Mannequin (31 page)

Kohler dragged out his bracelets and put one around her right wrist since she was right-handed and would hit first and hardest with that fist. ‘Now my own,' he said. ‘Hey, they look good with your gloves. Maybe the two of us will start a new fad and the next owner of your shop can put some in the window.'

‘Who did he mean?' she asked, pleading with her eyes. ‘Was it Marie-Claire …?' She gasped and held her stomach. ‘Marie for Franz and Michel … ah no.
No!
'

She swung hard. Kohler grabbed her by the wrist. She spat in his face and tried to knee him in the groin. He forced her left arm back and down until, in shock, disconcerted and wanting to keep their distance, the crowd around them cleared and a small space was left.

She knelt on the floor at his feet, head bowed in despair. ‘Franz …' she blurted.
‘Franz, please help me!
'

Kohler wanted to let her stay there so that everyone could see her but knew the scene would only bring trouble. ‘Get up. We'll find a place for you to tidy your face, eh? and you can tell me all about it' Louis … where was Louis?

Several people passed in front of St-Cyr and for a moment his view of Marie-Clarie de Brisson was obstructed, then there she was again. Nervously she jotted down a last note, only to hesitate as if not certain she had written enough. The bared breasts of the painting … the hat with its red flowers … the shoulders … the expression of the woman … was it not one of, ‘He does not like what he sees of me?'

The breasts were full and round but as to why the woman in the painting was partially disrobed, ah, who was to say? ‘It's lovely, isn't it?' said St-Cyr pleasantly, the man on holiday.

‘
You?
Ah! Why … why are you here, Inspector?'

Was it so terrible? ‘Why, to view the paintings like everyone else.'

Her green eyes darted away to the floor, to the pad and pencil in her hands, to the painting on the wall … the painting. ‘It's what men look at,' she said sharply. ‘Please excuse me!'

‘A moment, mademoiselle.' Their eyes met. She trembled. ‘Are you planning to bid on this one,' he asked, ‘or on the other pieces for which you have made notes?'

‘I … I was just curious. It's … it's a thing I often do.'

‘Then you won't mind my glancing over your notes.'

She felt him tug the little notepad from her. She tried not to cry and wished he wouldn't spoil everything for her.
Everything!

The golden yellow mohair dress was perfect for her, sharpening as it did the rapidly misting eyes, the dark red hair with its pixie cut, the tenseness of cheek, chin and brow. ‘A Dürer,' he said of the list, ‘a Cranach … the two Vermeers, a fifteenth-century, all but life-sized sculpture of Eve, the two Gobelin tapestries that are now hanging in the third gallery or was it the fourth? The painting by Manet of a girl and her mother at a railway station, this study of a woman done perhaps in …' He examined the little card on the wall and said, ‘Yes, of course, in 1878.'

‘Inspector, what is it you want of me?'

Her expression was one of devastation and he knew she didn't wish him to spoil things for her. ‘Want? Why nothing for the moment. Will you be attending the sale?'

‘Yes, to …'

‘To record the prices or to bid?'

‘To record. It … it's all I can do.'

Excusing himself, he drifted amiably off through the crowd and she was left to stare at his broad back and shoulders until, at last, he was gone but then a woman stood close by and she heard her saying, ‘Ah,
Sainte-Mère,
it's magnificent, isn't it? The tone, the way the flowers are clustered in the hatband to one side, their colour offsetting everything. What will it fetch, do you think?'

‘I … I've no idea. Too much, probably.'

‘1,250,000, I think. Of the
new
francs, of course.'

The woman was tall and in her late thirties perhaps, though it was hard to tell. Not blonde but hair of an exquisite amber. A gorgeous figure, a sheath of dark Prussian blue silk that shimmered. Diamonds at her throat and wrist, and violet eyes that were absolutely stunning and brought instant envy.

‘Gabrielle Arcuri,' said the woman of herself, ‘and you?'

The hand was cool and slender, the fingers long. ‘Marie-Claire de Brisson. Your perfume, it's Mirage.'

‘I love it. But … but you must have some! I insist. Please, a moment. Here … hold my programme.
Merci.
This bag, it's not my usual one. Tissues, keys … Ah, here I have it. Allow me to present you with a little sample. A very dear friend makes it for me and in return I advertise it a little. But … but your eyes, Mademoiselle de Brisson? Something has upset you.'

‘Nothing. It was nothing.'

‘That man who was speaking to you was from the police.'

‘Yes. A detective.'

‘Ah
merde,
those
salauds axe
everywhere these days, aren't they?'

A waiter came and they each took a glass of champagne. The woman who called herself Gabrielle Arcuri offered to dry the corners of her eyes without smudging the mascara and she let her do this for her. They spoke of the sale, of the crowd.

The woman said, ‘I hear the Reichsmarschall and Reichsführer Goering will attend. It's bound to be a huge success, isn't it? He always gets what he wants. Though the dealers bid against him and run the prices up, in the end the Reichsführer always wins.'

‘Yes, I believe he does.'

‘Manet is a favourite of mine. Will he buy this one, I wonder?'

The woman touched her lovely lips in thought as she examined the painting by standing back a little and then by walking right up to it to study the brush strokes. She shook her head but indecision crept in and at last she said with a shrug of her exquisite shoulders that perhaps after all Goering would purchase it. ‘Manet was severely criticized for painting nudes with the faces of playing cards, yet this one is a study of introspection. A woman thinking she isn't desirable when, in fact, she's very much herself and perfect.'

They discussed the sale a little more. Marie-Claire saw that Gabrielle Arcuri sipped her champagne with great delicacy. So little was taken, only the lips were wet. A German general with a monocle stopped by to formally bow and kiss the woman's hand. Her smile was at once gracious and warm yet still she managed to hold herself back, remaining aloof and proud but not letting him see this. ‘A chanteuse …?'

‘It's nothing. It gets me into parties like this. Now I must find my lover before he takes offence and finds another. That one … Ah, he's always such a wanderer!'

She was tall and willowy, graceful, regal, stunning …

They met at the head of the main staircase, this woman and her ‘lover,'
Jean-Louis St-Cyr of the Sûreté Nationale!
They kissed on the cheek and delicately held each other, she admiring his dinner-jacket, he raising his deep brown ox-eyes so that he looked up into that radiant, beautiful face! Had they discovered everything?

Arm in arm, they went down the stairs. She tried to follow them, tried not to let them see her. She
mustn't
! She must find out what they knew …

Others got in the way. Others. ‘Please, I must get past. You don't understand …'

A champagne glass was knocked aside. A shriek rent the air as a dress was drenched. Another glass hit the floor …

They were at the foot of the stairs now and though she couldn't hear what they said, she knew he was telling the chanteuse how it must be, that Denise had offered the paintings and sculptures of Monsieur Vergès for sale but that there could be only one buyer.
One.

‘Goering,' whispered Marie-Claire in despair as she was jostled from behind on the staircase and forced to squeeze out of the way and hug the railing. ‘Goering.'

Always there was a crowd of hangers-on around the Reichsführer, always the onlookers, but when confronted with a beautiful young woman handcuffed to a man twice her size, Goering lost his grin. The lighted cigar was clutched between his teeth. For perhaps five seconds the leaden blue eyes fought to comprehend exactly what was before them, then cruelty entered.

Desperately Kohler glanced from side to side. Kempf stood to the right of the Reichsführer. Michel le Blanc was just behind the Sonderführer, dark, darting eyes, doubt, fear … so many things were registering in the anxious looks he gave.

‘The handcuffs,' blurted Goering, taking the cigar from his lips. ‘Please remove them at once. That lady is under my protection.'

Baron Kurt von Behr, head of the Paris ERR, was on the other side of the Reichsführer, Andreas Hofer, Goering's chief art adviser and dealer, just behind the Baron.

Kohler heard himself saying, ‘I can't, Reichsführer. It's a matter for the courts.'

Denise St. Onge tried to step forward but was yanked back and nearly off her feet. The long beige camel-hair overcoat that had been draped over Goering's shoulders slipped. The dark brown velour trilby that had been pulled well down over the broad brow was pushed up out of the way.
‘What? You would dare to challenge my authority?
'

Silence fell. Laughter and excited talk trickled off to nothing. Again Kohler heard his own voice. ‘I can't remove them, Reichs-Führer. Not without the authority of my immediate superior officer and that of Gestapo Mueller.' Louis … where the hell was Louis?

Enraged, now florid and quivering with indignation, Goering shrieked,
‘Do it!
you
Schweine Bulle. Don't be a dummkopf!
'

Ah
Gott im Himmel!
A bully, a natural-born killer … As a boy, Goering had been expelled from school repeatedly because of his excessive temper and wilful behaviour. As a young man in the Great War, he had earned the coveted Blue Max and had commanded von Richtofen's famed
Jageschwader I
after the Baron's death, the legendary Flying Circus. A hero …

Kempf tried to intercede. Denise St. Onge took another step towards them and was savagely yanked back again. ‘Reichs-fuhrer,' said Kohler, ‘she's one of the principal suspects in the murders of fourteen girls, in the robbery of the Crédit Lyonnais, in the theft of valuable works of art from a house overlooking the garden of the Palais Royal, and in the deaths of their owner and his friend.'

The cigar was flung at him. Frantically Kohler ducked and tried to brace himself. Enraged, Goering unleashed a torrent of verbal abuse, then screamed,
‘Do you expect me to believe such shit? Free her at once or suffer the consequences!
'

Had he taken drugs? wondered Kohler apprehensively. Here was the vain bastard who had promised the Führer faithfully to supply von Paulus's Sixth Army at Stalingrad with daily air drops and had failed miserably. Here was the man who, with others like him, had deserted Jurgen and Hans Kohler, two farmboys who should have gone to Argentina like their papa said.

Kempf leaned closely to whisper something. Startled, Goering turned to him.
‘What?
' he asked. ‘What is this, Franz?'

‘She's a cousin, Reichsführer. You will remember that you met Mademoiselle St. Onge at Horcher's before the Polish Campaign. Denise was paying us a little visit and I was showing her the town.'

Berlin and its most famous restaurant. Ah damn, thought Kohler …

‘Horcher's,' muttered Goering, blinking to clear his mind and wishing suddenly that the whole affair would disappear and he could get on with the party. ‘Of course I remember, Kohler … Kohler, if you don't remove the handcuffs, I'll have my men cut off your arm.'

Luftwaffe security types were all around them. Heaving a troubled sigh, Kohler braced himself. ‘Reichsführer, I'll do as you request, but must ask that you give me a paper stating I've released the woman into your custody and that I believe her to be guilty of the crimes of murder, robbery, kidnapping and extortion.'

‘I have done no such things, Reichsführer!
I am totally innocent!
Wounded
to the quick by such false accusations!'

‘Extortion?' muttered Goering. ‘Kidnapping? Franz, what is this? The paintings you promised me …? Andreas, what is this one saying?' He indicated Kohler.

‘That he will agree, Reichsführer, to release her into your custody,' said Hofer gently.

‘Gut.
That's all I want.' Goering hunched his shoulders to better lift the overcoat back up on to them. Someone helped. Someone else found him another cigar and offered a light. He inhaled deeply and blew a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling. ‘A Dürer, Franz. A Cranach… Please, you must show them to me.'

‘We're not finished,' breathed Kohler to the woman. ‘You didn't just help that cousin of yours lure those girls to that house. You took part in everything.'

The handcuff around his wrist came loose and fell away to dangle from her own wrist. Sucking in a deep breath, she caught it up and swung hard, smashing him across the face.
‘Maudit salaud!
' she shrieked.
‘Liar!
I did no such thing!'

Kempf and le Blanc gathered her in and took her away with Goering to view the works of art she had put up for sale.

‘All of those taken from that house, Hermann,' said St-Cyr exasperatedly. ‘The Reichsführer apparently provides forty-eight hours' notice of when and if he will arrive.'

‘Then that's our delay, Louis.'

‘And that is why the house had to be emptied in such a hurry. Until the notice came, they didn't know if he would show up, even though the invitations had been sent out. Denise St. Onge is haunted by guilt and fear, Hermann, and knows only too well we mean to walk her to the guillotine.'

‘Where's Gabi?'

‘Gone to the club for safety's sake. Apparently Michel le Blanc was once a freelance photographer but gave it up to become a reporter after the Defeat when there was a temporary shortage of suitable applicants.'