J. Janes - Tapestry

‘The bac and after that the Sorbonne or whatever?’

‘Those, too, of course.’

‘Kohler …’

‘Now it’s your turn, Colonel, but let’s go into the Lido so that Petit Bob can say hello to all the girls and you can buy me an aperitif .’

* * *

To the muted sounds from the Arcade came the urgency of someone’s trying the door to the Agence Vidocq. Was it Monsieur Raymond or Monsieur Quevillon? wondered Suzette Dunand. Chief Inspector St-Cyr was still perusing the papers in his hand. Monsieur Garnier would have shaken the doorknob and then banged a fist against the door. He would have silently cursed her, thinking that she had left before the 7.00 p.m. closing, a thing she had never done but now that door was no longer being tried, now the steps were receding, and why was it, please, that Colonel Delaroche wouldn’t allow any of his agents prives to have a key, even the most trusted of them?

Monsieur Raymond had tried that door-it must have been him, she decided: M. Jeannot Raymond who had been with the colonel since the very beginning and well before the Defeat. Though he seldom smiled, M. Raymond always saved the best of those for her but never tried to get too close. Not once. He wasn’t like M. Hubert Quevillon who always knew the nearness of himself filled her with revulsion but that she would have to tolerate it in silence.

M. Quevillon enjoyed her despair. Secretly he laughed at her-she knew he did, whereas M. Flavien Garnier could as easily have had one of his ‘fifty-year-old boots’ behind this machine for all the attention he paid to her.

‘Inspector …’

‘A moment, Mademoiselle Dunand.’

‘Have you the magistrate’s order?’

‘At your age it’s hard to put force into such words. I wouldn’t try, if I were you.’

She coloured-could feel her cheeks getting hot again. ‘I HAVE A RIGHT TO DEMAND THAT YOU SHOW ME THE SEARCH WARRANT! I MUST GO AND CLEAN MYSELF UP!’

‘In a moment.’

Salaud, she winced. Tears would streak her mascara-Well, let them! He knew she had peed herself. He must know she was but the latest of the secretaries the colonel had employed, the fifth in the past two-and-a-half years of this Occupation, and that she desperately needed to keep the job or else the STO would come and take her away to Germany to work in a munitions factory and she’d be blasted to pieces by the bombs of the British RAF. Hadn’t that been what M. Hubert Quevillon had whispered into her ear the last time he had caught her alone and found her cringing at the nearness of him? Wasn’t that why so many other girls had left the agency?

Or was it, perhaps, that Colonel Abelard-Armand Delaroche had let each one go before she had found out too much?

‘This statement of invoice, mademoiselle.’

He had yanked it from the machine. Stricken, she had stiffened and he had noticed this, as he did everything.

‘It … it is simply Madame de Roussy’s account. On the fifteenth of every month she is …’

‘ Oui, oui, but …’

‘But what, Inspector?’

‘Twenty-five thousand francs? For what, please?’

‘I only do as I’m told. Here … here is the invoice in pencil, as Colonel Delaroche has written it for me to type up.’

‘The investigation is continuing?’

‘I … I think so, yes. I …’

He’d say nothing of the rue La Boetie killing, decided St-Cyr. He’d try to calm her but only a little. ‘You really don’t know what it’s all about, do you? Ah, bon , relax. Forgive me, too. You see, my partner and myself are desperately trying to put an end to this plague of blackout crime but now have yet another savage killing to deal with-the passage de l’Hirondelle, mademoiselle. A girl a little older than yourself whose face was kicked in and trod on so hard all the bones were smashed, both eyes as well. Bruises … never have I seen such bruises.’

He would give her a moment to digest this. He would watch her like God did a sinner. When he said, ‘The passage de la Trinite’s victim is still in hospital,’ he let the words sink in and only then added, ‘That one is not expected to live.’

‘ La toilette, s’il vous plait , Inspector. I know nothing of these. NOTHING, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?’

A handkerchief was found and pressed into her hand. ‘The De Roussy investigation, mademoiselle?’

‘A … a round-the-clock.’

‘On Monsieur de Roussy?’

‘Oui.’

‘The file, then. Where is it? Which drawer?’

There were banks and banks of oak filing cabinets, most of which were empty and only for show and not like those the colonel kept locked up in his office, but if the inspector should look, he’d find this out. ‘There … there isn’t one. The investigation’s progress reports are given by …’

‘Word of mouth,’ came the sigh. ‘It’s a puzzle, though, that there’s even an invoice.’

‘Taxes must be paid; income must be reported.’

‘Sometimes.’

Again he gave that sigh. Undoing the shabby overcoat with its buttons that hung by their threads and understandably gave no evidence of a woman’s touch-what woman would ever put up with such a one?-the chief inspector dumped his fedora on to her desk and took off his coat, preparing to stay for as long as he wished.

‘We’ll see that you get home safely,’ he said, the trace of fatherly shy; concern bringing a sickness of its own, for he’d soon add, and he did, ‘Where is that?’

‘A flat. It’s not far. I’ll be perfectly safe so you don’t have to worry.’

And given bravely, but a flat, not a room. Had Colonel Delaroche set her up or had someone else since the rents in this quartier were prohibitive? Probably one or the other but best to leave it for now. ‘Madame de Roussy’s husband, mademoiselle. Bien sur , Alexandre de Roussy is on the board of directors of the Renault car company and important, since they supply the Occupier with all sorts of things, but …’

Again there was that pause!

‘But it always takes two to commit adultery, doesn’t it?’

‘The wife of another, yes.’

‘That of a prisoner of war?’

The girl bowed her head and crushed the handkerchief. Tears were splashed on the desk, her voice like that of France on the day of Defeat. ‘ Oui, the … the mother of three young children. Monsieur de Roussy sees her twice a week, sometimes more if … if necessary.’

‘And pays her how much a visit?’

‘Five hundred. I … I really don’t know. It’s …’

‘Only a rumour, that five hundred, isn’t it?’

‘Oui.’

Steep, dark and narrow, the side staircase from the Lido’s stage plunged to the dressing rooms, bare flesh and bare of privacy, the girls fabulous, thought Kohler. Gott sei Dank, the colonel had hustled him right past the Agence Vidocq, right into the restaurant and down the stairs to the club.

Gold and tinsel were everywhere, see-through pearly water wings on some. High heels, of course, headbands or tiaras, bracelets and earrings, and there was the toddler of one sucking on his soother and looking up at his dear maman who was changing too and just as naked as he. Joy in her heavily made-up eyes, ostrich plumes still on her head and Bob having a hell of a time resisting the impulse.

Background noise from the club above them filtered down. The colonel didn’t say a thing. Bob waited, watching the girls and hearing the babble of them as, in single file, a robe or some other flimsy bit of costume tossed over a shoulder, they came down the stairs ready to change for the next act but were momentarily more worried about taking a tumble and crashing into the others. Legs … beautiful legs …