J. Janes - Tapestry

Clothing clung to the open doors of an armoire whose mirrors threw back light from the candle in his hand. A necklace of sapphire beads had been broken. A dark-blue velvet off-the-shoulder sheath lay crumpled on the floor with a blue lace-trimmed silk slip and brassiere, silk stockings, too, that were scattered and had been yanked off-two men, had two of the bastards done it? The garter belt was entangled with the stockings and her step-ins.

Everywhere things had been broken, everywhere things torn or thrown, he waiting for the shakes to come, knowing, too, that that damned Messerschmitt Benzedrine he and sometimes Louis took to stay awake, wouldn’t help matters, but Louis who would, just wasn’t here …

The hush that enveloped the Club Mirage was every bit as deep as that first time St-Cyr had seen Gabrielle walk out onstage, a mirage of her own. Always she would have to sing ‘Lilli Marlene,’ and always that voice of hers would be carried over the airwaves by Radio-Paris and Radio-Berlin to be picked up by the Allies who avidly listened in, and wouldn’t being such a celebrity damn her in the end when finally France was freed? Hadn’t she best be got out of the country? A resistante !

Her dressing room was at the end of the corridor and right next to the stage door and stairs that led down into the cellars or up to the Rivard living quarters and storerooms and from those, down other sets of stairs to independent exits or up to the roof and from there to others.

Certainly Gestapo Paris’s Listeners had bugged that dressing room and just as certainly Gabrielle had left those bugs in place. Apparently, though, she had taken to keeping a bicycle handy. Unlocked, this shabby, third-hand instrument leaned against a wall, facing the exit and ready at a moment’s notice. Age and wear gave it a little less chance of being stolen, and wasn’t a bike by far the best means of travel these days? Didn’t it allow one to avoid the checkpoints and roundups that increasingly plagued the metro? Didn’t it also give advance warning of street controls since one could often see well ahead and reroute if possible or walk the bike up into a courtyard as if one belonged?

The dressing room was starkly Spartan, the more so from when he had met her during the investigation of a small murder, a ‘nothing’ murder Hermann had called it, only to then find otherwise. ‘Standartenfuhrer … ? Forgive me, please. I didn’t know Gabi … the Mademoiselle Arcuri had someone waiting for her.’ Remi Rivard had tried to warn him. Remi …

‘St-Cyr, Surete-am I correct?’

Schwaben … Was the accent from there? ‘ Jawohl, Colonel. I’m looking for my partner.’

‘Then you’ll be disappointed.’

Were the SS hunting for Hermann? ‘Gabrielle might have heard from him.’

St-Cyr hadn’t moved from the doorway and looked as if to bolt. ‘She’ll not have heard unless within the last ten minutes. Ach, bitte . Close the door. Though I love the sound of her voice, the shouting and applause I find disturbing. Would you care for one of those?’ The cigarettes were indicated. ‘I’m sure Madame Theriault won’t mind.’

Her married name had been used as a definite hint to that ‘nothing’ murder. As then, there had been Russian cigarettes, but had the case been purposely left open on her dressing table in defiance of this SS since the Russians were now getting the better of the Reich?

This Surete couldn’t help but notice the other items the ‘Arcuri’ woman had left out: a glass of the Chateau Theriault’s demi-sec , the vineyards near Vouvray, a wedge of chevre crottin with a dusting of herbs and dill, some slices of a baguette, these last forbidden by law and therefore subject to both a fine and prison sentence or forced labour.

Everything registered clearly in St-Cyr’s expression, including concern over why she had been so foolish as to not have anticipated a visitor from the SS.

‘Standartenfuhrer … ’ blurted this Schweinebulle who placed honesty and truth above all else, as did Kohler, the two of them having incurred the wrath of so many of Paris’s SS and Gestapo, especially for what had happened at that same chateau.

‘ Bitte, mein lieber franzosischer Oberdetektiv , Hjalmar Langbehn a votre service .’

The heels were smoothly brought together but hardly a sound from the jackboots was heard, a slim hand extended and taken since it had to be. ‘Colonel, what brings you here?’

A certain Blitzmadel ’s handbag, was that what was worrying St-Cyr? ‘A little supper-oh, not those.’

The glass of wine he had wished for, St-Cyr knew, when Gabi had shared the repast with him at the Chateau Theriault’s mill on the Loire.

‘Those have, I gather, been left for yourself in welcome on your return from Alsace, but …’

He would leave a little pause, thought Langbehn. It always seemed to unsettle those who did not wish to reveal more than possible, and St-Cyr was definitely one of them. ‘Mademoiselle Arcuri has kindly agreed to be my guest at Chez Francis.’

The Alsatian restaurant on place de l’Alma had long been a legend in its own right, but before the Defeat several of its waiters and sous-chefs had been spies and fifth columnists for the Reich. Now, of course, they owned and ran the restaurant.

A cardboard suitcase-nothing so fine as from Vuitton or Hermes-lay tucked behind the colonel’s chair, but had he noticed it? Did Gabi now keep it packed and ready to take into hiding at a moment’s notice-had things become that desperate for her even within the past ten days?

One might never know. Such suitcases had come with the disappearance of leather to the Reich, but they had one great advantage: so common and identical were they, few among the Occupier could differentiate and they could, if confronted by a control, be casually slid in amongst others at a railway station and left behind.

‘These blackout crimes,’ said Langbehn. ‘Brief me on your progress-I trust such has been made?’

Had Oberg ordered this one to look into the matter? Fortunately Sonja Remer’s handbag was still hidden under the overcoat. ‘I’ll just go out to the courtyard to see if my partner might have finally arrived. Hermann often chooses to come in that way but has trouble closing the doors.’

‘ Gut, then both of you can brief me. I understand that Judge Rouget’s daughter was at the Drouant last night with Gaston and Madame Morel when he and the stepsister of the latter were attacked.’

‘Give me but a moment. I’ll be right back.’

Outside and standing in the rain, St-Cyr knew that the colonel might well look around the dressing room and find things he shouldn’t. There’d been an Eisernes Kreuz First-Class at the neck of that uniform, and from that other war, Wehrmacht wound and flak badges too, and the 1939 clasp and bar with Nazi eagle and swastika in silver gilt, the double braiding and skull and crossbones on the cap, an SS-Dienstauszeichnungen also, the long-service award with SS runes and ribbon signifying twelve years of absolute loyalty.

But now … now the Standartenfuhrer wasn’t simply a soldier but an administrator, one of the Totenkopverbande who ran the concentration camps, and hadn’t Hermann and he had to visit the camp at Natzweiler-Struthof in Alsace not three, or was it four days ago?

A granite quarry whose cruelty had been matched by the harshness of winter in the mountains of the Vosges.

The rain was icy when he lifted his face to it. There was, of course, absolutely no sign of Hermann who knew all about this courtyard and stage door but would have blithely roared in through the front entrance to chat up the coat-check girls before taking in a bit of the show and making his way through to the bar.