Gypsy (4 page)

‘She's okay. She's in good hands. My partner's looking after her.'

The suit was very much in vogue, yet sensible, thought St-Cyr. Four stag-horn buttons complemented the finely woven, soft, grey-blue mohair, while a chain of gold links caused the jacket to flare over the hips, emphasizing the slender waist and long and shapely legs beneath the midcalf-length skirt.

The ribbing of the wool ran the length of Mademoiselle Thélème. The high-heeled shoes were of glossy blue leather – Italian and pre-war but perfectly kept.

A woman, then, who knew how to dress and was proud of it, even to following his scrutiny, not denying herself that little pleasure yet keeping her mind acutely alert to everything else.

It was disconcerting to have to question her in front of Engelmann while the Generalmajor flitted nervously about in the background, uncertain still of her responses and of where things were heading.

Hans Wehrle definitely didn't like the attention he was getting but that could simply mean he understood only too well the sort of things that could happen. Ruefully St-Cyr wished his partner was with them, but Hermann had chosen to forget about the coffee and was, no doubt, engaged in other matters.

‘So tell me, please, about the Gypsy?'

She shrugged. ‘I know nothing of gypsies. Who cares about them?' She tossed a dismissive hand. ‘They've all been arrested and sent away, haven't they? Pah! We don't see any of those people any more and if we did, we would have to report them.'

Or worry that they were working for the Occupier – he could see her thinking this and acknowledged it with a curt nod. Safe … she had been so very safe and cautious in what she had said.

‘But you sing at two of the gypsy places?' he hazarded.

‘Fiercely loyal White Russians, Czech and Hungarian balalaika and fiddle players. Sentimental songs that have been around for ages. They aren't
real
gypsies. Oh
mein Gott, Inspektor
, they couldn't be, could they?'

And the Occupier does enjoy slumming from club to club until forced to leave before curfew or risk being locked in for the rest of the night, getting drunker and drunker until the sentimental tears came, or sleep.

‘I have a friend who sings,' he offered and she knew he was watching her closely for the slightest suggestion of alarm. ‘A chanteuse. The Club Mirage.'

‘That's nice. It's over in Montparnasse, isn't it?'

‘Yes. The rue Delambre and eight hundred war-weary men a night. It's quite a crowd.'

‘But a living, I think,' she said so softly her voice was like a caress.

‘I thought, perhaps, you might have met. You wear the same perfume.
Mirage
.'

She didn't drop her eyes or give a hint of disquietude but steadily returned his gaze. ‘It's very expensive. A general gave it to me. Not Hans, another.'

‘And you've not met her?'

‘No. No, six nights a week allows too little time to socialize. I've a son, also, and whatever free time I have is devoted entirely to him.'

‘But not on evenings like this.'

Touché
, was that it? she wondered, cursing his questions but giving no hint of this. Herr Engelmann had expectantly sat up at the exchange. Hans had stopped fiddling about and was waiting anxiously for her response … ‘My son understands that occasionally his mother must visit with a friend for an hour or two.'

‘But he isn't aware of the nature of those visits?'

And just
what
do you think was the nature of this visit? she wanted to demand of him but looked, instead, into the distance, perhaps to the welcome of a long-lost camp-fire.

‘My Jani understands that sometimes mummy has to sing at private dinner parties and that she cannot always refuse.'

Not these days.

Her breath was held for just a split second. St-Cyr knew that tough exterior had at last been truly dented but she recovered so quickly, he had nothing but admiration for her.

Herr Max's scrutiny was now hard and penetrating. Hans Wehrle found himself lost in doubt and forced to sit down.

‘These private dinner parties, Inspector …' grunted Engelmann sourly.

‘It's Chief Inspector.'

‘If you insist.'

‘I do.'

There was a nod and then the firmness of, ‘Please ask her to tell us about them. The most recent, I think.'

‘Hans, is this necessary?'

The look she gave was swift, hard and damning.

‘Nana, I can do nothing. It's up to them. Please try to understand it's not me who has been robbed but the Reich.'

Engelmann cleared his throat and, focusing on the gaping maw of the safe, let her have it. ‘Nothing you may well know, Fräulein, but someone made the Gypsy aware of the contents and the vulnerability of that safe, and someone alerted the authorities not only to a robbery by him but …' He paused. ‘… also the timing of it. Not quite, however, thus his apprehension has unfortunately eluded us for the moment.'

There was dust everywhere, still the stench of bitter almonds, of nitroglycerine.

‘Nana,
mein Gott
, don't be so stubborn.
Tell
them!' leapt Wehrle.

She shrugged. ‘It was nothing – how could it have been? The villa is mine but it has been requisitioned for the duration, so I had the opportunity to see at first hand if it was being properly cared for. One does wonder, isn't that so? And, yes, many of the guests were in uniform – the men, that is. And, yes, I took some of my little orchestra with me and we sang a few “gypsy” songs for them.'

‘When?' breathed Hermann who had slid so quietly into the room none had noticed him and all wondered how long he'd been there.

‘Last Monday.'

A week ago … ‘SS, Gestapo and friends of friends?' he asked, pleasantly enough.

‘Collaborators, yes. Some of the big boys.'

‘In the butter-eggs-and-cheese racket?' went on Kohler.

The black market. ‘Perhaps. I really wouldn't know about those types.'

‘The rue Lauriston?' he asked.

The French Gestapo. ‘Yes, perhaps those also.'

The Gypsy had been seen in Tours heading for Paris at 1030 hours, 14 January. The dinner party had been on the eleventh. ‘Where's the villa?' he demanded.

‘In Saint-Cloud.'

‘
Pas mal, pas mal
, mademoiselle. Saved up your
sous
, did you, to buy it?'

‘
Yes
!'

‘Present address?'

‘It's on my papers.'

‘Just give it to me.'

‘Above the Club Monseigneur, on the rue d'Amsterdam.'

The quartier de l'Europe and perhaps the dullest, noisiest, ugliest of neighbourhoods in Paris. ‘That's quite a comedown.'

‘But a lot closer to work.'

‘Were there any other singers present at the dinner party?'

Ah
maudit
! why could he not have left it alone? ‘No. No, there were no others. Not that I knew of.'

Kohler saw her throw him a look so poignant he winced and felt a fool. There
had
been others, and now she knew he was as aware of it as she and so was everyone else. ‘The coffee's here,' he said. ‘I thought a little brandy might help, Herr Max, and found they had a bottle of Asbach Uralt rucked away for connoisseurs like ourselves. There's some Beck's
Bier
in case the dust has made you really thirsty.'

The Ritz was full of high-ranking German officers on leave or stationed in Paris, and had been since the Defeat, hence the availability of the refreshments, among other things.

‘You think of everything.'

‘We try to, my partner and I. It's a habit we've grown accustomed to.'

Not one to waste time, Engelmann closed with Nana Thélème and was soon getting his turn at the wheel. The Generalmajor remained agitated – Wehrle knew Berlin weren't going to like the loss. Would he be held responsible? Would restitution be demanded in hugely increased requests? Absolutely! But … but was there something else …? Only time would tell. ‘Louis, our visitor from Berlin is trouble. He's not happy. Something has upset him.'

‘A robbery he was told of but not quite!' snorted the Sûreté.

Kohler offered a cigarette, cadged from the Generalmajor. ‘Berlin are never happy. Hey, we'll sort the son of a bitch out before things get heavy.'

There was a sigh that, after working with Louis since September 1940, Kohler knew only too well.

‘Let us hope there is time,
mon vieux
. The cigarette is perfect with real coffee, real sugar and milk. You're learning.'

Kohler humbled himself. Sometimes Louis needed this. ‘A key was available, Chief. Probable entry was witnessed at 8.15 p.m., exit at 8.47. Our Gypsy knew the Generalmajor would be playing shuttlecocks, but he took the trouble to find the pistol, uniform and attaché case of a Wehrmacht Hauptmann.'

The coffee was spilled as the cigarette was stubbed out. ‘Why didn't you say so
before
you gave me a moment to myself? Have we a body on our hands, Hermann? A German body?'

If so, reprisals would have to be made by the Kommandant von Gross Paris and others, namely Hermann's boss. Three, five … ten would be taken from the cells or streets and shot.

‘It's too early to say, but the son of a bitch must have got the uniform somewhere.'

‘Was he tall, blue-eyed, blond and forty years old? Handsome, distinguished, and very much the ladies' man?'

‘It was him all right. The whip scars on the face are much tidier than mine. A Dutchman, the
femme de chambre
thought.'

One could nearly always count on Hermann. ‘He earned the scars as a boy. In the spring of 1914, at the age of eleven, he left home in Rotterdam to wander with the gypsies. The parents were very understanding – the threat of war was imminent, I think you will recall. The father was a writer of historical romances, the mother an artist, whose paintings Berlin will no doubt have trashed and burned if aware of them. Bohemians at heart, so they knew their son was doing what he thought best and that he would come home a much wiser boy.'

St-Cyr finished the coffee so as not to waste it. ‘Of course, he didn't return until after the war but even then his stays with the Rom extended into months. He had learned the language. He fitted right in, Hermann. They will have imparted to him everything he needs to know in order to survive in times like this, and to take advantage of them.'

Oh-oh.

Though persecuted terribly and classed with others by the Nazis as
Rassenverfolgte
(racially undesirable), the life style tended to make the gypsies much harder to locate and arrest. They were scattered widely into small groups and nearly always had been on the move from country to country. Evading capture better than most, they had, centuries before this lousy war, learned how to disperse at a moment's notice. Even so, countless tens of thousands had already been deported, a tragedy.

But the war had increasingly brought changes to them. No longer did their women thieve a few chickens and geese for the pot from hard-labouring peasants, thus engendering further hatred and reprisals from the local gendarmes. No longer were potatoes or laundry lifted to be carried hidden in voluminous skirts or fortunes told and coins begged.

Instead, the men hid their women and children, travelled much less and, in a cruel winter like this, would have sought refuge in far corners.

‘Some have even turned to working with the Resistance, Hermann, with
Gaje
*
and unheard of before. In the south, they almost totally control the supply of forged ration cards. IDs are a sideline and they're good, among the best.'

‘Then he'll head south and join up with a
kumpania
.'

An alliance of caravans, a ‘family' which could be broken down and scattered at a moment's notice. ‘Perhaps.'

Louis tossed off the last of his coffee, filled his cup with good German brandy to deny the Occupier that portion – one had to do little things like that – and, relighting the cigarette for the same reason, no doubt, drifted off to single out the victim and engage him in a quiet word the Generalmajor wanted no part of.

Kohler looked about the room, wondering what it all must mean for them, wondering, too, just where the Gypsy would hole up and if this would be his only target. The industrial diamonds were nothing to a man who travelled light but he had taken them anyway which hinted at a Resistance motive. Sabotage the enemy where it would hurt the most, get him right in the balls.

The gem diamonds were, of course, another matter, so, too, the gold coins and the stamps – the Resistance were always short of funds – but had the Gypsy suddenly got religion or something? And had the woman really been a part of it?

She threw him a brief glance that left only the impression of wariness. He knew he'd have to get her alone and he hoped Herr Max wouldn't insist on arresting her. Such things were always a bind once started. If a reinforced interrogation was required, she'd be beaten to a pulp. Louis and himself would try to stop it from happening. They weren't torturers, weren't sadists, but because of this and their never failing to point the finger where deserved, they were not welcome in certain circles, and were under a constant cloud of suspicion even from Berlin.

Those other types would make her talk. Few could resist them and hadn't Herr Max said a
mouton
had informed on the Gypsy and that a conductor had passed the word along?

‘Generalmajor, where were you last Monday evening?'

The eleventh, the dinner party in Saint-Cloud. ‘Not with Nana, if that's what you're thinking.'

When no comment was made by St-Cyr, Wehrle fussed and finally passed a worried hand over a deeply furrowed brow. ‘Look, I was here in Paris. I can't be seen with her, can I, even at a function like that? How could I be? Word would soon get around and the clients would only become suspicious of the SS or the Gestapo, or those of the rue Lauriston interfering. The people I have to deal with are nervous enough as it is.'