Clandestine (24 page)

And a treasure. The shoes were perfect. Neither too big, nor too small, equally expensive and of but a slightly lighter shade of blue.

‘Will Madame really have her name splashed in the papers?'

‘Certainly. Invaluable assistance like this is always acknowledged. That encourages others to come forward.'

‘Then if the shoes, they are not returned, madame she will remain pleased and grateful.'

A further 5,000–franc note was found. ‘Just don't tell her until after the news breaks that we've finally apprehended the killer.'

‘And the others also,
n'est-ce pas,
especially the mistress?'

Jésus merde alors
was another 5,000-franc note being demanded­? ‘Them, too, but what's that scent you're wearing?'

That such a one should ask such a thing could only mean a tenderness hidden. ‘Guerlain's Coque d'Or. Madame, she will wear no other. It's her signature and therefore that of myself and all the others, even Madame Volnée, so as to avoid any conflict.'

And the phial shaped like two truncated eggs standing side by side in gold with black covers and the central stopper in gold and bearing the name at the bottom, the design by Baccarat probably in the late 1930s.

Herr Kohler even held the phial as if what it contained was definitely appreciated.

‘That partner of mine, Yvette, thinks he's an expert. Take any perfume and all he needs is a whiff to pin it down. Rose absolute, jasmine, clary sage and you name it. Splash a little on a white handkerchief, preferably one with a bit of embroidery. Tulips and daffodils, that sort of thing, and let me see if he's right.'

She would press the flat of her hand against the left side of his chest and would look up into those faded, lying blue eyes of his. ‘Then that must, I'm afraid, be entirely one of my own.'

And yet another 5,000-franc note.

‘Are those the shoes Eugène found in that bank van?' asked Évangéline.

‘They are, but I thought you had better have a good look at them just to be sure. Try them on. Maybe they really do fit.'

The room in the Salle Pleyel building was as before, felt St-Cyr, its austerity all the more evident since the risk of doing anything was far too great. By simply taking Concierge Figeard into his confidence, he had already placed not only Giselle and Oona at far greater risk, but Gabrielle too, and all who were close to them, Hermann as well, and Chantal and Muriel. Every linkage Annette-Mélanie Veroche had forged said emphatically that she had to have been, and still was, no doubt, affiliated with an FTP
équipe
or some other such Résistance group. Help given on first arrival in Paris, false papers and all the rest, in exchange for help demanded. Watch, listen and report all you hear and see, and go back time and again. Ingratiate yourself and find out all you can.

And yet no one in that
équipe
could really know her true self nor what she had hidden. He would have to say it softly, as if she was with him. ‘Kriminalrat Ludin is under huge pressure, mademoiselle, and will have no other choice than to call in reinforcements. Hermann and myself have no intention of telling him anything, but it's only a matter of time until Sergei Lebeznikov, on seeing one of those twenty-by-twenty photos of you from the Hague, tumbles to who he and his son have been taking to dinner. You will, unfortunately, have made a laughingstock of him, something both he and Rudy de Mérode will definitely not appreciate.'

If left on the bed in full view, the shoes would immediately cause her to grab that cardboard suitcase and head for the roof, pausing only to recover the nougat tin.

If left in the armoire with the dress, the same. Indeed, no matter what he did here, she would still head for that tin since Concierge Figeard, though trying hard not to indicate such, would inadvertently, through gesture or word, let her know there had been a visitor. But perhaps it was that she would never be allowed to return here even if that
passeur
did manage to get her into Paris, since that Dutch
mouchard
would stay far too close to her and would have to.

Frans hadn't backed off, felt Anna-Marie. As soon as she had come downstairs to supper in the kitchen, he had been waiting for her, surrounded by its everyday warmth and welcoming aromas. Sensing discord, Madame de Belleveau had insisted that Frans was to sit next to herself at the far end of the table to give as much distance as possible, but Frans was far too quick and took Étienne's place. Not even asking, he uncorked
le rouge
and filled her glass.
‘Salut!'
he said. No grin, no smile, just: Say anything and see what happens.

The
potage parisien
, that standby of every French household, whether on the farm or not, reminded her of home so much, she felt like bursting into tears. She
couldn't
let Frans betray them but he was watching her far too closely. Was it fear that what was troubling him, though he had the only gun, or was it that he simply saw her as someone in the theatre with whom to compete? Oh for sure, to succeed as he had, talent had been needed, but that alone would not have been enough. The ability to lie convincingly would have been necessary, the twisting of things said or done, the denigrating of others whenever possible. ‘He's good, that boy,' Papa had said of him, ‘but I pity the women he encounters.'

Salome, Herod's daughter, and Herodias
,
that one's wife
.

When Arie arrived, he set her walking shoes on the floor beside her and with but the flash of an engagingly mischievous grin, said, ‘They might hold up, but you never can tell with shoes. One lace will break when you've already tied two knots. Then the other one goes, or a seam will split, or a heel come off just when you're racing to catch a bus or get to a film.'

He had even polished them and had made replacement laces out of leather thongs he'd worked on to get them to match the rest and not look too out of place even though lots in Paris were having to wear far worse.

‘No more
Klompen
, eh?' quipped Frans.

‘Arie,
merci bien
. They're perfect.' He had even cut insoles out of felt. Always he was doing something useful, had sawn and split lots of stove wood for Madame and would probably like nothing better than to work the land she must have leased to another who hadn't needed the barns and farmyard that were well behind the
potager
.

They would eat and when it came on, listen to the nine o'clock news from the BBC in London, the wireless secreted in a cupboard behind things, the aerial strung only for those times. The penalty, prison of course, or death.

The soup was perfect. ‘Some chopped chives, perhaps,' her father would have said. ‘A little of the
goudse boerenkaas
. Just a slice or two to nibble on and stop us from slurping too much.' The farmers' gouda, the
edammer kaas
as well.

She couldn't let it happen. She mustn't.

The chicken was superb, the sautéed potatoes Arie's favourite as they would have been her father's. He even cleaned the frying pan with a bit of bread, she herself having failed entirely to have touched her wine. ‘You sure are worrying,' he said. ‘It's completely­ understandable, but we
will
get you into Paris and I'll see that one of the bikes in the back has a Paris licence.'

And no tag stating that it, and the others, had been requisitioned by the Occupier in Liege, and then stolen from them. There were a dozen, but also ten-kilo bags of roasted, ground Belgian chicory root for coffee substitute, Ardennes hams, chocolates, pipe and cigarette tobacco, Trappist beer from Chimay, too, and the flat, round cheeses of those monks, eggs in water glass as well and lots of other things. ‘Arie …'

‘Let me have a look at that hand.'

He even ran a forefinger gently over the stitches.

‘Maybe another day, maybe two, but when they're ready, I'll gladly tease them out and you won't feel a thing.'

It was Frans who said, ‘That was touching but maybe he wants a little more.'

‘Leave it,' said Étienne. ‘It's almost time for the news.'

There was static, the Boche always trying to block reception, but Arie managed to tune things in and at once, having never heard it before in France, that call-sign of ‘
Ici Londres
,' filled her with hope. But in the Aegean, the Germans had taken the island of Kos, the only Allied airbase in that area. In Russia, the Soviet advance had been stalled along what had to be the longest of fronts. And in Italy, while the British had taken Naples and their commandos had landed at Termoli and would soon link up with their Eighth Army, the American Fifth had reached the southern bank of the Volturno River fifteen miles to the north where a major battle was shaping up along what the Germans called their Gustav Line. The Sixteenth Panzer Division had been moved into position.

In the Battle for the Atlantic, after a respite due to losses, the U-boats were again attacking the convoys from America and Canada­. In September alone, twenty-nine merchant ships and escort­ vessels had been sunk with a loss of 156,400 tonnes of badly­ needed supplies and far too many lives. Worse still, the U-boats­ were now concentrating on the escort vessels first, but nine of those submarines had been sent to the bottom, ‘And with good riddance,' Mr. Churchill said. ‘Desperately needed air bases in the Azores will now be available, the Portugese having finally agreed to this.'

In the Far East, the Japanese had established a broad offensive in China, but on Kolombangara, in the Solomon Islands, American forces had found they had fled. Four airfields had been taken. Bougainville, the largest of those islands and last major Japanese stronghold there would now be next and difficult.

But in Corsica, after an armed civilian uprising on 8 September, French partisans, Morrocan Goumiers and American OSS agents had finally driven the Germans out.

‘Spring will come,' said Arie as he switched off the set. ‘It's just taking its time.'

Unfortunately the invasion of Europe would be far too late for them unless Frans could be stopped.
‘Bonne nuit,'
she said. ‘Tomorrow will come soon enough.'

‘Then don't hurry it,' he quipped, flicking cigarette ash her way. ‘Sleep tight. Don't let the bugs bite.'

There was no hope. There could be no hope.

^*
On 29 September 1943, all but about 50 of the remaining 2,000 were taken.

^*
In April 1942, she rented a large apartment at 129 avenue Malakoff.

7

In bursts of collective emphasis, noise echoed, the Hôtel George V resounding, felt St-Cyr. To the staid seventeenth- and eighteenth-century decor, art deco pieces from the Boeuf sur le Toit's former location on the rue du Colisée clashed, but no one else seemed to care. At 2120 hours and late for their meeting with Heinrich Ludin, there was still no sign of Hermann. He'd not been in the lobby as agreed.
Merde
, what was one to do? Walk among the crowded tables and ask or simply withdraw?

Waiters hustled the heavy trays or took away the empties, while thick on the air and emphasized by the half-light, the tobacco smoke had all but overwhelmed all other scents. Ackerland was on tap, Spaten Dunkel too, and Dortmunder Union, each glass or stein overflowing.

‘There's even Einbeck Dunkel, Louis, and a Bock and Double Bock I'd recommend. The Führer may not like it that this brasserie of choice hasn't been shut down as ordered, but he sure does know his boys like their beer. It's flown in every day or sent by rail.'

‘Hermann …'

So popular had the Boeuf sur le Toit been to the avant-garde and Bohemian wealthy of the Roaring Twenties, its fame had spread and in the autumn of 1940 it had immediately been adopted by the Paris SD, SS and Gestapo.

‘You're late,' said Louis.

‘I was held up.'

‘Which table then?'

‘That one at the very back that has two empty chairs facing the life-size bronze nude from the former location.'

Svelte and on tiptoes with uplifted breasts, the nymph had one arm extended high above her to release a dove of peace.

‘The table with what look to be two
Grosskotzkerls
,' said Hermann, ‘but don't be fooled, not by those two.'

The big vomit boys, those who, like Reichsmarschall Göring, would eat and eat. Both sinister, and like him in that as well. ‘Berlin must have sent them.'

‘Kaltenbrunner, I think.'

‘God always frowns, Hermann, but our
garde champêtre
is taking the soup as if a last meal.
Ah bon
, he's afraid of what I might well do to him.'

‘Just don't mention the shoes.'

‘The
what
?'

‘The ones he wanted for Évangéline.'

She of the plunging neckline, radiantly beatific and licentious smile, and the drenchings of one of Lanvin's latest.

‘It's called Mon Péché,' said Hermann.

And on a first-name basis with her too. ‘Me, I think I understand.'

‘You'd better.'

Uniforms were everything to the Occupier, no matter how humble the station, felt St-Cyr. To the basic Luftwaffe blue of these two had been added the stiff-collared walking-out white shirt, black tie and vest, all of which indicated that they were Göring's. One even wore the
Deutsche Jägerschaft
badge of the hunting association and medals to prove deer had been shot and killed at exceptional range, the other no doubt fiercely jealous. Both, however, wore the party's golden badge of honour and red armband with white circle and gold-lined black swastika, indicating that Hitler also had a definite claim to them.

‘Uniforms tell you only so much, Louis. They may even hate each other.'

Party functionaries and dyed-in-the-wool Nazis.

Neither bothered to even look up from the oysters in the half, the
pâté
, bread and wine. Indeed only Rocheleau seemed to have noticed their arrival and that of his wife. Having dropped his spoon and splashed his uniform, he had knocked over the glass of the red, which was now finding its way to his trousers. ‘Évangéline …'

‘Eugène,
mon cher, mon brave.
'

Kisses of repentance were necessary—was it really repentance? wondered St-Cyr. Joyously the woman trailed trembling hands over that husband of hers while Ludin, having quickly downed yet another shot of the stomach bitters, gazed leadenly at them and said, ‘Sit,' but in Deutsch, of course.

It was Hermann who dragged from his coat pockets a pair of shoes to ask, ‘Would these be what you're looking for, Kriminalrat?'

‘Eugène,
mon cher
, they're a little tight but it was wonderful of you to have risked so much for me, the young girl you married fifteen years, seven months and four days ago.'

‘Those … Those, they are …'

‘Beautiful and me, I would love to have them anyway. Dancing will loosen them up. Dancing in Paris, Eugène.'

‘It's not allowed. It's against the law.'

‘But there are lots of places where it does happen. French musicians and their ensembles play nothing but the latest tunes. Hermann took me to one. “Douce Georgette” is by Joseph Reinhardt and his ensemble, but Hermann, he says the piece, it is really called “Sweet Georgia Brown.” “Irene,” it is terrific, too, and very dreamy. André Ekyan and his ensemble do it marvellously. “Palm Beach” as well, and Monsieur Hubert Rostaing's clarinet, it is just as good as Monsieur Benny Goodman's in the “Saint Louis Blues” or was it “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes”? No, that one was Tommy Dorsey and his orchestra. A trombone, I think.'

Hermann loved to dance and listen to the Voice of America whenever possible, and he did like such music as did those ensembles, and of course they played in clubs and bars and even held outdoor concerts the Occupier also loved, though all of it was
verboten
.

‘Tell the slut to shut up,' said Ludin to the husband who was now trying to claim the shoes he'd found had been of a darker shade.

‘Eugène,
mon cher
, they are exactly the ones you told me of. The imprint, it says so. Hanan, wasn't it? Hanan of New York, at 43 avenue de l'Opéra.'

And no longer there since the Führer in his wisdom had declared war on the Americans on 4 December 1941.

‘Are those the shoes?' grunted Ludin, clutching at a spasm that must have wrenched his gut.

‘What else would they be,' said Louis in Deutsch, ‘since they came from my coat pockets and we save everything we can from every case we have to investigate and this one, if I must remind you, is still very much a murder inquiry and not some circus.'

‘Rocheleau, you idiot,' said Ludin, ‘take that slut and get her out of here. Go home to where you belong.'

Somehow they understood.

‘But first a little visit,' said the master of ceremonies, tucking three or four big ones into the woman's hand, she giving him a kiss on the cheek and the playfully lingering touch of her tongue.

Ludin lost all patience. ‘These gentlemen have come all the way from Berlin to talk to you, Kohler, so you had damned well better listen.'

Blitheness was called for. ‘And are they aware that you've a
Spitzel
aboard that
gazo
, one whose presence you've already advertised enough without having them come all that way?'

‘One that may well need your help, is it, Kohler?'

‘Hermann, let's hear what they have to say when they've finished eating.'

Unknown to her, for sure, Anna-Marie had just brought down the wrath of the Reich on them, felt Kohler, and reaching for the empty bottles, held two up for one of the waiters.

‘Ah, the Châteauneuf-du-Pape, the 1921, Hermann. Of course, neither Herr Ludin nor these gentlemen could have known that after the Great War, the market was flooded by fake bottles of it, so much so that Baron Pierre le Roy de Boiseaumarie led a campaign to safeguard the name and his own. Ask for the Châtau Latour. Any year you like, but let's drink a toast to their health.'

And to that of Anna-Marie Vermeulen.

Frans was in the room and at the bed. He had given her an hour and a half to get to sleep and was now going through her pockets to find that coin and her papers. He had to know the name she was using in Paris.

Unable to find either, she heard him draw in an exasperated breath and then gingerly slide a hand under her pillow and her head. There … there … have you found them now, Frans? Have you?

Quickly leaving, he softly eased the door closed, but now if they
did
manage to get into Paris, she would have to make him follow her, for only then could Étienne, Arie and Martine be saved, since he must tell no one else
anything
until he had been forced to tell the right ones everything.

To the Boeuf sur le Toit, felt St-Cyr, there was nothing but increased noise and laughter, to this table with its two visitors from Berlin and Heinrich Ludin, but the desperate. All three seemed to be waiting for something or someone. Hermann
had
explained their having followed that truck's route to its link-up with the bank van and murders, but Ludin, sour and troubled as always, had been far from satisfied, the others simply belligerent.

‘Eine Halbjüdin?'
swore Ulrich Frensel. ‘
Eine Mischlinge,
Kohler?' Angrily, he stabbed an already loaded fork into the braised red cabbage that accompanied the roast pork and potatoes he'd been devouring. ‘Are you and that
verfluchte Franzose
telling me that you know nothing useful yet and are letting a
verdammte Hure
get the better of a person such as myself?
Die Schlampe
will be stripped naked, I tell you!
Naked
, Kohler!' He jerked a butcher-size thumb back to indicate the bronze behind him. ‘All questions will be answered. If not, I will personally see that she shits through her nose.'

Liebe Zeit
, was he about to have a heart attack? wondered St-Cyr. Red in the normally florid and fleshy cheeks with double chin and brew-master nose, Frensel knuckle-wiped the Führer-like moustache that went with the haircut before lowering that fist to stab the fork in again.

‘The black diamonds, Kohler,' seethed the other one, slab-faced and dark-eyed, and with the
boeuf bourguignon
and side dishes of caramelized onions and braised chestnuts. ‘She
knows
where they are, I tell you! That filthy
Schweinhund
Meyerhof
told
her. That is
why
we had to let her run. That is
why
this
Sonderkommando
!'

And wouldn't you know it, thought Kohler, the myth of the so-called black diamonds, and both of these two from Berlin in on it but hating each other.

‘
Ach
, this other one is Johannes Uhl, Louis, and none other than the person who almost single-handedly during the Blitzkrieg captured 940,000 carats of rough industrials, so pleasing the Führer that he …'

A long-fingered, agitated fork-hand was acidly raised for silence, sauce dribbling. ‘
Bitte, mein Lieber. Bitte.
There were an additional 290,000 carats of Congo cubes and other industrials I personally took off Belgian vessels in Antwerp's harbour. The Führer …'

‘Was ecstatic, Louis, and gave him this medal and a photo spread in
Signal
.'
*

Having leaned over the clutter, Hermann pressed a forefinger to one of the awards, and turning away as if to ignore it, said to the other visitor, ‘And you must be in charge of gem diamonds. Herr Uhl of the industrials is from Frankfurt, Louis, where on the day we started this investigation, the RAF and USAAF did a round-the-clock, levelling a good part of the city and leaving more than 500 dead.

‘Herr Frensel, is from Münster where, on 6 July 1941, and in
three
nights, that same RAF flattened a good quarter of the city, so like our Kriminalrat, they both have that added reason for wanting us to solve this mess they've created.'

Shock brought silence and then from Ludin, not looking up from the vichyssoise that had finally been set before him, ‘As does Reichssicherheitschef Kaltenbrunner, Kohler.'

There could be no smile, felt Frensel. Instead, he would simply spear a chunk of pork and offer it to this
verfluchte
Kripo who was nothing but trouble. ‘In Berlin,
mein Lieber
, though a million have been evacuated, we who are left still pray for the zoo to be hit. Lion testicles in a sauce perhaps, or elephant teats in their cream—it's said to be very rich. Some maintain that the giraffe will be stringy and must be tenderized by pounding as we do the war bread we are now having to eat with the turnips instead of potatoes; others that when plucked, stuffed and roasted, the ostrich will be a bit gamey, but a meal to walk on its legs. I believe, and you can correct me if I am wrong which I seldom am, St-Cyr, but didn't the population of Paris eat their zoo animals during the Franco-Prussian War we most certainly won?'

‘The boa constrictors were said to be tasty. Grand-mère always swore that her portion was exquisite, like eel served with mustard, so, too, the Indian cobra, but fortunately without the poison sacks.'

Ach, gut
, he had finally got their attention, thought Frensel. ‘I, too, have received such a medal and commendation—five of them to be precise. In the Netherlands alone, Kohler, and well after having relieved those diamond firms and traders of all they said they had, you understand, I took from those held for transit at Westerbork and Vught more than 250 million guilders of gem diamonds.'

Even at 10 guilders to the pound sterling, that was still 25 million pounds and Louis would have figured it out too.

‘Or at 4.4 American dollars to the pound, Hermann, about 110 million dollars or roughly now on the black bourse, at let's say 100 French francs to the dollar, 11 billion francs.'

‘And more than enough, eh, to pay the Reich the 500 million a day they are now demanding in reparations, which are then, of course, immediately used to buy up all the loose diamonds and other things on offer.'

‘You'd be surprised where some of those
Schweinhunde
thought to hide such things,' said Frensel, ripping off a chunk of baguette to mop up juices. ‘A specimen of no name, but bare and bent over the table, had 187 carats up the one and 356 up the other, and both coming out her eyes.'