Boemelburg was worse. He kept them waiting for an hour, then standing in front of his desk as he slid two freshly signed telexes over to them.
‘A transfer for you, Hermann. To Gestapo Centre Kiev, effective three days from now. You’ll see that Gestapo Mueller has signed it.’
‘But, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer, we’ve two suspects …’
‘Have you searched the woman’s flat?’
‘No, sir. Not yet.
‘Then do so and don’t tell Glotz about it.’
St-Cyr read his deportation order – forced labour in Silesian salt mines. Three days hence as well.
So much for past acquaintances.
‘Now the diamonds, Louis. Let’s have a look at them.’
When handed the pouch, Boemelburg hefted it as a good cop would. Then he found a sheet of white paper and poured the stones on to it.
The eyebrows went up; the lips went down at their corners. There was a nod, bags under the eyes – the frames of past cases clicking over. ‘Russian, Louis?’
‘Perhaps, Walter. It’s hard to say. They’ll have come from South African mines.’
‘Who evaluated them?’
‘A Jew, but we guaranteed his being left alone.’
Again there was that nod, the blunt head moving only slightly.
‘We’d like to keep those for another day, Walter. It’ll help when we confront the suspects.’
Boemelburg ran a stumpy forefinger through the stones. They were such pretty things. ‘Blackmail?’ he asked.
Was there sadness or resignation in the look he gave? ‘Blackmail perhaps,’ said St-Cyr. ‘But until we confront the woman, we won’t really know.’
‘Herr Himmler is insisting that I send him daily reports. I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I have no other choice but to demand the names of your suspects.’
Kohler wrote them on the paper, dotting the i’s of Gabrielle Arcuri’s name so hard that the diamonds jumped.
‘Be quiet about this, the two of you, and I’ll see what I can do about those telexes.’
Pharand was feeling very left out of things. ‘You’ve not been straight with me, Louis. You’ve betrayed the good name of the department. As of now, this moment, your rank is back to that of inspector with the consequent loss of pay.’
St-Cyr knew that it was useless to argue. Kohler grinned hugely.
Pharand began the onslaught again. ‘Talbotte, Prefet of Paris, demands to know why you have not consulted him about a murder in his territory.’
Talbotte was a real bastard.
‘Well?’ demanded Pharand.
St-Cyr let him have it. ‘We have hardly had a moment’s sleep, Major. We’re already working round the clock. If we have to deal with the Prefet of Paris and that of Barbizon and the General Staff and the Gestapo in Berlin, we’ll …’
‘Berlin …? What is this, please?’
Insidious, territorial himself, Pharand gripped the edge of his desk.
‘It’s nothing, Major. You know how Berlin is,’ offered Kohler. ‘Herr Himmler is always suspicious of you French.’
‘Herr Himmler …’ Pharand dropped his gaze. ‘You should have warned me, Louis. It was most inconsiderate and unwise of you to have neglected this.’
‘We only just heard of it, Major. I was about to tell you.’
‘And the suspects – have you suspects?’
St-Cyr glanced at Kohler before shaking his head. ‘Not yet, but we’ve some pretty good leads.’
Pharand touched the pasty brow. Three fingers … always it was with three fingers. ‘Then I must tell you, Louis, that I have better sources of information than yourself.’
Fortunately, perhaps, the Americans chose that precise moment to direct one of their daylight bombing runs over Paris, heading for the Reich. But as the sirens wailed, Pharand refused to move. ‘Their names, Louis. I must have their names and the value of the diamonds.’
The anti-aircraft batteries across the river had begun to open up. A duty sergeant stuck his head into the office and shouted, ‘Air-raid!’
‘Piss off,’ said Pharand. ‘They’re not leaving this office even if a stray bomb should fall on us!’
St-Cyr gave him the names and the value of the diamonds.
‘Was it a crime of passion?’ demanded the major.
Did he like to hear it? ‘Yes … yes, I think so,’ said St-Cyr, ‘and with your permission, Major, I think I can prove it to you.’
‘Within three days,’ said Pharand – had the Germans actually hit one of those blasted planes? The scream of shattered engines roared overhead. He waited for the crump of the explosion and when it didn’t come, he said, ‘So, that’s all for now, Louis. A full report this evening, eh?’
Records still didn’t have the boy’s name and Glotz proved very difficult when Kohler went to see him alone.
‘I warned you, Hermann. We’ve managed a bit of film and we’ll have more by tomorrow.’
‘Philippe!’
‘Papa!’
Kohler parked the car two streets from Gabrielle Arcuri’s flat on the boulevard Emile Auger. Marianne and the boy had obviously been for a walk in the Bois de Boulogne.
‘I’m sorry, Louis. I didn’t mean this to happen.’ He felt a fool.
‘It doesn’t matter, Hermann. Me, I’ve missed the boy and his mother.’
St-Cyr started across the road. Released, the boy ran to him and, in spite of knowing there could be no traffic, St-Cyr tore his gaze away to search the street.
Relief flooded through him. The boy leapt into his arms and he lifted him up.
Marianne looked well. The straw-coloured hair had been braided into a rope which fell from under the scarlet beret to hang over the right shoulder against the dark blue overcoat. The face and brow were strong and wide, the eyes clear blue with crinkles at the corners. There was the blush of youth and weather in her cheeks.
‘Marianne, there’s no need to say anything. Me, I understand.’
St-Cyr rubbed the boy’s back and gave him a hug and a kiss but didn’t set him down. Not yet.
The dark blue gloves and black leather boots were new, not so the scarf he’d given her with the beret.
‘How have you been?’ she asked, searching his eyes – feeling perhaps some twinges of remorse.
Was she having second thoughts?
‘Me? Busy on a case as usual. I’ve hired Madame Courbet to look after the house. There’ll always be a key under the mat. I suspect you’ll want to get in from time to time.’
‘Are you hurting?’ she asked. There was such sensitivity in her eyes.
‘But of course I’m hurting. To be cuckolded by a German officer …’
‘Would it have been any better if he’d been French?’
‘No … No, of course not.’
They walked along the street, each feeling lost with the other, Philippe playing with his water pistol and saying, ‘Bang! Bang!’ at his father.
The poor sap, thought Kohler. He’s mush before the woman when he ought to have smacked her face at least a couple of times.
They reached the corner. Kohler lit a fag and leaned against the car. There was only one thing to do for Louis. Keep the poor bastard hopping until he forgot about the woman. And as for Glotz and his film … von Schaumburg would tear the roofs off Paris if he found out what was going on.
‘You must take what you like from the house, Marianne. Please, I insist. The boy’s things … It’s not easy to find good warm clothing these days in the proper sizes.’
‘Erich’s very generous. There is no problem, Louis.’
‘Is he also married?’
‘Of course. Look, it doesn’t matter, eh? I couldn’t go on. I had to escape.’
‘You should have told me how you felt.’
She found the will to smile – she had such a warm and generous smile but this one was all too brief. ‘Would you have listened? Louis, you were never home. Nights I’d lie awake wanting you beside me. A woman can want a man, can’t she?’
St-Cyr nodded. He shrugged. He said, ‘So, it’s okay now, eh? He’s there beside you.’
Louis could see through anything. ‘I know he’ll leave me, but it doesn’t matter.’