J. Janes - Gypsy

A stumpy forefinger was raised. ‘Passenger traffic does stop, as you well know. Those arriving must wait until the curfew is over; those departing must purchase their tickets before it begins. The wickets are then closed, the receipts tallied and put away in the safe, and the office locked.’

‘How much did he get?’ asked Kohler, dismayed by the speed with which the Gypsy was working.

The rheum-filled Nordic eyes seemed saddened, as if in assessing them, Boemelburg was cognizant of certain truths. A flagrant patriotism in St-Cyr, questionable friends, a rebellious nature in Kohler, among other things. ‘682,000 francs in 100 and 500 franc notes. He left the rest.’

It had to be asked. ‘What else, Walter? I’ve seen it before,’ said St-Cyr. ‘You always drop your eyes when you want to tell us something but are uncertain of how to put it.’

A big man, with the blunt head and all-but-shaven, bristly iron grey hair of a Polizeikommissar of long experience, Boemelburg had seen nearly everything the criminal milieu could offer but he was also Head of SIPO-Section IV, the Gestapo in France.

‘Three Lebels, the 1873 Modele d’ordonnance , and one hundred and twenty rounds, the black-powder cartridges. Forgotten during the Defeat and subsequent ordinance to turn in all firearms. Overlooked in the hunt for delinquent guns. Left in their boxes and brand-new, Louis. Good Gott im Himmel , the imbeciles!’

‘From 1873?’ managed the Surete. ‘But that is …’

‘Yes, yes, only two years after the Franco-Prussian War. Look, I don’t know how long they were in that safe. No one does. Each agent-directeur simply thought it best to leave those damned boxes alone.’

‘It’s serious,’ said Kohler lamely.

‘Are the Resistance involved in this matter?’ shouted the Chief.

Ah no … thought St-Cyr, dismayed at the sudden turn. Counter-terrorism, subversion, tracking down Jews, gypsies and all others of the Reich’s so-called undesirables were Walter’s responsibility, not just combating common crime. But then, too, in one of those paradoxes of the war, he ran gangs of known criminals who did the Gestapo’s bidding when they, themselves, wanted to remain at arm’s length.

A cop, and now a thug too, he unfortunately knew the city well, having worked here in his youth as a heating and ventilating engineer. He spoke French as good as any Parisian, even to the argot of Montmartre.

That grim, grey look passed over them. ‘I’m warning you. I want no trouble with this. Berlin are adamant. The Gypsy is to be apprehended at all costs. Taken alive if possible – there are things we need to know from him – but dead will do. That’s what they want and I must insist on it.’

‘And Herr Engelmann … why is he here?’ asked Kohler.

‘Why not? The IKPK have card indexes on all such people.’

‘Then it didn’t stop functioning at the onslaught of hostilities. Heydrich kept it going?’ asked Louis.

‘As the Gruppenfuhrer knew he should have. Herr Engelmann is not just with their robberies division. He holds a cross-appointment with the Berlin Kripo. In the course of his duties in ‘38, and then in ‘40 and ‘41, he went to Oslo several times to interview our friend, and has come to know him intimately, if anyone can ever do so.’

‘Then why is he being so difficult? Why doesn’t he take us fully into his confidence?’ asked Kohler.

Security allowed only so much to be said. ‘That is precisely what I have asked him to do. Full co-operation. A concerted effort to bring this safe-cracker in and quickly before he does us all an injury from which we cannot recover.’

Boemelburg was clearly worried. Leaning forward, he hurriedly shoved things out of the way, and lowered his voice. ‘Whose agenda is he following? What are his next targets? Where will he hole up and exactly who is helping him?’

Nana Theleme or someone else?

The set of fingerprints was very clear, the head-and-shoulders photographs sharp, but to St-Cyr the file card – the top in a bundle of perhaps thirty – was like one of those from the past. It evoked memories of Vienna and the IKPK and worries about the distinct possibility of another high-level assassination, the then impending visit of King George VI to France in July of 1938. Boemelburg and he had worked together on it, a last occasion before the war.

The IKPK had sent such cards to all its member countries, requesting whatever they had on a certain criminal or type of crime. These cards were then stored in rotatable drum-cabinets and a detective such as Boemelburg or himself, or Engelmann, could in a few moments collate data from cities in France with that from Britain, the Netherlands, Turkey, Italy, Greece and, at last count in 1938, some twenty-eight other countries around the world.

Lists of stolen property were painstakingly spelled out where possible. Missing persons, unidentified cadavers, murder, arson, counterfeiting, fraud, drug trafficking and prostitution – all were there at the turn of the drum and yes, very early on, even in 1932 and ‘33, there had been concerns about a Nazi takeover, yet the service had offered immense possibilities. A radio network in 1935 linked many of the major cities, allowing policemen to talk directly and informally to colleagues in other countries, very quickly forming professional liaisons that were of benefit to all.

Special cards were tinted to denote les Bohemiens , though keeping track of their wanderings often proved exceedingly difficult. But in any case, the Gypsy was not one of the Rom, so his cards were like all others, if more numerous than most.

‘Janwillem De Vries,’ grumbled a disgruntled Herr Max who didn’t like being told to co-operate with the present company. ‘Father, Hendrick, no known criminal activities but a socialist do-gooder when not pouring out historical pap to stuff the teat of it into the eager mouths of bored Dutch Hausfrauen . Mother, Marina, no suggestions of anything there either. Vivacious, quick-minded, deft with the brush but impulsive and given to wandering off for days on her bicycle, or to working in her studio night after night. A flirt – mein Gott , there is ample evidence of it, given that she often posed in the nude as a statue for her photographer friends. Orpheus and her lute, but that one was a boy, wasn’t he? Died, unhappily, 18 June 1929 of a drowning accident on the Linge near Geldermalsen while trying to reach some lilies she wanted to paint, though to see her sketches is to see nothing but the confused and flighty mind of the avant-garde who should have been trussed up with her apron strings and taught a few lessons!’

Naked? wondered Kohler idly – was this what Herr Max had meant?

The visitor lit a cheroot, he looking as if he’d just got out of bed and hadn’t quite had time to dress properly.

‘Apprehended 20 April 1938 – caught with his hands in the wall safe of one Magnus Erlendsson, a prominent shipping magnate who should have known better than to keep such things at home and to tell others how clever he was. The tax authorities were most interested and Herr Erlendsson quickly found himself going from one theft to another!’

Engelmann gave a throaty chuckle – work did have its compensations. ‘Oostende,’ he coughed. ‘Coffee … is there a little, Sturmbannfuhrer? A brandy also und a raw egg, I think.’

Tears moistened the hard little eyes behind their gold-rimmed specs. He took a breath, then remembered the cheroot.

‘Oostende …?’ hazarded Kohler.

The visitor let his gaze linger on the Bavarian before clearing his throat of its blockage. ‘First, don’t ask until you’re told to. Second, rely on me to lead this little discussion.’