Mannequin (18 page)

‘Don't get bitchy! Look, I'm sorry I had to tear you away from those two old girls in the underwear trade but
nom de Jésus-Christ, idiot,
we have trouble.'

A cigarette girl in meshed stockings rubbed shoulders, spreading her wretched scent of cheap perfume, garlic and toilet water. Fake flowers were being sold in lieu of cigarettes. ‘Trouble?' bleated St-Cyr.

At last the Frog was listening. ‘This one is an excellent shot with the pistol. Three times champion of the Reich.
Two
Olympic gold medals. Rides in the steeplechase, plays polo when there isn't snow and ice, drives a racing car, swims the marathon, fucks like a tiger and was absent from his job the day of the robbery.
Absent
, idiot! Absent!'

A German … Must God do this to them? ‘Kempf?' asked St-Cyr. Hermann was keeping his eyes on the entrance to a distant cellar beyond the stage and to the left.

‘Have you got your shooter?' he snapped. Being Gestapo, it was Hermann's responsibility to take charge of their guns and only release them when needed.

‘My shooter,' mused St-Cyr, wishing his partner would slow down long enough for a little conference. ‘Ah yes, Inspector, my revolver. The Saône, remember? The ice and that little swim we had to take? I lost it in Lyon on that last case.'

So he had. ‘Wouldn't Stores issue you another without my okay? Hey, you're making me feel sick—you know that, don't you? The son of a bitch is over there in the Press Club's
rätskeller.
He's with a Frenchman, one Michel le Blanc of
Paris-Soir,
a reporter. Their … their descriptions, Louis … They exactly fit those the engraver's son gave me.'

The dancers smiled and kicked their stockinged legs. The girls above the pool peeled off everything so as not to spoil their costumes …

‘Forged papers?' asked St-Cyr. Had things come to a head so soon?

‘Ah yes,' snorted Kohler. ‘Kempf is the blond, blue-eyed, curly-haired playboy in Luftwaffe blue whose new name is Raoul Chouard. Le Blanc wears a grey business suit, white shirt and dark blue tie, all pre-war. Straight black hair, dark brown eyes and maybe three or four years senior to our boy, so about thirty-six years of age and bang on for the robbery. New name, Claude Deschamps. I couldn't get a line on him. Becker at Gestapo Central knew nothing of him when I called in but promises to do a little digging if I pay him 10,000.'

‘Hermann, we need to talk!
'

‘Later. Somebody gave the SS and the French
flics
the anonymous nod, Louis, and they put paid to your engravers. Bang, bang.'

‘Dead?'

‘Yes, dead, damn it! Accused of hiding Jews. Now do you understand?'

The Press Club's
rätskeller
had once been a wine cellar. Broad archways of red brick rose to a dirty white ceiling from which single light bulbs hung on long black cords above crowded tables and chairs. A roaring trade was in progress. There was much tobacco smoke, loud talk, argument, little liaisons—a hand up a skirt—and both French and German men and women. One happy family.

A French girl was kneeling on the Sonderführer's table with arms stretched out to the sides, balancing a stein of beer on her pretty head. Nice legs, no stockings—hell, they were as scarce as diamonds these days—beige skirt hitched above the knees, a tight little behind and rosy cheeks.

It was le Blanc who gave the warning, Kempf who said, ‘Ah, Herr Kohler, it's good of you to find us.'

The stein teetered. The girl started to reach for it. Kohler swept the thing off her head and said, ‘Beat it! I have to talk to them, eh? Go piss in a barrel or something. You're drunk. It's too early for that.'

His French was very good and at first she didn't understand if this was what was really wanted of her and threw the Sonderführer an uncertain look.

St-Cyr took her by the arm. ‘Pay no attention, mademoiselle. See that you get a couple of beers for my partner and a pastis for me, eh? Now cheer up. It's really nothing. Put the drinks on the Sonderführer's tab and have another for yourself. We've business. A few questions. Nothing complicated.'

Unsteadily she fled. Kempf laughed. Le Blanc was uneasy.

‘So,
mes fins,
' said Kohler, turning the back of her chair towards them and sitting down, ‘a few small words into the shells of your tender ears. Let's begin with last Wednesday midnight and take it straight from there through Thursday. Who you slept with, where you slept. Give names, addresses and times. Be specific. You're both under arrest.'

Doucement,
Hermann, go easy. It's too early for such things, is it not? muttered St-Cyr to himself. Sometimes Hermann could be so impulsive.

Kempf moved to find an inside pocket of his open jacket.
‘Don't!
' breathed Kohler. ‘I want answers. Dead men can't talk.'

‘But of course. I was only getting my cigarettes. Perhaps that one could assist' He gave a nod.

‘Louis, see what he's got inside the jacket'

There was no gun, only a silver cigarette case that was beautifully engraved and signed
With much love, Denise.

Meunier had engraved the thing. Meunier.

It was Kempf who grinned and asked, ‘If it's not too much trouble, Herr Kohler, of what are we accused?'

Hermann took out his bracelets and laid the handcuffs on the table. ‘Armed robbery and murder.'

‘He means it, Franz!
' hissed le Blanc warily.

‘Shut up,
dummkopf!
Robbery, Herr Kohler? Come, come, where's the proof? Surely it's within my rights to loan a certain lady the use of my car?'

‘Not in wartime. Look, I'll be blunt. Your description and that of your little squeeze-box exactly fit those of the robbers. We've eyewitnesses who will swear to it. Photos as well.' This last was not true, but what the hell? How were they to know?

‘Photos?' blurted le Blanc—they were still speaking French. ‘That's not possible.'

Hermann grinned. ‘Then you tell me why it isn't.'

Kempf finally took a cigarette from his case and lit up. The Bavarian was making a nuisance of himself, the French
flic
with the moustache was simply studying the proceedings intensely. ‘There are no photos of us, Herr Kohler. I was not even near the Crédit Lyonnais at the time of the robbery and neither was my “concertina”, as you put it. We were on our way back into the city from le Bourget. Fräulein Schlaak had to be told something, since the reason for my absence was top secret and those were my orders.'

‘Yet you didn't use your car for such a purpose?' asked St-Cyr quitely.

The Sonderführer's look was cold. ‘We had a briefing to attend. The Graf von Stenglin had come straight from Berlin to inform us of the latest situation in Russia and to discuss policy. Monsieur le Blanc was joining Denise and myself for lunch at Maxim's so I asked him to come along, but he waited in another room.'

Was it all so clear and tidy? ‘What time was the briefing?' asked Hermann, failing to hide the note of disappointment and not following up on how they had got to the aerodrome.

Kempf drew on his cigarette and studied these two
Schweine Bullen
who had thought they had the world by the balls. ‘From 0800 hours until noon. We were,' he said tiredly, ‘a little late for lunch.'

The son of a bitch! ‘If you're lying,' said Kohler, ‘I won't just have your balls.'

Their drinks finally came. Le Blanc watched as the one called Louis tossed his off neat without even looking at it. Had the Sûréti noticed something, some small inflection or nervous habit? What really was going through that head of his? That the Occupation afforded opportunity and licence to pursue the dark side of human existence? That robbery and murder could have official sanction? Yes, yes, that was what he was thinking. Then he'll find the girl Franz got to kneel on the table. He'll ask of the waiters and discover that one of them was paid to act as a look-out to warn them of Herr Kohler's arrival.

It wouldn't take them long to discover that the briefing had lasted but an hour and that the Junkers Ju 52 had been late due to bad weather but that even so, they had been free by 10.15 a.m.

Then they'd find that the car to le Bourget had belonged to the Kriegsmarine's press officer and that they had simply hitched a ride because Franz had wanted Denise to have his car for the day. Ah yes, but they still wouldn't be able to discover the truth.

‘So, are we still under arrest, Herr Kohler?' asked Franz.
Merde alors,
thought le Blanc, why couldn't he take the arrogance from his manner?

‘Do you both play squash?' asked Kohler. As sure as that God of Louis's frowned on detectives, these bastards had been up to something and still were. Had they been fucking Joanne? Was that why the smart-assed smugness, or had they merely stolen the money?

‘Squash,' said Kempf with a grin. ‘Michel lets me beat him but gives me a good run for his money.'

Self-consciously le Blanc tossed his head a little to one side and shrugged.

‘Oh come now, Michel,' snorted Kempf, looking at him. ‘I always knew you were better at it than I, but you know your place. You're a realist and that is good. Does that one?' he asked, turning to Kohler and pointing at Louis. ‘Or is he one of the stubborn?'

‘Hermann,
leave it!' hissed St-Cyr.

‘Of course, but if he asks around about you, Louis, I'm going to haunt him, and in any case, we're not finished. Don't either of you leave town. Clock in at 0700 hours on the dot to Sturmbannführer Boemelburg personally and provide him with a typed and signed itinerary for each day. We'll want to contact you, so make it easy for us.'

‘Boemelburg …?' began le Blanc, definitely not happy about it.

Kohler stood up. ‘The Big Chief himself, schmuck. He's a personal friend and old acquaintance of my partner.'

Swiftly he retrieved the bracelets but left the beers untouched. ‘Louis, let's take in a bit of the show. I need to forget what I've just had to deal with. My boys are dying because of crap like this.'

Later they sat in the car discussing things in the freezing cold and darkness at the side of the Champs-Élysées, knowing Kempf and his friend had realized they would be followed and had slipped away.

‘Provins is only about 80 kilometres from Paris, Hermann. Kempf and le Blanc could have gone there under the assumed identities, hidden the cash, and come back easily under Kempf's auspices using their own identities and no one really the wiser. They could be using the Château des belles fleurs bleues. Vergès and his son might no longer be alive.'

Uncomfortable at the thought, Kohler fiddled with a cigarette. ‘It doesn't make a bit of sense having a man-shy thing like Marie-Claire de Brisson working with those two humpers. By rights that third set of papers ought to have been for Denise St. Onge, not her.'

‘Then is it that she asked Mademoiselle de Brisson to have those papers forged for her friends, Hermann, or is it that Mademoiselle St. Onge doesn't even know of them?'

A man had turned in the alarm on the engravers. No doubt he had spoken fluent French. But had Denise St. Onge been the one to warn her lover there might be trouble?

Kohler recalled the photograph on her mantelpiece of her and Kempf and how the hat of the banker's daughter had cast its shadow behind the couple to spoil the snapshot. In just such little things were there sometimes answers.

‘Did Mademoiselle de Brisson lie to me about being in the back of the shop with Mademoiselle St. Onge?' asked St-Cyr. ‘Was her employer and friend watching the street for the robbers or following Joanne, or both?'

‘Then why scatter the photographs if you're a part of it?'

Why indeed. It was a problem.

Kohler lit the cigarette and took two deep drags before sharing it. ‘Was that teller silenced, Louis? Did he recognize the Sonderführer from an earlier visit with Mademoiselle St. Onge, a visit perhaps to put pressure on the banker to extend her shop more credit?'

It was a possibility, but an idiot could have hit the teller at that range.

Again they came back to the woman in the street. Had she felt Joanne a threat and followed her simply for this reason? If so, then there might be no connection to what had been going on in that house, only its final interruption.

‘An amateur photographer,' said Kohler. ‘A good one but one who, on the surface at least, hasn't used her cameras since before the Defeat and in any case takes only sweetheart photos because …'

A cloud of cigarette smoke filled the air. ‘Because “To forget is to survive.” Our Mademoiselle de Brisson said this to me at the shop and now you have supplied the answer as to why she said it.'

‘But if sexually abused, why the desire to abuse and kill girls who want to become mannequins and then, only those with chestnut hair and deep brown eyes?'

‘To do to others what she herself has had to endure, Hermann. To get back at what has happened—it's common enough, but is Mademoiselle St. Onge aware of her friend's abuse and using it in some way? The girls, that house …?'

‘Or to extend her credit at the father's bank?'

‘Yes, the bank, or is it that the daughter herself has warned the father that if he shuts down the shop of her friend, he ends her own silence?'

There were other problems. The presence of the jewellery in the shop window; similar things among the bric-à-brac of Mademoiselle St. Onge's flat—hieroglyphics, tablets, seals … Egyptian things—she had often loaned clothing from the shop to the banker's daughter.

‘So, what about the drooler?' asked Kohler, clearing a patch of frost to stare out at the street. ‘Do we write him off as being completely innocent?'

St-Cyr heaved a troubled sigh. ‘The drooler, ah yes, Gaetan Vergès and his fiancée, Angèlique Desthieux. It's still possible the drooler could have waited upstairs until the initial photographs had been taken and Joanne was then completely naked.'