Nadeau told her it was okay but brushed a hand over the back of her neck for good measure. ‘Louis is an old friend. Please see to the Baroness’s things. She wants the dress for this evening. Everything must be perfect.’
‘Did you think I didn’t know that?’ came the acid retort.
She still had the walk, that saucy flick of her hips that had so intrigued the patrons of the rue St-Denis. St-Cyr followed her with his eyes before holding out the wedge of fabric in question and then carefully pocketing it.
The dark eyes settled on him. ‘Must I?’ asked the designer and part owner – only part owner – of this cushy little business.
‘I think so,’ said St-Cyr. ‘One old favour deserves a new one, eh? Isn’t that so?’
‘That business was over years ago. Must you …’
‘Insurance fraud and arson, Julian. Questions are still being asked. It’s just too bad, my friend. Me, I’ve done all I can but you know how the Germans are. Records – ah, Mon Dieu, you should see the records those boys have got their hands on.’
He rolled the remnant bolt over to take up the rest of the fabric and emphasize the point.
‘How did you know we’d made the dress?’
St-Cyr shrugged. ‘Me, I didn’t. You were one of six possibilities. The sixth on my list.’
The little insult couldn’t fail to help.
‘Who told you it was us? Was it Callot …?’ Nadeau irritably ran a hand over his beautifully trimmed black hair. ‘Lelong … it was that Lelong.’
‘It was guesswork, Julian. None of your competitors fingered you. Pure legwork, and a simple process of elimination.’
‘Look, I can’t tell you the woman’s name. Some things must be in confidence. There’s an absolute principle involved. Absolute!’
Suddenly bored with it all, St-Cyr got off the dressmaker’s stool and reached for his hat. ‘She’s a singer in a nightclub, Julian.’ It was just a guess, a shot in the dark.
Nadeau nodded and felt the fatherly patting of his elbow. ‘So, okay, let’s leave it, eh?’ said St-Cyr. ‘If not the name of the woman, then that of the club.’
‘What’s she done? Look, I’m not interested in her, Louis. She’s just a customer. Once – only once. A referral and trouble at that.’
The things one learned. ‘I didn’t say you were interested in her, and so far as I know, she hasn’t done a thing.’
Now a gentle squeeze of the forearm just for good measure.
‘Then why …’ began the designer irritably, only to break and give in. ‘The Mirage on the rue Delambre. It’s a cabaret.’
‘It’s got a nice name. Me, I’m aware of the place but,’ St-Cyr gave another shrug, ‘I must confess I did not think to connect the two.’
Before he could be asked what he’d meant, St-Cyr was in among the seamstresses, nodding to one, exclaiming over the dress another was making. A last look down the long length of the cutting room showed Julian and his assistant forlornly staring his way while the women continued to bend to their work.
He waved his hat and left them to it. He thundered down the staircase, clicking his heels to some unheard dance tune.
When he reached the ground floor, he straight-armed the shop door and was soon absorbed in the traffic’s hush.
Trust Muriel to have named the perfume after the club but why the pearls instead of glass beads or sequins?
Perhaps Sylviane had run out of them.
Kohler was drowning his sorrows in a small cafe directly across the rue du Faubourg St-Honore from Fournier’s. He was writing up the next day’s report for von Schaumburg.
‘I thought I’d file it early, Louis, so as to get ahead of him. Boemelburg was pleased with the idea. What did you come up with this afternoon?’
‘Not a blasted thing. Me, I’m beginning to think all my contacts have deserted me.’
‘Well, never mind. Oh, hey, I’ve got something for you. The last can in Paris, Louis. The very last – even with the original seals.’
Five hundred grams of pure gold, Virginia pipe tobacco.
‘The bastard owed me one,’ said Kohler. ‘I thought you’d be pleased?’
‘Me, I am. Certainly,’ exclaimed St-Cyr, raising two fingers for more beer.
But not breaking, not giving in, though it hurt.
‘I’ve got the address book,’ hazarded Kohler.
The Frenchman waited for the beer to arrive before saying, ‘Good. Salut!’
‘I’ve got the monogrammed silver cigarette case,’ offered Kohler. ‘It was in the purse.’
Good again. Another sip. ‘Louis, this thing’s too hot for us. You know that, don’t you?’
The poor guy actually grimaced before saying, ‘Yes … Yes, I’m beginning to be aware of this.’
The Bavarian reached for his refresher and decided to let him have the last word. A guy needed that now and then.
‘What did Records cough up?’ asked St-Cyr, not leaving his beer.
‘Nothing. A mug-shot’s being circulated to all district Gestapo offices and prefectures of police.’
‘Good.’
Kohler silently swore. Louis was being tight at a time like this! Reluctantly he slid the address book along the zinc between them and watched as St-Cyr carefully opened it.
The penmanship was very neat, very feminine. It was not an address book, but a record of assignations.
5 April/42 – the chateau Which among the hundreds? he wondered.
21 April/42 – the Louvre: Sculptures Gallery, 4.10 p.m. Which piece of sculpture, eh? So many had been taken to repositories in the south. Things were slowly filtering back, but still the galleries had that empty look.
28 April/42 – evening performance. Main foyer of the Opera during the first intermission of Puccini’s La Boheme Champagne perhaps?
7 May/42 – Fontainebleau: the Palais. Afterwards the Auberge de la Renard d’Or, then a walk in the woods Nice, that was very nice.
18 May/42 – Place de l’Opera just before noon – 11:53 exactly Did he detect a note of sharpness in the use of the word exactly?
19 May/42 – Hotel Ritz, Room 211 at 10.00 a.m. A German officer then. One of von Schaumburg’s staff? he wondered. The Army had requisitioned the Ritz.
14 June/42 – Fontainebleau Woods, the Crossing of the Thorn Bushes. About 3.00 p.m. From there to the car-park at the Gorges de Franchard.
St-Cyr had forgotten his beer. Kohler watched him intently before asking, ‘What is it, Louis?’
The Frenchman gave a shrug. ‘I was just visualizing the map of Fontainebleau Woods. That crossing is to the east of Barbizon some two, maybe three kilometres; that car-park is south from there perhaps four or five kilometres. I will have to check.’
‘But it’s lonely?’
He knew what Kohler was thinking. ‘Not particularly. But then …’ he tossed an indifferent hand … ‘the woods are not as well visited as before the Occupation, so yes, my friend, it could quite possibly have been lonely.’
‘Anything else?’ asked Kohler, only to see him continue with the list.
18 June/42 – the chateau This assignation had lasted for two days. There then followed a series of places in quick succession, the first three of which had been in the Unoccupied Zone.
27 June/42 – Marseilles
28 June/42 – Lyon
29 June/42 – Nevers
30 June/42 – Orleans
1 July/42 – Tours
2 July/42 – Angers
And then: 7 July/42 – 4.17 p.m., main floor, Galeries Lafayette (one of Paris’s largest department stores.)
8 July – Barbizon, Hotellerie du Bois Royal …
‘Do you mind if I keep this overnight?’ asked St-Cyr. ‘I’d like to give it some thought.’