Gaston Morel was that cement, of course, and Rudi must know of him but was fishing for something else: the judge. ‘And if Louis and I agree?’
‘Then I can help you with this handbag and its owner. Helga will simply tell the Sicherheitsdienst*** that it was thrown on to the doorstep by the driver of one of those bicycle taxis. The Red Cockade or Rooster’s Tail, isn’t that korrekt, Helga?’
‘It happened so quickly, Rudi.’
‘But between four thirty and five in the afternoon. Not earlier and not later.’
‘Yes, Rudi.’
‘The licence had an RP, of course, but you can’t possibly be certain if it was followed by a fifteen or a ninety-eight.’
And definitely Luc Desrocher’s The Red Comb of the Magnificent Cock, owned and operated by Herve’s dear papa but leased last night to Albert Vasseur whose Take Me was still in police custody.
‘The boys who stole this handbag, and their families, could then rest more easily,’ went on Rudi. ‘Otherwise I can tell you duty calls, and that should word of what I know get out, I have it on good authority the Hoherer SS will not turn the other cheek. He will seize the opportunity to make an example of them, one the French will not forget.’
‘Mont-Valerien,’ blurted Louis, aghast at what had been revealed.
‘Or the rue Laurence Savart, outside of number 3,’ said Rudi, watching them closely.
The execution ground of the fort in the industrial suburb of Suresnes and just across the river, to the west of them. It was that or outside Louis’s house, in his beloved Belleville.
‘Now eat,’ said Rudi, getting up to leave them to think about it. ‘Enjoy-don’t waste a morsel. Helga, a glass or two of that stuff we used for the marinade. We’re about to accomplish the impossible. We’re going to make a good Nazi out of this Landsmann of ours. That, too, is something the Hoherer SS demands, and that, my friends, is not gossip.’
* * *
The restaurant had grown quiet. Rudi did bang pots in the kitchen and hum the Horst Wessel Lied, the marching song of the Nazi Party, but Helga had gone off to dream the dream of dreams.
‘God always extracts a price, Hermann, and then squeezes a little more.’
‘I’m going to have to tell Rudi something.’
‘But only a little. You can’t be perceived by Oberg as wanting to protect the boys and their families, nor can you go to that one without first reporting to Boemelburg. The chain of command, n’est-ce pas? Offend the one and you offend the other. Besides, Walter can perhaps find a way to cushion the theft of that Ford, especially as Himmler is demanding his recall should the perpetrators of these blackout attacks fail to be immediately apprehended.’
‘You’ve been busy, but I’m not going to let them use Giselle. I can’t. Not anymore. You’ve seen her, haven’t you? She’s okay, isn’t she? She’s with Oona and the kids …’
‘Hermann, listen to me. I did what I could but obviously needed more time. There are still places where she …’
‘Could have holed up? Madame Chabot’s?’
‘Not there. Not at the flat either. Look, I’m sorry. I was going to tell you.’
‘You were going to break it to me when convenient, eh, like Rouget?’
‘Sit down. Please! Giselle is probably fine.’
‘Safe is the word you want, mein Lieber. Safe!’
Even Rudi had stopped humming, but Hermann mustn’t be told of the rape and killing in the passage de l’Hirondelle and all the rest of what this partner of his had yet to impart. He must be shielded from it, had had enough for one evening, had already forced himself to do the impossible. ‘Oona may have heard from her. Giselle might simply have been delayed by a film. You know how she is. I didn’t stay. I only checked in briefly.’
‘And then tried to find Giselle. What’s happened to her, Louis?’
‘I don’t know but wish I did.’
Louis wasn’t telling him everything.
‘We’ll leave the Ford out in front of the Propaganda-Abteilung, Hermann, but will have to siphon off what’s left of their petrol.’
‘And take the food. I’m not leaving that. We’ll drop the keys in their tank so that no one will try to steal the car unless they smash a side windscreen first.’
The sound of a carrot being crunched was followed by that of another. St-Cyr opened his eyes but otherwise told himself not to move.
More of each carrot was taken. They were standing in their pyjamas, woollen socks and pullovers, staring curiously down at him: Adrienne Guillaumet’s Louisette to his right; Henri to the left. The curtain of the puppet theatre had been opened.
‘Did you put the coffee on?’ he asked.
‘The acorn water. I told you so, Henri,’ whispered his sister, cupping the carrot to hide it.
‘We had to move you in here with me,’ went on St-Cyr. ‘Hermann …’
‘Needed to be with Oona,’ said Henri severely.
‘We heard him, Monsieur l’Inspecteur Principal. He was very distressed.’
‘Giselle,’ said the brother.
‘Is she dead?’ asked the sister.
‘Don’t say that. Never say it until certain. We’ll find her. Don’t worry. Ah! help me up. These cushions, this rug, that left shoulder of mine, the left thigh … Old bullet wounds, you understand. I slept, can you believe it?’
They hadn’t cut into the baguettes from the Ford, had valiantly resisted that temptation. Potatoes were sliced thinly, onions diced. There were no eggs but there was a sprinkling of dill, some oregano too.
‘Add some of the meat,’ said Henri.
‘Just a little,’ said Louisette. ‘A taste.’
‘Don’t forget the garlic,’ said the brother.
It was nearly noon.
‘You should have gone off to school. It’s still Saturday, isn’t it? And don’t tell me you’re on strike. I’ve already heard that one. I’ll just have a wash. There isn’t a razor, is there?’
‘Papa’s extra one,’ said Louisette. ‘We were not allowed to send it to him. Prisoners of war are not allowed such weapons.’
‘Good. Take over here. Turn the hot plate down in a moment. Add more oil from time to time. It’s good, isn’t it? From Mouries in Provence, I think. The village is close to Arles, which became Caesar’s number-one city, even better than Marseille. There’s an amphitheatre that would seat more than twenty thousand. Bullfights are still held. Well, they were before this Defeat of ours. I’m not sure since, having been too busy.’
‘And the wine?’ asked Louisette.
‘First take a sip and tell me what you think.’
‘It is thin,’ she said.
‘It’s been watered, idiot!’ said Henri.
‘It’s a village wine, a blend of Pinot Noir and the Gamay. A Clos Saint-Denis. The vineyards are not far from the tiny village of Morey-Saint-Denis in the Cote de Nuits and perhaps twelve or so kilometres to the south of Dijon where our mustard used to come from. You are both right, though, but since it’s all we have, refill my glass. I won’t be long.’
‘He’s nice, isn’t he?’ said Louisette when she had Henri to herself. ‘He has lost his little son and wife. Everyone in this house of ours has lost someone.’
‘Maman’s not lost. She’s just waiting to get better.’
‘Of course, but I was thinking of Papa.’
From the rue Saint-Dominique to the quai d’Orsay wasn’t far. Once there, they would follow the Seine upriver to the Pont d’Austerlitz. Hermann hadn’t insisted on driving, a bad sign, nor had he asked where they were going. Clearly he was still worried about Oberg, the judge and Giselle, but miracle of miracles, the sun was out. Those in the endless queues outside the shops had taken heart. One old woman had even allowed a young mother to step to the head of the line, obeying the rule from Vichy. A twenty-year-old cyclist really did walk his bike, forgetting entirely that the STO thugs could immediately grab and transport him into forced labour, but was it all some sort of sign God wished to give, wondered St-Cyr, or was He merely getting the hopes up so as to make the crunch all the harder?