‘Curfew has been rolled back to twenty-one hundred hours. Make sure you’re tucked in by then.’
The buzzing drone of a low-flying Storch interrupted them. Camouflaged, sand-coloured from the desert war in North Africa and looking like a skinny dragonfly with stiff legs, the plane roared overheard at 200 metres, then quickly throttled back to drop to river level.
‘The tiny aerodrome below the village of Charmeil,’ explained St-Cyr humbly. ‘It’s only five kilometres from here, Inspektor. The Marechal Petain has a large farmhouse in the village; Herr Abetz a chateau, I believe.’
Hermann paid no apparent attention, would continue to try to break through that armour.
‘Were you at Stalingrad with von Paulus and the 6th, Scharfuhrer? I ask only because my boys were there and still are.’
‘And not on the long march into Siberia? They’re among the lucky then, aren’t they, Herr Hauptmann der Geheime Stattspolizist?’
Fish only when there are fish to be caught and then you won’t be humiliated, thought St-Cyr ruefully. The whole of the 6th Army, what had been left of it, had been taken. Over 90,000 men were on that march, but the Scharfuhrer was letting Hermann know his sons were heroes, their father something far less. Paris had informed Herr Gessler of who Hermann was, and Gessler had spread the word.
‘Lucky, yes,’ muttered Hermann tightly. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘The same war.’
‘Banditen in the hills? That was a spotter plane, wasn’t it?’
‘Terroristen, ja. Communists. FTPs. We’ll soon clean them out. Who’s he?’
‘Him? The Frenchman they gave me to run errands. St-Cyr, Surete.’
‘The Oberdetektiv Jean-Louis St-Cyr of 3 Laurence-Savart in Belleville, Paris? The one who gets his name splashed all over the papers?’
‘Yes. Yes, that’s him.’
‘Then just remember the two of you are on your own. We have enough to do as it is and won’t be lifting a finger to help should you get into difficulties. Oh, I’ve forgotten my hand. This finger.’ The roof was banged. ‘Pass. Erich, let this one pass,’ called out the Scharfuhrer. ‘They have to pee.’
‘Sorry, Louis,’ muttered Kohler. ‘You know I didn’t mean that bit about running errands.’
The Sonderkommando would net the innocent, the terrified who would bolt simply because they wouldn’t know what the hell was going on, and perhaps even a few maquisards would be caught. But was the threat really from the Resistance as Bousquet and the others thought? And had the Fuhrer not also used the opportunity to make absolutely certain Petain didn’t go over to the Allies?
The aerodrome would still have French aircraft sufficient for a night flight to Morocco or Algiers, and Hermann … Hermann had been told by the nameless one that the Reich didn’t want anything happening to the Marechal or else.
They had reached the stables.
‘Hermann, will you be okay in there?’
Louis was remembering the SS and the scar of a rawhide whip that his partner had earned in the stables of a chateau on the Loire near Vouvray early last December, the chateau of Gabrielle Arcuri’s mother-in-law. ‘Me? Fine. No problem.’
Perhaps. ‘There are two cars parked outside, and one engine is colder than the other.’
‘Ferbrave’s come running, I think.’
‘And Albert?’
‘Has found more rats than he bargained for.’
Built at the turn of the century, their heavily timbered cupolas rising above the loft, the stables’ stalls were arranged off an aisle that was more than 300 metres in length and held the accumulated tack of all those years. There were thoroughbreds, quarter horses, trotters, hunters and those for just plain pleasure. Lucie Trudel’s dappled grey was a splendid gelding; the stall was immaculate, even with a snapshot of her pinned up for the horse to look at if lonely.
Stablehands, and the usual hangers-on every track seemed to have, were about, riders still coming in. Two of the Blitzmadchen, the grey mice who had come from the Reich to work as telegraphers and typists, et cetera, were rubbing down a bay mare and whispering sweet nothings to it. A Wehrmacht general and his orderly were dismounting to hand over the reins. Everything seemed quite normal. A busy place. Bicycles had been parked outside and at least two staff cars were at the far end.
‘No trouble, then,’ breathed Kohler.
‘But trouble all the same,’ sighed Louis.
To the north-east, there was the racetrack and, just to the west of this and in line with the stables, the grandstand with the Jockey Club’s reception rooms, restaurant and bar on the ground floor and first storey.
The showjumping course and paddocks were closer to the stables. The whole area must be lovely even in winter, thought Kohler. Fantastic if one had the money and time. And good to see that the Wehrmacht felt at least some horses should remain in France. A necessity.
‘Please don’t forget the sports club and golf course that are behind us, Inspector,’ said Louis tritely. ‘The tennis club and its swimming pool also.’
‘And the clay-pigeon shoot which is a little to the west so that the noise won’t disturb things here, eh? Merde, where the hell are Deschambeault and Ferbrave and our two innocents?’
If one of them was indeed innocent!
Not here, one of the hangers-on seemed to say, nodding curtly towards the way they’d come.
Blue-blinkered lanterns were being lit, but above them were strings of paper ones, from the Mikado perhaps, which once would have illuminated the dances that the owners must have held at the Jockey Club after successful races. Champagne and les elegantes de tout Paris wandering up into the loft to soft lights and beds of hay. Cigars, too!
‘A bloody firetrap, Louis!’ snorted Kohler, the pungency of manure, hay, horse piss and oats mingling with that of occasional and not-so-occasional tobacco. ‘Stay down here. I’ll take a look above.’
Again St-Cyr asked if his partner was all right; again Kohler had to reassure him.
Torch in hand, Hermann began to climb one of the ladders. In many ways it was similar to the stable at Vouvray. He hesitated — that bad knee of his, cursed St-Cyr silently. He went on, was soon out of sight. Perhaps they’d come a third of the way along the main aisle, perhaps a little more, but … Ah mon Dieu, what was going on? Everything had suddenly stopped. Even the Blitzmadchen hesitated …
Shrill on the damp, cold air came a high-pitched, ‘no, monsieur! please, no!’
From the far end of the aisle a stallion neighed in fright and began to kick its stall. Ines Charpentier shrieked again and again, which only frightened the horse more. It kicked and kicked and neighed, the girl trying desperately to dodge its hooves. Others became restless. Others began to join in …
Hermann moved past him in a blur. He ran, he reached the stall ahead of the stablehands, snatched a prod from the wall, opened the door and vanished.
Sickened by what they must surely find, for the sculptress had given one last, piercing shriek that had been abruptly cut off, St-Cyr brushed past the others to enter the stall. Hermann had a firm grip on the halter and had tucked the prod under an arm, having used a shoulder to force the stallion against a wall and away from the girl.
‘Easy … Easy,’ he said, his voice soothing. ‘Now calm yourself, my beauty. You pinch them on the neck or cheek, Louis. That distracts them, then offer the carrot if you have one. You’re a handsome devil, aren’t you?’ he went on to the stallion, a magnificent three-year-old but still very high-strung. ‘You’re worth plenty and are certain to take the Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe at Longchamp this October, only it won’t be held there due to possible acts of terrorism, they say, so it and the other races will be held at Le Tremblay to the north-east of Paris. Please don’t worry.’