‘But what sort of knife would leave a spurt of blood that long when withdrawn?’ he asked. ‘A blade but not like butchers use even for the smaller cuts, since the thing must have collected one hell of a lot of blood in a groove or something to have had it spurt off the end like that when removed.’
The washbasin was clean, the floor as well, but one had to ask, Why so tidy when one had left such a mess? Why not simply flick ash on to the floor? Impulse, had that been it? One of long familiarity and care?
They hadn’t taken her handbag. One of them-the one with the cigar-had dumped it out on a side table in the salle de sejour and had dropped a little ash, which had been quickly but not completely wiped away. Again a tidy man. Well dressed? he had to ask. One who knew the judge and had used the flat before and perhaps often?
ID, ration cards and tickets had been taken as with other victims but also to slow identification, though here there had been just too many holes in the sieve for them to have plugged and they hadn’t figured on Didier Valois forking up the address and name of the judge’s petite amie, had thought instead that Hercule the Smasher would have found her first. Not Louis or himself, but Rouget who would then have run to Oberg-had they known that’s what he’d do? Had they understood him and the use of this flat so well they had counted on it and felt supremely confident and safe from honest detectives who might just start asking questions?
But why empty the handbag, why not simply take it as with other victims?
When Kohler found her wedding ring, he instinctively knew it was one of those little breaks every detective longed for and that her killers must have wanted it as proof.
The ring had fallen to the malachite top of the table and had bounced on to the carpet, there to roll out and across the parquet before hiding itself under the far corner of the radiator.
Opening the valve, Kohler bled off the entrapped air to silence the radiator’s pinging he must have been hearing all along. ‘I haven’t any other choice, Louis,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry but I’m going to have to go to the avenue Foch and might just as well do so now and get it over with while I still have what it takes.’
But first, he would have to take a look in the toilet. That, too, couldn’t be avoided, especially as the parquet had been mopped but not completely.
Numero 11 rue des Saussaies was as blacked out as the rest of the city at seven minutes past midnight, now Saturday, 13 February 1943-how had Hermann and himself lasted this long? wondered St-Cyr. Leaving the Citroen at kerbside where it could be more easily located if in a hurry, he avoided the front entrance. Heading up into the courtyard, he felt his way by running a hand along the inner wall, all the while listening to the streets and to the rain.
The cellars were ice cold. Water lay in pools. Dimly lit at the best of times, the corridors ran every which way. The first cells were starkly empty. Scratches gave names and dates-one couldn’t help but notice. A poem-sometimes beautifully composed; a message, if but brief; a curse that could only have made things more difficult. A ‘reinforced’ interrogation brought its echoes. Cringing with each blow, he hurried-Hermann and he had agreed to spend as little time as possible in the building, in that ‘office’ of theirs on the fifth floor.
The women’s cells were at the back, down yet another corridor. French or Occupier, did it matter who was in authority here? Often the former liked to show they were better at it than the latter, but would they really have to answer for their actions when spring came? Wasn’t Pharand, head of the Surete, a past master at blowing the smoke screen and hiding behind it? Wouldn’t those such as himself and Hermann, too, be left to answer for the crimes of others?
Blood, pus, human waste and vomit made the air rank. Suddenly a man shrilled a name. Other names rapidly followed, then a penetrating silence, then a sickening blow to which the whole of the cellars would have listened.
Upstairs, on the ground floor and above this, there was much activity. Questioning the duty sergeant brought nothing more than a knowing smirk and then an uncaring shrug.
There was no mention in the docket of Giselle’s having been picked up. The morgue then? he had to wonder. If so, how could he possibly break the news to Hermann? Hadn’t it been hard enough having to let him know of the deaths of his two sons? Hadn’t Boemelburg deliberately left that duty to this partner and friend of Hermann’s?
Walter’s door was closed but never locked since none would dare enter without being asked and the duty sergeant was keeping an eye on this Surete.
But not long enough.
Quickly letting himself into the spacious office Pharand had had to vacate after the Defeat, he closed the door and listened hard to this place he’d once been proud to be a part of. The blackout drapes had been drawn-Walter often worked late. The green-shaded desk lamp he’d brought from a distant past as a salesman of heating and ventilating systems would be sufficient. Before making the career change to detective, Walter had worked in Paris in the twenties and had learned the language so well as Head of the Gestapo’s Section IV he spoke it like a native of Montmartre.
Boemelburg and he had liaised on IKPK matters before the Defeat and on that infamous day no surprise had been shown at finding this Surete upstairs in Records destroying sensitive files the Gestapo and SS wanted. He had merely wagged a reproving finger and had said to cooperate or else, since some appearance of fighting common crime, no matter how limited, would be useful in calming the public. ‘But I’ll delegate someone to watch over you.’
Questions … there wouldn’t even be time for those when the end came and the Occupier had to leave. Hermann and himself wouldn’t have a chance. There were only about 2,400 German Gestapo and SS in the country but there were more than 50,000 working for them: the French Gestapo of the rue Lauriston-gangsters who had been let out of prison and put to work; the Intervention-Referat, the Bickler Unit and other gangs, and as if these were not enough, now there was Vichy’s newest paramilitary force, the Milice francaise. Then, too, the Surete and the Paris police-all 15,000 of these last-and every other police force in the country, even the gardes champetre, the rural police. Certainly not all were bad-ah no, of course not-but orders were orders and often the only choice a flic or village cop had was to follow them to varying degrees, some more than others.
But civil war would erupt when the Occupier pulled out. Caught up in things-trapped-Hermann wouldn’t have a chance, never mind himself.
A metronome drew his attention-such a lovely thing conjured thoughts of childhood piano lessons that had been hated until, wonder of wonders, Grand-maman had stopped having earaches.
Next to it was a phial of bitter almond, the smell like that of potassium cyanide. Walter was now constantly searching for improvements: the incessant tick-tock of the one during an interrogation, the smell of the other in a war of nerves that was only going to get far worse.
Sonja Remer’s name had been written and encircled on an otherwise blank sheet of paper beneath which there was a telex from Gestapo Muller in Berlin but prompted, no doubt, by an enraged Heinrich Himmler. ACHTUNG. IMMEDIATE END TO BLACKOUT CRIMES IMPERATIVE OR FACE RECALL AND COURT-MARTIAL. HEIL HITLER.
Berlin were seldom happy. Though Von Schaumburg might be counted on, Walter was really this flying squad’s only supporter. By his word alone did they continue to exist.
In the top drawer there were blank identity cards, blank ration cards with next week’s colour-coded tickets, blank laissez-passers and sauf-conduits, all rubber stamped and signed not only by Prefet Talbotte but also by Von Schaumburg. Lots and lots of them, each type bound by an elastic band. French-gestapo plainclothes and others often had to go under cover to trap resistants or to locate hidden works of art and other valuables.