He set the boy down. She took Philippe by the hand. ‘Isn’t Papa coming with us to our new house?’
‘Ah no, cheri. He has to go to work.’
‘Always he’s going to work. He never stays at home.’
‘Take care of yourself, Marianne. Me, I really mean it.’
‘And you,’ she said, giving him a moment more. Poor Louis, he looked so lost in his shabby overcoat and rubbers. ‘Find someone else. Quit that lousy job before you do.’
St-Cyr watched as they crossed the boulevard Henri Martin. When they reached the other side, the two of them turned to look back – Marianne still emanating that strength of character and determination he had so much admired.
‘Don’t forget the key will be under the mat,’ he shouted and gave a last wave.
Kohler raised his eyebrows. ‘Come on, Louis, let’s have a look at the woman’s flat.’
‘Yes, let’s attend to business. We both know those papers Boemelburg shoved at us are for real.’
‘I can’t see you working in a salt mine.’
‘Kiev is full of partisans, Hermann. You’d be assassinated on the second day. Me, I’m positive of this.’
‘Then tell me just who the hell wants us out of the way and has taken the steps to see to it?’
‘You tell me. You know the Berlin Gestapo better than I.’
‘Mueller wouldn’t have signed those papers of his own accord.’
‘Then Himmler must have ordered it.’
‘Three days – why three, Louis?’ The number three had come up again!
‘Why?’ shrugged St-Cyr. ‘Because it’s one more than von Schaumburg gave us.’
‘Do you get the feeling everyone’s after us?’
‘God included,’ said St-Cyr. ‘Him most of all.’
The building at number 45, boulevard Emile Auger was like all the rest. Flat, square, unfeelingly modern, cold, and facing the street and the world as if through hooded eyes.
The black-out curtains were still closed in one of the second-floor apartments though it was nearly noon.
‘You or me?’ asked Kohler, looking up at the curtains.
‘Me, I think, Hermann. Yes, let me handle it.’
In the late 1920s and 1930s many of Paris’s upper middle class had moved out of the old and fashionable areas of the city. Like decadent nomads, they had brought all the trappings of their lives but relished plumbing that worked, heating systems that, for the times, were the best available, and electrical wiring that did not blow too many fuses.
Even as they went up the steps, St-Cyr had a pretty good idea of what the apartment would contain.
The concierge, a middle-aged woman, reflected her station in life. Several strands of agate beads complimented the soft yellow cardigan and patterned blouse. No fool, she saw copper right away and demanded to know what they thought they were doing.
‘Merely a matter of discretion, madame,’ said St-Cyr, taking off his hat. ‘A few questions of Mademoiselle Arcuri.’
‘She’s not here. She didn’t come back last night.’
‘Her maid?’ he asked, lifting his eyebrows.
‘She neither. Such weeping … that girl …’
St-Cyr waited, but the woman knew she’d already said too much.
‘We’d like to take a look through the flat, madame. It’s a matter of some urgency.’
He unbuttoned his overcoat and slid a hand into his jacket pocket, removing a black leather notebook stuffed with slips of paper, small bills, his ID and badge. ‘We have a search warrant, madame. Do I have to show it to you?’
The brown eyes were wary. ‘A search warrant? In my building? What’s she done?’
St-Cyr tucked the notebook away. ‘Nothing that we know of, madame – please don’t alarm yourself – but her life, and that of her maid, Mademoiselle Yvette Noel, may well be in danger.’
At the door to the flat, St-Cyr gave the woman yet another look of grave concern. ‘You may leave us, madame. I’m sure you have other things you must do. We will touch nothing and take nothing, of this you have our word.’
Tartly she told them to remove their rubbers and shoes. ‘Mademoiselle Arcuri is very fussy.’
‘I’m sure she is,’ said St-Cyr. ‘The rubbers and shoes, Hermann. It will be just as if we were at home, madame.’
‘You may leave them in the hall. No one will steal them. Not in my building.’
The toe of Kohler’s left sock had been completely eaten away and the toe itself was badly in need of a wash. He tucked it under and smiled subserviently at the woman. Not a word. Louis continued to surprise him. That business with the notebook was new … he must remember it.
Like so many of the wealthy upper middle class, Gabrielle Arcuri’s flat was cluttered with furnishings of one sort and another, all of which, under the subdued light of day, gave back just that: their sumptuous clutter.
Polychromed deer, frogs, camels and Coromandel screens framed Louis XV chairs and Chinese coffee tables. The baroque Italian mirror above the mantelpiece was huge, heavy and ornately carved with gilded cherubs, grapes, drapes and other things. A bronze Buddha on the mantelpiece was reflected in the glass, as was the Belle Epoque chandelier among whose many crystals hung clouds of amethyst and smoky quartz.
Here was a woman, then, who had a taste for expensive things.
Kohler ran a hand over the headless, limbless statue of a young man. Since everything else was gone, only the most important parts were left. The kid had lots of fruit. A nice one too. Uncircumcised. ‘Our girl, Louis. Just what the hell is she doing singing in a place like that?’
‘My thoughts exactly, Hermann. Shall I take the bedroom while you find that of the maid?’
‘Let’s do it together, eh? Don’t spoil my fun.’
Gabrielle Arcuri’s bedroom had been done in soft pastel shades of green, yellow, powder blue and white. It was tastefully and distinctly feminine – less of the clutter, more room to walk around. One could imagine her doing so. The carpet was very soft, of a dove grey with a faint wash of blue.
Flowered chintz covered the walls; brocade and lace, the modest pastel green four-poster that was heaped with cushions and pillows.
Tidy … that was a first impression. Two crystal vases held white roses, there was a painted Louis XVI settee near the windows to catch the sun; an unpainted, Louis XVI dressing table and blue-covered, painted stool against the far wall.
She’d have seen the bed’s reflection as she took off her makeup or put it on.
St-Cyr wished Kohler had taken the hint. ‘Your vibrations are disturbing me, Hermann. This is not entirely as I expected.’
‘Oh, in what way?’
‘The purse and the condoms, eh? Quite obviously Mademoiselle Arcuri kept this room entirely to herself.’
Trust Louis to notice it. ‘So, were the condoms for real or not?’
St-Cyr moved towards the closets on either side of the dressing table. ‘Perhaps, but then …’
He left the thought hanging.
‘What is it, Louis? You look as if you’ve found a body.’
‘The clothes, my friend. Tres chic, of course, but mixed with them, rough trousers of tweed and corduroy, a worn leather jacket, three-quarter length and not unlike the boy’s, riding breeches, even a crop.’
‘A whip,’ enthused Kohler, reaching in to get it. ‘Brown leather across the buttocks, Louis. Can you imagine that woman flailing some poor guy to get it up?’
‘Frankly, no.’
‘You’re not offended, are you?’ Kohler pulled down a lower eyelid.
‘A little, yes. Hermann, we’re dealing with a very complex character. On the one hand a second-rate …’
‘Downright seedy …’
‘Nightclub and this,’ said St-Cyr, with a lift of his bushy eyebrows. ‘A woman …’ He touched a silk chemise. ‘Someone’s daughter, Hermann. You must always remember that even with the worst of prostitutes there has been a mother.’
‘A chateau …’ went on Kohler, prying open a hat box and ignoring the lecture.
‘A monogrammed silver cigarette case.’
‘Russian initials, Louis, and Russian diamonds.’
‘Perhaps, but then …’