‘Franzie Jünger, mein Kamerad.’
‘Unit?’
Ach Schiesse, ein Offizier! ‘Attached to Wehrmacht Supply Depot Seven. I drive a lorry.’
‘Then you’re just the man I want.’
‘The lorry’s not with me.’
‘That’s no problem. I’ve got a car. The lorry will come later, eh? For now, we line things up.’
‘Such as?’
‘A customer for that milk.’
‘Can’t she breastfeed her brat?’
‘She hasn’t one. She uses it with honey, for facial masks. It cleans and moistens the skin, I guess.’
‘And?’
‘I need to find a bottle of Amaretto.’
‘What the hell is it?’
‘Drink.’
‘But for that, mein Kamerad, you don’t need a lorry.’
‘It’s for the frozen beehives and the buckets of honey and wax I’ve found. They’ve got to be moved or we’ll lose out on them.’
‘How many men will we need?’
‘Four, and yourself. Oh, and we’ll need a place to store the stuff.’
‘The honey.’
‘Yes, and the wax.’
‘Okay. Lead the way. Thirty for you, fifty for me, and twenty for the boys.’
‘Thirty-five for each of us, and thirty for the boys.’
‘Agreed.’
6
The rue Froideveaux ran alongside the southern wall of the Cimetière du Montparnasse, and here the quartier was perhaps at its quietest, thought St-Cyr. Distant were the hustle and bustle of the Carrefour Vavin, boulevard Raspail and avenues du Maine and du Montparnasse where flocks of servicemen and their girls crowded the cafés, cinemas, bars and legendary brasseries. The Club Mirage also. Its rue Delambre was just off the northern wall of the cemetery, Gabrielle really quite near, yet he mustn’t visit her. Things were far too close to the Occupier, though Hermann could well go there, thinking to meet up with him, and he might well need to do likewise.
Number 53’s roof rose among the jumble across the street. Mansard windows haunted the steeply sloping slates. Wind stirred the barren branches of the chestnut trees. It was 11 p.m. and the métro’s lines would all have begun their final runs. Soon the streets would be cleared, the city dead quiet except for the sudden squeal of Gestapo tyres or the approaching tramp of a patrol.
‘And number 3 rue Laurence-Savart, in Belleville, is one hell of a walk,’ he sighed.
The entrance was steep. Threadbare carpet exposed raised nails. The stairs, given off a small courtyard, rose to a cramped landing and a small window behind a grill.
His fist hit the bell, though there was no need since he could see the concierge through the slot. ‘St-Cyr, Sûreté.’ How many times had he heard himself saying it like that? Mon Dieu, must he be so hard? ‘To see M. Jean-Claude Leroux, monsieur. Hurry, I haven’t time to waste.’
The day’s Paris-Soir was carefully set aside. Thin pages, controlled reading …
‘Leroux … Leroux …’ came a voice thick with the gravel of disinterest and too much black-market tobacco. ‘Ah! Here we are, Inspector. That one has gone out again. Always when the moon is on the wane he gets anxious.’
‘Don’t give me an ulcer, monsieur. They bleed.’
‘Merde, all that is required is a little patience!’
‘That takes time, and as I have already indicated to your tender ears, I haven’t any. Now hurry, or I will call in reinforcements.’
‘The catacombs.’
‘They’re closed at this hour.’
‘Of course. But he’s one of the custodians and always, towards the end of the month, the complaining increases.’
‘What complaining?’
‘The Germans. He says they are always buggering off on him and he’s afraid one of them will get lost down there in those tunnels and go mad, and he’ll be held responsible.’
‘And madness, is that a fear he harbours?’ hazarded the Sûreté.
Harbours … were they talking about ships? wondered Hervé Martin. ‘He gets his kicks out of recounting how, in 1848, some fool tore up the graves of our cemetery to uncover the bodies of recently buried females, the younger the better, I’m sure.’
The Inspector said nothing, only waited for more of the meal. ‘They were laid out in less travelled places among the stones and undressed, or so it is maintained by those in authority, and then were mutilated savagely. The breasts, the womb, the private parts. One was shaved. A girl of …’
‘Yes, yes, I’ve heard it all and every time my ears are exposed to that canard, monsieur, it has been embellished by the fool who tells it! How long will M. Leroux be underground?’
‘Hours, perhaps. It really depends on how agitated he is and if he can calm himself.’
‘Let me have the rest of it. I’m listening.’
They still hadn’t looked at each other, this Sûreté and himself. The wall was between them, the door closed but for its little window.
‘He’s like a woman, Inspector, only his time may differ from some, you understand. Every month, as I’ve said, when the moon is on the wane and down, he gets agitated. The constant pacing in his room at night — merde, the racket! The sounds of him … Well, you know, eh? A little relief, oh bien sûr, but with silence, if you please! It’s then that he has to check the catacombs more often than usual; it’s then that he finally leaves the quartier of a Sunday evening and returns much calmed.’
A visit to the Chat qui crie, then, and Charlotte, and de Bonnevies must have known of it, but still something would have to be said. ‘A woman?’
‘The younger the better, Inspector, but not from around here, not with that one. Others would talk, isn’t that so?’
‘Returning when?’
‘Before curfew, of course. Inspector, this one spends much time with the dead and not just with their bones. On his day off, he often visits our cemetery or one of the others.’
‘The Père Lachaise?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Any friends? Any visitors?’
The Sûreté was anxious. ‘None that I know of. Not to see him here, in any case.’
‘And letters? Well, come on, eh?’
‘Seldom. But he did receive one this Tuesday after he returned from work. Yes, yes, from a woman, a Madame Héloïse Debré, number 7 rue Stendhal. Urgent, I think, since he immediately went outside to read it and stayed away for hours.’
Héloïse Debré had been the ‘friend’ of Angèle-Marie de Bonnevies in the summer of 1912; the girl who had accompanied her to the Père Lachaise …
‘Then another today, Inspector, and from exactly the same source and urgent!’
The grille shot aside, the grizzled moon face and large brown eyes of the concierge filling its slot with determined concern. ‘Inspector, it’s a good thing you people are finally taking an interest in him. My daughters are afraid and whisper bad things to each other when in their bed at night. They’re only fourteen and fifteen, and one can understand such innocence, but when left alone here on duty they shudder when he approaches and later tell my wife he looks at them in such a way they each feel violated.’
Two letters … One before the poisoning and one afterwards.
From the house at number 53, and eastward along the rue Froidevaux, it wasn’t far to place Denfert-Rochereau and the entrance to the catacombs. But everything was in darkness or its shades of grey, and memory struggled. Always there was this problem during the blackout, only the more so if in the car with Hermann at the wheel.
Something … something had to be seen with which to fix location and find direction. The silhouette of a building, statue, bridge or quai …
‘The twin pavilions,’ muttered St-Cyr. Neoclassical villas. Marvellous with their friezes and perfect lines, they’d been used as tollhouses in the early days and had been built in 1784.