J. Janes - Tapestry

Boemelburg and he had liaised on IKPK matters before the Defeat and on that infamous day no surprise had been shown at finding this Surete upstairs in Records destroying sensitive files the Gestapo and SS wanted. He had merely wagged a reproving finger and had said to cooperate or else, since some appearance of fighting common crime, no matter how limited, would be useful in calming the public. ‘But I’ll delegate someone to watch over you.’

Questions … there wouldn’t even be time for those when the end came and the Occupier had to leave. Hermann and himself wouldn’t have a chance. There were only about 2,400 German Gestapo and SS in the country but there were more than 50,000 working for them: the French Gestapo of the rue Lauriston-gangsters who had been let out of prison and put to work; the Intervention-Referat, the Bickler Unit and other gangs, and as if these were not enough, now there was Vichy’s newest paramilitary force, the Milice francaise. Then, too, the Surete and the Paris police-all 15,000 of these last-and every other police force in the country, even the gardes champetre , the rural police. Certainly not all were bad-ah no, of course not-but orders were orders and often the only choice a flic or village cop had was to follow them to varying degrees, some more than others.

But civil war would erupt when the Occupier pulled out. Caught up in things-trapped-Hermann wouldn’t have a chance, never mind himself.

A metronome drew his attention-such a lovely thing conjured thoughts of childhood piano lessons that had been hated until, wonder of wonders, Grand-maman had stopped having earaches.

Next to it was a phial of bitter almond, the smell like that of potassium cyanide. Walter was now constantly searching for improvements: the incessant tick-tock of the one during an interrogation, the smell of the other in a war of nerves that was only going to get far worse.

Sonja Remer’s name had been written and encircled on an otherwise blank sheet of paper beneath which there was a telex from Gestapo Muller in Berlin but prompted, no doubt, by an enraged Heinrich Himmler. ACHTUNG . IMMEDIATE END TO BLACKOUT CRIMES IMPERATIVE OR FACE RECALL AND COURT-MARTIAL. HEIL HITLER.

Berlin were seldom happy. Though Von Schaumburg might be counted on, Walter was really this flying squad’s only supporter. By his word alone did they continue to exist.

In the top drawer there were blank identity cards, blank ration cards with next week’s colour-coded tickets, blank laissez-passers and sauf-conduits , all rubber stamped and signed not only by Prefet Talbotte but also by Von Schaumburg. Lots and lots of them, each type bound by an elastic band. French-gestapo plainclothes and others often had to go under cover to trap resistants or to locate hidden works of art and other valuables.

Five sets would be needed, but Gabrielle could never be persuaded to leave her son, so six would have to be taken. Giselle, if still alive and safe, simply wouldn’t want to step off her little corner of this planet. ‘And I know I’m not a thief, not even now,’ he breathed. ‘It’s far too dangerous anyway and I really must stay.’

Behind the desk there was a large wall map of Paris. Immediately apparent from the colour-coded flags and their brief notations was the fact that Hermann and this partner of his had merely scratched the surface. Not only had there been a huge increase in the usual sort of blackout crimes, there had been this other aspect.

While some of the sexual attacks would have been against females simply because they had cohabited with the Occupier, one group, as they had discovered, definitely had been targeted: those who were married to, or engaged to, prisoners of war.

There were close on three hundred of these flags, but the earliest of them dated only from 1 December, so the numbers would be much higher. Of those who could be interviewed, all had lost their wedding rings if they had had these with them. Some had lost their hair and/or their clothes. Not all had been raped, some only threatened with such, others beaten but not severely, still others savagely, some even to death and … and recently. Ah, merde!

Female, age 20-25, no identity papers, hair jet-black and glossy, colour of eyes not possible. Beaten, raped and kicked to death. Died of a massive haemorrhage .

The attack had taken place in the passage de l’Hirondelle, a narrow lane off the rue Git-le-Couer in the Sixth, and so close to Hermann’s flat and the House of Madame Chabot it sickened.

Pinned to the left side of the map, Walter had noted many of the things they, too, had discovered or been thinking.

1) Violence escalating?

2) Attacks not random but chosen so as to give that impression?

3) The work of a gang whose sources of information yield potential targets that are then followed up on?

4) Targets selected by a committee or by one individual? If so, could information be leaked about Giselle le Roy so as to put into action the Hoherer SS Oberg’s astute suggestion that we use the girl to bait a trap?

5) Won’t these criminals already have had access to that information? If so, is it their intent to use it before we do?

Had they already done so? St-Cyr had to wonder. Was Oona to be next?

6) Are the press being notified only when felt useful?

A hastily scribbled notation revealed just how desperate things must be.

7) Could the Terroristen be contacted and convinced to help in return for lenience and an end to the shooting of hostages or given the offer of treatment, when captured, as prisoners of war under the articles of the Geneva Convention?

The Resistance-had that been behind the Standartenfuhrer’s taking Gabrielle to dinner? To sound things out?

She would not have gone along with anything, and Langbehn wouldn’t have asked. It was total war and everyone knew it, Walter as well.

Beneath Sonja Remer’s name and the telex, there was a slip of notepaper dated 1610 hours, Thursday 11 February and signed by Oberg.

Informants advise possibility of assaults being committed this evening in the passage de la Trinite and outside the Restaurant Drouant. If confirmed, advise assigning Kohler and St-Cyr to those .

There was no mention of the police academy attack or of the robbery at Au Philateliste Savant , nor was there any of Lulu.

Venetian chandeliers gave light, deep Prussian-blue velvet drapes hid the crisscrosses of sticking paper on the windows. Paintings still hung, but there were now so many, some leaned against others on the carpeted floor: a Durer, a Frans Hals-all of them stolen, of course, but why had Hermann decided to come here, to Number 72 the avenue Foch? Why hadn’t he met up with his partner first, if for no other reason than to let him mention Sonja Remer’s being assigned such a pistol, any pistol?

Dejected, the spirit totally beaten, Hermann was staring at those big, once capable hands as if he had done something terrible. Ashen, he didn’t look up, not even when this partner of his, caught between two SS Teutons and hustled by them, was suddenly jerked to a halt before him.

In spite of the presence of the guards, one had to blurt, ‘ Mon Dieu, mon vieux, what has happened? Is it Giselle?’

‘Giselle?’ arched Hermann, flinging up his head.

He couldn’t have known of the passage de l’Hirondelle attack-mustn’t be told of it yet. ‘Not Giselle.’

Was it a lie? the look he gave asked, he ignoring the two SS.

‘Here, down this, and have one of these,’ said St-Cyr, ‘then tell me all about it, eh?’

The proffered cigarette wasn’t taken …

‘Rouget. You didn’t tell me who Denise Rouget’s father was!’