J. Janes - Tapestry

They hadn’t cut into the baguettes from the Ford, had valiantly resisted that temptation. Potatoes were sliced thinly, onions diced. There were no eggs but there was a sprinkling of dill, some oregano too.

‘Add some of the meat,’ said Henri.

‘Just a little,’ said Louisette. ‘A taste.’

‘Don’t forget the garlic,’ said the brother.

It was nearly noon.

‘You should have gone off to school. It’s still Saturday, isn’t it? And don’t tell me you’re on strike. I’ve already heard that one. I’ll just have a wash. There isn’t a razor, is there?’

‘ Papa ’s extra one,’ said Louisette. ‘We were not allowed to send it to him. Prisoners of war are not allowed such weapons.’

‘Good. Take over here. Turn the hot plate down in a moment. Add more oil from time to time. It’s good, isn’t it? From Mouries in Provence, I think. The village is close to Arles, which became Caesar’s number-one city, even better than Marseille. There’s an amphitheatre that would seat more than twenty thousand. Bullfights are still held. Well, they were before this Defeat of ours. I’m not sure since, having been too busy.’

‘And the wine?’ asked Louisette.

‘First take a sip and tell me what you think.’

‘It is thin,’ she said.

‘It’s been watered, idiot!’ said Henri.

‘It’s a village wine, a blend of Pinot Noir and the Gamay. A Clos Saint-Denis. The vineyards are not far from the tiny village of Morey-Saint-Denis in the Cote de Nuits and perhaps twelve or so kilometres to the south of Dijon where our mustard used to come from. You are both right, though, but since it’s all we have, refill my glass. I won’t be long.’

‘He’s nice, isn’t he?’ said Louisette when she had Henri to herself. ‘He has lost his little son and wife. Everyone in this house of ours has lost someone.’

‘ Maman ’s not lost. She’s just waiting to get better.’

‘Of course, but I was thinking of Papa .’

From the rue Saint-Dominique to the quai d’Orsay wasn’t far. Once there, they would follow the Seine upriver to the Pont d’Austerlitz. Hermann hadn’t insisted on driving, a bad sign, nor had he asked where they were going. Clearly he was still worried about Oberg, the judge and Giselle, but miracle of miracles, the sun was out. Those in the endless queues outside the shops had taken heart. One old woman had even allowed a young mother to step to the head of the line, obeying the rule from Vichy. A twenty-year-old cyclist really did walk his bike, forgetting entirely that the STO thugs could immediately grab and transport him into forced labour, but was it all some sort of sign God wished to give, wondered St-Cyr, or was He merely getting the hopes up so as to make the crunch all the harder?

‘Hermann, I’ll just have a quick word with Armand, if he’s here. If not, perhaps his autopsy on the police academy victim will have been completed.’

‘Oona, Louis. Giselle’s become like a sister to her in spite of their both living with me when I’m here.’

A clipping, hastily torn from some newspaper, was smoothed out. It was the notice Hermann had repeatedly placed in Paris-Soir .

‘I found it under the pillows. She’d been clutching it.’

To say, ‘I warned you Madame Guillaumet’s children would remind her of her own,’ would do no good. To say, ‘Wait, let me be the one to find out about Giselle,’ wouldn’t suit either.

‘Oona’s convinced her children are dead, Louis. I can’t shake her thinking on this. I wish to hell I could and now what have I done but made certain Giselle will be …’

He couldn’t say it, was blaming himself for what could well have happened.

At the confluence of several arteries, and near the Gare de Lyon, the place Mazas and its adjacent streets were busy-there was panic, though, at the sight of the car, velo-taxis and bicycles turning away. ‘I’ll park on the quai Henri IV, Hermann. It’ll be warmer there and you won’t have to keep the engine running.’

‘Stop mothering me. You know damned well Giselle could be in there under a sheet. Just go in and find out for me.’

Louis pressed cigarettes into his hand but held on to them. ‘When we get to Walter, you’re definitely not to take any of these out. Walter has marked them.’

‘Don’t tell me we’ve a petty thief at HQ, other than myself?’

‘Apparently, but I’ve yet to determine how the head of Gestapo Section IV marked his pipe tobacco and these.’

Identity cards, ration cards and passes … Ausweise, laissez-passers and sauf-conduits … Five sets, only five? Not one for Giselle-was that it, eh, or was Louis not planning to join them?

There were tears in Hermann’s eyes. His hands shook but he realized the dilemma too, for if Walter Boemelburg had marked his cigarettes, had he not also marked and counted these?

‘You really have been busy, haven’t you?’

It still wasn’t the moment to let Hermann in on everything but a start had best be made. ‘Rouget, mon vieux . Give me a little on that flat of his.’

The cigarette was passed. Hermann was always best when kept busy. Out came his little black notebook. Pages and pages-how had he written them, knowing what had happened?

‘Concierge Louveau says that the judge let others use the flat from time to time. “Important people.” Some older than the judge, some younger, but none in the past five weeks-he was certain of this because the last one, a retired general smoked a cigar on the way up at two thirty p.m. on a Wednesday and also at six thirty p.m. on the way out and both times with the same brunette. She’d a nice, if timid smile and “he wore leather gloves, real ones, and had a beautifully trimmed, snow-white moustache and hair just like the Marechal Petain’s.” ’

‘A general.’

‘In a French army greatcoat with ribbons and medals. Do you want more?’

‘Give me something on Elene Artur, if possible.’

‘Half Indochinese and not permitted to use the front entrance for fear of upsetting the other tenants. Had a key to the other entrance. Wasn’t to take the lift, either. Used the side staircase. Never came with, or left with, the judge. Had a key to the flat. Both keys used by her assailants who must have known of them.’

Merde, how had Hermann done it? ‘And?’

Kohler took a deep drag, though God alone knew what Vichy’s state-run tobacco company was using now to cut the tobacco. Last autumn’s oak leaves, pine needles perhaps …

‘Entry at between 0030 and 0100 hours Friday. Dead by 0130 hours at the latest. It can’t have gone on for much longer but they took their time and knew they must have been able to. One of them a butcher, or former butcher-he sure as hell knew how to gut. The knife not the usual-it spurted blood a good metre and more when he withdrew it. A week ago the girl showed up around midnight, but the judge didn’t. Louveau was positive about this. His loge is only a few steps from the lift, so he definitely would have heard it, especially as he claims to have stayed awake listening for Rouget.’

‘Why?’

‘Because a week prior to that Friday evening, the judge had done the same thing-not come-and on the following Tuesday and Thursday, and this Tuesday as well. The girl hung around after that last visit to ask Louveau if he thought the judge had been acting strangely. “It’s not like Hercule to pay me in advance and not want me.” ’

‘ “In advance”?’

‘Apparently Rouget had taken to slipping her the money at the Lido, but it definitely wasn’t his usual way of doing things. “Always after he has finished with me,” she said. “Never before.” ’