J. Janes - Clandestine

*Predates the Musee de l’Homme, which has since been torn down and replaced by the Musee des Arts et Traditions Populaires.

The comings and goings at that Lokal on the boulevard Saint-Michel were clearly in view, Hermann having drawn the Citroen over to the side of the boulevard Saint-Germain not far to the west of its intersection with the other. It was Wednesday, 6 October, and they’d been on this investigation since the first of the month, yet it seemed a lifetime, felt St-Cyr. It was almost 1000 hours, and in but a moment he was going to have to do what that girl had asked, yet there was still this huge uncertainty over Giselle and Oona and it clouded everything. ‘Hermann, she will at least have tried to free them.’

‘Or been arrested. Had you even thought of that?’

‘Constantly.’

‘Just remember that if you are met, you tell her that she has to come alone and with that bike’s trailer.’

‘ Ah mon Dieu , but why?’

‘How else is she going to cart away three suitcases?’

‘You’ve thought of everything, have you?’

‘What I have in mind might just work.’

‘Yet you’ve not had the guts to fill me in on the details or even to discuss it! Bonne chance, mon vieux . Bonne chance! ’

Having had but another terrible night in that house of Louis’s mother’s, they were both bitchy, felt Kohler, Louis out of the car before anything further could be said and quickly losing himself among the pedestrians, the foot-traffic the usual for this time of day and midweek. Students, too, of course. Lots of those on bikes and on foot, but mostly female, the boys either dodging the forced labour or having already gone into hiding. ‘But it’s coming, isn’t it?’ he called out. ‘The end, eh, and they all look as if they can hardly wait.’

‘“Spring,” n’est-ce pas ?’ said an urgent female voice. ‘Floor it and pull over where suitable.’

Ach, she had ducked into the car so quickly, he hadn’t even heard her open the door. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be meeting Louis?’

‘This is safer.’

Ramming the accelerator to the floor and leaning on the horn, he didn’t say another thing, just headed straight to the Halle aux Vins which wasn’t far and just off the rue de Jussieu, next to the Jardin des Plantes. The rue de Bordeaux was busy, that, too, of the Cote d’Or. Settling on the rue de Bourgonne, he found a quiet place, and turning in and out of sight of most, left the engine running and said, ‘Now tell me what the hell you meant.’

‘Something-I don’t honestly know what-told me not to go in there, and when I saw him hurriedly leave the car, that same instinct told me not to call out, but to speak to yourself.’

Had Louis walked right into it? If so, how could he possibly be freed? ‘Did you manage Oona and Giselle?’

‘The shop Enchantement. Madame Van der Lynn said to tell you Muriel and Chantal would hide them.’

Giving but the deepest of sighs, Herr Kohler very quickly told her where and how the exchange would be made, and how very tight the timing would have to be. And when he said, ‘You’ve a trailer for that bike of yours. Be sure to use it,’ she knew that he could only have seen it in those photos that had been destroyed.

He didn’t ask where she was staying, simply said, ‘I’ll drop you off at the Jussieu metro station. In that uniform you’ll ride free and the sooner you vanish from this quartier, the better. Louis may need me.’

Fewer and fewer were in the Lokal , the increasing emptiness seeming only to focus attention on himself, felt St-Cyr. No one had come to tell him where to meet Anna-Marie. Believing they were meeting, Hermann would have gone on to the Porte de Versailles to connect with Werner Dillmann, but was that whole house of cards of his to now fall in on them?

Emptying his pipe-making sure no little fire remained-he tucked it away, and forcing himself to do so, decided to wait another two minutes. Had she seen that their meeting here was out of the question? Had she been arrested?

Cold, hard, heavy and well known but not his own, the muzzle of a Lebel Modele d’ordonannce was pressed to the back of his head. ‘Hands flat on the table, Sergeant.’

‘Ah, Rocheleau, and here I thought you would be busy elsewhere, but if you’re intending to cause trouble again, let me remind you of the consequences.’

The blow must be excruciating, felt Rocheleau, the suddenness of oblivion instant!

Blood poured from the salaud ’s head. ‘Was that hard enough, Inspector, or do you want another?’

Not being able to understand more than a few words of French, Ludin impatiently said in Deutsch, ‘Remove that pistol of his and hand it to me, then use his handcuffs.’

‘ Ah bon , the bracelets. Those will teach him another lesson.’

Two Blitzmadchen had collected Kohler’s women last night, Ludin now knew, the one with papers that had given her name as Annette-Marie Schellenburger. She’d been blonde, blue-eyed and younger than the twenty-eight those papers had stated, but beyond that it hadn’t taken much to figure out where she might well be wearing that uniform and meeting with St-Cyr. Not only was there a Blitzmadchenheim on the rue Saint-Severin and just off the boulevard Saint-Michel, there was a Lokal on the latter and not far from a Soldatenheim on the boulevard Saint-Germain, and with lots of students from the Sorbonne as a reminder. But he had needed help, and there really had been only one person he could have used.

‘Kriminalrat, this turtle will tell us everything. Just give me a few moments with him at Rudy de Merode’s. Les joyeuses, n’est-ce pas , then the bathtub with iced water and he’ll soon cough up the answers, if not, a few lessons with the rawhide to mark him like that partner of his.’

Virtually all of what had just been said made little sense. ‘Just clamp a handkerchief to his head and get him into the car. Kohler can’t be intending to collect him. He’d have been on top of us by now, but we’ll take no chances.’

Lying on a table in the Lokal , amid scattered cigarette ashes, saccharine and a wash of acorn water, were the bloodstains and a flat, almost full and forgotten bottle of Jagermeister.

Pocketing this last, Herr Kohler didn’t hesitate. ‘And this Frenchman who hit him?’ he demanded.

‘Owlish with black Bakelite specs, a broken, sticking-plaster covered nose, new suit, fedora, tie and topcoat, and relish at what he’d just done.’

One of the Wehrmacht’s career losers, this unshaven, un-anything shy; fifty-year-old ‘cook’ was waiting for a handout. ‘Now tell me where they were taking him since that Kriminalrat was supposed to be on his way back to Berlin.’

While that was interesting, felt Karl Ludwig Hoefle, all he really could do was to give a shrug and then … ‘ Ach , after I had helped the frog to get your partner into the backseat of that car, he scribbled something down and handed it to me. Now what the hell did I do with it?’

‘What?’

‘A scrap of paper with an address. Ach , he said that his wife was now working there and needed lessons, and that if I would give her “the works,” I was to tell the boss-madam he would pay for it.’

‘His wife?’

‘Evangeline.’

‘What house?’

Now this was far more interesting and haste was, of course, necessary but …

Peeling off a 500-franc note, Herr Kohler finally handed it over, and when told a 1,000-franc note would help, uncovered the answer. ‘My French isn’t too good but I think it was the Lupanar des garennes .’