‘Be my guest.’ Louis hadn’t wet his whistle in ages so what the hell was up?
‘And the cigarette case?’ asked St-Cyr. ‘You might just as well let me have everything, Hermann. It’ll make things easier, eh?’
Kohler thrust the thing at him. The Frenchman ran his eyes and a thumb over the Russian silver. Even during the last days of the Tzars, they had produced some outstanding pieces.
The case was of silver-gilt, so a silvery-grey, but with delicate patterns and scrolls in deep, dark blue, pale turquoise, ruby red and golden yellow enamel.
The initials had been inscribed on the inside of the lid: NKM in large letters that used up more than half the available space.
There were twelve cigarettes beneath the clip.
Kohler grinned and said, ‘Go on. Try one, Louis. I already have.’
The cigarettes were Russian. If the woman used them then she had to have the lungs of a T-35 tank!
Eyes watering, St-Cyr went to stub the thing out only to have Kohler grab him by the wrist and pluck the cigarette away. ‘There’s no sense in wasting it, is there?’
He shook his head. ‘Now for Fournier’s, I think, and a look at those stones you held back.’
Must he be so pious about it? ‘I didn’t ask Glotz to have you tailed, Louis.’
The moustache was wiped with a knuckle. ‘Me, I was certain you hadn’t but then … ah, what can I say, Hermann? Sometimes you and I, we ought to confide everything in each other, eh?’
Then why the hell don’t you? demanded Kohler but didn’t bother to say it.
There were eighteen uncut diamonds in the soft brown velvet bag with its drawstring of twisted gold silk thread. Ice blue, emerald green, yellow – a soft, frosted pink, a frosted white – waterworn both of those. Cubes, modified cubes and octahedra with sharp crystal faces and angles.
In weight, the crystals varied from perhaps one to five or six carats. St-Cyr held his breath. It was a stunning collection.
Fournier’s manager anxiously pressed the evaluation sheet down on the glass of the display case. The writing was a scribble, barely legible but beside each stone there was a long dash, then the weight in carats and an estimate of the value as is, and if cut and polished.
‘You won’t say anything about this?’ pleaded the man. ‘It would only cause trouble.’ He dabbed at his brow.
‘Of course not,’ soothed Kohler. ‘You can depend on us.’
The man was stung. ‘Who else could give such an evaluation? The Jews controlled the diamond trade before this … this war. He’s very good. He can cut them for you, Monsieur the Commissioner. He can …’
‘Inspector,’ answered Kohler. ‘He’s the Chief Inspector.’ He tossed his head towards St-Cyr. ‘We work as a team, just the two of us. All alone.’
The little man flicked his gaze anxiously from one to the other of them, wondering what the devil was really up. ‘If you have them cut and polished, messieurs, the stones will be of much more value and far less difficult to sell.’
St-Cyr fixed him with a look he reserved for the worst of the worst. ‘But as is, they are much better than currency and far more portable.’
Russian silver and Russian diamonds? he wondered.
Uncut, their value exceeded 1,500,000 francs. ‘An estimate,’ offered the man lamely. ‘I hope it agrees with the others?’
Kohler gave him a look that spelled the Sante Prison. ‘How much is that wrist-watch? That one,’ he said, stabbing the glass with a shark’s forefinger.
The dark eyes glistened with suppressed rage. ‘It’s 8,495 francs.’
The Bavarian grimly nodded. ‘At least 2,000 more than it’s worth, wouldn’t you say, Chief?’
St-Cyr trickled the diamonds back into their little bag. ‘What he means, monsieur, is that we have forgotten you already, eh? Just as you have forgotten all about this little business.’
He folded the evaluation sheet and, pocketing the diamonds, headed for the door.
Outside on the rue du Faubourg St-Honore the evening’s traffic had begun. There were bicycles and more bicycles. ‘Hermann, just what, exactly, would you have done with the diamonds?’
Kohler snorted gruffly. ‘What the Christ do you think? This war can’t last for ever, Louis. We both know it.’
The war in Russia had got to Hermann after all. St-Cyr raised his eyebrows but didn’t bother to warn him to be careful what he said.
They crossed the street and headed along towards the rue d’Anjou. ‘Others must know of them,’ offered St-Cyr.
Again there was that snort. ‘Yes, others now know of them.’
‘Then the matter’s settled and their value can go into your report for Boemelburg and mine for Pharand.’
‘But not the one for von Schaumburg, not yet.’
They passed a hat shop, another with leather handbags and gloves. There were fewer items, more spaces between them. ‘Louis, why not tell me what you turned up this afternoon? This thing …’
‘Yes, yes, I know it smells.’
‘I can’t let you keep the diamonds. Boemelburg will want to put them in his safe.’
Was there a hint of bribery in Hermann’s voice? ‘Only for this evening, Hermann. Tomorrow morning you can have them locked up. Stall a little.’
‘Glotz will try to have you tailed.’
‘But of course. It’s understood, eh? So don’t make so much of it. I’ll be in touch if I need you.’
‘I’ll pick you up in the morning. We’re going back to Fontainebleau to have a look around.’
‘Let’s hope it won’t be necessary. There are far too many seminaries and von Schaumburg will insist we visit every one of them.’
‘Glotz will use three men this time, Louis. One to hang back and two for you to see and lose.’
‘But of course, my friend. I would not have expected less.’
Had Louis been touched by the compliment? ‘Then take care. I’ll be seeing you. Don’t lose the rocks.’
They parted at the boulevard Malesherbes, St-Cyr heading towards the Madeleine and the entrance to the Metro there; Kohler to return to the Surete to pick up the car and to file his reports to Boemelburg and to Glotz.
*
High up on the rue Laurence Savart the boys were playing soccer again but stopped when they saw him trudging sadly towards the house.
Guy Vachon was the one to say, ‘He’s lost his wife. First the revolver, then the car, and now the wife.’
‘Next thing you know, there’ll be a funeral,’ said Herve Desrochers.
‘We’d better let him have the ball,’ said someone else. ‘He looks unhappy.’
‘He’s thinking about another murder,’ whispered Dede Labelle. ‘He always looks like that when he’s contemplating a case. Let’s just wave. That’ll make him feel better.’
They did so, and St-Cyr waved back only to hesitate at the gate and then to open it.
Marianne, of course, was not at home. Methodically he hung the overcoat up, then plunked the hat on its peg and kicked off his shoes.
Then he went through to the kitchen to put the kettle on and to water the geraniums.
Later he sat by their bed with the light on above him and the diamonds scattered over the lace spread next to the cigarette case, the little notebook, and the vial of perfume.
Hermann was right. The case could only mean trouble for them.
9 July/42 – the Ritz again. Time 9.13 p.m. Stayed until after curfew. Left by the back stairs. Was driven home.
He opened the can of tobacco and began to pack his pipe.
Was driven home … Again he felt uneasy. Berlin wanting to know, von Schaumburg, Boemelburg, Pharand – Glotz as well – and of course the Kommandant of Barbizon, its mayor and chief of police.
Is it what I’m beginning to think it is? he wondered.
There was only one person who could really tell him. Not the maid, ah no, not her.
Reflections caught the shimmering iridescence of the fabric in the open lid of the cigarette case.
Would she be tall and willowy – a chanteuse with blue eyes and blonde hair?