The entrance was in the west pavilion. The custodian would, of course, have locked the door after himself. One would have to beat a fist on solid oak; the sound would be certain to bring a flic or worse. The bell … you can ring the bell, he reminded himself and, feeling for it first, hesitated still as he gripped a wrought-iron ring that must have dated from when construction of the ossuary had begun in 1785.
The bell’s jangling would reverberate within, the sound finding its way throughout the building and straight down the twenty-metre-deep spiralling stone staircase to where the accumulated bones of 500 years and more had been placed. Those of the Cimetière des Innocents, the main Paris cemetery, had filled only a portion of the designated abandoned and reinforced quarries. The contents of other cemeteries had joined them. The ground beneath him was honeycombed with quarries and the maze of tunnels that led to them. Even after individual houses and whole streets had vanished due to underground caving, the quarrying had gone on. Le vieux Paris had been built of the limestone, gypsum, clay and sand that had been removed. A city of moles even from years and years ago.
In 1823 further excavations had been forbidden. Fully 325 hectares of openings riddled the bedrock upon which the city had been built. And in one small region of these openings, the bones of the centuries had been piled, arranged, festooned with rows of empty-eyed skulls and gaping jaws, crossed tibia and femurs, too, such artistic licence being variously attributed to Louis, Vicomte Héricart de Thury, Inspector General of Quarries in 1810, and to Frochot, the Préfet of the Seine, who had thought it best to cheer the place up!
The entrance door was unlocked. Pushing it open, throwing a hesitant glance over a shoulder at the darkened place where the snow still fell softly and one single blue-washed streetlamp glowed, he stepped inside, said silently, I’m a fool to do this without backup. But Hermann had seen too much of death. The bones would only have driven him mad — who knows? They’d have brought back terrible memories of that other war, the trenches, the shelling and bayonet charges, the bloodied chunks of flesh, those of rotting corpses, too. The murders, yes, of millions of young men.
One would need a light and there were candles in plenty. Boxes and boxes of them.
Striking a match instantly gave their price. ‘One hundred francs,’ he sighed. ‘In parties of forty at a time, at least twenty candles — two thousand francs an hour. Plus the admission charge of ten francs. Two thousand four hundred, then.’
The candles looked as if all had been dutifully returned many times to be offered for sale again and again until too short.
‘Eight … ten … a dozen parties a day — twenty-four thousand francs gross at least, and seven days a week.
‘Candles,’ he muttered, not liking the implications. And taking two spares in case of need, soon found the staircase and started down.
There was no sound but that of his own breathing. The air was heavy with mould — was someone raising mushrooms? he wondered. The air was also damp and cold. Hoarfrost clung to the stone walls and to places above him. Tiny crystals and little icicles, warmed by candlelight, glimmered.
At the foot of the staircase, a narrow tunnel accepted his light, but drew it in only so far. This passage, he knew, would end in a door upon whose lintel had been inscribed ‘Arrête! C’est ici l’Empire de la mort! ’ Stop! Here starts the Empire of Death!
A thick line, patiently drawn and redrawn over the years in charcoal on one of the walls of the passage, and then on the ceilings of the galleries, gave guidance. A sort of Ariadne’s thread.
‘Ariadne …’ he muttered, at the thought, for she’d been a necessary part of what had happened in Avignon. A coin, then, with a maze in relief on its reverse and the suggestion from the victim that they find the thread. ‘And now here she is again,’ he whispered. Hermann wouldn’t have liked it. Hermann could, at times, be very superstitious.
Everybody had to have their piece of paper these days, thought Kohler. They’d bitch and fart about in abject misery, but if you slapped a freshly franked wad of nonsense into their hands, they might or might not read any of it in the freezing cold and blue-blinkered light of their torches, and like as not they’d say, ‘Jawohl, Herr Oberst, this way.’
Herr Oberst … it sounded good. But getting receipts and requisition orders had meant stealing them from the appropriate desk at Gestapo HQ, 11 rue des Saussaies; HQ, too, of the Sûreté Nationale. Even at 23:42 hours that little hive had been busy. Trouble in the halls; trouble on the main staircase with two teenagers. That bastard Heinemann had been on the duty desk but had rushed to help out, a stroke of luck but bad for the kids. Boots and fists, et cetera.
God only knew what the papers were really for. Works of art or gold coins, cognac or someone’s prized stamp collection. And using Herr Oberst could well yield difficulties of its own, but what the hell, they were on their way at last!
‘You sign here,’ he said, leaning in on one of the lorry’s opened side windows. ‘And you, here,’ he indicated where the fresh stamp had been applied. Swastikas, eagles and all.
They’d brought two lorries and lots of help, and that was good.
‘And you?’ asked Franzie Jünger, lorry driver for the Wehrmacht’s Supply Depot number seven.
‘What does it matter, since you both will have lied and neither of you had to pay Occupation marks to get these. Five thousand Reichskassenscheine, miene lieben Honig-Bienen — that’s one hundred thousand francs, eh? so please don’t forget it.’
Stuffing the papers into a pocket of his greatcoat, Kohler thumped the bonnet of the lorry and strode off to the Citroën, giving them a nonchalant toss of a hand. Easy … this was going to be easy.
The honey bees would follow. They’d hit the restaurant of the Gare de Lyon first, would plunder its lard pails from Peyrane and then would empty Shed fourteen at the Gare de l’Est.
‘Confidence is everything,’ he sang out and grinned as he got behind the wheel. Louis should be with them but wouldn’t agree, of course — he’d be terrified. ‘Trouble … we’re already in enough trouble, Hermann.’ And worry, worry. ‘Your horoscope, mon vieux … Permit me to tell you that it said you weren’t to venture out after dark!’
‘Piss off. You know I don’t believe a word of that crap.’
‘You do! Don’t lie to me. Giselle reads them faithfully.’
Schlacht wasn’t going to like it. Relatives would have to be contacted. New supplies brought in. Production halted. But maybe, just maybe, the hive of this whole thing, having been well stirred, would open up with the truth.
In any case, Mariette Durand would have a far better chance of running to Giselle and Oona, and if not to them, then to Gabrielle. Frau Schlacht would miss her little maid and begin to put two and two together — he’d have to trust her concierge would use the girl’s absence to cover her own indiscretion.
But word of the missing F.M. badge would reach Schlacht via that wife of his or from Rudi, and one Nazi big shot would come to realize exactly with whom he was dealing!
‘And we’ll have something he needs,’ sighed Kohler. ‘His wax, which we’ll return with pleasure via the Kommandant von Gross-Paris or not at all.’
The Gefreiter on guard at the restaurant of the Gare de Lyon wasn’t helpful. Reluctantly Lance-Corporal Kurt Becker moved out of his little nest to shoulder his rifle and stare bleakly at the papers that had been stuffed into his hand. ‘Herr Oberst, this is highly irregular.’
‘We’re simply shifting it to a more secure location. Gott alone knows why Old Shatter Hand wants it done or insists guys like you should numb your balls guarding it, but an order is an order, eh, and I’ve mine.’