Mayhem (8 page)

‘Louis wouldn't do that. He has his pride.'

‘So, where did he go then?'

One could push shits like Glotz only so far. ‘I don't know. Looking up a few friends, I guess. Louis has plenty of them from before. He'll be working on the murder. He'll tell me all about it when I see him. We're heading south again.'

‘You taking the Frenchman's shooter with you?'

‘
Yeah
, I'm taking it with me.'

‘How long?'

‘Overnight – a couple of days – a week. Christ, I don't know.'

‘What about von Schaumburg's daily reports?'

Did Glotz have ears everywhere? ‘What about them, eh? We'll telephone the old fart and let the world know all about it.'

Implying the Gestapo tapped von Schaumburg's line, which they did.

Glotz fiddled with a pencil. ‘This murder, Hermann. From what I hear it's a matter of some concern.'

The diamonds, probably. Jesus Christ! ‘It's a nothing case. A nobody. Just some pretty boy who got his head bashed.'

‘By a girl.'

‘Yes, by a girl.'

Glotz fingered his double chin. ‘You're not telling me much, Hermann. It would be better if you did.'

‘Fuck off. You creeps don't know your jobs. Me, I thought you were supposed to be really something. Top quality. Right from Himmler's nest.'

Eggs. So, all right, you prick! ‘Care to hear a little something, or are your ears still plugged from the Somme?'

‘Listen, you …'

‘Okay, so I'll listen.'

Kohler knew Glotz had him where he wanted him but even so he had to say, ‘You should have been with us. We'd have shown you what war was all about.'

‘Lawyers don't manhandle field guns.'

‘No, I guess they don't. Besides, you'd have been too young, wouldn't you? Still at your mother's breast.'

‘I resent that. I was eight years old at the time.'

Kohler nodded. ‘You see what I mean. Some men never leave the tit.'

The hand closed over the cigarettes and matches. As he got up, Glotz tugged the heavy suit jacket down over his fleshy rump and paused to button it.

‘You're getting fatter,' breathed Kohler. ‘Like pork. Paris suiting you, eh?'

Glotz ignored the remark. One word to von Schaumburg from Kohler and there'd only be more trouble. But still there was the matter of the diamonds to consider. Yes, there was that, and something else.

Down in the bowels of the Sû reté, the smells rocketed up at them. They passed several detention cells. There was water on the stone floor in two or three places, blood in another. Weeping from one cell, the sounds of some poor bastard throwing up his guts in another.

Kohler gripped himself. An interrogation already? That maid … that little piece of ass with her boulder …

They went into the sound room at the far end of the corridor. Green lights, headphones, perpetual dusk and silence, batteries of tape recorders slowly turning. Secrets,… secrets … Only one of so many such rooms.

Glotz took him to a spare machine and found a spool of tape. ‘So, the earphones, Hermann. You put them on, in case you didn't know.'

They both did, and the spool began to turn. At first there was nothing, then some static, the scraping of bedsheets perhaps. Finally, a woman's earthy sigh.

Then the voice of a man, the accent unmistakably German. ‘Liebchen … higher … higher. Yes … yes, that's it. Higher still. Now in.'

The woman gave another sigh, a moan – a series of these – and then a savage grunt as she pushed herself back against him.

The bed began to rock, she to moan and twist her head from side to side and suck for air, Steiner to laugh. In and out. In and out. ‘Erich … Erich … more … more. Hurry … Hurry. I'm coming, chéri. Coming. Ah, Mon Dieu, Mon Dieu … Come, Erich. Come!'

She threw her face into the pillows, perhaps biting them, was utterly lost apparently as Steiner slammed home and let her have it with a ragged gasp, a slap of choice rump, and a final, ‘Ahh,' that was long and tortured.

The woman cried out too. ‘Your knees … Your knees, Erich. I must grip them as I …'

She must have straightened up – left the pillows or something. Then the purring started, the whimpering. ‘Erich … Erich, don't ever leave me.'

Kohler dragged off the earphones but found only sadness and defeat.

Glotz watched him closely. The Bavarian's eyes were a pale, insane blue and very hard. No smiles … none whatsoever.

‘So, what the fuck do you want me to say?'

‘Nothing. I just thought you'd like to hear it. We'll try to have some film for you the next time you're in.'

‘And Louis?' Kohler swallowed.

Glotz removed the spool of tape and caressed it. ‘That depends entirely on yourself, Hermann. A little more co-operation, I think. Yes … yes, that and a closer watch on your friend.'

And the diamonds – one mustn't forget them, thought Kohler, sensing even greater trouble but not wishing to think about it.

‘Shits like you deserve the Russian Front.'

‘Perhaps it is yourself who deserves it, Hermann.'

‘What's that supposed to mean?'

The creep slid the spool of tape back into its box. No doubt he'd listened to it several times.

The Bavarian didn't like him, but liking or not liking really had nothing to do with things. He wouldn't look at Kohler yet. No, he'd pause, and then he'd say, ‘Full reports on this murder, Hermann. Everything you give von Schaumburg. Everything you give the Sturmbannführer Boemelburg and,' he turned to look up at him, grinned, and continued, ‘everything that Frog of yours finds out. Yes, that, Hermann, and everything the two of you hold back. It's a matter of priority. Orders straight from Berlin. Now bugger off and find him. Make the Frog croak or else we'll have him in for a listen.'

Kohler grabbed the jacket and burst the button. ‘You shit! You haven't the fuck of an idea what it's like out there, have you?'

The jungle.

Glotz brushed himself down and examined the empty threads. ‘Berlin will hear of this, Hermann. Your conduct is under investigation so don't forget it.'

The scissors and the sewing machines were going like crazy in the cutting room of the Salon Chez Nadeau above the shop on the rue de la Paix.

St-Cyr could see his fingers beneath the remnant of silk, it was so sheer. The late afternoon light filtered in. Outside, a bit of snow was falling.

He brought the silk up to his nose. Ah, Mon Dieu, such sensuality. A cheek was brushed.

For an age he sat there, an island in that sea of busy women, a man in touch with an image, a mirage.

His fedora lay on the table to one side.

‘Is she tall?' he asked, but the girl had left him to give orders to someone or to carry them out herself. Very capable, a very petite
jeune fille
. Brown hair, brown eyes, still a certain fierce hesitation even yet. That of a cornered rat. Age twenty-four now and still unmarried. Rescued from the streets at the age of fifteen and given a lecture, 300 francs and a job or else.

Saved, some would have said, but not to her face. Too busy now to remember, and anyway, one shouldn't hold that sort of favour over a girl. Ah no, one certainly shouldn't.

He reached for the shears and carefully cut off a wedge of the fabric, sufficient to catch its shimmering iridescence.

Sylviane Valcourt came back with her boss, he tall, suave and extremely handsome – age forty-two, married with three children, a mistress in Auteuil and a summerhouse near Châteaudun.

Julian Nadeau's hand was on the girl's shoulder. The dark grey suit had the look of elegance about it, so did the silvery blue tie and the white shirt with its starched collar.

The dark eyes betrayed a certain inner anxiety. The girl was watchful.

‘Sylviane, would you leave us, please?' asked St-Cyr. ‘I'm sure you'd sooner get on with something else, eh? Just for a few minutes. I promise I won't keep him too long. It's really nothing.'

Nadeau told her it was okay but brushed a hand over the back of her neck for good measure. ‘Louis is an old friend. Please see to the Baroness's things. She wants the dress for this evening. Everything must be perfect.'

‘Did you think I didn't know that?' came the acid retort.

She still had the walk, that saucy flick of her hips that had so intrigued the patrons of the rue St-Denis. St-Cyr followed her with his eyes before holding out the wedge of fabric in question and then carefully pocketing it.

The dark eyes settled on him. ‘Must I?' asked the designer and part owner – only part owner – of this cushy little business.

‘I think so,' said St-Cyr. ‘One old favour deserves a new one, eh? Isn't that so?'

‘That business was over years ago. Must you …'

‘Insurance fraud and arson, Julian. Questions are still being asked. It's just too bad, my friend. Me, I've done all I can but you know how the Germans are. Records – ah, Mon Dieu, you should see the records those boys have got their hands on.'

He rolled the remnant bolt over to take up the rest of the fabric and emphasize the point.

‘How did you know we'd made the dress?'

St-Cyr shrugged. ‘Me, I didn't. You were one of six possibilities. The sixth on my list.'

The little insult couldn't fail to help.

‘Who told you it was us? Was it Callot …?' Nadeau irritably ran a hand over his beautifully trimmed black hair. ‘Lelong … it was that Lelong.'

‘It was guesswork, Julian. None of your competitors fingered you. Pure legwork, and a simple process of elimination.'

‘Look, I can't tell you the woman's name. Some things must be in confidence. There's an absolute principle involved. Absolute!'

Suddenly bored with it all, St-Cyr got off the dressmaker's stool and reached for his hat. ‘She's a singer in a nightclub, Julian.' It was just a guess, a shot in the dark.

Nadeau nodded and felt the fatherly patting of his elbow. ‘So, okay, let's leave it, eh?' said St-Cyr. ‘If not the name of the woman, then that of the club.'

‘What's she done? Look, I'm not interested in her, Louis. She's just a customer. Once – only once. A referral and trouble at that.'

The things one learned. ‘I didn't say you were interested in her, and so far as I know, she hasn't done a thing.'

Now a gentle squeeze of the forearm just for good measure.

‘Then why …' began the designer irritably, only to break and give in. ‘The Mirage on the rue Delambre. It's a cabaret.'

‘It's got a nice name. Me, I'm aware of the place but,' St-Cyr gave another shrug, ‘I must confess I did not think to connect the two.'

Before he could be asked what he'd meant, St-Cyr was in among the seamstresses, nodding to one, exclaiming over the dress another was making. A last look down the long length of the cutting room showed Julian and his assistant forlornly staring his way while the women continued to bend to their work.

He waved his hat and left them to it. He thundered down the staircase, clicking his heels to some unheard dance tune.

When he reached the ground floor, he straight-armed the shop door and was soon absorbed in the traffic's hush.

Trust Muriel to have named the perfume after the club but why the pearls instead of glass beads or sequins?

Perhaps Sylviane had run out of them.

Kohler was drowning his sorrows in a small café directly across the rue du Faubourg St-Honoré from Fournier's. He was writing up the next day's report for von Schaumburg.

‘I thought I'd file it early, Louis, so as to get ahead of him. Boemelburg was pleased with the idea. What did you come up with this afternoon?'

‘Not a blasted thing. Me, I'm beginning to think all my contacts have deserted me.'

‘Well, never mind. Oh, hey, I've got something for you. The last can in Paris, Louis. The very last – even with the original seals.'

Five hundred grams of pure gold, Virginia pipe tobacco.

‘The bastard owed me one,' said Kohler. ‘I thought you'd be pleased?'

‘Me, I am. Certainly,' exclaimed St-Cyr, raising two fingers for more beer.

But not breaking, not giving in, though it hurt.

‘I've got the address book,' hazarded Kohler.

The Frenchman waited for the beer to arrive before saying, ‘Good.
Salut
!'

‘I've got the monogrammed silver cigarette case,' offered Kohler. ‘It was in the purse.'

Good again. Another sip. ‘Louis, this thing's too hot for us. You know that, don't you?'

The poor guy actually grimaced before saying, ‘Yes … Yes, I'm beginning to be aware of this.'

The Bavarian reached for his refresher and decided to let him have the last word. A guy needed that now and then.

‘What did Records cough up?' asked St-Cyr, not leaving his beer.

‘Nothing. A mug-shot's being circulated to all district Gestapo offices and préfectures of police.'

‘Good.'

Kohler silently swore. Louis was being tight at a time like this! Reluctantly he slid the address book along the zinc between them and watched as St-Cyr carefully opened it.

The penmanship was very neat, very feminine. It was not an address book, but a record of assignations.

5 April/42
–
the château
Which among the hundreds? he wondered.

21 April/42 – the Louvre: Sculptures Gallery, 4.10 p.m
. Which piece of sculpture, eh? So many had been taken to repositories in the south. Things were slowly filtering back, but still the galleries had that empty look.

28 April/42 – evening performance. Main foyer of the Opéra during the first intermission of Puccini's La Bohème
Champagne perhaps?

7 May/42 – Fontainebleau: the Palais. Afterwards the Auberge de la Renard d'Or, then a walk in the woods
Nice, that was very nice.