‘Of course. Who else?’ Brandl thought about lifting his glass and taking a small sip. Perhaps it would be construed as a toast to their mutual business, perhaps not, and Kohler would have to worry about it. Yes, that would be good.
The single malt whisky was excellent, and the Gestapo took to it as the desert rodent to the oasis.
‘Careful, my Hermann. Careful. If you’re going to work for the Bureau, we shall have to insist on a modicum of … what shall I say? Not total abstinence. Nothing so harsh. Merely prudence.’
‘I was just taking my pills. They’re for the digestion.’
‘Have you ulcers?’
‘A few. They’re not bleeding, not yet.’
‘Then perhaps I can help them. Schraum’s uncle, the Gauleiter of Stralsund and SA-Obersturmfuhrer, is an avid coin collector who writes to others of the same interest. He’s also a distant relative of Goering.’
A storm trooper … a relative … The pills caught. Kohler choked. Moisture rushed into his eyes as he swallowed hard and forced himself not to reach for his glass.
The Benzedrine stung. ‘A coin collector?’
‘And a relative of the Reichsmarschall and Reichsfuhrer himself.’
‘Who also collects coins.’
‘Roman ones, my Hermann. Things like those with Nero’s head and those of Caesar Augustus and all the rest.’
‘Sestertii and aurei.’ Brandl already had someone working on it! The bastard was even competing with the SS and the rue Lauriston on this one too!
‘Have a little sip. It’ll help. Then tell me about the girl, about the room and about the villa at Number twenty-three.’ He’d see how much they knew, then call him my Hermann again to see if the bait had not just been taken but the hook set deeply.
Another whisky came for the Gestapo’s warbler and then a plate of Norwegian smoked salmon with little wedges of toast, which he wolfed as only one of the Gestapo’s most disloyal men would wolf.
‘Common crime, my Hermann. It’s with us every day and must be cleansed from the streets, but what’s this? Your eyes keep straying to the ceiling. Is it because of your little pigeon – what was her name?’
‘Giselle le Roy.’
A fist had clenched, a slice of the salmon had fallen on to the carpet. Good, very good. ‘Yes, yes, Giselle. Perhaps you cannot find her and wish the assistance not just of the Kommandant of Greater Paris but also that of the Bureau Otto?’
‘Who’s got her?’
‘Really, Herr Kohler, the darkness you betray so willingly is admirable. Not the Bureau, I assure you. Pigeons are only of interest if they can lead us to gold that others want and are too greedy to share with the proper authorities.’
‘Morande?’
‘He offered Schraum half of what the Audit girl could bring and the Corporal bit, as corporals like Schraum will do who are eager to impress their uncles back home in the hopes of being given a step up the ladder by a certain Reichsmarschall.’
‘Was Morande connected to any of the gangs?’
‘To Lafont or Carbone or any of the others? Really, Herr Kohler, for a detective and a fellow Bavarian you surprise me.’
‘Talbotte’s washed his hands of the affair. Even records down at Headquarters are being tight.’
‘They’ve clipped your wings, have they?’
Kohler’s head was singing. The girls above were beginning to dance. His heart was pounding. Brandl was blurred.
‘Really, my Hermann, do you not know the mackerel made himself unwelcome in the Sante by coughing up a name he should never have mentioned? That someone paid him back. It’s that simple. Find out who he is and you’ll find the forger. Then bring me the loot so that the Reichsmarschall can gloat over his newest coins and we can have all the rest.’
‘What makes you so certain there are any coins – any real ones?’
Brandl savoured things. Baiting Hermann had had its moments. Henri Lafont should never have gone over to work for the other side, for the SS of the avenue Foch! The rue Lauriston was getting far too greedy for its own good and meddling in things it should never have meddled in.
‘Industrialists who have found favour in high places, my Hermann, should always make certain they have declared every last sou of their valuables.’
‘M Antoine Audit? The silk, eh?’
‘Explosives, glass and wine, truffles and, yes, the silk.’
Just like the old grandmother had said, Antoine Audit had had to sell through Brandl’s Bureau Otto.
‘It’s only a thought,’ said Brandl. ‘After all, Bonny, your partner’s former colleague did mark the girl down as being a big one, right?’
‘Who told them about her?’
‘Find the mackerel’s killer and you’ll find out. He must be a fund of information, that one. A bank.’
Lagace, the baker, brushed flour from his forearms. The one from the Surete had come across the street to ask more questions; the one from the Gestapo had taken the Citroen and driven away some time ago.
Merde, it was like waiting for death and not knowing what went on behind the scenes to influence the decision one way or the other. Still, it would be best to put on a brave face.
‘Inspector, I must thank you for what you did for me the other day.’
St-Cyr raised both hands in a gesture of Hold it, my friend. Enough said.
There were two customers in the shop, plus the woman who helped when the thrice-weekly bread ration was to be distributed.
‘Georges, a few small matters. Little details. Nothing important. We’ve all but wrapped the thing up and are just tidying.’
‘Mademoiselle Rose-Eva, did you hear that?’ shouted the bearer of glad tidings. ‘No more rapists or sadists in the rue Polonceau. You and your sister can breathe a little easier.’
They were both in their eighties, timid, frail bits of dust with black biscuit hats, black shawls and coats, black everything.
The woman who had been handing them their ration of bread repeated the news in an equally loud voice, then warned them of theft. ‘You must guard your bread with your lives this time. We cannot give you any more if it’s stolen again.’
‘Give? Who gives?’ shrilled the older of the two.
‘He did it. We both know he did. He undressed her and then he violated her.’
‘Jeanne, shut up! Madame, you owe us bread for last week. I’m not leaving until we get it!’
‘He split her hymen even as he strangled her. It’s the God’s truth. I have heard this straight from the horse’s mouth!’
The younger one hastily crossed herself before wetting her thin lips in expectation of some further development.
Lagace heaved a sigh. ‘Come into the back, Inspector. It’ll be quieter there.’
‘No … no, a moment, Georges. Mesdemoiselles, who was the killer of that girl?’ he shouted.
‘Killer? Killer? He wants to know who the rapist was, Rose-Eva.’
‘The rapist, yes. The killer. He’s a detective, Jeanne. Let him find out for himself. Let him “tidy” his own little details since they have not yet arrested the villain.’
‘Who?’ asked the detective.
‘Who do you think?’ demanded the older of the two hotheads.
Snatching their thin stick of bread, the sisters headed for the door.
‘Later, Inspector. Later. Please, I can explain. Those two, they’ve been talking about that sort of thing for years. The younger one reads the papers and dreams of it; the older one rejoices at the trouble the dreams are causing the younger one. It’s nothing but the air of two old women whose moment has long passed.’
A poet, eh?
They went into the heart of the bakery where empty cutting and pastry tables gave the lie of commerce and cold ovens that of plenty.
‘Two sacks of flour arrived today. Some salt and sugar. I can’t understand it, Inspector. A Wehrmacht truck? An order for six hundred loaves of bread to be delivered to the local barracks of the German Army on Monday morning at 0600 hours.’
St-Cyr told him not to worry. ‘You’ve just earned yourself a job courtesy of Sturmbannfuhrer Walter Boemelburg.’