J. Janes - Tapestry

‘Only that she had to go somewhere. One doesn’t ask of such things, isn’t that so? Instinctively one understands the need for privacy and doesn’t condemn.’

They came through the pitch-darkness and the rain of the rue Laurence Savart. St-Cyr could hear them as he got out of the Citroen. They knew this street he loved, didn’t even need a single light.

‘ Monsieur l’Inspecteur, a moment, s’il vous pla i t .’

The caller was Antoine Courbet’s mother. ‘Madame, please don’t get drenched. Quickly, quickly, inside the house.’

Last to enter was Herve Desrochers’s father, Lucien or Luc, who stopped him in the darkness of the tiny foyer. ‘A moment, Inspector. The one whose velo-taxi was stolen has sublet mine for the evening so that I could be present to tell you about my Herve. He’s a good boy, you understand, but a bit of a follower. Those other boys, that Antoine …’

‘Yes, yes. Later, I think, after I’ve heard from them.’

The St-Cyrs had always felt themselves better. This one was no different, thought Desrochers as they crowded into the kitchen. The vacuum flask of soup was opened by that tongue, Madame Courbet. A plate and spoon were produced, the woman knowing the house and having free run of it, a napkin smoothed and two chunks of the grey National set beside it.

‘Sit, please, Inspector,’ he interjected quickly. ‘First the soup and the bread, as we have all agreed, and then the …’

‘The confessions,’ countered Jeanne Courbet, daring him to say another word in his son’s defence.

They stood and watched from the other side of the table. They dripped water on the floor, but wasn’t that what kitchen floors were for, and Madame Courbet would see to it anyway.

The soup, a puree of leeks and potatoes-how had they managed them?-was not only excellent but exactly what he needed. Each family would have contributed an equal share. Madame Courbet would have seen to that. A powerhouse.

Not until the flask was drained and the plate wiped clean with the last morsel of bread, would he let the proceedings of this little court begin.

Judge, lawyer for the defence, the plaintiffs, too, and the prosecution’s attorney were all present, but a court secretary was needed shy; to read out the indictment, a jury too, of course, though that could be dispensed with. ‘Madame, would you …’ he hazarded shy;, setting the spoon aside at last.

‘Inspector, first the evidence .’

A practical woman who was really worried and with good reason. Go on, she motioned to her son. ‘You first,’ she whispered.

One by one they would approach the bench. Drained of tears, Antoine’s expression was that of the condemned who knew only that the blade awaited. Item by item, and there were several of these, the boy laid out his share of the loot. The torn half of a ticket to the UFA Palast, a room key, a cigarette case, a half-empty packet of Kamels-would temptation gnaw at this judge? wondered St-Cyr.

Lastly, at a severe nudge, Antoine unfolded a newspaper advertisement, torn from Paris-Soir . It was one of Hermann’s many appeals for help in locating Oona’s children.

Monsieur Louis lifted gravely troubled, questioning eyes to her-he couldn’t help doing so, Jeanne Courbet knew-but he said nothing as he fingered that clipping, wondering as she had and still did, why this German girl had had it in her handbag. ‘Antoine, he and the others, didn’t tear it from the newspaper, Monsieur Louis.’

A nod would be best, but Luc Desrochers was watching him closely. Behind the mask of worry there was the light of temptation in Herve’s papa . Could the document be used to his son’s advantage and that of the family? These days nothing was sacred shy;.

‘Fraulein Sonja Remer,’ said the judge he had become. ‘The name is on her clothing card.’ He mustn’t hesitate, mustn’t be struck down by this … this scrap of newsprint. Not yet, but Rudi Sturmbacher had told them to find and return the girl’s handbag complete with its contents or face the consequences. He’d have to tell them something, couldn’t avoid it.

The look he gave would never leave them, Dede knew. It was like that of a priest before the condemned.

‘ Mes chers amis, she is an employee of the SS on the avenue Foch, a secretary, a Blitzmadel , one of the grey mice.’

Had God deserted them entirely? cried Jeanne Courbet silently but wouldn’t let tears fall. She wouldn’t!

When they did, Monsieur Louis looked not at her but at each of the boys and then at Herve’s papa .

It was that one, Jeanne knew, who said, ‘Herve, please return to the inspector your share.’ To give the knave credit, his voice was that of one before the firing squad.

‘Yes, Papa,’ came the faintest of responses but Herve couldn’t find the courage to look at the inspector. ‘Forgive me, Monsieur Louis. It … it was my idea to steal the German lady’s handbag. I … I persuaded the others. I know we have all let you down terribly and that you will never kick the soccer ball back to us again but … but will let it roll down the street to where it will be stolen by the other boys or flattened by a German lorry!’

There was no money. There were no stale cigarettes or spent condoms. There was only one thing and when he saw it, Monsieur Louis lost all colour, the throat constricting tightly, he letting escape a breath of despair before silencing himself.

The barrel was shiny and grey, the grip mat black-of Bakelite? wondered this judge he’d become. Not crosshatched as most were, but with parallel ridges closely set and extending the length of the butt.

A date was clearly stamped 1936, the weapon’s number: 20524.

‘A star,’ he said and there was a depth of sadness to him that couldn’t be plumbed. ‘Russian,’ he went on, the detective in him taking over. ‘A Red Army Tokarev TT-33, 7.62 mm semiautomatic. The TT stands for Tula Tokarev, Tula being a city to the south of Moscow that’s known for its artisans, the designer’s name Fedor Tokarev, but this gun’s history goes back well beyond 1930 when it was first produced. You see, the Russians and their czar bought up lots of Mauser pistols from the Germans before the Great War, and far more ammunition than was needed.’

He paused. He gave the weapon the look of one whose life was lost.

‘So much ammunition that they then found they had to have pistols and submachine guns of their own just to use up the leftover cartridges. The 7.62 and the 7.63 of the Mauser are interchangeable, the TT-33 being adopted by the Red Army in 1933.’

He touched that thing. He said, ‘This isn’t a lady’s gun. The recoil, the kick, is similar to that of a much larger calibre weapon-the American Colt .45 perhaps-and as a result, it’s not a comfortable gun, especially for a woman.’

The question of why she, a mere secretary had it, was written all over him. ‘The boys didn’t disarm it, Inspector,’ said Luc Desrochers. ‘I did when I discovered it in Herve’s school briefcase.’

Out from a clenched fist tumbled the cartridges, all eight of them, and then the broken words from the son. ‘There … there wasn’t one up the spout.’

‘Good. The Russians are often quick to action, so this thing doesn’t have a safety, beyond that of the half-cock.’

The Parc Monceau was utterly dark. Elsewhere bicycles and bicycle-taxis were about, pedestrians too, but if he stopped someone to ask directions, Kohler knew they would only send him on a wild goose chase. That social worker, Denise Rouget, lived at home with her parents and he had to talk to her, but where was home?

Ach, he’d best get out and walk but would he be able to find the car afterwards? ‘Hey, you. HALT! IHRE PAPIERE, DUMMKOPF. SCHNELL! ’