Gypsy (18 page)

The dust had settled in the Gare Saint-Lazare but the ringing in the ears would probably never go away.

Kohler tried to get his bearings. The ticket office was a shambles. The massive door to the old iron safe was off its hinges, bent, ripped apart and still disgorging sand and bricks, and half embedded in the floor.

‘
I told you not to tamper with that dial, Inspector. I warned you the safe had a booby trap built into its locking mechanism
!'

The sous-chef de gare was livid. ‘Then why didn't it blow off the Gypsy's hands?'

‘
The portrait, yes? The Maréchal, you idiot! Have you forgotten this
?'

Tattered, dust-covered and furious, the little twerp blinked and apprehensively licked the dust from his lips when he saw the Kripo take a step towards him.

On the wall above the safe, Pétain, and before him legions of former presidents, had looked sternly out at ticket agent and buyer. Nearly one hundred years of thumbprints had greased the lower left corner of that picture frame and wall. The damned thing had been slid aside enough times for the world to have seen the marks from any three of the wickets.

The combination had been written in pencil on the wall but the Gypsy had changed the settings. He'd written the new combination above the old one, the numerals so perfect one had to wonder about the severity of his schooling as a boy, but no one had wanted to try the numbers.

The booby trap … A travelling salesman fresh off the boat from Buffalo, New York, in 1903, had installed the bloody thing on a trial basis and had never come back for it.
The Badger Safe Protector
. Two little vials of fulminate of mercury probably, but those hadn't blown the door off and wrecked the room.

For that De Vries had used the fulminate to detonate a charge of nitro or dynamite. Three or four sticks at least.

‘The bomb boys can pick up the pieces and tell us all about it. How many dead?'

‘I do not know. None so far.'

In the pandemonium of injured and rescuer, cop, stretcher-bearer and nurse, there was no sign of Oona or Giselle. Oona had been at one of the wickets. He, himself, had taken shelter before using a length of cord to pull the handle open. He had called out to her to leave and she had … ‘
Oona
!' he cried out, startling several.
A flic
started for him, a Feldgendarm also …

Desperately he searched the hall. Both of their backs were to him. She was standing beside Giselle who had an arm about Oona's waist. There were no cuts, no abrasions. She must have tripped and fallen to the floor. They were staring at a poster … a poster!

DANCE
TANGO, WALTZ ETC AND ALL THE LATEST BALLROOM DANCES
LESSONS AND CLASSES
Madame jeséauel, Professeur Diplômé, et Mademoiselle
Nana Thélème, danseuse électriaue de flamenco
.
Studio Pleyel No. 6
252 rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré, Paris
Téléphone: Carnot 33.56

5

The revolver weighed at least a kilogram when loaded. The build was grim, the grip firm, and when Nana Thélème pulled the hammer back, it made two clicks, at half-cock and the full.

She knew it was madness to have such a thing. The box had been wrapped in newspaper but tied with a red silk rose and left with the coat-check girl downstairs in the club but now …

She pulled the trigger. The click, as the firing pin struck an empty chamber, was louder still. There were six packets of cartridges, one hundred and twenty rounds, the two other revolvers. All had been cleaned of the grease that had protected them from rust over the years in that safe at the Gare Saint-Lazare. They looked brand-new.

‘The 1873
Modèle d'ordonnance
,' she said, a whisper. Why had Janwillem sent them to her? She had loved him. She would have done anything for him. ‘I didn't betray you in Oslo!' she swore softly and clenched a fist. ‘Tshaya must have but you … you are still blaming me. She's a Gestapo informer, Jani. A betrayer of others too!'

Picking up the card that had been inside the box, she hurriedly reread it.
Pour toi, chérie, et pour tes amies de l'armée secrète. Bonne chance
.

Bâtard
! she silently cried. He had told them he had escaped during the battle for Norway in the spring of 1940. A trawler to England, and bravo! She had wished it with all her heart. But had the British then found him such a nuisance they had been only too willing to get rid of him, or had he simply lied enough to convince them of his usefulness in France?

And what missions had the British assigned him, in addition to their own targets? The safes of the SS at
numéro
84 avenue Foch? Those of the Abwehr at the Hotel Lutétia, or those of von Stülpnagel, the Military Governor of France?

Three revolvers. One for herself, one for Suzanne-Cécilia, and the last for Gabrielle.

He had had no need of them and had never used a gun during all of the robberies he had committed. ‘I prefer explosives,' he had once said and had given her that smile of his which had warmed her heart with its gentleness and yet had been so full of gypsy mischief. ‘They're much better, but like a good woman, you have to know how far you can go with them.'

He had gone too far with her, had promised marriage early in 1938 but had then taken up again with Tshaya and had left for Oostende at that one's beckoning.

And from there, the two of them had gone to Oslo.

Mollergaten-19, prisoner 3266, cell D2. Seven long months of solitary confinement for one who had always been free, and then cell C27. Three other convicts for constant company, the space shared being no more than 8 square metres. Four bunks to a cell, and a tiny, grilled window too high to look out of and forbidden in any case.

Had he told Tshaya he couldn't stay with her any more, that he was to have a son? Had he said he was going to marry her arch rival?

Prison would have been enough to have made him hate her instead of Tshaya. None of her letters to him before the war had been opened. All had been returned. Only sketchy details of his existence had been provided by the prison authorities.

And now he was giving not just herself but the others a last chance. Three revolvers against those of the Gestapo, the SS and the Wehrmacht.

The soup had been excellent, the Chief Inspector St-Cyr more than content. No matter the lateness of the hour, and she but a perfect stranger, he liked to have a woman about the house at 3 rue Laurence-Savart. He was pleased the clothing of his dead wife had fitted so well. The long and heavy white flannelette nightgown from Brittany was warm enough perhaps. The black lisle stockings could not be seen but for a slice of ankle above the low-heeled black leather pumps. Grey flannel trousers had been rolled up out of sight but were ready in case she needed to escape a Gestapo visit.

Suzanne-Cécilia was glad she had taken the time to ruffle her hair so that it would constantly remind him of her awakening.

‘Madame,' he said, having given up all thought of rationing the last of his emergency pipe tobacco, ‘let me ask again if you know Mademoiselle Nana Thélème?'

‘The chanteuse at the Club Monseigneur and also sometimes at the Schéhérazade?'

‘Yes, that's the one.'

Her soft brown eyes would not duck away as some might have done but would gaze steadfastly at him with complete candour. ‘Does she have a little boy?'

Merde
, why must she continue to avoid things? ‘There's no perhaps about it. He's the Gypsy's son.'

She tossed her auburn curls at his gruffness. ‘It's a family matter then. No. No, I cannot say that I have made her acquaintance. So many people come and go at the Jardin. Saturday afternoons and Sundays are busiest, even in winter. My work does not allow me close contact with any of them.'

‘Yet you became the mistress of one.'

‘Clément Laviolette, of Cartier's, yes. It's a puzzle, isn't it?' Did he think it a tragedy? she wondered.

Neither Gabrielle nor Nana Thélème could possibly have been recently in touch with her, thought St-Cyr. The risk of using the telephone would have been too great but, still, she must be very aware of Gestapo interest in herself because of the house on the rue Poliveau if nothing else. ‘Tell me then,' he asked, ‘why is it that Mademoiselle Thélème said you let her son feed the wolves?'

‘I can only tell you what I know to be true, Inspector. If this … this singer of gypsy songs says she has met me, well … what can I say but that the chance meeting so often leaves no memory.'

He sighed in despair. He looked at her steadily as if in judgement and, yes, Gabrielle had said he was persistent but why had he suddenly taken to using his matchbox as if it were a wireless key? Gabi had told him about having access to a transceiver – yes, of course – but not about herself. Never that!

The message came to an end. It had read:
sos GESTAPO
, and she thought he had tapped that out because of listening devices in the house and this sickened her, but then he said, ‘Your husband, madame. Please tell me a little about him.'

He slid the matchbox across the table. She winced. She knew her fingers were trembling and that he could feel this as she took the box from him.

Trapped, her answer was perfect.
HE WAS THE WIRELESS OPERATOR FOR HIS UNIT. HE DIED AT SEDAN DURING THE INVASION AS I HAVE ALREADY TOLD YOU.

St-Cyr took the matchbox from her.
I TOO WAS A SIGNALS OPERATOR BUT IN THE WAR BEFORE THIS ONE.

Ah! she silently said and tossed that pretty head of hers.

SO MADAME LET US NOW GET DOWN TO BUSINESS BEFORE. IT IS TOO LATE FOR ALL OF US.

*

At 2.47 a.m. tobacco smoke filled the air, the lights were low on hanging carpets, cushions, brasses, samovars and plush red-velvet drapes. Kohler let his gaze sift over the Club Monseigneur's tables, Giselle and Oona did too, looking always for the Gypsy.

Gestapo, SS and Wehrmacht officers, teary-eyed and homesick, most of them –
Mein Gott
what sentimentalists! – sat with their women or unaccompanied except for black-market big shots and gangsters, all lost, it seemed, to the haunting melancholy of a clear and soft serenity that carried yet a sense of restlessness all found slightly disturbing. It was as if unsatisfied, the chanteuse – the gypsy woman in the red dress and through her, her audience – sought constantly for the unattainable. Long pauses accompanied repeated phrases. Rhythm drove her more and more to seek the release she wanted. Tune after tune followed but now a vigorousness crept in, the orchestra in their black corduroy trousers, white blouses, tasselled felt caps, sashes at the waist and high, brown leather boots, straining with her, racing … racing until … until, with a whirlwind of violins, cimbaloms and tambourines, that voice of hers lifted the audience out of their melancholy. It raced away with them in rushes. Its volume swelled. She shouted. They stood. They clapped. They cheered. And as she continued to throw her hair, to sing, to clash those heels of hers on the stage and bash her tambourine, the violinists dispersed among the tables, playing here, there, their cap-tassels jerking, the music electric, fierce, fast, the piece exploding again and again as individual violinists competed against each other until … until the woman in red with the earrings of gold coins, her linked belt of them and bracelets too, had raised her long, lithe arms.

With a crash! the song came to an end. Exhausted, she bowed her head and for an instant her eyes were closed, each feature fixed in memory: the long, jet black hair that was parted in the middle but allowed tonight to fall loosely to her shoulders, the sharpness of dark black eyebrows against the soft hazel of her skin, the cheekbones high, the nose and chin proud and undefeated. The rising and falling of her chest was half hidden by the neckline of her dress whose shade had faded with the lights and now was matt red, warm, deep and like the embers of a fire just waiting to be fanned into flame.

This was Nana Thélème. Kohler shook his head in admiration – he'd hate to have to arrest her for anything, would hate to let the Gestapo or Herr Max get their hands on her. ‘
Formidable
!' he croaked. ‘Louis should have heard her.'

He marvelled that she could sing at all. The split in her lower lip had been well disguised, the swollen cheek hidden under rouge. But to sing as well as that, knowing what she must, and to such company had required an immense strength of will.

When she found them, and the introductions had been made, she said softly and regretfully, ‘Tshaya would have sung it far better than myself. Whereas I can only dream of living it, she has done so.'

It was a confession of sorts, a reason perhaps why Janwillem De Vries had gone back to the boyhood love of his gypsy days.

They sipped Tokay. The orchestra played more quietly – little tunes she called birdsongs, with improvised trills and flourishes the audience half listened to. Kohler confided what had happened. Oona and Giselle both said earnestly, ‘We saw him, mademoiselle.' ‘He spoke to me,' added Giselle. ‘He saved my baby from the force of the blast, my face, my eyes … By doing so, Oona saw him and understood enough to hit the floor before she was killed.'

Everything was going wrong. Janwillem had changed so much.

‘Three women,' said Kohler. ‘Yourself, Gabrielle Arcuri and Suzanne-Cécilia Lemaire. Are there others?'

Was it to be a time of reckoning?

‘Tell me which of you lined up again and again until you knew exactly what the banking schedule of that ticket office was and where the combination to that safe had been written down.'

‘Which of us …? Please, Inspector, I don't understand. It's all a mistake.'

Verdammt
! why must she be so difficult when surely she must know the end was near? ‘Look, which of you is hiding him, where's he being hidden, and what's his next target?'