J. Janes - Tapestry

‘Perhaps. And early on Friday afternoon Giselle leaves Madame Guillaumet’s flat to find you. She pays Madame Chabot a little visit and …’

‘Was turned away, wasn’t she?’

‘Banished.’

‘Somehow she discovers she’s being followed.’

‘And switches her coat …’

‘She would never have done a thing like that had she known what would happen.’

‘Of course not, but that victim is then discovered in the passage de l’Hirondelle at around 2000 hours.’

‘Was it bad?’

‘I couldn’t identify who it might be beyond taking a look at the earlobes. Oona confirmed that Giselle had had her ears pierced some years ago but that they had become infected, no doubt due to wearing fake silver wires, and that she had sworn off wearing such earrings.’

‘And the little scars had then grown in place.’ How had Louis forced himself to find them?

‘Perhaps the hobnailed boots of our Legion d’honneur wearer are the same, Hermann. Armand may be able to confirm but I don’t envy him the task.’

A deep drag was taken and held for the longest time. ‘And Giselle, Louis? Was the rage shown in the passage de L’Hirondelle meant for her, or because it wasn’t her?’

It was a good question but caution had best be used. ‘I … I don’t know, mon vieux . I wish I did and that she was safely here between us.’

All along the Champs-Elysees, right to the Arc de Triomphe, the last rays of the sun were caught among the naked branches of the chestnut trees. Kohler eased off on the accelerator. Hadn’t Louis marched down this avenue in the Armistice Day parade of 1919 and in every one of them since until the Defeat? Didn’t he love the view?

‘Hermann, hurry up!’

And never satisfied! ‘I thought you might need to see it.’

‘A last time? Don’t taunt a patriot. You know the view’s been spoiled.’

They passed the Hotel Claridge whose belle-epoque facade welcomed generals and holders of the Knight’s Cross, especially its U-boat captains. Velos and velos-taxis were everywhere, but there were more cars here, of course, for hadn’t the Occupier a love of the avenue too?

‘We’ll hit the Arcade together, Hermann. You into the Lido after those who try to avoid us, myself into the office.’

And so much for his having backup. He was out the door before the engine could be switched off. He was into the Arcade, moving through the foot-traffic. ‘Louis …’

‘Quit dawdling. This is Surete business.’

And hadn’t one of those been impersonated?

A cafe, a sugar-cake from that same belle epoque , formed an island in the Arcade and even though this partner of his knew of it, Louis jabbed a finger that way and said, ‘An entrance to the Lido is in there,’ as he hit a glass-and-oak-panelled door with gilded lettering, went in and momentarily disappeared from view.

The Agence Vidocq.

‘St-Cyr, Surete, mademoiselle. Your director first and then a Monsieur … Come, come, Herr Hauptmann Detektiv Aufsichtsbeamter, since you don’t obey orders, what the hell was the bastard’s name?’

‘M. Flavien Garnier, Monsieur l’Inspecteur Principal .’

And given like a parrot or a mouse. ‘Well, mademoiselle?’

The girl at the desk behind the stand-up counter with its little bell in brass had wet herself. Embarrassment flushed the peaches-and-cream complexion under a delightfully made-up pair of the bluest eyes Kohler had ever seen.

‘Find your voice, mademoiselle, or I’ll find it for you.’

‘Louis …’

‘Colonel … Colonel Delaroche has gone to pick up Petit Bob. Monsieur Garnier is out on an investigation and not expected back until Monday at the earliest. Noontime, I think.’

A lie of course. Sweet of her though, to have tried, thought Kohler.

‘Messieurs Raymond and Quevillon are … are busy elsewhere.’

Another lie.

‘I’ll bet they are,’ breathed Louis. ‘I’ll just have a look around and then you can tell me everything I need to know. Hermann, put the lock on before going to find … What was his name, mademoiselle?’

‘Colonel Delaroche.’

‘ Ah, bon, she’s recovered her voice, but before you go, I’d better ask her where this Petit Bob is?’

Blue eyes looked at what she’d been typing. She thought to take it out and hide it, then thought better of doing so. ‘The … the toilette pour chiens . Madame Mailloux. Chez Benedicte. It’s …’

‘Just up the avenue, Hermann. It’s been years since I last had to stop in there. Say hello for me. If that doesn’t open that one’s trap, use your Gestapo clout.’

‘Giselle, Louis.’

‘We’ll find her. Don’t worry. Just be yourself. That’s what we need.’

Petit Bob was magnificent. Though gentle, he made some of the other dogs nervous. He didn’t like having his nails clipped in front of them but understood that it was required. Dutifully he held the left forepaw absolutely motionless. Gazing up at his master who stood by but didn’t have a hand on him, he gave that one such a sorrowful look, another half carrot stick was warranted.

Tall, suave, handsome, fifty-five to sixty, with deep brown eyes and immaculately trimmed silvery-grey hair and sideburns that served to emphasize the burnished, cleanly shaven cheeks and aristocratic countenance, Colonel Delaroche wore a knotted, mustard-yellow scarf and charcoal-black woollen cloak with the air and confidence of a thirty-year-old on the hustle circa the seventeenth siecle , but his words when they came were something else again. ‘It’s all right, Bob,’ he said, the tone carefully modulated. ‘There’s my soldier. The hind paws will soon be done and then we’ll go for a walk and when we come back, I’ll take you in and you can say hello to all the girls. Benedicte loves you like I do. We’ll only be a moment more. Good, Bob. Brave, Bob. We can’t have nails curling in on themselves, now can we?’

The voice, definitely of the upper crust, patently ignored the fact they’d a visitor.

The ears were lovingly caressed, the jowls touched. Bag-drooped eyes, of exactly the same shade as his master’s, engendered an ever-mournful look. The short-haired coat, of black and tan, gleamed. The fine touches of white on Bob’s forepaws, chest and tip of the tail were the marks of an aristocrat. Four years old, maybe five, and absolutely b-e-a-utiful.

Hair dryers of the kind used by coiffeurs et coiffeuses were going full blast as two Schnauzers basked in post-bath warmth but eyed Bob with what could only be a cruel intent. A terrier, though being stripped and plucked, felt no differently. The poodle that was being given a designer hairdo watched them all, as girls in blue sarraux dutifully clipped, brushed, groomed and swept up the hair that even from here would have a market.

The blanket of a heavy cologne dampened everything but the sounds. ‘Kohler, Madame Mailloux. Kripo, Paris-Central.’

Copies of Pour Elle and L’Illustration were lowered out in the waiting room, for this … this Gestapo had deliberately left the curtained doorway open. ‘I’m too busy. Even such as yourself could not help but see this.’

The hair, dyed a wicked blonde, was piled in curls that might last the week out under the bedtime net if one didn’t toss and turn too much. The cheeks were of high colour under their rouge and powder, the lips vermillion, the eyes made up and of the swiftest, darkest grey.

‘Well?’ she demanded, tightening her grip on the clippers, a nail flying off.

‘Of course, but like yourself, time is short and the work just keeps piling up. We’ve another rape and murder to deal with.’