J. Janes - Tapestry

‘Though it was dark, Inspector, I could see that he stood like a soldier,’ said Vasseur.

‘Was he wearing his French army greatcoat and cap? You’d have smelled the wool.’

‘And the aftershave and tobacco, but he had asked me to hurry, and by the time we reached the intersection, I was worn out.’

‘One can’t argue with such, Inspector,’ said one of the others. ‘His boots, Albert. Tell him.’

‘Were hobnailed. What else would one have expected?’

‘And?’

‘The red ribbon,’ admitted Vasseur. ‘When one sees it, one obeys, isn’t that so?’

‘You shone your light at him?’

‘Briefly, but not in the face. The ribbon stopped me from lifting the light further and when he asked me to bring him right back here, I didn’t argue.’

‘The times, please, as close as possible?’

‘Times?’ arched Vasseur. ‘I don’t have a watch. I had to sell it to one of our “friends” to make ends meet.’

‘Then how could you possibly have known how to be on time when picking up Madame Guillaumet at that school?’

‘I ask others. I have to. I asked him too. We got back here at seven thirty-eight.’

Leaving lots of time for the urinal and the first of the others to steal the taxi and get to the Ecole Centrale, but not enough for the one with the red ribbon to reach the police academy unless he had had a car and therefore friends in high places. ‘Where did Madame Guillaumet arrange for you to take her?’

This Surete wasn’t going to like the answer. ‘Fifteen place Vendome.’

‘The Ritz?’

Was it so surprising, given what many of the wives of prisoners of war were doing, even those of officers? ‘It has no other address, has it?’

One of several homes away from home for visiting generals and others of high rank from the Reich. ‘Were you to have waited there for her?’

There would have been plenty of other taxis she could have taken after her little liaison, but this one must know the stepsister of Gaston Morel’s wife had sent the woman to him and that he would have had to wait. ‘ “The half-hour, the three-quarters of an hour,” she said. She didn’t know exactly how long it would take, but felt not too long. She was worried about leaving her children alone at home and said, “I’ve never done anything like this before.” ’

But had she? Didn’t the wife who was having an illicit love affair often worry about her children? wondered St-Cyr. His wife had, his Marianne.

Hermann wasn’t going to like what had turned up but where was he?

The judge was still not happy, the rise in blackout crime due entirely to the ineptitude of the police and a total lack of moral fibre among the citizenry in the face of hard times. The salon and adjoining study, however, were draped in the tassels of a cushioned fin de siecle .

‘Delinquents, Kohler,’ he went on. ‘Girls as young as thirteen.’ He gave the daughter a stern glance. ‘Boys of ten. Not a week ago the savage mugging of a Blitzmadel in the Parc des Buttes Chaumont. Four of them attacked her. While the one shoved her back on to the toilet, another snatched her cap away, another the handbag, the last one darting in to pummel her breasts and yank her hair. Bruises, I tell you. Bruises, Kohler.’

Mein Gott , Rudi hadn’t been the only one to know of it!

‘ “Boche pig,” they shouted,’ continued Rouget. ‘ “Fascist scum! Communist-killer! Go home where you belong.” ’

He’d take a breath now, decided Rouget. He’d show this Kripo how lawless the city had become. ‘I ask you, Kohler. What, please, would you do if you were me, when these boys were brought before you? Understand that when cornered, one of them brandished a knife.’

Louis’s boys … The cognac, normally long in its breath, burned the throat, the Choix Supreme offering no comfort. The judge, wife and daughter were all watching him closely. Madame Rouget-Vivienne, he reminded himself-having taken command of things had suddenly lost it with the judge’s opening barrage and now sat so tensely, she was unaware of constantly picking at her fingernails, the daughter sitting like a harried little mouse, but something would have to be said. ‘Judge, my partner and I haven’t yet been briefed on the assault. We’ve been kept busy ever since we got in last night.’

‘We’ll come to that.’

‘Was this Blitzmadel able to give the investigating police accurate descriptions of the boys?’

Had it been a plea for extenuating circumstances? ‘Surely you must be aware, Kohler, that in such cases everything happens far too quickly. The girl was in shock- mon Dieu, who wouldn’t have been? Her stockings were ruined.’

‘Yes, but …’

Was it clemency Kohler wanted? ‘They will be caught. They will definitely be brought before me along with their parents. Communists, are they? The Hoherer-SS and Polizeifuhrer Karl Oberg is insisting on the severest of sentences and will expect it of me. A uniform has been disgraced. It’s no small matter.’

Uniforms were sacred and, yes, Oberg did have designs on taking over the French police, but … ‘Judge, just how sure are you that the girl was threatened with a knife?’

‘Very. Two days ago I was in Karl’s office to discuss another matter. He had the girl brought in to tell me herself. He’s being considerate, I must say, and doesn’t want the case publicized until it’s settled. Now what, exactly, was it that you wanted to ask my daughter?’

‘Yes, please do ask,’ breathed Vivienne.

Whereas the judge was corpulent and big-boned, the wife was delicate and definitely one of les hautes , yet defiantly wary and absolutely under that one’s thumb-was that it, eh? The soft auburn hair was worn swept up and back. The eyebrows were perfect, the eyes not mud-brown like the judge’s but azure, the lips tight as a quick breath was impatiently held, the chin defiant under a scrutiny she didn’t appreciate.

‘Inspector, I asked you to tell us,’ she said.

‘ Ah, bon , madame. For some reason your daughter, having arranged for two of last night’s victims to meet in the afternoon at the Cafe de la Paix, chose not to be present. I’d like to know why.’

Had Hercule not put him in his place? wondered Vivienne. ‘There was no reason for her to have been present. Madame Guillaumet needed a velo-taxi driver she could depend on; Madame Barrault knew of such a one.’

But was it as simple as that?

The judge, as if deliberating in court, had bowed his head to study knitted hands that could well have been those of a plumber. The double chin and jowls drooped, the forehead was wide and high, the jet-black, greying hair well oiled and combed back to frame the grimmest of countenances, the full lips drawn into a pout, the eyes half-closed, so deep was he in thought and waiting for detective questions.

‘Madame, how was it that your daughter even knew Madame Barrault would be familiar with that cafe or know of the taxi driver?’

‘Henriette …’ began the daughter, like a frightened little mouse.

‘Denise, let me,’ said the mother firmly. ‘Madame Henriette Morel has many times informed my daughter of that woman’s “familiarity” with the cafe, Inspector, and the company that stepsister of hers chooses to keep. It seemed the most suitable of rendezvous. Denise merely put forward the suggestion to both women during each of their respective counselling interviews.’

‘I’m with the SN, Inspector. I’m …’

‘Denise, offer nothing. Your mother is before the bench.’

‘Papa …’

‘Daughter, hold your tongue.’

‘Hercule, please, ’ said Vivienne. ‘I must be allowed to continue. Denise has advanced degrees in social work, Inspector, and is employed by the Famille du Prisonnier , which is now under the Secours National, the National Help, whose Maison du Prisonnier is on place Clichy.’