Clandestine (12 page)

A concubine, but
ah mon Dieu
, wine from a region Hector Bolduc had a definite interest in.

‘We had rabbit, too, which she helped to cook since she had fed and cared for it as much as myself. We've three, with two females that produce like clockwork, chickens too.'

Yet she hadn't stayed over in Rethel for Christmas. That city was, of course, about fifty kilometres to the northeast of Reims and had all but been destroyed during the Blitzkrieg, false papers using names from there and similar places since only the tombstones could be checked. ‘And now again, Monsieur Figeard, another visit. When exactly?'

Why was there the need to also pin that down? ‘Last month. She left on Sunday, 19 September, would be about a week, maybe a day or two more. It all depended on her mother's health.'

Was Figeard so gullible? The SS, the Gestapo and the
gestapistes français
wouldn't have hesitated. ‘A student, you said?'

‘
Oui
. Of medieval history, the role of the Benedictines, especially the Cistercians.'

She
had
known of that spring. ‘The two of you actually raise rabbits and chickens on the roof?'

‘And have a little garden. The bell jars now, if there's the threat of frost. Annette-Mélanie can't have done anything a person such as yourself would be interested in. She even has a part-time job here as an usherette at the concerts but also does the Friday afternoons and Saturdays at the German bookstore on the rue de Rivoli.'

The
Frontbuchhandlung
*
but this whole thing was simply going far too deep.

‘She speaks German, does she?'

‘Fluently. Otherwise she would not have been offered either position. None of the other usherettes speak it, though some are taking lessons.'

‘And how long has she lived here?'

‘Since June of 1941, the third week. Me, I … I offered to keep an eye on her bicycle so that she wouldn't have to walk it up to that room of hers where there's little enough space anyways, and those stairs … It's a good one, too, a Sparta, but heavy.'

A Dutch bike, and if that wasn't taking a chance, what was? ‘And kept where?'

‘In the cellars, of course. She's beyond reproach, Chief Inspector. Me, I have seen her studying by candlelight, if a stub can be found. I once, on taking a little something up to her, teasingly asked if she, like others, had been borrowing them from the Église Saint-Philippe-du-Roule.'

At 154 rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré.

‘But she shook her head and told me with all earnestness that she had been given them by a subdeacon at the Cathédrale Alexandre Nevesky, a boy no older than herself, the one who mixes the incense, she said, and lights its little fires of charcoal before handing the censers to the priests. She liked, she said, to experience other religions. A good Catholic can have doubts, can't one?'

Especially since the accent of that second driver who'd been following them this morning had been Russian. ‘Repeated visits, repeated candles?'

‘That I … I wouldn't know, Chief Inspector.'

‘But assume it's correct?'

Must he press so hard? ‘Do the young not like to talk to the young, especially these days?'

A centre of the White Russian community and no friend of the Bolsheviks and Stalin, the cathedral was behind the Pleyel and faced on to the rue Daru and its intersection with the rue Pierre-le-Grand. Chez Kornilov, the Russian restaurant that was favoured by many of the Occupier and especially by its black-market dealers and sometimes, too, by the
gestapistes français
, was just across the street, but … ‘You're absolutely correct. At times, I tend to question things far too much. She's obviously of no concern to myself and my partner.'

‘Then you won't be needing my pass key?'

‘Whatever for? I'll just walk back through by the concert hall and let myself out that way. My thanks for your patience. It's always good to refresh old acquaintances.'

Oberfeldwebel Dillmann had better have some answers for Hermann.

^*
An industrial suburb in
la zone
to the northwest of Paris.

^*
The guillotine.

^*
Renamed the rue Jean Mermoz.

^*
Now Rue Ernest Renan.

^*
Now the Paris heliport.

^*
Pressed duck, a house specialty.

^*
A
panier à salade
, a Black Maria.

^*
Formerly the British bookshop of W. H. Smith.

4

For one who loved horses and had, felt Kohler, used them often both on the farm and in the artillery of that other war, the Vaugirard horse abattoir was far from pleasant. Rotting offal, horses' hooves, bones, dung and scraps of hide—vestiges of these were everywhere under daylight until the big sliding doors had been closed by Schütze
Hartmann.

Now under the faded light, the bloodstains at his feet appeared darker. The gobs and mounds of fat were still a greasy-yellow, but to everything came the constant dripping of leaky taps, while above him, and thrown into shadow as if waiting for some insane SD, SS or Gestapo to string the piano wire, a railing carried large metal hooks. Had there been any stock, each would have taken a horse, stunned, killed or still screaming, to the knives that would have swiftly disembowelled it, the butchers in full-length rubber­ being constantly showered by blood and offal­. That girl, that Anna-­Marie Vermeulen, really couldn't understand what those types could do to her. Under the SD decree of 12 July last year, ‘reinforced­' interrogations had been given the okay but had already been in use by Rudy de Mérode and the other gangs. Oona and Giselle could face the same if Louis and himself weren't careful, and yet … and yet they still didn't even know why Kaltenbrunner had sent those two, and Heinrich bloody Ludin would be out there somewhere waiting for him to cough up everything or else!

Mein Gott
, but
he needed a cigarette. Butchering hadn't gone on here that long. In 1894, the hog abattoirs, which faced inward from the rue de Dantzig to the west, had been the first, those for cattle in 1897, and finally this one in 1904 and backing onto the rue Brancion. Since the abattoirs were serviced by rail on their southern boundary—the Chemin de Fer de l'Ouest—those two tobacco trucks he had followed had taken the rue de Dantzig north to the rue des Morillons, and then had gone east on it to the entrance. Otherwise there was fencing around the area and only limited foot traffic in and out, but here an ordinary door must lead to the rue Brancion. Directly across from it would be a
boucherie chevaline
whose golden horse heads advertised the steaks, roasts, sausage, et cetera had the stock not been shipped on the hoof to the Reich. But would that girl know the Vaugirard? Had she hidden in this arrondissement? Waxworks, leather tanning, machinery, pharmaceutics, even the bleach that had given the Quai de Javel its name and every skylight its blackout coat of laundry bluing, dominated the 15th. The Citroën factories were on the Allée des Cygnes in the Seine. Like the 11th and 12th, the Vaugirard was also a warren of narrow streets and passages, low-rental tenements, houses, small garden plots and ateliers and such that would have made it perfect if she could have settled in, especially as it was an area seldom visited by the Occupier unless well armed and in a rush. Even Dillmann would have had to make arrangements with the local BOFs and the
pègre.

Pay off the one to pay off the other, and business as usual.

From a farm and fishing family in the old town of Schleswig, Schütze
Hartmann couldn't have been in Paris for more than six or seven months, the Wehrmacht but a few more. Though he had the look of Viking ancestors, the steel-rimmed specs made him appear far from that. Hovering over the four cases of cigarettes that had been dropped off by those tobacco trucks, he was armed with a Schmeisser he might be able to use, though that gave little comfort since ill-experienced trigger fingers could be dangerous.

A teenager whose bad eyesight said a lot about the Führer's latest recruits, the boy finally opened one of the boxes and asked, ‘Two packets, was it, Herr Detektiv?'

‘Cigarette currency, eh?' replied Kohler, indicating the loot. ‘And since your pay and that of the average regular is two Reichskassenscheine per day, and equivalent to forty francs, even at one-hundred francs the packet, those four cases hold a fortune.'

This was something he could talk about, felt Hartmann. ‘
Ach, ja
. Ten to fifteen packets will get you the full night with a really beautiful girl on the Champs-Élysées, but in Pigalle from three to five cigarettes are enough. Most are so desperate, they'll do it up against a wall, but if you have eight francs for the room in one of those walk-in hotels the French use, no questions are ever asked, no papers demanded, and she'll do anything you want again and again, and if you give her a few more, you can keep her all night.'

And no wonder the Oberkommando der Wehrmacht were constantly worried about the health not only of the men but especially of those street girls. ‘You boys get time off do you?'

‘Only when the Oberfeldwebel feels we need a break. He treats us well, though, and we're lucky to have him, that's for sure.'

And Dillmann, being Dillmann, had made certain of their loyalty. ‘How long has he been using this abattoir?'

‘Not long. For a while it was the sheet-iron horse auction, but when this place was temporarily closed, the Oberfeldwebel felt it would be better since it's out of the way a little more, but with that high-alert at the Versailles entrance, he had to keep the truck there.'

‘But usually those with things they're bringing into Paris momentarily tuck the trucks out of sight here and wait for him?'

‘
Ach, ja.
They give us half the load they're carrying, and we give them the motor oil, grease and gasoline or diesel fuel they need to get home, collect more stuff and come back.'

‘And that truck of Dillmann's is also loaded with jerry cans of fuel?'

‘For a
Detektiv
you ask a lot of questions.'

‘Here, have one of these and give us a light.'

‘Shit, they must have forgotten to drop off the matches. Now I'll catch hell for not having demanded them.'

Since the Tabac National also made those, but fortunately the boy had matches of his own.

‘Why the muscle at that entrance to the city, Inspector?'

‘I was hoping Werner could tell me.'

‘All we know is that they're looking for a
gazo
that's hauling stuff for the
schwarzer Markt
. We don't even know when they'll lift the search. It could be days.'

‘And that's not good, is it?'

‘People like us already have enough to worry about.'

‘Here, let me give you a little something to take the chill off.'

Opening the Citroën's trunk, Kohler found the bottle and handed­ it to Hartmann. ‘That's the shotgun from the bank van that was robbed. Beautiful, isn't it? Feel how light it is and well balanced, yet how solid is the forehand's grip. Be careful. It's still loaded.'

Two men had died, they not having used it, thought Hartmann. ‘We always get vans from that bank coming through. How much cash was taken?'

The things one learned. ‘Lots, but they were also hauling things for the
schwarzer Markt
.'

‘And people, too, like the other vans from that same bank?'

Ach
, how lovely. ‘Maybe. That's something else I wanted to ask your Oberfeldwebel.'

‘This is good,' said Hartmann of the pear brandy.

‘Then have some more and another of these. My partner won't mind. He's French and he does what I tell him because he has to, but he's cut himself rather badly. If you could lose that first-aid kit on your belt, would one of these five-thousand notes help you to get another?'

A five-thousand note, when two hundred was more than enough!

Listening to the sounds, distant now from the escort service and dance studios, St-Cyr paused in this last of corridors. He was, he knew, well above the avenue Beaucour, which, with its cul-de-sac, bordered the Salle Pleyel on the east. There were no immediate neighbours, no elevator next to the room, just a nearby back staircase that would have offered another route down to street level if needed. But beyond the room, there was something else: a short flight of stairs that would have taken her to the roofs. As a diver, she would have kept both in mind, for the roofs here would continue well along the avenue Beaucour.

Finding the Sûreté's pass keys the early 1930s had given him as a chief inspector, he began to try them, conscious always that Concierge Figeard might indeed have thought to check, and when the lock gave, whispered,
‘Dieu merci,'
and softly let himself in, closing, and locking it behind himself.

A maid's garret,
une chambre de bonne
, the room was so bare he had to wonder at her having lived here since that third week of August 1941. Seemingly alone on the makeshift 1920s counter of the opposite wall, the washbasin was but one of those badly chipped enamel flea-market things. So small was the cube of the grey national, one could fail to notice it. Slaked lime, sand and ground horse chestnuts, it was not only gritty but likely to burn and leave a rash. But a wash every day, no matter how cold the room.

There was no heat, of course. Well to his left, tidily against the wall and in a corner, was a single-burner electric hotplate, the frayed cord well-taped. Half a box of Viandox cubes
*
was with two tins of sardines and one of peas. A chipped porcelain pitcher served as water carrier and source. Plate, cup and saucer, bowl, spoon, fork and knife were with a small aluminium pot and a cast-iron frying pan.

The walls were neither white nor pale grey and absolutely blank. The armoire, one rescued no doubt from the cellars, revealed equally little: two skirts, three summer dresses, a few blouses, and a light sweater. Separated from these, the dress she had been given was of a very fine and soft, dark-blue wool that matched the shoes he still had in his coat pockets. White Chantilly lace fringed the accompanying slip, brassiere and underpants and must have come from just such a shop. Enchantement?
he had to ask. Would Chantal and Muriel have seen to Madame Nicole Bordeaux's order? Not personally, of course. One of their girls would have, though they would have gone over everything carefully, but why, of course, the very expensive and equally rare lingerie?

‘I'll have to ask them and that, mademoiselle, is bound to take us even deeper, so maybe I had better not ask.'

The silk stockings, those rarest of things, had been very carefully smoothed and were on yet another hanger, the garter belt with them. Three plain pairs of repeatedly and beautifully mended­ step-ins, another blouse and sweater were in a drawer with two pairs of worn-out tennis shoes, and another of walking shoes whose heels would definitely have to be replaced when money allowed. ‘But for a girl who has gone home once before, mademoiselle, there is as yet no evidence of that earlier trip. Such a spartan behaviour demands answers in itself.'

When he opened the small cardboard suitcase that was under the military cot from the Great War, he realized what she had done, for here there were three berets, one black, another crimson, the third a medium brown, also two very colourful shopping bags, both reversible but instantly giving the drab and functional. A selection of scarves that could be quickly switched was evident, also another dress, a pair of woollen slacks, shirt-blouse, warm sweater, even a spare toothbrush, step-ins, brassiere, flannelette pajamas, face cloth, towel and sanitary pads. She had put all that she would absolutely need here so that if driven to, she could quickly leave with the suitcase, and that, of course, had to mean that she would have laid out at least two routes of escape across those roofs. She had even chosen one of the Occupation's suitcases so that if necessary she could leave it tucked in with others at a railway or bus terminal checkpoint and simply walk through with papers only. Even her jacket was reversible, and from the look of it and by hand-spanning both waist and slack-length, came the estimates: Height: 173 centimetres, weight: 50 kilos, though some of that would definitely have been lost due to the constant shortages.

‘Hair, a very light blonde, mademoiselle, but you should be more careful, since these days someone other than myself might take interest.'

Carefully coiling the strand, he tucked it away in his wallet. There were no snapshots, no mementos from home, no bottle even of black hair dye. ‘No past, no future, just the present, eh?' he demanded, and returning the suitcase, looked carefully under the bed and found a little something else. But why hide it unless when helping with the rabbits and such, she had been forced to return the original every time and would need her own, especially if to escape?

She had had it made, and that could only have meant a block of wax, an impression, and a little help from someone else. ‘But now, of course, you have forced me to use and return it, but first I must have a further look here.'

Tidily arranged on the small table she used as a desk were her notes. It was indeed a dissertation on the Benedictines and their place in the medieval history of France, with an emphasis on the Cistercians. Everything had been carefully referenced. She must have been working on a history degree. Only frequent visits to the reading room of the Bibliothèque Nationale could have produced this. Diagrams gave the layouts of abbey after abbey, among them l'Abbaye de Vauclair but also l'Abbaye d'Orval to the east of the Ardennes, in the heart of the Gaume forest and all but on the frontier between Belgium and France. Torched in 1637, that one had been rebuilt in 1680, she had noted. Demolished in 1793, sold off as a quarry in 1797, it had been, again she had noted, rebuilt in 1926 and finally reopened in 1938 only to find itself all but in the path of the Blitzkrieg.

Down through the centuries, travellers have always been offered three days refuge, food, water and shelter.

Ah merde
, she could well have told that
passeur
of hers where they could stop over en route to France, but had that poultice come from there? Had a herbalist monk attended to her and given warnings of septicaemia?

She had definitely known of the spring at l'Abbaye de Vauclair. A diagram, neat and perfect, even with the distances noted, gave its location, along with the notation
‘L'eau potable.'