J. Janes - Tapestry

He grabbed the bike. The velo-taxi jerked and skidded to a stop. The street became deserted, its scurrying little blue lights and cigarettes vanishing. ‘Look, guide me to this address and I’ll let you go.’

A light came on to read the scribbled page of this one’s notebook. ‘The judge?’ asked Didier Valois, owner-operator of the marechal ’s Baton, taxi number 43.75 Butte-Montmartre.

‘What judge?’

Did this one not realize who he was about to arrest-was the judge to be arrested? wondered Valois. Ah, merde, the loss of the fares, the late nights and carting that one home well after curfew, but an end to the monster-was that it, eh? ‘ Monsieur le juge Rouget.’

Oh-oh. ‘Judge of what?’

‘ President du Tribunal special du departement de la Seine .’

Hercule the Smasher, the Widow Maker’s Companion, Vichy’s top judge and hatchet man in Paris. Not only did he preside over some of the trials of black-market violators and send the little guys, never the big boys, off to the Reich and into forced labour or to the Sante or Fresnes prisons, he presided over the night-action courts, those in which the ‘terrorists,’ as Vichy and the Occupier were wont to call them, were tried and convicted. The Resistance hated him and he was as stark a son of a bitch as Vichy could have found. Arrogant, Louis would have said in warning. Positive the police were incompetent and not doing enough. Quick to make up his mind and quicker still to take offence. Suspicious and with a mind that forgot nothing, even that this Kripo protected and cohabited with a Dutch alien whose dead husband was Jewish and whose papers weren’t good, but who also lived with a former prostitute who was far less than half his age!

Louis must have known who Denise Rouget’s father was but hadn’t said-had he really been too busy to think of it at the Drouant or even at Chez Rudi’s, or had he hoped and prayed it would simply go away and they wouldn’t have to deal with the bastard?

The judge was far from happy. Even from a foyer where oil paintings worth a fortune could easily have been snatched in a smash-and-grab, the hiss of his voice was clear from beyond closed doors.

What do you mean, ‘There’s a Gestapo detective asking to interview my daughter’ ?

The reply from the maid of all work could not be heard, though Kohler strained to listen.

Denise, what is this, please?

Again nothing could be heard, even from the daughter.

How dare the couillon invade the sanctity of my home? I’ll show the salaud ! Out of my way, Denise. Out, I tell you!

Papa …

Don’t you dare stand in my way!

The Roman statuettes and vase of white silk lilies on the Louis XVI gilded entry table vibrated. The carpet beneath leaking boots was a Savonnerie …

‘Inspector, how dare you come here like this without an appointment? I’m speaking to Karl Oberg about this. I’m speaking to Walter Boemelburg and to Ernst von Schaumburg. I will not have my privacy invaded!’

A tornado. ‘Kohler, Monsieur le Juge. Kripo, Paris-Central, here on orders from that very Kommandant von Gross-Paris.’

‘WHAT?’

‘You heard me, Judge. That daughter of yours arranged for two of last night’s victims to meet beforehand at the Cafe de la Paix. As far as I can determine she didn’t join them, but since she may well have been involved in what subsequently happened, there are things I need to ask her.’

‘Involved? That’s preposterous. What things?’

‘Things like, How did she know Madame Barrault was even familiar with the cafe, seeing as the woman hasn’t any money to spare and works the odd evening as an usherette?’

‘The slut should not be working. She’s a wife and mother with an eight-year-old daughter!’

‘Papa …’

‘Denise, did I not tell you to let me handle this?’

‘Your daughter’s their social worker, Judge.’

‘And are not all such matters held in the strictest confidence?’

Liebe Zeit , was he going to have to threaten the bastard? ‘Look, it’s only routine.’

‘No, you look. The wives and fiancees of our prisoners of war are playing around like rabbits in heat. The one asks for a taxi driver she can trust to pick her up after lessons; the other dines at the Drouant with Monsieur and Madame Morel and at Morel’s insistence? The Opera for one so poor? The Drouant? Both attacks have to suggest the obvious.’

‘Judge …’

‘Gaston Morel is known to take his mistresses where and when he can find them and they can’t give trouble even if he flaunts them in front of that wife of his, but if I must tell you this, the epidemic has become a plague. Our dear boys in the prisoner-of-war camps in the Reich, necessary as those are, do not have the pleasures of using their wives. Others do!’

‘ Papa, your heart.’

‘Fuck my heart! Disappear. You are not to talk to this one!’

‘Then let me ring up Gestapo Boemelburg’s office, Judge. You’ve a telephone-men in positions such as yours have to have one, rare though they are. Let’s let the Gestapo’s Listeners know I’m here and wanting to question your daughter on a police matter.’

The salaud ! ‘How dare you?’

‘You leave me no other choice.’

‘ Papa, the fewer who know of my involvement, the better.’

‘Hercule, Hercule,’ interjected Madame Rouget. ‘Denise is right. Be your gracious self. I know you’ve had a very trying day and desperately need a rest. Brigitte, don’t stand there looking stupid. Take the inspector’s things and put them to dry in the kitchen by the stove then bring some coffee and cognac. The Vieille Reserve … no, no, the Louis XIII. The Remy-Martin and the cigars. Yes, yes, those too. The El Rey del Mundo Choix Supreme.’

An angel, but that very cognac and those cigars had been encountered in Vichy but a week ago. The Marechal Petain himself had enjoyed that brand of cigar and still did but that could only mean the gossip was circulating and Madame Rouget would put it to good use if necessary, and had let him know.

Louis should have heard it.

Road Racer, Boot Saver, Comfort’s Partner, the velo-taxis waited in the rain and darkness outside the Cafe de la Paix. The last of the charcoal smoke from the outdoor braziers brought faint thoughts of warmth and dryness that couldn’t be dwelt on. ‘A Tokarev,’ St-Cyr heard himself grimly mutter as he searched the darkness for the little light he needed. ‘A TT-33. There can only be one reason why this Sonja Remer could have had it in her handbag.’

Last Sunday the woman had taken a decided interest in the Parc des Buttes Chaumont’s carousel and had asked its operator about a certain two detectives and a murder there in December. She had had a clipping of Hermann’s advertisement in her handbag, must have been told of Oona and Giselle, would know of the home address, had kept the pistol loaded.

An assassin? he had to ask. A girl? A Blitzmadel they would never have suspected?

The boys had overheard her asking the carousel’s operator if Hermann always kept their guns until needed and if this chief inspector had a girlfriend who was the chanteuse at the Club Mirage. Gabrielle would have to be warned.

The boys had held a little conference and then had followed this Sonja Remer. She had gone into the toilets at the restaurant. Guy Vachon, having lost at straws, had snatched the handbag. She had shrieked and cried out, had chased them, but they had run to the carousel, had passed the bag from hand to hand, vanishing into the park as delinquent boys will who know their territory.