The ‘gardens’ were several rows of crosses tucked away in a far corner next to latrine pits that had overflowed this past summer but were now awaiting the annual rise of the Seine.
Kohler realized the joke of a fresh grave was on him but had no liking for it. Lafont and Bonny had accused him of being a lover of the French, their Jews included, and so had thought to show him the truth. They couldn’t have known how badly Louis had taken the whole thing but had guessed at it. And they did hate Louis with a passion even though they wanted the poor Frog’s help.
‘Oona, come on. It’ll do no good to stay here. Look, if it means anything, I’ll make certain you don’t come to any more harm.’
‘He was a nice man, a good man, the father of our children.’
Taxidermists who slept behind their shops slept late like the exhibits in their windows. Chez Rudi’s offered an interlude: Black Forest ham, two eggs on horseback, coffee and rolls.
Awakened, Verdun, the stuiffer of birds and animals who smelled of lye as if he drank it, examined the tool with the care of a demolitions expert.
Kohler breathed impatiently. Out on the rue des Lions, Oona Van der Lynn sat in the car, his mascot now.
‘Look, I’m packing two guns so don’t fart about. Just tell me what it is.’
‘It’s a modelling tool, for pushing the chopped tow in under the skin and around the skeleton when mounting small birds or animals. Sometimes it is used for sculpting in plaster or paraffin wax, though we do not recommend the use of such things.’
A taxidermist’s tool, but had Rejean Turcel been the one to drop it or Charles Audit? ‘It’s been well used,’ said Kohler, glancing up to see Verdun drag his eyes from the car. ‘Handmade years ago. What’s that one?’ He pointed to a case beneath the glass. ‘The one that looks like a flattened dental pick, an earspoon?’
The eyes settled back into their lofty perch. ‘A skull-emptier. Has the tool anything to do with the Chief Inspector of the Surete who came here, monsieur?’
‘St-Cyr? That schmuck? Not a chance.’
Verdun gave a shrug. ‘I could have sold his canary. I told him so. I offered.’
‘You didn’t! Did he really have a canary?’
It would be best to be truthful. ‘A beauty. A Clear Border Yellow cock, perhaps the commonest of canaries, but a superb job of mounting, considering the primitiveness of that tool. He wanted to know who’d done it. He asked about the elastic band.’
‘And you could have sold his canary?’
Verdun drew himself up. ‘Yes, to the Vice Admiral von Lion. Me, I have told the Vice Admiral of the bird. He was most disappointed to have missed it.’
Kohler gathered in the tool. ‘I’ll bet he was.’ Tracking down stuffed canaries instead of gathering military intelligence! Hunting for gold coins and girls who sold them. What would the Abwehr think of next?
The empire of Hermann ‘Otto’ Brandl never stopped. That huge purchasing company the Abwehr had set up in France had its head offices in two fine old period houses at numbers 21 and 23 square Bois du Boulogne. This was money. This was power and class. The air fairly breathed of it. Even the rain that was pissing ran cleanly to the sewers.
Oona Van der Lynn stirred uncomfortably on the seat beside him as the Citroen’s engine began to cool. ‘Relax, eh? This is where it’s all at. If you want to get ahead in business today, you have to come here to Brandl or see that one of his minions comes to you.’
‘And if you want to hold on to your wealth?’ she asked.
She wasn’t dumb. She’d begun to figure things out for herself. Kohler knew he was impressed. ‘You make “friends”, madame, and you hope you’ve hidden that wealth so well they won’t get a sniff of it.’
‘And if someone else knows you have that hidden wealth and doesn’t particularly like you?’
‘Then you’re in trouble.’
‘This place is too close to the avenue Foch. ‘The rue Lauriston is practically around the corner.’
Kohler grinned to ease her mind. ‘Boys with their toys have to gather near one another, madame. The trouble is, they seldom play together. One always wants what the other has and, like boys everywhere, they often get nasty.’
‘Do you want me to wait in the car?’
He shook his head. ‘I’ve already lost someone that way. I’d just as soon not lose you as well.’
She seemed to take frugal nourishment from what he’d said, and he knew she’d asked herself, Does he really mean it? Was she safe with him? Could anybody be safe these days?
‘The rue Lauriston will want to question me now that Martin is dead.’
‘Not if you’re with me. Just try to keep that in mind and don’t bolt until I can find a safe place for you.’ She flashed him an uncertain smile that was at once sad and realistic. ‘Look I really will see you’re okay. I mean it.’
‘For your partner’s sake?’ she asked, not looking at him but at those two fine houses that flew no flags, remaining unmarked except for a small bronze plaque: The Bureau Otto.
‘For Louis’ sake. Yeah, that’s right. I owe the Frog. Now come on. Look your best. Let me do the talking.’
A grey mouse, one of the frauleins who had volunteered back home for the typing pools and the sacks of their bosses, held fort at the outer desk of the string of offices they were ushered to. Abwehr blue was everywhere. Telephones, teleprinters, secretaries, accountants, purchasing agents, two rows of stiff, unsmiling businessmen sitting with knees together and briefcases hiding them. Hats in their hands and goods to sell. After all, this was practically the only place a fellow with a couple of factories could keep hand to mouth short of the black market, which they’d dabble in anyway. And money they made. Lots of it. Buckets. One Frog trying to outFrog another, the little flies that were so tasty being tossed to them by the Chief Toad, one Hermann ‘Otto’ Brandl.
The grey mouse looked up sternly. ‘Herr Kohler?’ she said, distastefully fingering his Gestapo’s shield.
‘A collector of stuffed canaries,’ he grinned. ‘They said you’d know where he was, seeing as he’s the one who’s in charge of silk, glass and explosives, and as his office is empty.’
Kohler drew her attention to a fact she already knew. The offices she guarded were posh, nothing stinted. Leather and antiques and lots of them, all tastefully arranged.
‘Kapitan Offenheimer is out,’ she said, consulting a diary.
‘Didn’t Brandl tell you to open your lips?’
The buttons of her zinc-covered bosom were tight. Her blue eyes didn’t leave his. ‘Look, your boss collects stuffed canaries. He’s got a passion for this one. I’d like to give it to him.’
‘A moment then. I will see if Kapitan Brandl is still willing for you to be tolerated.’
She rang through and listened sharply as a tadpole should. ‘He asks if you know who killed the mackerel Victor Morand.’
Blandness would be best. ‘Rejean Turcel, a Corsican, the new owner of the carousel. Address changed, the new address not yet known but we’re working on it. He’s the prime suspect but there are others.’
This she relayed to Brandl, who replied that they must be getting warm. ‘Kapitan Offenheimer and his personal secretary are at one of the warehouses in Saint-Ouen. You may see him there.’ She scribbled the address on a slip of paper. ‘Is this the canary?’ she asked of Madame Van der Lynn. ‘I thought she was already dead.’
Outside in the car Kohler said, ‘Don’t let her bother you. It’s a world in which no one tells anyone anything more than they absolutely have to, madame. A world of lies, half-truths and utter deceptions, where greed is conqueror and petty jealousies reign supreme.’