But then, during the fin de siècle, from 1890 to 1910, they had what was called the Crisis, as the market for spa-goers became saturated and many Vittel regulars drifted to Baden d’Outre Rhin and other such places. A complete reconstruction was called for, with eight new hotels, fifteen villas, the racecourse and stables, a new promenade, two bottling plants and such for the sale of the waters. All well and good except for the intervention of that war to end all wars, but then. . then la Cité Blanche, the White City of 1920 to 1936 ushered in the concept of the man of action. Fencing, swimming, physical education, tennis, golf, but concerts, too, and gambling of course. No longer were the waters to be taken simply for their healing powers but for toning and cleansing the psyche as well as the body. Art Deco became the norm, but throughout the years Bouloumié’s original concept of open vistas across the landscaped park was kept.
Yet no one could have envisaged it as a prison, or even, for that matter, as a hospital for wounded soldiers.
Among the Senegalese, the Bambaras, originally from Mali, had been the backbone of African bravery in the Great War. Sergeant Senghor, with his Croix de Guerre with two palms, had to be part Bambara. And the rest of his parentage? wondered St-Cyr. Was it of the Serer, the Mandinka, or Wolof, these last being sensitive to every nuance but known as the black Corsicans because one moment’s gentleness and good humour could be fiercely followed by the opposite.
Six of them were splitting logs they’d sawn to firewood size, the compound fenced in to prevent theft, the gate open but under a guard that had obviously attracted considerable attention.
A brisk trade was in progress, the Oberfeldwebel, the sergeant-major, his rucksack open, quickly ducking the profits out of sight as Wehrmacht razor blades, boot grease, notepaper, black bread, matches, meat and potatoes, and even items from the Russian Front were whisked away in exchange for cigarettes, chocolate, soap, and chewing gum. Canned condensed milk, too, and pork and beans.
‘Inspector. . ’ blurted one middle-aged British woman, aghast at having been caught dealing.
‘Actually, it’s Chief Inspector. A word with the woodcutters,’ he said in Deutsch to the Oberfeldwebel. ‘I won’t be long and you can carry on here as usual. Ach, nothing said and no one the wiser.’
‘Verdammter französischer Schweinebulle,’ cursed Ewald Reinecke. ‘Alles raus, schnell machen!’ Get out of here fast.
They vanished.
‘Papiere, bitte,’ he said with a smile, the facial scars of battle stretching. ‘Den Passierschein auch.’
The letter also that was to have been signed and stamped by Herr Weber. Merde, but the Germans loved their papers. ‘Liebe Zeit, Oberfeldwebel, I only want a few words.’
‘Gut, now give.’ The stumpy fingers were snapped, the Schmeisser that was slung over the left shoulder gripped.
One hundred francs were found-fifty would have been too little. Hermann would have simply handed over a thousand just to pin the salaud down later if needed with a little blackmail.
Again the fingers were snapped, and again. ‘One pays for everything these days, doesn’t one?’ said St-Cyr with a sigh.
‘But that provides for my corporals here and allows you ten minutes without the necessary documentation, mein lieber Oberdetektiv. Please use the shed and keep out of sight. We’ll call you when your exit is clear.’
Hermann should have dealt with him. Hermann wouldn’t have taken any of his humiliating Quatsch!
They weren’t happy, thought Kohler, still closeted with the three of them from Room 3-38. They were definitely hiding something. Becky Torrence kept touching the edge of Brother Étienne’s abandoned cloak and then gripping it as if she couldn’t stop herself.
Conscious of the girl’s nervousness, Jill Faber, the saucy one with the grey eyes and jet-black hair, finally broke.
‘All right, I did trade with the Senegalese. One pays off the guards at the wood depot and those boys look the other way. Marni and I often went together. She would talk it up with the guards and watch out for things like Weber or any of the officers while I went in to deal with the others.’
‘Jill’s better at it,’ said the redhead.
‘And doesn’t mind that they’re blacks?’
‘Niggers? Why should she? They’re men, aren’t they? Sometimes a gang of us would be trading, sometimes only Jill.’
They glanced at one another.
‘Weber knows of the trading post. He must,’ offered Jill.
‘It’s one of the ways he finds things out, so he lets it happen,’ added Marni, watching him closely now.
‘He has informants among you, has he?’
If Herr Kohler felt he’d trap them by playing dumb, he’d best think again, thought Marni, but she’d give him an innocent glance, would finger the back of her left wrist in doubt and then lean forward a little before letting him have it. ‘We don’t know who his informants are, Inspector. How could we?’
‘They change,’ said Jill, spreading her hands on the table and moving them slowly toward him. ‘He keeps getting new ones.’
‘And when Colonel Kessler was Kommandant?’
She’d best smile a little whimsically, thought Jill, and let him see that light in her eyes so as to keep him from getting at Becky. ‘It was better then. There would only be one German corporal and the Oberfeldwebel with the glasses, or no guard at all.’
‘And you, Mademoiselle Torrence, did you ever join in?’
‘Me?’ yelped Becky, dropping her gaze as she gripped the edge of the brother’s cloak. ‘I don’t do trades. I. . I can’t.’
‘Because they’re blacks?’
She shook her head and glanced desperately at each of the others. ‘I’d. . I’d be no good at it. They. . ’ Oh damn, damn! ‘It’s just the way I am.’
This one was their weakest link and the other two were aware of it, but had there been an element of truth in Madame de Vernon’s accusation?
‘They get us extra firewood sometimes, Inspector, and bring us hot water,’ she went on, unable to keep her voice from being brittle. ‘Having a bath is always difficult. Jill or Marni watch out for me and. . and hand the buckets in, then I do the same for either of them or for Nora.’
They would have to do something to distract him from Becky, thought Jill. ‘The Senegalese installed our stove when we first got here. Nora told them where to put it and how to fix the chimney. She’s really very good with them.’
And wasn’t here to answer for herself. ‘Friendly?’
She would catch a breath and hold it, thought Jill, would make him think she’d been letting those boys fuck her and would give him a knowing look then say, ‘Nora’s easy, Inspector, and isn’t concerned in the least that they’re black. Nora knows how to get along with working men. I didn’t. Not then. I had to learn.’
And if that wasn’t saying something, what was? But not only about Nora.
‘Can I go now, Inspector?’ asked Becky. ‘Herr Weber will be in a rage, but if I don’t show up, he’ll. . ’
Either Weber was already using her or still trying to get her to cooperate. ‘First tell me if the three of you ever went into that woodshed of the blacks together?’
‘Once.’
It had leapt right out of Becky and now he would want to know why they’d done that, thought Marni. ‘There was a gang of us,’ she said, placing her hands on the table before her as Jill had done. Jill would be looking at him in that way a girl would who wanted things to happen between them.
‘We’d a bet on, Inspector,’ said Jill. ‘One of them tells fortunes but doesn’t need a goddess to intervene and ask a dead relative or friend what can be seen from above or what’s going to happen.’
‘He’s supposed to be very good, better even than Madame Chevreul and a heck of a lot cheaper,’ added Marni, giving him a grin.