‘Then why lock those things away? Why try to keep them from the aunt?’
Louis was always asking difficult questions. ‘A schoolgirl’s world is very small. The nuns would have figured prominently in it,’ offered Kohler lamely.
‘Could Madame Vernet have gained access to that pencil drawer?’
Ah damn. ‘I don’t know. I wish I did.’
Well up in his sixties and nearing retirement, General von Schaumburg took his daily ride on horseback in the Bois near which he lived. Perhaps it toned him up and got the blood circulating, thought Kohler, but ah merde, he was too like something out of the last war. Tall and mighty and armoured in greatcoat and cap, the General sat astride his favourite gelding and let the horse blow twenty degrees of frost. A giant needing only a spiked helmet.
The blue-shaded railway lantern that hung from the pommel gave but a paltry light. The frigid air brought panic thoughts of mustard gas. There was even a ground fog to help things along.
‘Kohler, what are you doing with my pigeons?’
He had forgotten all about them. ‘They’re doves, General. White doves-at least, they were.’
‘Verdammt! don’t back-talk me, Corporal.’
‘It was captain, General. A Hauptmann.’
Oh-oh … ‘General, you were …’ began St-Cyr, only to hear the riding crop cut the air as it was raised. He continued anyway. ‘General, the child was not the Vernets’ niece but another. A case of mistaken identity and overanxious police. Nénette Vernet may well be a hostage of the Sandman, or dead. This we really do not know, for she and another friend are missing. But we must know, General, if you saw anything at all that might assist our enquiries.’
‘Mistaken identity? Overanxious police? Gott im Himmel, Kohler, what is this one saying?’
‘That préfet Talbotte and the Paris police need a damned good housecleaning, General. The flics glanced at the victim’s ID photograph and made a mistake that should never have been made.’
‘False papers?’
This was only getting worse. ‘A simple switch, General,’ interjected St-Cyr, wishing immediately that he hadn’t done so.
The riding crop cut the frost as it was lowered. Snorting, the horse fidgeted nervously. ‘Explain yourself.’ The French, thought von Schaumburg. St-Cyr … A pretty wife with carnal urges and films clandestinely taken of her fornications with Hauptmann Steiner, a favoured nephew of his own and an embarrassment. The Gestapo’s Watchers were apparently still enjoying the films in spite of orders to destroy them. The pigs.
Right in the middle of his thoughts, von Schaumburg muttered, ‘I sent Steiner to Stalingrad, St-Cyr, and now must bear the grief of his young wife and mother, which in no way excuses the disgrace our Erich brought to his family. Kohler, you have lost your sons. My condolences. War is never easy and always strikes the heart. Gentlemen, I saw nothing of this matter. I heard nothing. I was shooting. Ask that imbecile gamekeeper. If he had moved himself faster, I would have been gone from the area before the murder happened.’
All thought of Marianne and Hauptmann Steiner must be set aside. ‘But you weren’t, General,’ said St-Cyr, taking hold of the bridle. ‘The gamekeeper claims to have seen someone in a black or dark blue overcoat just before you took the last of your pigeons.’
‘There, you see, Kohler? Pigeons, Dummkopf! A dark overcoat-a nun perhaps? Is this what he saw?’
For now it would be wisest not to mention the wound badges, the Polish Campaign medal and the SS connection. ‘Not a nun, General. Apparently the sport-shooting has frightened away the good sisters from this part of the Bois.’
‘The Sandman?’ Again the horse fidgeted.
‘Perhaps. Please try to remember, General. The child was being followed and ran into the cage to hide. Her coat was dark blue, but-’
‘But … but that is exactly what the gamekeeper saw! The child.’
It would do no good to argue. As it was, they had got him talking, not ordering them around. Here was the man who issued the decrees that were posted and also published in all newspapers: For acts of terrorism on______and______, the following hostages have been shot.
Here was the man under whose authority fell the receipt of five million francs a day, the recently reassessed cost of the Occupation, since the country was now too poor to pay more. It was bad enough having to put up with the Germans, but having to pay for the privilege was far too much to bear, though nothing could be said of such things. Not yet. Not until the war ended, as it surely must someday to throw the country into an anarchy of a different kind. A totally French kind.
‘Kohler, what have you to report?’
The birds were handed over and hooked to the pommel. Quickly Kohler went through the briefest run-down, ending with, ‘Our investigation must first concentrate on finding the two missing girls, General. Perhaps they are together. If not, then perhaps Mademoiselle Chambert can tell us where the heiress is.’
‘And the Sandman?’
‘We’ll get him. We won’t stop until we do.’
‘Good. Anything you need is yours. The full backing of the Kommandantur. Extra men, supplies, communications and money, but not beyond reason and fully accounted for. Do not hesitate to ask. Indeed, I will see that a carte blanche is issued. Use it.’
A cup of coffee-the real thing-would do about now, a nice warm boiled egg with a knitted cap to keep it hot and cosy in the hands, a slice of ham … ‘We’ll remember that, General, but right now we need transport to our garage so that we can pick up our car.’
‘My driver will assist you. How is Vernet taking it?’
‘As well as can be expected. Relieved, of course, but … Doubtless he’ll fill you in.’ And so much for searching rooms without permission.
‘And his wife?’
‘Not well at all, General.’
That massive head was nodded sagely. The horse’s mane was patted. ‘Discretion, Kohler. Keep my name out of it.’
‘Jawohl, mein General. Heil Hitler.’
‘Don’t be an imbecile. Just see that it’s kept quiet. I’ll try to recall the afternoon. If there is anything, I will let you know.’
At a brisk canter, the General departed and they watched as his lamp winked in the night until the trees of the nearby wood finally hid him from view. Again it was so like that other war. Hermann was visibly shaken and could not speak for some time until at last he said, ‘Chez Rudi’s, Louis. Even detectives can’t keep running on empty stomachs and Messerschmitt Benzedrine. You did take yours, didn’t you?’ And then, ‘He made me think of the trenches. I was right back in the mud and shit hearing your shells whistling overhead and praying some son of a bitch like that wouldn’t come along to order us over the top.’
‘Me, too. I understand.’
‘I’ve got to call Giselle and Oona. I’ve got to tell them we’re back in the city. I’ll do it from the restaurant.’
And I? asked St-Cyr inwardly. With only an empty house and no wife or little son, the phone could ring all it wanted.
I must get those films of her from the Gestapo, he said to himself. I must destroy them so as to let her rest in peace.
‘I’ll do it for you, Louis. I swear it,’ said Kohler, not even having to be told. ‘Now, come on, Chief. Let’s find that driver and get us our set of wheels. Hey, I might even let you drive your own car!’
Chez Rudi’s, a legend in its time, was on the Champs-Élysées and right across from the Lido. Beer-hall big and spotless, it was all but empty at this ungodly hour but would soon fill to overflowing.
Kohler chose a table to one side where Louis could watch that great big, beautiful Citroën traction avant the Sûreté had assigned him in 1938 and the Gestapo had taken away-well, almost-in 1940. He dragged over another chair and peeled off overcoat, scarf and hat, no gloves.