Reluctantly he stuffed the things back into her purse, then retraced his steps to the balcony only to catch sight of the stage and hear himself drawing in a breath. ‘The mirage,’ he gasped. ‘Ah, Mon Dieu, it’s magnificent!’
The pearls gave their lustre to the shimmering, sky-blue opalescent silk that was moulded so well to her body, every curve, every feature was at once exposed to view and yet not exposed.
She had the voice of a nightingale – strong and throaty, yet full of warmth and bell-like clarity. Wrapped in it, in the motions of her arms as she gripped the microphone or held them out, the audience was spellbound. Gabrielle Arcuri was at once every man’s dream of a lover and the heart’s dream of home.
And the song? he asked. Ah, but of course, ‘Lilli Marlene’.
3
‘Excuse me, Monsieur the Detective, but would you like my mother to take care of your house?’
It was Antoine Courbet from across the street. St-Cyr looked questioningly beyond the boy only to see the lace curtain fall into place.
The serious eyes continued to haunt him. ‘We thought, monsieur, since you were on a very difficult case and your wife and son have departed, you might be away. The geraniums in your windows, monsieur, they do not look well. The pipes, they might freeze …’
‘How much?’ asked St-Cyr, resigning himself to the inevitable.
‘Fifty francs a day.’
‘Thirty-five, Antoine. Sadly, I cannot pay more.’
‘Don’t detectives make a lot of money?’
‘Not this one.’
‘But you’re a chief inspector …?’ The Germans had docked his wages too, the poor man. So sad in the eyes and wounded in the heart. It was just as Maman had said to Madame Auger. He’d go to seed and take up with whores or the bottle.
St-Cyr heaved a sigh. The whole street would now know the exact state of his house and goods but what the hell.
‘The geraniums are worth saving, Antoine. Tell your mother I will leave a key for her under the mat.’
Kohler had dropped him off at around 3 a.m. He’d probably awakened the whole street with the hole that had mysteriously appeared in the Citroen’s muffler. Another classic example of Gestapo care.
St-Cyr shut the door and went through to the kitchen. As he patted the pockets of his overcoat, he remembered the girl’s shoes and drew them out.
One heel hung by a few bent nails.
She’d been a girl of medium height and slender frame, a student. Eager … impetuous perhaps – that would explain why she’d been out after curfew. That would be the reason for the sudden embrace.
The kiss, he said, touching his moustache. The dark plays such mysteries with us. She not knowing who he was; he not knowing her.
He’d fix the heel before returning the shoes – some rubber cement if he could find such a thing, and then a few new nails, or perhaps he could simply straighten the others?
A shoemaker, he answered positively. It’s a wise man who recognizes his limitations. The girl was far too young. He wasn’t getting into that mess again. So many of the young men of France were away in the prisoner-of-war camps, the older men were having a field day.
Not him, of course. Ah no.
Kohler would be by in a few minutes. Being on Berlin time meant that the clock had been shoved ahead and everyone got to work an hour earlier – never mind the late nights. Those were extra.
He couldn’t blame Marianne for leaving him. It was no life for a woman to share. Alone and celibate, he could take up fishing again. Ah yes. And the euphonium – he’d played it in the police band before the first wife had objected to his practising an hour or two a week. He’d played it in the interval between her and Marianne, had worked like a fiend and had got his embouchure perfect, the fingering …
Of course he’d be rusty now, but a few licks and he’d be in shape.
He didn’t say, I’ll kill Steiner. He knew it would be senseless to even try.
Others would be shot – hostages – and as for himself, he still had no taste for the guillotine.
The diamonds lay beside the velvet pouch. 1,500,000 francs and he was worrying about thirty-five francs to pay a housekeeper!
The notebook was to one side – more entries still to go through. The monogrammed cigarette case didn’t bear Gabrielle Arcuri’s initials.
What, exactly, had happened and why was Berlin taking such an interest in things? Have we a scandal beyond all proportions? he asked himself, feeling sad for that little maid – sympathizing with her. She hadn’t looked like a killer but then, ah Mon Dieu, so few of them ever did.
Records still had not come up with the name of the victim. He’d have received a call if they had.
Yet Yvette Noel had known the boy, had had a photograph of him in her purse. By just such things are criminals brought to justice, isn’t that so? he reminded himself.
Had the next of kin been too afraid to claim the corpse?
Kohler leaned on the horn. St-Cyr scooped up the Arcuri woman’s things and stuffed them into his pockets.
Out on the street, heads had appeared from several windows and doors. Hermann was in a foul mood and hit the gas while St-Cyr was only half in the car. In a cloud of exhaust they started off. ‘The key!’ shouted St-Cyr. ‘I’ve forgotten to leave it.’
Kohler swore and ground the car into reverse. The key was waved and then dropped. The ring it gave as it hit the paving stones stayed with St-Cyr through the all-but-empty streets as they plunged downhill, heading straight for the Kommandantur.
‘Von Schaumburg wants a word,’ growled the Bavarian, reaching for a fag and letting go of the wheel. ‘The shit must have got up on the wrong side of the bed!’
They’d start at the top of the chain of command. It would be the Army first, then the Gestapo, and finally Pharand of the SN.
And in between them, Hermann would pay Glotz a little visit.
Brooding darkly by one of the windows in his office, Old Shatter Hand swung to fix his gaze upon them. ‘You took no fingerprints. You asked no questions of the local residents. Why haven’t you been able to identify the victim?’
Kohler drew himself up. ‘We have two suspects, General.’
‘Their names? Why weren’t they in your report, Sergeant?’ He’d get to the ‘report’ later.
Blithely Kohler trod thin ice. ‘We feel discretion is best, General – to protect innocent lives and let us carry on the investigation without undue interference.’
Von Schaumburg tore the cigarette from its holder and crushed it into an ashtray. ‘You call yourselves detectives, Kohler. I want their names. Undue interference, how dare you suggest…’
Kohler even managed a smile. ‘General, the daily police reports, and those of this office, are circulated. We’d like to stake out the suspects’ flat and see if anyone else is involved in the case.’
That was nice, thought St-Cyr, wondering how Hermann would handle Boemelburg.
Von Schaumburg fussed with the Iron Cross First-Class with Oak Leaves that was at his throat. ‘All right, one more day of your discretion, Sergeant. Then some answers.’
‘Jawohl, General.’ Kohler crashed his heels together.
The Frenchman found the general looking at him. St-Cyr … not entirely reliable. Questions were being asked about his loyalty.
‘Dismiss, the two of you. St-Cyr, you’re to see that the diamonds are handed over to this office.’
There was a moment of silence, an impasse. Then the Frenchman said, ‘Wouldn’t it be best, General, if you told us what you know of the case?’
There was a brief smile – more like a grimace. ‘Inspector, you of all people should understand that when a general of the Reich gives an order to dismiss, he means it.’