Gypsy (7 page)

Father Time and no patience, no sympathy at all! Louis had always gone on about Giselle's returning to her former profession, to the house of Madame Chabot on the rue Danton, which was just around the corner from the flat and a constant reminder. ‘Oona's positive.'

Ah,
pour I ‘amour de Dieul
what was one to do? Drag along this worried papa-to-be who was old enough to have been the girl's grandfather? ‘I
can't
have you distracted, Hermann. Not with the Gypsy. Besides, Pharand wants to see me. He's insisting.'

‘Then quit fussing. Hey, I'll take care of that little
Croix de feu
for you. Just watch my dust!'

The
Croix de feu
were one of the notorious right-wing, fascist groups from the thirties. Kohler went in first, Louis followed, but when they reached the Major's office, the Bavarian left his partner out of sight in the corridor and shot in to ask, ‘Have you seen St-Cyr?'

The secretary spilled her boss's coffee. A Chinese porcelain vase went over – a priceless thing – and she cried out in dismay even as he righted it only to hear Pharand hiss from his inner sanctum, ‘Not in, eh? and at 0900 hours! It's
les hirondelles
for him.'

The swallows … the bicycle patrols in their capes and
képis
. ‘Why not the pussy patrol?' sang out Kohler.

Louis's boss came to stand in the doorway. ‘Enough of your shit, Hauptsturmführer. Where is he?'

That's what I'm asking.'

The carefully trimmed black pencil of the Major's moustache twitched. The rounded cheeks were sallow and unhealthy in winter, though they'd always been like that. The short black hair of this little fascist was glued in place with scented pomade and splashes of
joli Soir
, the dark brown eyes were alive with barely controlled fury.

‘He was to see me first. A report is forthcoming. Orders are orders, is that not right, Hauptsturmführer? The Ritz, then Cartier's and now … why now … Ah! you did not know of it, did you?'

The bastard …

The pudgy hands came together as if squeezing the joy out of his little triumph. At fifty-eight years of age, Osias Pharand still had his friends in the upper echelons and hadn't wasted them. Readily he had moved out of his plush office – had given it up to Gestapo Boemelburg and had willingly shifted his ass down the hall. Taken his lumps because he had known the French would run things anyway, and had cluttered the den with the trivia of his years in Indochina and other places.

A stint as director of the Sûreté's
Deuxième bureau des nomades
had been a big step to the top – you'd think he'd have come to appreciate the gypsies for having provided so many rungs in the ladder but no, he hated them as much as he hated the Jews. But for the Resistance, for the so-called ‘terrorists', he reserved an unequalled passion.

‘Bring St-Cyr in here now,' he said.

The air was full of trouble but Kohler couldn't resist taunting him. ‘He's probably with Boemelburg already. The IKPK, eh? Hey, the two of them worked together before the war. They're old friends, or had you forgotten?'

‘
Never
! Not for a moment. It's the only thing that saves him but with this …' Pharand toyed with the fish. ‘With this, I do not think even that will be enough. The matter demands special treatment –
Sonderbehandlung
, or had you forgotten?'

‘Maître Pharand …'

‘Ah! I've got your attention at last. Another robbery. A big one, eh? Now piss off. Go on. Get out. Leave this sort of work to those best suited for it. Let me live with my secrets until they become your partner's demise. Perhaps then he will understand that it is to me that he owes his loyalty and his job. I could have helped you both.'

Boemelburg was not happy. ‘The Gare Saint-Lazare. The ticket-agent's office. That idiot of an agent-directeur didn't bother to deposit last week's receipts or those of the week before. Apparently he does it only once a month.'

‘But … but there are always those on duty, Walter? A station so huge … Traffic never stops …' insisted St-Cyr.

A stumpy forefinger was raised. ‘Passenger traffic does stop, as you well know. Those arriving must wait until the curfew is over; those departing must purchase their tickets before it begins. The wickets are then closed, the receipts tallied and put away in the safe, and the office locked.'

‘How much did he get?' asked Kohler, dismayed by the speed with which the Gypsy was working.

The rheum-filled Nordic eyes seemed saddened, as if in assessing them, Boemelburg was cognizant of certain truths. A flagrant patriotism in St-Cyr, questionable friends, a rebellious nature in Kohler, among other things. ‘682,000 francs in 100 and 500 franc notes. He left the rest.'

It had to be asked. ‘What else, Walter? I've seen it before,' said St-Cyr. ‘You always drop your eyes when you want to tell us something but are uncertain of how to put it.'

A big man, with the blunt head and all-but-shaven, bristly iron grey hair of a
Polizeikommissar
of long experience, Boemelburg had seen nearly everything the criminal milieu could offer but he was also Head of SIPO-Section IV, the Gestapo in France.

‘Three Lebels, the 1873
Modéle d'ordonnance
, and one hundred and twenty rounds, the black-powder cartridges. Forgotten during the Defeat and subsequent ordinance to turn in all firearms. Overlooked in the hunt for delinquent guns. Left in their boxes and brand-new, Louis. Good
Gott im Himmel
, the imbeciles!'

‘From 1873?' managed the Sûreté. ‘But that is …'

‘Yes, yes, only two years after the Franco-Prussian War. Look, I don't know how long they were in that safe. No one does. Each agent-directeur simply thought it best to leave those damned boxes alone.'

‘It's serious,' said Kohler lamely.

‘Are the Resistance involved in this matter?' shouted the Chief.

Ah no … thought St-Cyr, dismayed at the sudden turn. Counter-terrorism, subversion, tracking down Jews, gypsies and all others of the Reich's so-called undesirables were Walter's responsibility, not just combating common crime. But then, too, in one of those paradoxes of the war, he ran gangs of known criminals who did the Gestapo's bidding when they, themselves, wanted to remain at arm's length.

A cop, and now a thug too, he unfortunately knew the city well, having worked here in his youth as a heating and ventilating engineer. He spoke French as good as any Parisian, even to the
argot
of Montmartre.

That grim, grey look passed over them. ‘I'm warning you. I want no trouble with this. Berlin are adamant. The Gypsy is to be apprehended at all costs. Taken alive if possible – there are things we need to know from him – but dead will do. That's what they want and I must insist on it.'

‘And Herr Engelmann … why is he here?' asked Kohler.

‘Why not? The IKPK have card indexes on all such people.'

‘Then it didn't stop functioning at the onslaught of hostilities. Heydrich kept it going?' asked Louis.

‘As the Gruppenführer knew he should have. Herr Engelmann is not just with their robberies division. He holds a cross-appointment with the Berlin Kripo. In the course of his duties in ‘38, and then in ‘40 and ‘41, he went to Oslo several times to interview our friend, and has come to know him intimately, if anyone can ever do so.'

‘Then why is he being so difficult? Why doesn't he take us fully into his confidence?' asked Kohler.

Security allowed only so much to be said. ‘That is precisely what I have asked him to do. Full co-operation. A concerted effort to bring this safe-cracker in and quickly before he does us all an injury from which we cannot recover.'

Boemelburg was clearly worried. Leaning forward, he hurriedly shoved things out of the way, and lowered his voice. ‘Whose agenda is he following? What are his next targets? Where will he hole up and exactly who is helping him?'

Nana Thélème or someone else?

The set of fingerprints was very clear, the head-and-shoulders photographs sharp, but to St-Cyr the file card – the top in a bundle of perhaps thirty – was like one of those from the past. It evoked memories of Vienna and the IKPK and worries about the distinct possibility of another high-level assassination, the then impending visit of King George VI to France in July of 1938. Boemelburg and he had worked together on it, a last occasion before the war.

The IKPK had sent such cards to all its member countries, requesting whatever they had on a certain criminal or type of crime. These cards were then stored in rotatable drum-cabinets and a detective such as Boemelburg or himself, or Engelmann, could in a few moments collate data from cities in France with that from Britain, the Netherlands, Turkey, Italy, Greece and, at last count in 1938, some twenty-eight other countries around the world.

Lists of stolen property were painstakingly spelled out where possible. Missing persons, unidentified cadavers, murder, arson, counterfeiting, fraud, drug trafficking and prostitution – all were there at the turn of the drum and yes, very early on, even in 1932 and ‘33, there had been concerns about a Nazi takeover, yet the service had offered immense possibilities. A radio network in 1935 linked many of the major cities, allowing policemen to talk directly and informally to colleagues in other countries, very quickly forming professional liaisons that were of benefit to all.

Special cards were tinted to denote
les Bohémiens
, though keeping track of their wanderings often proved exceedingly difficult. But in any case, the Gypsy was not one of the Rom, so his cards were like all others, if more numerous than most.

‘Janwillem De Vries,' grumbled a disgruntled Herr Max who didn't like being told to co-operate with the present company. ‘Father, Hendrick, no known criminal activities but a socialist do-gooder when not pouring out historical pap to stuff the teat of it into the eager mouths of bored Dutch
Hausfrauen
. Mother, Marina, no suggestions of anything there either. Vivacious, quick-minded, deft with the brush but impulsive and given to wandering off for days on her bicycle, or to working in her studio night after night. A flirt –
mein Gott
, there is ample evidence of it, given that she often posed in the nude as a statue for her photographer friends. Orpheus and her lute, but that one was a boy, wasn't he? Died, unhappily, 18 June 1929 of a drowning accident on the Linge near Geldermalsen while trying to reach some lilies she wanted to paint, though to see her sketches is to see nothing but the confused and flighty mind of the avant-garde who should have been trussed up with her apron strings and taught a few lessons!'

Naked? wondered Kohler idly – was this what Herr Max had meant?

The visitor lit a cheroot, he looking as if he'd just got out of bed and hadn't quite had time to dress properly.

‘Apprehended 20 April 1938 – caught with his hands in the wall safe of one Magnus Erlendsson, a prominent shipping magnate who should have known better than to keep such things at home and to tell others how clever he was. The tax authorities were most interested and Herr Erlendsson quickly found himself going from one theft to another!'

Engelmann gave a throaty chuckle – work did have its compensations. ‘Oostende,' he coughed. ‘Coffee … is there a little, Sturmbannführer? A brandy also
und
a raw egg, I think.'

Tears moistened the hard little eyes behind their gold-rimmed specs. He took a breath, then remembered the cheroot.

‘Oostende …?' hazarded Kohler.

The visitor let his gaze linger on the Bavarian before clearing his throat of its blockage. ‘First, don't ask until you're told to. Second, rely on me to lead this little discussion.'

The matter of the uniform the Gypsy had acquired in Tours was brought up. ‘He didn't kill him, did he?' blurted Kohler only to feel Louis kick him under the table to shut him up.

‘Reprisals … is this what you are worrying about, Kohler? Hostages to be shot. How many, I wonder?' asked Herr Max.

He gave it a moment. Boemelburg's look was grim and it said, Kohler, how dare you worry about such things? You, too, St-Cyr.

‘To say nothing of his embarrassment and the reticence of his tongue,' went on Herr Max, allowing what appeared to be a smile, ‘our Hauptmann Dietrich Oberlammers is alive and well but he fell prey to the oldest of gypsy tricks, which leads us right back to that villa in the hills overlooking Oslo.'

‘A woman,' breathed Louis, ‘but was it the same one?'

‘She rubbed herself against the Hauptmann in the half-light of a corridor or room,' sighed Kohler. ‘She offered everything she had but gave him nothing more than deep glimpses of bare flesh and sweet caresses, then let him strip off in some
maison de passe
before heisting his papers and uniform.'

‘The wallet of Herr Erlendsson also, and news of the Oslo safe's location and contents,' added St-Cyr, his mind leaping back in time to the spring of 1938.

‘The combination also,' grunted Herr Max. ‘Erlendsson was fool enough to have given it to her in a moment of drunken bravado while she was in his hotel room. Oostende and Oslo were worlds apart, so what could it have mattered eh? But it did! Oh my, yes, but it did!'

‘Is she now your
mouton
?' asked St-Cyr.

A little more co-operation could not hurt. ‘That is correct. She betrayed the Gypsy to us in Tours, and she was with him back then in Oostende and in Oslo in April of 1938.'

‘But she didn't tell you everything, did she?' sighed St-Cyr, taking an apprehensive guess at things.

There was no answer. They waited for her file cards – the Gestapo's on her too – but Herr Max didn't produce any. He simply said, ‘Find her,' and gave them time to swallow this while he had his egg and brandy.

Then he pulled the elastic band from the stack of cards and thrust the top one at Kohler. ‘
Read it
!'