Gypsy (15 page)

‘But to lie successfully one must be consistent.'

She sighed. She said, ‘Chance plays such a part in life. You have heard, perhaps, of the arrest of my little Juliette, my
bonne à tout faire
. Who would have thought of her saying anything to anyone? What did those women do to her in that prison, Inspector? She's tender. She's pretty. She's a very gentle creature and very loyal, but now … now she says so little. She's not been herself since.'

‘Did you tell Janwillem De Vries of the contents of that safe of the Generalmajor Wehrle's?'

‘I didn't, but it was not necessary for me to do so, not if the Gestapo of the rue Lauriston had been keeping an eye on things and smelling a fortune. If only they could get their filthy hands on it before Hans did. If only they could get at those people through me. My maid, my Juliette, knew
nothing
of what I was doing for Hans,
nothing
of the diamonds or of that safe.'

‘But knew of the prospector?'

‘Unfortunately.'

‘Do you know Madame Suzanne-Cécilia Lemaire?'

They would check with Céci. ‘My Jani loves to visit the zoo. Madame Lemaire was most kind and let him help her feed the wolves. He's only a little boy. Don't ask me why he is so fascinated by such animals. The fables Juliette tells him at bedtime, the nightmares, I suppose.'

She grew silent, but then said sadly, ‘A mother has to be present at all times when a child is young, yet when she has to earn a living, such a duty is not possible.'

‘Gabrielle's son lives at the château near Vouvray with his grandmother, the Countess.'

‘Yes. I've been there too. Once or twice. I can't remember.'

And what of the dynamite? he wanted so much to ask but thought it best to go carefully.

On the way up in the lift, in its privacy, he said, ‘Mademoiselle, it's the silhouettes that so often defeat a boxer for he can't hide behind them. They reveal his every weakness.'

‘And mine?' she asked.

Her expression was tragic but she would have to be told. ‘The SS or the Gestapo won't use the guillotine. They'll use an axe, so if you wish to confide in me, please do so now before it's too late.'

‘It already is. Janwillem saw to that when he parked your car below my windows.'

‘But why did he do so? That is the question?'

‘Ask him when you find him. Ask him why he wanted to kill the son he has never seen. Only he can give you the answer.'

The caviar was
malossal
, the Russian for slightly salted, and it was to be eaten with the little pancakes those courageous people called
blini
. Wedges of fresh lemon were provided – all but unheard of these days; also a small dish of finely chopped fresh green chives.

The vodka was crystal clear and so cold, the bottle still wore its coat of frost. The dressing-room at the Club Mirage was tiny and bugged by Gestapo Paris's Listeners and yet Gabrielle would use her voice.

‘So,
mon amour
, you have come to see me and as you can surmise, I've been expecting you and have prepared myself for your questions. Once again I am suspected of something? These robberies, Jean-Louis, that terrible explosion, have been in all the newspapers. Don't keep me in suspense a moment longer.'

‘Gabrielle,
please
! It's difficult enough. A few small questions just to help the investigation along.'

‘Nothing difficult?' she arched, catching him unawares.

He winced. ‘Not difficult. No.'

‘And Hermann, where is he, please?'

‘Gone to see Giselle and Oona, and then to have a look into the Gare Saint-Lazare robbery.'

‘Cartier's … my sapphire necklace … the bracelet, ear-rings and ring. The 8,600,000 francs they will have to return now that this … this Gypsy has stolen them from me,
yes from me
! Jean-Louis. How could you even
think
I had anything to do with that business?'

‘We
don't
! Hermann and I are both convinced of this but others must be satisfied. It's the way things are. Berlin are insisting.'

‘Berlin …?'

She blanched. He reached out to comfort her. ‘The Reichsführer Himmler,' he said. ‘The Führer himself, perhaps.'

‘Those poor boys who were killed … What will become of their families and loved ones? I must hold a benefit – yes, yes, that's what I'll do. Please, a moment, my fans will see the need and we can send the money off tomorrow morning. Wreaths for the funerals, condolences and then … then some lasting financial help for the old ones. It's the least we can do, isn't that so? and I must do it now! 100 francs from you. 500 … No, 1000, I think.
Merci
.'

She left him, she with his wallet in hand and soon he could hear the crowd shouting for her and, when the tumult had subsided, her saying, ‘
Mes chers amis
…' And the hush was so great, not a breath stirred. ‘We must open our hearts to the families of those brave boys who have so valiantly given their lives in the rue Poliveau so that the safety and homes of others could be spared.'

When she sang ‘Lilli Marlene', tears fell and St-Cyr could imagine the men spellbound even as his own eyes moistened, for it was a soldier's song, and he'd been one himself. She had a voice that transcended everything. Clear, pure, bell-toned and soul-searching, but for how much longer would it be allowed to continue?

He remembered an ancient grist mill on the Loire close to the Château Thériault, not two months ago. The Resistance had sent her one of the little black coffins they reserved for those they thought were collaborators who should become examples to others. He, himself, had received one. She'd got the drop on him with an ancient double-barrelled fowling piece in that mill of her mother-in-law's and ever since then, he'd borne her a healthy respect.

A White Russian who had fled the Revolution with her family, she had, having lost them, arrived alone in Paris at the age of fourteen and had been a chanteuse ever since. She was a widow whose husband had been badly wounded at Sedan in May of 1940 and had then died in the late summer of that year. And, yes, she was suspected by the Gestapo but not yet sufficiently to drag her in for questioning or to put her under constant surveillance. Or perhaps it was simply that she was known to too many high-ranking Germans who adored her and therefore extreme care had to be taken.

Sonderbehandlung
here, too, he wondered. Sickened by the thought, he opened one of the small vials of her perfume. Its twists of cobalt blue crystal poignantly reminded him of that nothing murder in Fontainebleau Forest, that small murder which had led to Hermann and himself being reviled by many at Gestapo Paris-Central and in the SS, but which had brought Gabrielle and himself together.

There was civet, a little too much jasmine he had thought then and still did. Angelica, vetiverol and bergamot. Lavender of course …
Mirage
it was called and he had known the creators of it, old friends.

The Club Mirage had been named after the perfume.

Though he wanted desperately to make certain there was nothing incriminating the Gestapo might find, he forced himself not to search through her things. The perfume and the sky blue, shimmering silk sleeveless sheath were among her trademarks, the dress electric with thousands of tiny seed pearls arranged in vertical rows from ankle to diamond choker. Her hair was not blonde but the colour of a very fine brandy, her eyes were the shade of violets, matched only by those of Hermann's Giselle.

‘So,' she said on catching him out once more, and he could see by her delight how successful the fund-raising had been but also how pleased she was at finding the vial of perfume in his hand. ‘A few questions, Inspector. Nothing difficult.'

‘It's Chief Inspector. Hermann is always reminding me of this.'

‘He's going to be a father again. Isn't it splendid? A baby, Jean-Louis.
A baby
!'

‘Oona …? Giselle …?'

The flat on the rue Suger was empty, freezing as usual but in complete darkness too. And when Kohler found the black-out curtains wide open, he saw a lamp on the table in front of the windows and panicked. Had Giselle been arrested? Had Oona been taken with her? It had been deliberate, this placing of the lamp. The stub of an unlighted candle was beside it with a box of matches in case of a power outage.

Arrest would have been guaranteed. Three months in the women's cells of the Santé, the Petite Rouquette or Fresnes were the usual, any of which would have sufficed if she had hoped to lose the baby.

The bored
flic
behind the desk at the quartier Saint-Germain-des-Prés's Commissariat de Police on the rue de l'Abbaye thought he was out of his skull. She wasn't in the emergency room at the Hôpital Laennec on the rue des Sèvres though everyone agreed that when young girls get pregnant they might well do crazy things.

She and Oona were sitting spellbound beneath the smoke-hazed, garlic-and-onions beam of the projector at the Cluny on the boulevard Saint-Germain, her favourite cinema. Hats on, hats off … The place was packed. Couples were making out here, there, it didn't matter where so long as they had the chance … The screen was filled with a shabby Marseille flat. An abortionist … ah
verdammt
! One so evil, the camera zoomed in on the ingrained dirt of the bastard's cracked fingernails. A terrible eye was clouded by cataracts. A shrew of a wife was railing at him from behind beaded curtains, and at his fresh innocent, his most recent victim.

Helpless, the young would-be virgin looked about the room with abject dismay. There'd be a catheter, a pair of surgical tongs and a length of rubber tubing whose syringe would suck soapy water from a bucket as the bulb was squeezed. Then it'd be down with the underpants, up with the knees … ‘Wider … a little wider, mademoiselle.' Right in past the cervix, deeply … ‘Up … I must get it up a little more.' Squish! A massive shock, the girl probably dead in a split second as air entered her bloodstream. A pretty thing, a hell of a waste … ‘
Giselle! Oona
!'

Kohler stopped himself, his heart racing. He and Louis had seen it all not a week ago. A maker of little angels and a fleabitten tenement across the river in Courbevoie and definitely
not
the figment of celluloid.

‘Come with me.
Please
! I … I couldn't find you. I was worried. Hey, I've got to go over to the Gare Saint-Lazare and need a bit of company. Louis … Louis is busy with other things.'

Still in the dressing-room at the Club Mirage, St-Cyr touched a finger to his lips, and taking out some scraps of paper and a pencil, quickly wrote,
Cartier's. The Gypsy knew the combination of the sous-directeur's safe
.

Questioningly Gabrielle raised her eyebrows.

Did you tell him of it
? he demanded in pencil, thrusting the paper at her.

Out in the club, the audience were now clamouring for her. ‘How can you think such a thing?' she asked aloud. ‘At least let us give the happy couple a bassinet and a few baby blankets. Giselle will need so many things.'

Gestapo Paris's Listeners could make what they would of that.
Someone is helping the Gypsy. The robbery at the Ritz for sure; Cartier's for sure, and probably the Gare Saint-Lazare
.

‘Not us,' she said, a whisper but given too quickly – she could see him thinking this and dreaded his response for she hadn't said
Not me
and should have.

Patently ignoring the mistake but filing it away, he wrote,
Please tell me where you were on Tuesday the twelfth
.

‘I …' she began, only to stop herself. He'd check. He wouldn't hold back, even though he loved her – did he really love her? She wanted to believe this but they had been alone together so seldom.
I had to go to Tours
, she quickly wrote.
There, does that satisfy you
?

‘A little,' he said and wrote,
Did you meet Nana Thélème in Tours
?

‘A rattle …? Is it that you wish to give the baby a rattle?' she asked aloud and, saddened by his insistence on pursuing the matter, answered,
Yes
! in writing,
but quite by accident. We had a cup of coffee in a small café
.

And did she ask you to drive her to Senlis on the folloiuing day
?

Gabrielle flinched in despair.

The dynamite
, he wrote.
Someone is supplying the Gypsy with it
.

From Senlis
? she asked, writing it out for him and listening for the Gestapo – waiting tensely for them to barge in and shriek, ‘
Hände hoch
!'

She lighted a candle and burned all the scraps of paper.

‘Giselle must want this baby very badly, Jean-Louis, but will your partner make an honest woman of her now that his wife has gained her divorce and has found another?'

Back home in Wasserburg, ex-wife Gerda had married an indentured French farm labourer, a humiliation Hermann had yet to complain about and probably never would.

St-Cyr waited for Giselle's answer about the dynamite but she refused. Tears began to mist her lovely eyes.
The stone quarries
, he harshly wrote.
The prospector Nana went to Tours to meet. Monsieur jacqmain asked her to go to Senlis
.

To see his dying mother! That was all. I swear it. I could not refuse
, she wrote and burst into tears.

In dismay, he saw before him what he'd seen when they'd first met: a determined evasiveness, lies and half-lies and every possible female ruse.

There had been some rough but beautifully coloured diamonds then; there were diamonds now.

Do you still belong to the Society of Those Who Have Been Left Behind
?

The war widows. ‘Why should I not?' she demanded aloud. His nod was curt, his whole being the detective she had first encountered. ‘My friends are clamouring for me. Will you come and listen?'