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The warehouse was one of hundreds in the bustling dock area of Saint-Ouen to the north of the city near the Seine. The faded yellow logo of a hand of bananas was just visible on the rusting corrugated iron above the main shipping door and entrance. Kohler was struck by the thing. It could not possibly have anything to do with Oberg, the Butcher of Poland, but was it a reminder that one should never forget one's bosses?

The noise was unbelievable. Donkey engines, overhead cranes, pneumatic drills – three, no four shunting locomotives, gangs of French labourers pulling track and laying down others, gangs of the Wehrmacht's finest too, soot and coal dust in the air and everyone pausing to get an eyeful of Madame Van der Lynn, who didn't like it one bit.

There were mountains of coal, stacks and stacks of firewood, steel drums that carried labels of all kinds. Kerosene, alcohol, glycerine, liquid fertilizer (i.e., pig shit), concentrated apple juice, a real cocktail.

The collector of stuffed canaries had been forewarned. Offenheimer avoided looking at Madame Van der Lynn and concentrated on him instead. ‘Herr Kohler, as you can see I'm very busy.'

Kohler gave the Abwehr's man a Gestapo's ‘Heil Hitler!', crashed his heels and shook hands formally. One had to do things like that. ‘Brandl said you'd co-operate. It's good of you to see me.'

‘Yes, yes. Oh, very well. Sit please. You may not smoke. I would prefer it if you didn't.'

Well, what do you know about that? In these days of high anxiety tobacco was out and that could only mean real coffee was in. Lots of it and strong. He indicated the cup on the desk and asked if they could have some.

Karl Ernst Offenheimer was forty-four years old, of medium height, light build, wore unrimmed eyeglasses that didn't do anything for the round and unhealthy face whose pallor spoke of too many late nights but doing what?

The naval uniform was far too tidy. The short black hair was heavily pomaded and parted in the middle. He'd shaved but already near noon there was a blueish shadow.

‘Tell me about Schraum,' said Kohler.

The dark eyes glistened with barely suppressed anger. ‘There is
nothing
to tell. As you can see, I have been going through the accounts. Kapitän Brandl is convinced we will find something. Myself, I think we know enough.'

‘And have for some time.'

‘I don't like your manner, Herr Kohler. I resent your coming here. It's
my
job to find the coins, not yours!'

‘The coins are only a part of it. What we want are the murderers.'

‘Yes, yes, the killers. Schraum ran this warehouse for the Bureau and had, as I'm sure you can well surmise, a direct pipeline through to his uncle in Stralsund.'

‘The Gauleiter, the SA-Sturmbannführer and collector of coins. A distant relative of the Reichsmarschall Goering.'

The dark eyes flicked to Madame Van der Lynn but raced away to the ledgers as if guilt had slapped a wrist and mummy had said no.

‘Yes, the Reichsmarschall. He is himself somewhat of a collector.'

‘Aren't we all,' breathed Kohler. The bastard was up to something. ‘Brandl operates the Bureau Otto on the principle of the barracuda in thin waters, Herr Kapitän. He lets the little fish fatten among the coral heads until they make mischief. Then he eats them. Right? So what's your game?'

Kohler was the nuisance who had embarrassed the SS and Himmler himself. ‘My
game
is this. The coins, though forged, are copies of real ones that must have been syphoned from a substantial hoard of undeclared valuables. Schraum should have brought the matter to our attention but chose not to.'

And got eaten by the barracuda? Was it that simple?

‘He bit off too much, Herr Kohler. All little fish must understand that the reef is controlled by the big fish.'

‘Meaning me? Come off it, Herr Kapitän. I can't even swim. How long have you been working on this?'

‘Since long before the murders.'

‘What's stored here? What kind of goods did Schraum handle?'

‘Coal, firewood – don't tell me you haven't noticed?'

‘Bananas?'

‘Bananas?'

‘Yeah, there's a logo above the door.'

‘Oh that. It has nothing to do with us. It must be something from the past.'

No sense of humour at all. ‘Oberg was a banana merchant. Oberg, my fine Abwehr twit!
Oberg.
Now give.'

The shadowed cheeks quivered. The dark eyes flicked to Oona, to her legs, her chest, her face and hair; they made the trip and came right back to settle on the ledgers, thus avoiding a confrontation. ‘Otto said you would help us. Is this the help of one who says he is a friend?'

‘And needs his friends right now?'

With a supreme effort of will, Offenheimer pulled his gaze from the columns of figures. So many tons of coal, so many cords of firewood. Even a donkey could have written them.

‘No one crosses Otto Brandl, Herr Kohler. The reef is to be kept peaceful at all times for the good of us all.'

Out of a corner of his left eye Kohler saw Madame Van der Lynn tug her skirt down and smooth it over her knees. ‘Tell me what happened with the coins; let's begin with them.'

It would be best to appear judgemental, to place his fingertips together and bring them to his lips in thought. ‘Ten days ago Schraum's uncle received the coins in a consignment of liqueurs, old silver, tapestries and wines. Schraum was apparently confident he'd scraped the surface of something big. We have since learned that the uncle wasn't happy. The coins didn't get past his scrutiny, Herr Kohler. Unfortunately, Reichsmarschall Goering's appetite had already been whetted.'

‘Only duds turned up and the uncle turned nasty, that it, eh?'

‘In so far as the deaths are concerned, yes. The uncle was embarrassed, and when you are an SA-Sturmbannführer and Gauleiter you can't afford to be embarrassed by a careless nephew, even though he might have been useful to you in the past.'

‘Someone was hired? Sent straight from Stralsund? A debt-collector perhaps, assuming cash had been paid for goods received?'

‘Precisely. Victor Morande had been Schraum's source. They'd been working on the deal for months. Morande was forced to tell the killer of the girl's whereabouts, then she was killed and finally Schraum.'

‘The knife, the wire and then the pistol,' oozed Kohler with feigned wonder. ‘You should have been a detective.'

The mackerel, the girl and then the corporal. Offenheimer polished his glasses. ‘The Reichsmarschall is, of course, insisting we locate the real coins. Apparently the gold sestertius is of some personal interest.'

Their coffee came. Oona clutched her cup with both hands. As she took a sip, she chanced a look across the desk at Offenheimer. She would not wish to be left alone with this one, ah no. There was something wrong with him. Sex … had it to do with sex?

Kohler took out his cigarettes. In alarm, Offenheimer's spoon stopped stirring. ‘Oh, sorry. I almost forgot. It's a good thing Louis isn't here. Then there'd be three of us to one of you.'

‘Will there be anything else?' asked Offenheimer.

He'd ignore the hint. ‘Schraum was approached by Victor Morande. They'd had the coal and firewood exchange going for some time but now it was fifty-fifty on a deal Victor thought he could deliver.'

‘The hidden wealth of Antoine Audit.'

‘Of Périgord, Lyon and Saint-Raphaël.'

‘The same, but you won't find any of Audit's silks here. Schraum was too careful for that.' Offenheimer ran a finger across the ledger. ‘He swapped coal with an accomplice in Saint-Denis who was in charge of the warehouse where the silk is stored. There's only the requisition for the coal, nothing else, but I know silk changed hands. It was sold to some of the dress designers. Another deal gave him access to the foodstuffs of Audit and Sons.'

‘Pâtés with truffles and walnuts,' said Kohler. ‘He got to know his man a little better. Did he send samples to the uncle?'

Men like Offenheimer cannot shrug; it's a gesture that would only have been punished. Instead, the Captain settled for a sip of coffee.

‘The uncle passed the word back to the avenue Foch when the coins turned out to have been forged.'

‘After having first hired a hit man to do away with a nephew who'd turned troublesome? A Corsican? Hey, I didn't think they had any of those in Stralsund. Dumb of me, I guess. It just goes to show you what can happen when a fellow's overworked.'

Kohler was trying to make a mockery of things! Very well, it would be best to teach him a lesson. ‘The avenue Foch could have supplied the killer, Herr Kohler. The rue Lauriston are not always as tidy as they should be, nor are the Intervention-Referat.'

Paul Carbone then, was that it? ‘Where's this put Antoine Audit?'

‘Under suspicion for not declaring what he should have, but he has friends in high places so one must go carefully. It's a little like hunting for Easter eggs. There's a crowd of others to be beaten. Each leaf must be carefully turned and none of the eggs trampled until they've been examined to see if they are to taste.'

‘Lest the wind of the Gestapo blow all of the leaves away, eh? Hang on a minute, will you? Where's the head? I have to drain the battery.'

Oona choked. The coffee scalded her throat and made her eyes water. Herr Kohler had left her alone with him!

The Kapitän Offenheimer refused to look at her or speak. He broke off a piece of cookie and dunked it in his coffee. Then he ate the thing fastidiously, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together quickly as if in guilt and under watchful eyes.

He was staring at the left corner of his desk. The hackles on the back of her neck began to rise, the muscles in her legs to tighten. She was making him nervous, afraid … ‘Have you been in Paris long, Herr Kapitän?' she hazarded, trying to break the silence. A mistake.

Ignoring the question, Offenheimer reached for his coffee and blew on it before taking a sip. ‘Have you slept with him?' he asked, still not looking at her.

‘I beg your pardon? Paris … I asked you about Paris.'

‘And I
asked
if you'd slept with him.'

An avalanche of coal outside jarred her nerves. ‘Yes … yes, I've slept with him.'

‘Did you enjoy it?'

Why in God's name couldn't he look at her? ‘My husband was arrested by the rue Lauriston. I thought … Herr Kohler asked … He demanded I undress. I – I had to! Don't you see, I had to?'

The coffee was perfect. Five teaspoonfuls of the finest grind to three cups of boiling water over the filter, then one and a quarter teaspoons of granulated sugar, a touch of cognac to sharpen the taste, and cream, rich cream. Just as at home, just like auntie used to make it and grandmother too.

Deep in the warehouse behind them, Kohler was impressed by what he'd found. There were tins of tomatoes, pears, peaches and peas, bottles of pickled walnuts
à la
Périgord, tubes of walnut cream, or was it paste? Truffles in wine and in honey – Christ, Audit and Sons must have been desperate to think up something new. What hadn't they tried?

Behind the coal and under canvas there was enough pâté with truffles to keep the hogs at home happy for years. Cases of Bordeaux, bottles of walnut liqueur. Gifts from Antoine Audit to keep a certain corporal quiet, or merely samples to be sent home to the uncle?

By the look of the loot, Schraum had shown great promise, a real wheeler-dealer in his element. A pity to have been such a disappointment.

Shoes, good ones, too. All size ten and a half. Uncle had big feet. Luggage, cosmetics, perfume and soap – friend Schraum had used his authority over the lifeblood of coal and cordwood to choke the pipeline to his uncle.

There were small antiques, even a cluster of oils on canvas in gilt frames. Porcelains in straw. But did the corporal really have any taste? Louis would have known. In any case, the bugger had had deals with everyone who had counted. No wonder the barracuda had got uptight.

But the barracuda had been caught sleeping all the same. There'd be questions now and that's what Old Shatter Hand, the Kommandant of Greater Paris, had wanted. Questions, questions and more of them. Another scandal.

This one on the Abwehr, which didn't make a lot of sense on von Schaumburg's part unless someone in the Bureau Otto was also working for the SS over on the avenue Foch and hadn't said a thing about it. Oh yeah.

Snorting at the thought, Kohler pocketed a jar of pickled walnuts for Louis just in case the Frog was still around and pounding the pavement. A crock of the famous pâté went into the other pocket. The guns were getting in the way and were too heavy, but he'd manage somehow to swipe a bottle of the Cream of Walnut liqueur. Just a taste. What the hell.

The woman who had made the coffee was Offenheimer's personal grey mouse and by God she was grey! A grandmother from the Teutoburger Wald yanked out of retirement. They couldn't have come of sterner stuff. She'd be well into her sixties and she had to make him wonder.

‘Tell Madame Van der Lynn that the Inspector Kohler is finished here for the time being. Extend my thanks to the Kapitän. Sorry about the canary, but she's spoken for.'

Son of a bitch! Louis … where the hell was Louis? He'd not believe it either! A granny, when everyone else voted for the young ones and saw that they got them.

7

By mid-afternoon a light mist had replaced the rain. Round the Étoile and the Arc de Triomphe the traffic had the sound of wet cornflakes in cream.

German direction signs were everywhere. Bicycles … there were so many of them. Vé1o-taxis pedalled by eager young girls or grim-faced men in their middle fifties and older. Now a Daimler edging through the cream, now an army truck coming abreast of a cornflake, a blonde in a red coat and matching beret pedalling like the damned. German officers laughing at her. German corporals looking on with lust or disinterest, the whole mass swirling in the mist, undulating as it went round and round … The Benzedrine? asked St-Cyr. The panic? The carousel of what Paris had become? Ah Mon Dieu, this thing was fast becoming a nightmare!