‘Not on your life.’ The Bonzen und Oberbonzen from the Reich would think her perfect; so, too, the generals and other higher-ups. ‘The American multimillionairess, Mrs. Florence Gould, lives here more or less permanently since her apartment on the boulevard Suchet, along with the Palais Rose that the Gould money built on the avenue Foch, was requisitioned by the military governor back in June 1940.* She’s famous for her Thursday lunch gatherings where she brings together both sides of this Occupation to introduce those from the Reich to Paris society and has the finest of tables. Oysters, caviar, truffles and pate for starters, then the soup, the duck a l’orange and all the rest. She’s still married, but her husband decided back in July 1940 that he’d stay on the Riviera where it was warmer. Florence knows everyone: Marie-Louise Bousquet, editor of France’s Harper’s Bazaar, Suzanne Abetz, wife of the German ambassador, also Marie-Blanche de Polignac and Marie-Laure de Nouilles, the marquise. Those are names to keep in mind since they’re all very fashion-conscious and intimately know each of the great dress designers and will be a huge help in getting you the very best of positions as a seamstress and designer. I’ll have a word. Don’t worry.’
Since all of them, felt Kohler, would know Nicole Bordeaux and could well have encountered Anna-Marie at one of that consumptive’s Sunday ‘cultural’ gatherings.
Still worried, Evangeline watched as the doorman was forced to summon the head porter to take her suitcases and then to lead them across a magnificent foyer to the desk where Herr Kohler simply leaned over it to buttonhole a rather stern looking, much older maitre d’.
‘Kohler, Gestapo Paris-Central, with one of Boemelburg’s “specials,” so don’t get huffy. The suite with the best view, since I know he keeps two of them free at all times, even if he has others staying with you, then a word in private with Madame Gould.’
Ah merde, Madame Gould must have said the wrong thing to the wrong person, the gossip gathering to bring on the deluge, felt Emile-Henri Dumais. No more of the special lunches and the ‘At Home’s’ for those who liked to drop in ‘unexpectedly’ to stay the night. The young officers, and the not-so-young.
‘Madame Gould will have been attending an auction and showing of paintings at the Jeu de Paume with the Oberleutnant Bremer and others, and is to dine at Prunier.’
Just to the west of the place Vendome, at 9 rue Duphot, and the number one place for lobster, fish and oysters. ‘Then for now, her secretary will do.’
It had really happened. It must have, felt Dumais. ‘Madame Volnee visits with her mother on Sundays, returning to us at ten o’clock always.’
Louis would have said God had sent this one. ‘Then I’ll have a little chat with one of Madame Gould’s maids. There are three of them, but only two share that chambre de bonne and the winter’s cold up there in the attic, thanks to yourself, no doubt.’
But did this one also know what could well go on in that room if a little adventure was needed by one or two of Madame Gould’s ‘unexpected’ guests and herself, or that those ‘maids’ could then come downstairs if desired? ‘Mademoiselle Beauchamp will be in Madame Gould’s residence.’
‘Good. Stay here. Just give me the key to Boemelburg’s guest suite and have those bags sent up.’
Louis, though he hadn’t said anything of what he was going to do in that room at the Salle Pleyel, would absolutely have to be helped. No question.
Grace a Dieu, felt St-Cyr, darkness now all but hid the rue Daru. One by one, the little blue lights above the Salle Pleyel’s other entrances came on, and then that for Chez Kornilov. Pausing still, he would wait to make absolutely sure the coast was clear.
Ducking into the artists’ entrance, he again would wait. Merde, had he heard someone?
More audible now, the steps came on. Sacre nom de nom, had he been so foolish as to have led those salauds to her very doorstep? Bien sur, they had been good, but …
Holding a breath, he waited. Trying to silently unbutton his coat to get at the Lebel in his left jacket pocket, a button flew off. Irretrievable, of course. Irreplaceable, too.
Muted, the evening’s traffic filtered in, the smell, too, of the one who stood out there facing him and not of tobacco, not really. Of herbs, rosemary in particular.
He’d use the Lebel as a club and would shoot only if necessary, but the steps started up again. Following, they led him to the Cathedrale Alexandre Nevesky. Vespers would be held on Sunday after sundown, the beginning of the Orthodox day. Incense is what he had smelled. Incense. Others would be arriving, the Occupation having filled the churches of every denomination.
Returning to the Salle Pleyel, he found Concierge Figeard at his evening meal, sitting in his loge at the head of a table on which were two place settings. Candles made of stubs were ready to light, wineglasses awaiting water from a small, stoneware pitcher. A plate of radishes, perfectly cut into fans, accompanied lettuce leaves and sprinklings of chives from the roof garden, the aroma now fully of rabbit stew with carrots, onions, the white of a leek, garlic, thyme, all from the roof garden, and rosemary too. A small dish of chopped parsley was at the ready, but no guest had arrived. Sadly, Figeard was fingering that empty bottle of Chateau Latour, the half of which had generously been shared last December on just such a return from visiting an ill mother in Rethel.
‘Inspector … ?’
Touching the lips would urge caution. ‘Please, a moment. I may have been followed.’
‘It was only that boy from the cathedral. More candle stubs and questions of where Annette-Melanie is and why she hasn’t returned to bring him more of that rosemary. I’ve sent him away twice and have told him funerals take time, and that the house, it would have had to be closed up and left for her mother’s attorney to sell, but he pays no attention. Instead, he tells me subdeacons, which is what he is, must decide whether to marry or not before being made deacons, and that afterward it is forbidden, but he hardly knows her. Annette-Melanie has never spoken to me of him in that way and would have. Me, I would have seen it in her eyes and smile. Bien sur, he has taken her to dinner at Chez Kornilov with his father early last February and then again more recently, but for him to be asking her to marry and she to be agreeing, it’s just not possible.’
‘The boy who prepares the incense?’
‘Oui. The one who then feeds the censers and lights their little charcoal fires. Annette-Melanie and myself do manage to grow some on the roof, but rosemary, it likes the heat and dryness. Even under the bell jars we have had but a modest success.’
‘His name, just for the record.’
‘Pierre-Alexandre Lebeznikov. I have it here. I made him write it down so that I could inform her of it correctly.’
The son of Serge de Lenz and not one but two meals across the road!
‘Chief Inspector, what has she done? Come, come, you return at this hour and suggest you may have been followed? You still have that in hand, or had you forgotten?’
Tucking the Lebel away, there was, he knew, only one thing he could do despite the risk. ‘Since I must take you into my confidence, I must ask that you tell no one of my visit.’
Or visits. ‘Since she has been like a daughter to me, how could I not agree? Now, please, what on earth has she done to cause such as yourself to take interest in her: obtained rosemary for religious purposes from one of the gardeners at the Jardin des Plantes?’