The steps were worn, the staircase narrow, the smells as would be expected, felt St-Cyr. Even the concierge, old, miserable and demanding to be left alone, knew little beyond that the owner was still in the south, in the former zone libre and that the rent had been paid month by month without question.
‘The tenants they came in their truck and they left. Last April it was, the twenty-fourth I think and staying but till the Sunday, or was it the Monday? The memory, you understand. Bien sur, they had items to sell-everyone does these days but me, who am I to question a good tenant when so many try to dodge the rent and wear out the legs, the lungs and the patience? Labrie … yes, yes, that was the name. Etienne, I think, but will have it written down, since that is the law in these parts, and I would remind you, monsieur, that a magistrate’s order is required before anyone searches anything, even one such as yourself!’
It was the same at 34 rue de la Goute-d’Or in the 18th, a deep courtyard with many ateliers, the staircases leading down from the flats above and all lettered through the alphabet. ‘Clearly our Schmuggler has used another safe house, Colonel,’ said St-Cyr, ‘but what is not so clear is why your Spitzel chose not to tell you of it.’
‘Maybe he’s had a change of plan,’ said Hermann.
Frans was onto her; Frans was sticking close, felt Anna-Marie. Having let him steal that coin and her false papers, she had deliberately put herself at his mercy so that he would know he could follow at will because that was the way Frans was. Arrogant, domineering, very sure of himself, flip too, of course, and hopefully overconfident. But what she hadn’t anticipated was that he would have needed a ready excuse to leave the others: her papers. ‘Forgotten,’ he’d have said, ‘left behind in the rush to get away.’
Etienne had been firm. No one was to have left the house at 3 rue Vercingetorix until all was clear and he had checked things with the concierge. Arie had taken a bike from the truck and had asked if its saddle was at the right height and she hadn’t waited shy;, had simply hopped on and ridden down the courtyard and out onto the street. Now she pedalled like the damned, but she couldn’t, mustn’t lose Frans.
The rue Froidevaux ran alongside the Cimetiere du Montparnasse whose gates were now open. Flowers for the dead were on offer as usual, the Occupier lined up for a look at the famous. At place Denfert-Rochereau, the traffic was insane. Bicycles were everywhere and of all types, pedestrians too, for without the cars and trucks, people simply cut across the streets whenever they felt like it, bells ringing madly. But on the boulevard Arago, though still busy, the cumulative sound dropped off-fewer shops and smaller line-ups, more single pedestrians, the Cafe de la Sante always busy: flics, guards, Gestapo, SS and gestapistes francais. Made to hold 200, the prison held more than 1,500, but she wouldn’t look back to see if Frans was still there. She had to trust he would, had to appear as if taking her life in her hands by being so desperate as to ride along this street on a bike that didn’t even have a Paris licence, because that was what Frans had to think.
Heading up the rue de la Sante, brought her to the boulevard de Port-Royal and Val de Grace, the military hospital. Tempted to use it as a means of appearing to escape, the thought to turn up the rue Saint-Jacques came but she would continue on to the avenue Denfert-Rochereau. Severe, walled in by wood, brick and stone, that street gave no chance to look back or escape. Priests, nuns and the wealthy lived behind tall, often solid gates. Only when across the Ile de la Cite and just to the east of Les Halles did she finally chance a look. A mountain of empty wine barrels was perched on a wagon whose horse was so thin it looked ready to drop. Hesitant streams of traffic parted as they passed, but merde there was no sign of him. In the window of a nearby patisserie, birthday cakes, babas au rhum and petit-fours surrounded a sumptuous wedding cake. All were so realistic few said they would have known the difference had that little sign not been there: TOUTES SONT IMITATIONS. ALLES NUR ATTRAPPEN, all sham. Papier-mache, paint and endless hours of devotion to remind everyone of what could no longer be purchased.
Frans could just be seen behind a cart that was loaded with firewood twigs at which two tethered goats were nibbling. The couple with the tandem bike were selling the milk. Everyone in the line-up had their own container. Timidly some four- and five-year-olds were attempting to pet the goats, Frans having just fed one the last of his cigarette.
At the Gare de l’Est she again paused but wouldn’t look back. To her left and west, on the original facade, were the statues of Strasbourg; to her right, on the newer wing, those of Verdun. Two wars, this quartier very much of Alsacians and Lorraines.
Heading to the Arrivee, mingling with the crowd who were hurrying to get home or to wherever else they were going in Paris shy;, she walked the bike among the baggage handlers whose two-wheeled carts leaned this way and that awaiting customers.
Frans would know she hadn’t a lock for the bike but what he wouldn’t know is that she had something else.
Grace a Dieu, those dark, oft-questioning eyes swept over her, she softly saying, ‘Felix, un mouchard, le Buffet de la Gare, un pistolet, le Browning neuf millimetre.’
Leaving the bike, she hurried into the station.
Street by street, courtyard by courtyard, sewer by sewer and under shy;ground tunnel or cavern, the avenue Foch’s map of Paris and its suburbs wasn’t just impressive. It was, St-Cyr had to admit, as Hermann shy; would, a terrible shock and damning indictment. Every shy;thing noted was, of course, in Deutsch and quite obviously the gestapistes francais and others, including the PPF, had been busy supplying the Occupier with the necessary.
‘Well, where then?’ demanded Kleiber, having spread the map over the still warm hood of his tourer.
‘Another courtyard, Colonel,’ said Louis, ‘but I have absolutely no idea which. Any of a few hundred would compare with what we have just visited. Paris is Paris-tell him, Hermann. No matter where he looks, its history has to be navigated. This street, this rue de la Goutte-d’Or is that of the golden droplet. Wine, you understand. White wine but so famous in the 1500s, its name has stuck. Look uphill. Look up this very street. What is it that you see, and please don’t tell me it’s just the basilica. Oh, for sure, humility caused us to build that huge white encrustation in the years after the Franco-Prussian War we lost, but for the history you really need, you must go back further. Gradually those little farms, monasteries and vineyards became what we now see of the Louis-Philippe era from 1830 to 1848. Each house is of five storeys. All don’t just face the street behind closed blinds and curtains but line up to the very pavement. Intermittent courtyards, however, are relics of the once deep gardens that led to the stables behind and to places for the help, and with, perhaps, a few back rooms to rent so as to ease the budget. But then … why then, the times changed, and many of the houses became tenements, the flats smaller and smaller, while the courtyards were flanked by one- and two-storey ateliers. Coffin makers, funeral directors, photographers, print shops, ironworkers, et cetera, et cetera, off which all-but-hidden staircases lead to the concierge’s loge and finally to those flats, yet still in districts like this, the citizens cling to their original dialect and village closeness. She could be anywhere, so if you would be so kind, please begin by telling us what you and Kriminalrat Ludin know not only of her but of those others we are supposed to be finding for you in top secret.’