Clandestine (16 page)

‘Chantal … Chantal …'

‘Easy, little one. Easy,' urged Kohler, wrapping his arms about the two of them. ‘Louis isn't with me but as soon as he is, we'll find them and take care of things. Make her down a stiff cognac, Muriel, and then sip another. Find her something to nibble on. A biscuit, a crust—anything so long as it settles her.'

He looked as if in tears himself, thought Muriel, and though it was very dangerous to say such a thing, she could with Hermann and had better. ‘They threatened to expose us. They said that since the Nazis would love to burn us at the stake, they would, and that as soon as they had finished what they had to do, they were going to torch the shop and make sure we never left it.'

‘Frenchmen, Monsieur Hermann, in two big cars. Two, I tell you, and ten of them. Ten!
Résistants. La Croix de Lorraine!
'

‘Nonsense,' said Muriel, her expression enough to shatter the thought. ‘I already pay those people far too much to leave us alone.'

‘PPF, then, a hit squad of them?' asked Kohler.

Ah, mon Dieu
, what was this? ‘One did shout to the others …'

‘Let me, my Muriel. “The corner of the boul' Victor Hugo and rue de Rouvray.”'

And in Neuilly-sur-Seine, the villa Gestapo Boemelburg used for those whose countries of origin, passports, politics, finances and such were suspect but who required far gentler treatment than usual. It would be blackmail for sure from that Hamburg Kriminalrat, but Louis would be the first to ask, Now what are you going to do about it? Submit or tell him absolutely nothing?

Muriel was using a sleeve to gently wipe Chantal's eyes. ‘Look, I'll see that this is paid for in cash and otherwise. Louis will too.'

Would it break his heart all the more if she were to tell him? wondered Muriel.

Intuitively Chantal understood and, wrapping her arms more firmly about her, lifted herself up to whisper, ‘You must,
ma chère
.'

‘One of the others shouted that they should drive by Rudy's place to show him what he was missing, Hermann, that Jean-Louis had this morning not only been unkind to their tires and headlamps, but insulting.'

That Rudy being Rudy de Mérode,
not Rudi of Chez Rudi's.

Alone, felt St-Cyr, and as if left out for him on her dressing table at the Club Mirage on the rue Delambre in Montparnasse was the crystal phial of scent that would immediately invoke its memories. ‘Exquisite,' he said, as when first encountered early last December, Muriel Barteaux having designed it especially for Gabi and named it after the club. ‘Mirage,' he went on, ‘those three initials on this cigarette case being N. K. M.: Natalya Kulakov-Myshkin and a Russian who had escaped from the revolution in 1917, losing her family en route and having arrived alone in Paris at the age of fourteen, a survivor, a chanteuse.'

Seemingly, he still hadn't realized that her last number had come to its end, the club packed as always with the Occupier, they all shouting for her to return. ‘Jean-Louis …'

Replacing the stopper, he didn't look up to see her sheathed as she was in shimmering sky-blue silk, felt Gabrielle. Perhaps he was remembering the brown whipcord jodhpurs she had worn at the mill on the Loire, or was it the open hacking jacket?

No lipstick or makeup as now, thought St-Cyr, her hair tied back with a bit of brown velvet and not blonde at all, as first thought, but the shade of a very fine brandy, her eyes of a violet matched only by those of Hermann's Giselle.

‘Every time I hear you sing, Gabrielle, I'm exactly like all of those out there, and Muriel too, filled and lifted entirely out of myself and present difficulties. You know, of course, that there are those who will never forgive you for having sung for the Occupier. Isn't it time you thought of stopping, or is it that you feel the Führer, with all his wisdom, will turn this conflict around and defeat the Russians, and the Allies who are now mercilessly bombing his cities?'

‘Those boys out there and along the front need me as do soldiers everywhere, no matter which side they're on. Even Charles Maurice would have wanted me to continue.'

A lie, of course, for Captain Thériault, the dead husband, had prevented her from singing and had insisted, as most Frenchmen would, and had the right, that she stay home with their son, an absence Muriel had lamented, only to then find Gabi after the defeat and at the Mirage.

Though it would do no good to say it, and she was very much of the Résistance herself, he had better. ‘The
Banditen
will never forgive you. Why skate so close to the edge when you don't have to?'

‘Is it that you think my René Yvon-Paul needs me?'

René was now eleven and lived with his grandmother, the countess, at the Château Thériault near Vouvray.

‘Me, I sing because for me, I have to, Jean-Louis
.
But why, please, when you must know this dressing room of mine could well have ears, is it that you should say such things so loudly?'

‘Because we never whisper and they need to hear it from yourself.'

The Gestapo's Listeners—their Watchers too, the ones who had deliberately left that Résistance
bomb on his doorstep early last December, tragically killing his second wife and little son instead. ‘I think I need a cigarette.'

Seldom did she use those, but always they were Russian but not from the stems of the plant. ‘Of course. Forgive me. Here … here, sit, please, at your dressing table. Rest. You put so much of yourself into every song, you must be exhausted.'

‘Then light it for me.'

She was trembling, he was, too.
Ah merde
, what the hell was happening to them?

He held her. They did not kiss, they clung, and when at last he had relaxed his hold, it was herself who whispered, ‘
Merci, mon amour
, I didn't know for sure and now do.'

Only then did they kiss, something Hermann was never going to hear of for fear he would never shut up about it.

Taking out his little notebook, Jean-Louis found a blank page and wrote:
Sonderkommando. An informant. A submarine they want who knows something Berlin must absolutely have. A Kriminalrat who has threatened Oona and Giselle, yourself as well.

Was it the end for them? Taking his pen, she wrote:
And what, please, of my René Yvon-Paul, the countess and the Château Thériault and its contents, lands and vineyards?

A practical woman.
Everything, so please take precautions. We may all be lost, but for now Hermann and me know far more about that submarine than does this Heinrich Ludin and his SD colonel who has yet to even have a name.

Silently she would tear the page free, felt Gabrielle, and lighting it with the end of her cigarette, watched the flames until done.

Crumbling the ashes to dust, she carefully blew them away.

Hermann didn't wait. Hermann just roared into the back courtyard leaning on the horn and then pounded on the back door. ‘Louis … Louis …'

Ah merde
,
he was in tears. ‘Here, take a few drags of this but remember it's Russian.'

‘Take these too,' said Gabrielle, removing others from that cigarette case Jean-Louis would never forget and receiving a last touch of his fingers—was it that?

‘Matches,' blurted Hermann. ‘We've run out.'

Those, too, were handed over, Jean-Louis momentarily giving her fingertips a final squeeze.

‘
Ach, verdammt
, Louis, don't dawdle. I'll drive. We'll never get there otherwise.'

‘Where?'

‘Neuilly. Boemelburg's villa but first Rudy de Mérode's little nest.'

‘You can't be serious.'

‘Unfortunately I am.'

^*
The Bovril of France.

^*
The King James version of the Bible.

^*
Word of mouth. Literally, ‘mouth radio.'

^*
The Prosper, Scientist, and Donkeyman networks were among those that had been in wireless touch with the British Special Operations Executive in London.

^*
The V-1 and V-2 rocket bombs, the first V-1s being launched against London on 13 June 1944.

5

Cloaked in that same darkness, and with but one tiny blue and legal light announcing its entrance, 70 boulevard Maurice-Barrès, a sumptuous hotel before the defeat, overlooked the Bois de Boulogne and its Jardin d'Acclimatation. Six cars were out front under the spreading dark limbs of the chestnut trees that were revered by the
haute bourgeoisie
of this most wealthy of suburbs.

‘Two with engines still running, Louis, and no drivers.'

Had Hermann downed too many of those damned pills? ‘Patience,
mon vieux
. Patience.'

‘The time for that is over.'

It had been a harrowing drive through the late-evening traffic. Smashed side-mirrors, crumpled fenders … how were they to be replaced?

Switching off the still blinkered headlights and engine, Hermann locked the doors and, taking the Purdey from the boot, checked to see that it was still loaded.

‘Cover my back, and that's an order.'

Celebrating with champagne, cigarettes, cigars, canapés and all the rest, the crowd was in what had once been an opulent dining room
.
The fleurs-de-lis sconces with their crystal globes were still giving light from the fluted pilasters, the chandeliers still throwing plenty of it from electric candles, but no longer were there the Longchamp racecourse paintings of winner after winner. Instead, there was the degenerate art of the Führer's Third Reich—magnificent Gaugins, Van Goghs, Picassos, Braques …
Ah mon Dieu
, Monets, Bonnards, Cézannes and Matisses, Degas, too, and others like those they had found in Hector Bolduc's office, all as if shoved aside to await trucking to whatever depot. With them were the antique furniture of the latest acquisitions along with the bulging leather suitcases and wardrobe trunks of the desperate, the arrested, deported and robbed.

Perhaps twenty or so men and ten or so females were in attendance. All had been toasting the evening's little entertainment, yet were now watchfully silent. Cigarettes clung to lower lips or, like the cigars and cigarettes in holders, had paused, the fingernails of one vermillion, a canapé being crushed under that spike-heeled foot. And among them all, and looking entirely like the successful businessman he wasn't, but in a deep-blue pinstripe with illegal pocket flaps and broad lapels, was the leader of this mob.

The handkerchief pocket sported silk and four gold fountain pens, and above it was one of the phosphorescent red swastika buttons favoured by the Occupier for those little walks in the utter darkness of the streets.

‘Rudy de Mérode, alias Frédéric Martin,' sang out Hermann. ‘Born 1905 in the Moselle, Louis. Abwehr agent since 1928, arrested for selling plans and secrets of the Maginot Line in 1936 and given … What was it?'

Ah merde
, he'd taken far too much of that stuff the Luftwaffe's night-fighters needed to stay awake. ‘Ten years, Herr Inspektor.'

‘In Fresnes or the Santé?'

‘Hermann …'

‘Louis, you really
are
going to have to leave this to me.'

Released from the Santé by the Abwehr just after the defeat, Rudy had been given a ‘purchasing agency' and put to work recruiting helpers from among his prison acquaintances and even those he still had contact with among the police and fire departments. But soon his
équipe
,
his
groupe
, was handling all the security for the warehouses and transport of materials, not only for the Central Purchasing Agency, the Bureau Otto, but for the Einsatzstab Reichsleiter Rosenberg.

Progressing beyond that mission, he had been assigned the collecting of gold bullion and coins from those same victims and others, now in total, it was said, more than four tonnes. And since rampant inflation and the food shortages drove people to illegally sell valuables on the
marché noir
, Rudy and his men frequented the bars, clubs and restaurants, posing as buyers, and even kept an eye on the
monts-de-piété
, the state-owned, municipal pawn shops to see who was unloading what. But if a seller objected to being robbed, an invitation would be extended and the ‘client' brought here and taken upstairs for a little persuasion.

‘And a bath if necessary, Louis.'

To be held under. ‘Anti-terrorism and the hunting down of
résistants
are now a further task, Hermann.'

‘Just let me deal with those who wrecked that shop and manhandled Muriel and Chantal while abducting Oona and Giselle.'

Something would have to be said to break the impasse, felt Rudy. ‘
Ah bon, mes amis
, me I'm glad you've got that off your chests, but
un fusil de chasse,
Herr Kohler?
Un douze à deux coups?
'

‘Et un Lebel Modèle d'ordonnance
, Rudy, the 1873 with those black-powder cartridges no one but a fool would want,' said the one who, unseen until now, had moved to stand at his side: the hair a pale, washed-out blond, the jacket and vest of a heavy beige twill, the trousers of corduroy, and the tie subdued, but once a policeman, even if under the czar at first and then under the Préfet de Paris, always one, no matter what.

‘
Ah bon
, Hermann, the well-spoken one from the second car to have followed us this morning.'

‘Serge de Lenz
à votre service
, Inspector.'

‘It's chief inspector, and it's Sergei Lebeznikov, Hermann. Ex-inspector of the Paris Police, dismissed and sent to prison in disgrace in 1934. Me, I knew I had seen him before. The newspapers, of course. A good photo since it left an indelible impression.'

‘And the crime,
mon vieux
?'

No guns or weapons of any other kind had yet been drawn, Rudy having slightly raised a hand to still any such outburst. ‘Morphine and cocaine from Marseille. There was simply far too much of both for temptation to ignore, which is why some was unaccounted, but me, I unfortunately had absolutely no part in the subsequent investigation and arrest and still remain envious of those who had the courage to overcome his superior officer's objections and put them both away.'

‘My girlfriend got careless,' snorted Lenz.

‘Which can only have meant yourself,' countered Hermann. ‘Now before anything further happens, Rudy, take one of those fountain pens of yours and write down the names of all ten here who felt they could do such a thing as to manhandle two lovely old ladies and my Oona and Giselle.'

Kohler didn't just have both barrels. He had extras clutched in his left hand and would likely reload so quickly, the effort of stopping him would just not be worth the trouble.

The pink tie with nesting stork that Mérode was wearing was hardly suitable for a suit like that, felt Kohler, the side whiskers a bit too long, that jet-black hair so well greased and tightly combed back, the light was reflecting from it.

To be edgy with a shotgun was not wise. ‘Lulu,
ma chère
,' said Mérode, ‘be so good as to offer our friends a cognac. Nothing but the best,
chérie
, and straight from its little trolley.'

‘The Rémy Martin Vieille Réserve, and for yourself,
mon tigre
?' asked the blue-eyed, beautifully made-up blonde in the fabulous emerald-green Dior piqué dress with matching drop-earrings and bracelets from Cartier.

‘Rudy,
mon étalion
, let me,' pleaded the one in the superb black crepe, off-the-shoulder from Paul Poiret, her jet black hair and dark-grey eyes perfect, the Chanel No. 5 maybe a bit too much, but the rest sensational, and so much for the same cognac as a certain banker had offered early this morning.

‘
Mes amis
, relax, eh?' said Rudy. ‘Certainly, Kohler, those boys from the PPF got a little carried away, but they were under orders.'

‘From Heinrich Ludin and that SD colonel who's with him?'

‘
Ah oui, oui, mon ami
, but we still haven't a name for that one.'

‘Your girls were quickly covered, Kohler,' interjected Lenz. ‘I draped each of them in a blanket. Rudy's Lulu and Suzette found slippers for them.'

‘And bandages, eh?'

It was St-Cyr who said, ‘He means, were they raped?'

‘
Ah, mon Dieu,
of course not,' insisted Rudy. ‘That wasn't ordered.'

‘Those PPF boys were only to have a look,' said Lenz. ‘Surely, that would have been natural, refreshing, even?'

The son of a bitch!

‘Hermann, don't!'

‘The names, then, Louis, of this little hit squad.'

‘Why not be reasonable since no further harm has come to them?' went on Rudy, gesturing open-handedly. ‘Me, I will personally see to the needed repairs and losses. Could we not …'

‘Hermann,
please
!'

‘Louis, I told you to leave this to me.'

Lingerie was dangling from the stuffed coat pockets of some, and it was to one of them that Hermann now went, having borrowed a pen from Rudy. ‘Write down the names of your little squad in my notebook,
mon ami
. Spell everything carefully and truthfully, and when, after you've added your own, sign and dot it, and then gather up the papers of each of them, so that I can check your honesty.'

‘And if I don't?'

A smart-ass. ‘You won't even hear the sound this makes.'

‘Unfortunately,
mes amis
, my partner really does mean it. Never­ have I seen him so angry.'

‘Flat tires, smashed headlights and now this, Rudy?' objected Lenz.

It was Lulu who wheeled the cognac in, but Hermann who let its spigot constantly empty onto the floor as he said, ‘Now, you little plaything, I'm going to borrow your cigarette lighter—yes, that's the very one, Herr Lebeznikov, and if I don't get the answers I need, this place and all that's in it, is going to go up.'

‘Give him the names and the I.D. papers,' sighed Rudy. ‘It won't matter. Not with these two. Not when Karl Oberg is through with them.'

‘That's a threat we've had lots of times,' said Hermann, using the Purdey's muzzle to lift Rudy's chin, having moved so swiftly even Mérode had been caught off guard. ‘There's gasoline in those jerry cans out in the foyer, Louis. Get two of them and we'll show him I really do mean business.'

‘The list,' snapped Rudy, and when he had run his gaze over it, he handed it and the identity papers to Kohler. ‘Now maybe,
mon ami
, you would tell us what this whole thing is about. A girl with a badly festering wound perhaps on the back of a hand or forearm and desperately needing a Wehrmacht first-aid kit with its sulphanilamide antibacterial powder, a
gazogène
truck hauling goods to sell on the
marché noir
and a
Sonderkommando
only Kaltenbrunner could have sent? What the hell does she know that we don't and they need?'

And so much for the silence of a certain Oberfeldwebel Werner Dillmann who should have known better. ‘That Kriminalrat from Hamburg is just crazy. We don't know damn all yet but when we do, you and this lot had better not be involved. Now these,
mes amis
,' he lifted the papers, ‘you can collect from the Kommandant von Gross-Paris himself.'

‘Kohler …'

‘Don't even say it, Rudy.'

It wasn't until they had withdrawn that Hermann emptied both barrels into the PPF engines and then, reloading, into the windscreen of the other cars.

‘You're really good at making friends, aren't you?'

‘You haven't seen anything yet.'

The villa was surrounded by a tall, wrought-iron fence under cloud-shadowed moonlight. Trees, bushes and shrubs all but hid the place. Access was by a walkway gate with lock and interconnecting speaker off the boulevard Victor Hugo; the one for the cars, Black Marias, and delivery vans being around the corner on the rue de Rouvray. But at 2310 hours, it was ominously quiet, even though more than 4,000 of the Occupier lived in Neuilly, having taken over the flats and houses of the deported or otherwise absent, and requisitioning still others.

‘Hermann …'

‘Louis, the “guests” in this place of Boemelburg's aren't even allowed to see or speak to one another. Oona needs Giselle. She'll hang herself or do something equally crazy if I don't go in there to see that she's not left alone.'

A man no longer in doubt and convinced that Oona was the one for him, but … ‘Those who guard this prison of Walter's will have been forewarned of our imminent arrival.'

‘Good!'

‘I've Gabrielle and her son to think of. If we can convince those guards to let Giselle and Oona share a room, should we not also consider that the heat has momentarily been turned down a little?'

‘Back off—that it?'

‘How many more of those pills of Benzedrine have you taken?'

‘Four.'

‘
Ah mon Dieu, mon vieux
, that's twenty milligrams. Did you not think of your blood pressure? It'll be sky-high and will bring on the heart attack I've been dreading.'

Such concern deserved an answer. ‘Look, I know you mean well, but sometimes you can sound like a mother hen.'

‘Perhaps, but me, I'm not laying the eggs, am I? I'm just along for the clean-up.'

‘I'll be sure not to let you forget it.'

The speaker gave the surprise of surprises, a gruff and throaty female voice of the streets and backwaters, the two halves of the driveway's gate automatically opening, the Citroën advancing only to be locked in.

‘Messieurs … Inspectors, I am Aurore Décour. My youngest daughter, Bijou, and myself do the kitchen here, the beds, the tidying and laundry.'

There couldn't be just the two of them, felt Kohler. Under light from the foyer, she had the face and expression only time and experience could give: round, watchful and empty of all feeling, the knitted cardigan of rescued wool from unravelled cast-offs, the hips wide, hands big and apron that of a cook who was often too busy to think of anything else.