Tapestry (23 page)

‘An admirable ambition and location, Rudi, but shouldn’t she have been harvesting tobacco?’ asked Hermann.

A good sign felt St-Cyr, not because the area was famous for that crop, but because the comment had come from the old Hermann. ‘She looks healthy enough, Herr Sturmbacher, which would seem to indicate sufficient time for her to have come to peace with her loss, but did she learn French while among the Walloons?’

‘
Ach, mein lieber Oberdetektiv,
how is it, please, that you even knew the girl could speak such an inferior language?’

One mustn’t react. ‘I didn’t. I just assumed.’

‘You did neither. The boys who stole that handbag and roughed her up told you.’

‘Rudi, listen,’ urged Hermann. ‘They were only boys.
Mein Gott
, my Jurgen and Hans might have done the same under similar circumstances.’

‘But would have been punished, isn’t that so?’

‘She wasn’t beaten up,’ muttered Louis.

‘NOT THREATENED WITH A KNIFE?’ demanded Rudi.

‘Is that what she claims?’

‘That and other things, Louis,’ said Kohler with a sigh. ‘Oberg had her into his office to tell Hercule the Smasher all about it, but I don’t think she was asked to bare the breasts she claimed had been badly bruised.’

Sickened, the Oberdetektiv St-Cyr was at a loss, Rudi knew, and couldn’t lift his gaze from the soup he had been trying to enjoy, but what was this about Hercule the Smasher? Was the judge in trouble?

One had best continue and not let on. ‘So, it’s serious,
meine Lieben
, and now you know a little of why.’ He would flick a glance at each of them, would check out the customers before taking Helga’s hand to fondly kiss it, since the girl still dreamed that Hermann would someday realize what he was missing and fall madly in love with her. ‘The Höherer SS saw this photo spread in late October and, needing a listener to the
Mundfunk
, Hermann, asked for her to be reassigned to the Paris office.’

The city’s mouth-radio, its
radio-trottoir
. The girl’s left knee was firmly pressed on that sheaf, her skirt rucked up, she grasping the braided tie as if a hawser.

A regular little Nazi. Slim-waisted, tight-breasted, firm and shapely from all that exercise and something for the boys along the eastern front to hunger for. A classic and exceedingly capable Fräulein, but why did that God of Louis’s have to do this to them?

‘And when the blackout assaults began to heat up in December?’ asked the Sûreté.

There was no avoiding it, Kohler knew. ‘He realized he had to do something. That’s why the target shooting, that’s why the gun, isn’t it, Rudi? He assigned her to also work on this little
Mausefalle
of his.’

‘Eat a little, please. You’re going to need your strength. The Höherer SS wishes a truly SS settlement to this problem the French have created for us. The Fräulein Remer is an excellent shot—oh please don’t get the wrong idea about this girl. It has definitely been understood and accepted by all that her body is hers alone, even in the service of the Führer
und Vaterland
. The mother was French from the Lorraine and a devout Catholic. Having sinned once, the girl has accepted that she must do penance and remain true to that one love, if for no other reason than to set an example to the French and to other
Blitzmädchen
. The father, a POW you understand, in that other war like yourself, Hermann, thought the language might be useful to her, as did yourself, isn’t that correct, since we had lost that war but won’t lose this one, will we?’

‘Rudi, what is it you want?’

‘Of you? Well, there is a long list, but your undying loyalty to the Führer and Party must come first. The blood oath, I think, and then … why then you could start paying sufficient attention to Helga. Dinner twice a week when you’re in Paris—slow things down a little but not the current investigation, of course. With others it’s not necessary that you solve every crime in a matter of minutes. Try to leave a few. And no more of these other women of yours, Hermann. It doesn’t look good. A film—she loves them. Dancing …’

‘It’s illegal both here and in the Reich, but
ja, ja,
get on with it.’

‘Be patient. You’ll cooperate in all matters, especially by taking the Fräulein Remer and myself fully into your confidence. Knowledge is power, Chez Rudi’s by far the best source of all gossip, but to maintain such an enviable reputation—and I do have one—that gossip must be founded on the cement of absolute truth.’

Gaston Morel was that cement, of course, and Rudi must know of him but was fishing for something else: the judge. ‘And if Louis and I agree?’

‘Then I can help you with this handbag and its owner. Helga will simply tell the Sicherheitsdienst
***
that it was thrown on to the doorstep by the driver of one of those bicycle taxis. The Red Cockade or Rooster’s Tail, isn’t that
korrekt
, Helga?’

‘It happened so quickly, Rudi.’

‘But between four thirty and five in the afternoon. Not earlier and not later.’

‘Yes, Rudi.’

‘The licence had an RP, of course, but you can’t possibly be certain if it was followed by a fifteen or a ninety-eight.’

And definitely Luc Desrocher’s The Red Comb of the Magnificent Cock, owned and operated by Hervé’s dear
papa
but leased last night to Albert Vasseur whose Take Me was still in police custody.

‘The boys who stole this handbag, and their families, could then rest more easily,’ went on Rudi. ‘Otherwise I can tell you duty calls, and that should word of what I know get out, I have it on good authority the Höherer SS will not turn the other cheek. He will seize the opportunity to make an example of them, one the French will not forget.’

‘Mont-Valérien,’ blurted Louis, aghast at what had been revealed.

‘Or the rue Laurence Savart, outside of number 3,’ said Rudi, watching them closely.

The execution ground of the fort in the industrial suburb of Suresnes and just across the river, to the west of them. It was that or outside Louis’s house, in his beloved Belleville.

‘Now eat,’ said Rudi, getting up to leave them to think about it. ‘Enjoy—don’t waste a morsel. Helga, a glass or two of that stuff we used for the marinade. We’re about to accomplish the impossible. We’re going to make a good Nazi out of this
Landsmann
of ours. That, too, is something the Höherer SS demands, and that, my friends, is not gossip.’

* * *

The restaurant had grown quiet. Rudi did bang pots in the kitchen and hum the
Horst Wessel Lied
, the marching song of the Nazi Party, but Helga had gone off to dream the dream of dreams.

‘God always extracts a price, Hermann, and then squeezes a little more.’

‘I’m going to have to tell Rudi something.’

‘But only a little. You can’t be perceived by Oberg as wanting to protect the boys and their families, nor can you go to that one without first reporting to Boemelburg. The chain of command,
n’est-ce pas
? Offend the one and you offend the other. Besides, Walter can perhaps find a way to cushion the theft of that Ford, especially as Himmler is demanding his recall should the perpetrators of these blackout attacks fail to be immediately apprehended.’

‘You’ve been busy, but I’m not going to let them use Giselle. I can’t. Not anymore. You’ve seen her, haven’t you? She’s okay, isn’t she? She’s with Oona and the kids …’

‘Hermann, listen to me. I did what I could but obviously needed more time. There are still places where she …’

‘Could have holed up? Madame Chabot’s?’

‘Not there. Not at the flat either. Look, I’m sorry. I was going to tell you.’

‘You were going to break it to me when convenient, eh, like Rouget?’

‘Sit down.
Please!
Giselle is probably fine.’

‘Safe is the word you want,
mein Lieber
. Safe!’

Even Rudi had stopped humming, but Hermann mustn’t be told of the rape and killing in the
passage
de l’Hirondelle and all the rest of what this partner of his had yet to impart. He must be shielded from it, had had enough for one evening, had already forced himself to do the impossible. ‘Oona may have heard from her. Giselle might simply have been delayed by a film. You know how she is. I didn’t stay. I only checked in briefly.’

‘And then tried to find Giselle. What’s happened to her, Louis?’

‘I don’t know but wish I did.’

Louis wasn’t telling him everything.

‘We’ll leave the Ford out in front of the Propaganda-Abteilung, Hermann, but will have to siphon off what’s left of their petrol.’

‘And take the food. I’m not leaving that. We’ll drop the keys in their tank so that no one will try to steal the car unless they smash a side windscreen first.’

The sound of a carrot being crunched was followed by that of another. St-Cyr opened his eyes but otherwise told himself not to move.

More of each carrot was taken. They were standing in their pyjamas, woollen socks and pullovers, staring curiously down at him: Adrienne Guillaumet’s Louisette to his right; Henri to the left. The curtain of the puppet theatre had been opened.

‘Did you put the coffee on?’ he asked.

‘The acorn water. I told you so, Henri,’ whispered his sister, cupping the carrot to hide it.

‘We had to move you in here with me,’ went on St-Cyr. ‘Hermann …’

‘Needed to be with Oona,’ said Henri severely.

‘We heard him,
Monsieur l’Inspecteur Principal
. He was very distressed.’

‘Giselle,’ said the brother.

‘Is she dead?’ asked the sister.

‘Don’t say that. Never say it until certain. We’ll find her. Don’t worry. Ah! help me up. These cushions, this rug, that left shoulder of mine, the left thigh … Old bullet wounds, you understand. I slept, can you believe it?’

They hadn’t cut into the baguettes from the Ford, had valiantly resisted that temptation. Potatoes were sliced thinly, onions diced. There were no eggs but there was a sprinkling of dill, some oregano too.

‘Add some of the meat,’ said Henri.

‘Just a little,’ said Louisette. ‘A taste.’

‘Don’t forget the garlic,’ said the brother.

It was nearly noon.

‘You should have gone off to school. It’s still Saturday, isn’t it? And don’t tell me you’re on strike. I’ve already heard that one. I’ll just have a wash. There isn’t a razor, is there?’

‘
Papa
’s extra one,’ said Louisette. ‘We were not allowed to send it to him. Prisoners of war are not allowed such weapons.’

‘Good. Take over here. Turn the hot plate down in a moment. Add more oil from time to time. It’s good, isn’t it? From Mouriès in Provence, I think. The village is close to Arles, which became Caesar’s number-one city, even better than Marseille. There’s an amphitheatre that would seat more than twenty thousand. Bullfights are still held. Well, they were before this Defeat of ours. I’m not sure since, having been too busy.’

‘And the wine?’ asked Louisette.

‘First take a sip and tell me what you think.’

‘It is thin,’ she said.

‘It’s been watered, idiot!’ said Henri.

‘It’s a village wine, a blend of Pinot Noir and the Gamay. A Clos Saint-Denis. The vineyards are not far from the tiny village of Morey-Saint-Denis in the Côte de Nuits and perhaps twelve or so kilometres to the south of Dijon where our mustard used to come from. You are both right, though, but since it’s all we have, refill my glass. I won’t be long.’

‘He’s nice, isn’t he?’ said Louisette when she had Henri to herself. ‘He has lost his little son and wife. Everyone in this house of ours has lost someone.’

‘
Maman
’s not lost. She’s just waiting to get better.’

‘Of course, but I was thinking of
Papa
.’

From the rue Saint-Dominique to the quai d’Orsay wasn’t far. Once there, they would follow the Seine upriver to the Pont d’Austerlitz. Hermann hadn’t insisted on driving, a bad sign, nor had he asked where they were going. Clearly he was still worried about Oberg, the judge and Giselle, but miracle of miracles, the sun was out. Those in the endless queues outside the shops had taken heart. One old woman had even allowed a young mother to step to the head of the line, obeying the rule from Vichy. A twenty-year-old cyclist really did walk his bike, forgetting entirely that the STO thugs could immediately grab and transport him into forced labour, but was it all some sort of sign God wished to give, wondered St-Cyr, or was He merely getting the hopes up so as to make the crunch all the harder?

‘Hermann, I’ll just have a quick word with Armand, if he’s here. If not, perhaps his autopsy on the police academy victim will have been completed.’

‘Oona, Louis. Giselle’s become like a sister to her in spite of their both living with me when I’m here.’

A clipping, hastily torn from some newspaper, was smoothed out. It was the notice Hermann had repeatedly placed in
Paris-Soir
.

‘I found it under the pillows. She’d been clutching it.’

To say, ‘I warned you Madame Guillaumet’s children would remind her of her own,’ would do no good. To say, ‘Wait, let me be the one to find out about Giselle,’ wouldn’t suit either.

‘Oona’s convinced her children are dead, Louis. I can’t shake her thinking on this. I wish to hell I could and now what have I done but made certain Giselle will be …’

He couldn’t say it, was blaming himself for what could well have happened.

At the confluence of several arteries, and near the Gare de Lyon, the place Mazas and its adjacent streets were busy—there was panic, though, at the sight of the car,
vélo-taxis
and bicycles turning away. ‘I’ll park on the quai Henri IV, Hermann. It’ll be warmer there and you won’t have to keep the engine running.’

‘Stop mothering me. You know damned well Giselle could be in there under a sheet. Just go in and find out for me.’

Louis pressed cigarettes into his hand but held on to them. ‘When we get to Walter, you’re definitely not to take any of these out. Walter has marked them.’

‘Don’t tell me we’ve a petty thief at HQ, other than myself?’

‘Apparently, but I’ve yet to determine how the head of Gestapo Section IV marked his pipe tobacco and these.’