Hurriedly crossing the bridge, he went along the quay until he came abreast of the cafe. They’d have seen him now. They’d know he was going up to the room. They’d tell Lafont or Bonny and the rue Lauriston might or might not be happy.
The concierge was a surprise, a tall, winsome blonde with large blue eyes, her hair in a braid down over the left shoulder. ‘Monsieur …’
Dutch and an illegal immigrant. Gott im Himmel, well what do you know? About forty and still a fine-looking woman. Married too.
Again he was impressed. The choice of room had included a concierge who’d be certain not to question things and would also not know a hell of a lot about the French, or even the city for that matter. One hundred per cent.
‘Kohler of the Gestapo.’
The fair cheeks tightened. In fear or hesitation, she touched her slightly parted lips with the tip of her tongue. ‘Herr Kohler. Yes … yes, they did say you might come. I’ll take you up to the room.’
‘Who said I’d come?’
‘Those … those who came and took my husband away.’
Ah, merde! Not the husband!
There were two sets of stairs and a lift that looked doubtful – three exits. More potential. Again he had to be impressed.
She opened the lift cage. He thought to object, but already she’d stepped into the thing.
As they went up, they were crowded face to face, her chest all but touching his, the clench of death, eh? Her choice; she could have faced the other way. Often women chose to do that. Back to front. Did the frankness of her gaze betray something other than fear? She was almost as tall as himself and knew he was studying her.
‘Where are you from?’ he asked.
Right away she’d known he’d ask it. ‘Rotterdam. Our papers are in order. The Kommandantur …’
Kohler stuck out an arm and jammed his hand against the far side of the cage door, barring her escape when they reached the top floor. ‘Don’t give me any of that shit. You left Rotterdam in a rush, right? and you got here just ahead of the Panzers.’
‘Was that a crime?’ she asked, not altering her gaze.
‘Only if you’re here illegally.’
‘We’re not. Our papers are in order but … but they’ve taken my husband away. I want him back.’
Kohler nodded. The couple would have bought the papers, good ones too, probably, but they’d only be good for so long and she damned well knew it.
‘Let’s go up to the roof first. I want to have a look at that dovecote.’
The eyes never wavered. They were so clear, so blue. ‘The elevator only goes to the fifth floor. From there we’ll have to climb the stairs.’
Good again. Mein Gott the man was a marvel! Exits like he couldn’t believe. Skylights and now even a staircase.
‘Tell me about him. Let me have the name he gave you, then his age, weight, et cetera, and everything else just so we can tell whose corpse it is.’
‘Was he killed?’
A cool one. Not even a quiver. ‘Not that we know of. Not yet.’
The Gestapo’s swollen eye was badly bruised, the stitches inflamed. He had been in a fight, yes … yes, but would he really help her to free Martin?
Kohler saw her looking at him and grinned. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Madame Oona Van der Lynn.’ They were jostled. Always it was at the fourth floor that there was this catching of the cable. ‘It will pass,’ she said. ‘It’s nothing. Don’t worry.’
He let go of her. She smelled nice, had that very Dutch smell about her. Clean as a whistle, not perfume, just soap she’d scrounged from some place.
Again he heard her telling him not to worry. ‘I wasn’t,’ he lied. ‘Why not give me his name, eh? The look of him.’
‘Rejean Turcel. He was about sixty-three or maybe sixty-six, so a little older than yourself but very tough. A hard man, a …’
‘I’m not that old.’
Again her gaze was steady, a momentary pause.
‘Turcel was short and stocky, swarthy, yes,’ she fingered the braid in doubt. ‘With … how should I say it? Very quick, dark-brown eyes.’
Always watchful then. Again it fitted. ‘A business-like walk? Fast, very fast?’
‘Yes … yes, he did walk like that. He was always going or coming. A man with a purpose.’
‘A man with a carousel.’
‘Pardon?’
Kohler told her but all she did was shrug. ‘I never knew what he did for a living. He never said.’
Had she been a little lost by the question? he wondered. ‘What about his skin? Did he look as if he’d spent his life in the sun?’
They had reached the fifth floor. His arm still barred the way.
‘Yes … Yes, he was like that.’
‘A Corsican?’ It wasn’t so much a question as a statement of fact, and she knew then that his thoughts were racing ahead to other things. ‘Dots – did he have three of them on either of his hands? The backs of the middle fingers?’ he asked.
He looked quite ill at the thought, but perhaps it had only been the ride up in the lift that had made his stomach turn. When she went to open the lift door, her left shoulder and hip would have to brush against him, but would it help her? Would it really? ‘Yes, Turcel had three faded dots on the backs of the middle fingers of his left hand, the first joint; five in the web of skin between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand.’
Squeezing round to face him again, she showed him her hands and he felt her middle as it came against his own and he wondered exactly what kind of pressure the rue Lauriston had put on her.
Her finger kept tapping the web of skin. She’d a nice thumb. ‘The tobacco pouch,’ he said, a whisper. ‘One of the hard ones, a Corsican.’ A friend of Carbone, an associate, a member of that gang? The rue de Villejust? Lafont’s arch-enemy? The hit men.
Oona Van der Lynn flashed him an uncertain smile. ‘These things have hardly any room,’ she said not moving her middle.
Kohler … his name was Hermann Kohler of the Gestapo.
They went along the corridor to the far end of the house until they stood outside Number 5-13. The stairs to the roof were as close as spit, the tradesmen’s set a fraction closer. The woman hesitated. When her eyes dropped to the floor, she touched the top button of the grey-blue cardigan she wore. Her braid had fallen forward a little, and he wondered again what the hell she was really on about and he felt the blood pounding in his veins. ‘You first. There’s no danger. It’s better this way.’
‘For what?’ she asked, knowing all about it.
There was hardly light enough to see her and when she stopped once in the middle of the staircase, he was reminded again that she smelled nice. ‘My husband. They … they took him away.’
‘Where to?’
‘The Vel d’Hiv. They said …’ She began to climb the stairs again. ‘It … it doesn’t matter.’
‘The Vel’s not being used any more, is it?’ She had reached the door to the roof. No key was needed; he was impressed again. Rejean Turcel or Rejean whatever had chosen well.
The Gestapo was standing on the step below her. She could feel him against her. It was dark. He’d … ‘The door, it always sticks a little, monsieur. Could you …?’
Kohler felt the fit of her. It was nice, really nice. His chin brushed against the back of her head. Her skin was cool but then, it was winter.
He gave the door a shove and miracle of miracles, it opened at a touch.
The dovecote was made of weathered boards that had been salvaged from some dump. The cages were arranged in tiers. There were about thirty of them and all were empty. ‘Who lived up here?’
There were blankets on the floor, several books, the stub of a candle and a washtub to hide the light.
‘My husband.’
‘A Jew?’
The blue eyes sought him out. They didn’t waver, they didn’t beg.
He’d not help her. He couldn’t! She saw this come into his eyes, saw him silently curse and then clench a fist. ‘The Veld’Hiv, eh?’ he said. ‘But first the rue Lauriston. What did your husband know that you didn’t?’