Finding the tin of sardines and the pomander, he took them out as he drew on his pipe and asked, Why had she carried the sardines in her purse, if not to give it to the person she had come to meet, if indeed that had been why she was there?
Why had she gripped the pomander so tightly if not to keep it from her assailant?
Suddenly the entrance door to the café was violently sucked shut by the mistral. Few could not help but look up. Some briefly sought out the newcomer whose back was thrown against the etched glass. ‘Mon Dieu!’ exclaimed Madame la patronne. ‘Be more careful. And don’t come in here unless you are prepared to pay your bill. Enough is enough!’
Shock registered. Flashing dark eyes under finely arched jet black brows rapidly searched the faces of the clientele, the warning taken. ‘Forgive me, madame. I … I only wanted to ask if … if the others had been in.’
A lie if ever there was one, thought St-Cyr. The charcoal corduroy overcoat was of the thirties and trim, the jet black cloche matched the protruding curls.
Clutching a small parcel that was wrapped in newspaper and tied with old bits of string, she hesitantly approached the caisse. A girl of more than medium height and light on her feet. ‘Enfant, I have told you,’ seethed Madame la patronne under her breath. ‘Don’t be an imbécilel’! She jerked her head to one side to indicate the company from Paris.
Outside on the place, the local detachment’s brass band began to sound the noon hour. As the belfry’s clock rang it out, strains of Preussens Gloria faltered in the mistral. The swastika above the entrance to the Hotel de ville and Kommandantur was nearly being ripped to shreds by the wind. None of the pedestrians took any notice. Why should they?
The fullness of the girl’s gaze left him. ‘Just let me leave a message for them,’ she said demurely to the patronne.
‘I’m not the PTT!’ shrilled Madame Emphoux.
The package was placed on the counter. ‘A pencil, if you have one, and a scrap of paper,’ and when these were reluctantly slid under the scrollwork, the girl quickly wrote a few words, then, tossing her pretty head at the clientele, made her exit but deliberately held the door open so that all would hold their breath and she could then ease it shut without a sound.
When confronted, Madame Emphoux knew there was little sense in arguing, for already the Sûreté was unwrapping the parcel. ‘That was Christiane Bissert, one of the singers,’ she said tartly.
‘Age?’
‘Twenty, I think.’
‘Let’s not think about it. My partner and I already have too many questions and are being given no time to consider them.’
‘Twenty, then.’
The parcel contained four paperback detective novels from the thirties. On the cover of one, a cigarette wastefully smouldered its life away in an ashtray full of butts Hermann or anyone else would have given their eyeteeth for. On another, a semiautomatic Colt.45 lay next to a pool of blood and a purse which had been torn open and dumped in a mad search for whatever the killer had been after.
An interrupted petite infidélité, no doubt, but had the killer been a woman wronged?
Feeling foolish at being so easily sucked in by a jacket illustration, he said, ‘Does Mademoiselle Bissert understand English?’
‘No. These have been offered in exchange for some of her debt.’
‘How much?’
Madame Emphoux teased the books away from him. ‘What, then, does this one say?’
‘That’s The Maltese Falcon. It’s one of Dashiell Hammett’s very tough, no-nonsense pieces. Bang, bang.’
‘And this one?’ she asked.
She was being coy, thought St-Cyr, and said, ‘An Erle Stanley Gardner, a Perry Mason, The Case of the Caretaker’s Cat.’
‘Four hundred francs for the lot.’
This sum was well below the trade in such things — detective novels were avidly sought, but in English would they not command less? he wondered.
‘For the Kommandant,’ she confessed. ‘And … and others.’
He’d have to let it be but wondered if the girl had deliberately left the parcel so as to distract him. ‘Where did she get these?’ In addition to British nationals who had sought refuge in 1940, there had been plenty of Americans in the Free Zone before 11 November of last year. Many had come to Provence from Paris when the Führer had declared war on the United States on 11 December 1941 and they had had to leave for the south.
‘How could I possibly know where they came from, Inspector?’
No questions were ever asked in the black market. One didn’t haggle or complain lest one never get another chance to deal. But it was interesting that credit was extended in exchange for such things since this implied there had to have been other deals.
‘The note,’ he said firmly, and she knew that the Sûreté, like a cobra in its little basket, would let the matter lie only until ready to strike.
Inspector, please find me at the hôtel particulier called the Villa Marenzio. It is on the rue Banasterie where I await your questions with a heart that is open.
Hermann … where the hell was Hermann?
The Oberst Kurt von Mahler hadn’t come in with the tide on 11 November 1942 when the whole country had been occupied. He’d been here since the blitzkrieg in the West, had been in Avignon since the Defeat and partition of 1940, both as head of the Reich’s legation and as the Wehrmacht’s liaison officer with the Occupied North. But now the Allies were on his doorstep, a constant worry.
‘I’m telling you, Kohler, I want no trouble with this matter. The girl was like family. My wife and children adored her.’
Yet how was it von Mahler’s family had been allowed to join him? That wasn’t official Wehrmacht policy. Wives and kids were to be left at home.
‘She’s young,’ said von Mahler, having anticipated the question. ‘She’s not well. The rape of Köln was too much for her.’
Nearly 60,000 had been left homeless by the RAF raid on the night of 30/31 May of last year. Hundreds had died, thousands had been injured, many of them horribly. Incendiaries — the resulting firestorms — had consumed twelfth- and thirteenth-century half-timbered houses. Over 20,000 buildings, the very heart of the historic city, had gone up in flames. ‘Colonel, my partner and I will do everything we can to apprehend the girl’s killer. We do need help. Transport, for one thing.’
‘A Renault has been arranged.’
‘Food and lodging …’
‘Sixteen rue des Trois-Pilats. It’s near the villa Simondi uses for his students. If the meals aren’t to your taste, try La Fourchette in the rue Racine or the Auberge Julius Pallière on the place de I’Horloge. Acclimatize yourselves. Get to know the city and get to the bottom of this thing. The faster the better.’
Von Mahler was in his early forties, but was the expression always so severe, the frown so constant? The dark brown hair was crinkly and cut short. The wide-set eyes under knitted brows were iron-grey, the lips firm in resolve and slightly turned down at their corners as if to silently cry out, Don’t you dare involve me.
He’d probably been an academic in civilian life, an economist in the military until the war had torn him from his desk. Good at polo and the steeplechase — he had that look about him. He’d have got to know the powers that be among the French in Avignon and the Vaucluse. He’d have made a point of that. ‘Herr Oberst, what can you tell me about the night of the murder?’