the city. Like decadent nomads, they had brought all the trappings of their lives but relished plumbing that worked, heating systems that, for the times, were the best available, and electrical wiring that did not blow too many fuses.

Even as they went up the steps, St-Cyr had a pretty good idea of what the apartment would contain.

The concierge, a middle-aged woman, reflected her station in life. Several strands of agate beads complimented the soft yellow cardigan and patterned blouse. No fool, she saw copper right away and demanded to know what they thought they were doing.

‘Merely a matter of discretion, madame,' said St-Cyr, taking off his hat. ‘A few questions of Mademoiselle Arcuri.'

‘She's not here. She didn't come back last night.'

‘Her maid?' he asked, lifting his eyebrows.

‘She neither. Such weeping … that girl …'

St-Cyr waited, but the woman knew she'd already said too much.

‘We'd like to take a look through the flat, madame. It's a matter of some urgency.'

He unbuttoned his overcoat and slid a hand into his jacket pocket, removing a black leather notebook stuffed with slips of paper, small bills, his ID and badge. ‘We have a search warrant, madame. Do I have to show it to you?'

The brown eyes were wary. ‘A search warrant? In my building? What's she done?'

St-Cyr tucked the notebook away. ‘Nothing that we know of, madame – please don't alarm yourself – but her life, and that of her maid, Mademoiselle Yvette Noel, may well be in danger.'

At the door to the flat, St-Cyr gave the woman yet another look of grave concern. ‘You may leave us, madame. I'm sure you have other things you must do. We will touch nothing and take nothing, of this you have our word.'

Tartly she told them to remove their rubbers and shoes. ‘Mademoiselle Arcuri is very fussy.'

‘I'm sure she is,' said St-Cyr. ‘The rubbers and shoes, Hermann. It will be just as if we were at home, madame.'

‘You may leave them in the hall. No one will steal them. Not in my building.'

The toe of Kohler's left sock had been completely eaten away and the toe itself was badly in need of a wash. He tucked it under and smiled subserviently at the woman. Not a word. Louis continued to surprise him. That business with the notebook was new … he must remember it.

Like so many of the wealthy upper middle class, Gabrielle Arcuri's flat was cluttered with furnishings of one sort and another, all of which, under the subdued light of day, gave back just that: their sumptuous clutter.

Polychromed deer, frogs, camels and Coromandel screens framed Louis XV chairs and Chinese coffee tables. The baroque Italian mirror above the mantelpiece was huge, heavy and ornately carved with gilded cherubs, grapes, drapes and other things. A bronze Buddha on the mantelpiece was reflected in the glass, as was the Belle Époque chandelier among whose many crystals hung clouds of amethyst and smoky quartz.

Here was a woman, then, who had a taste for expensive things.

Kohler ran a hand over the headless, limbless statue of a young man. Since everything else was gone, only the most important parts were left. The kid had lots of fruit. A nice one too. Uncircumcised. ‘Our girl, Louis. Just what the hell is she doing singing in a place like that?'

‘My thoughts exactly, Hermann. Shall I take the bedroom while you find that of the maid?'

‘Let's do it together, eh? Don't spoil my fun.'

Gabrielle Arcuri's bedroom had been done in soft pastel shades of green, yellow, powder blue and white. It was tastefully and distinctly feminine – less of the clutter, more room to walk around. One could imagine her doing so. The carpet was very soft, of a dove grey with a faint wash of blue.