J. Janes - Tapestry

A candy-striped tricolour leg warmer with laddered runs and holes at the heel and toe, was dragged out-something she had been too ashamed to take home to that mother of hers to mend. Bob fidgeted. Others noticed the stocking. Eyebrows were raised …

‘It’s odd, isn’t it?’ said Kohler. ‘Detectives like Louis and myself are always searching for the little things and when we find them, we not only ask ourselves about them, but begin to look beyond the obvious. One stocking but two legs. Where’s the other one?’

‘ Ah, mon Dieu, I have absolutely no idea. Stockings? How could I have?’

Louis had better not be in trouble. Louis had better be finding out all he could. ‘That dressing room, Colonel. Stockings like these are always chucked out of the way when a girl’s hurrying to get dressed. Frequent visitors like yourself must have seen the girls wearing them between sets if time allowed or at dance rehearsals. Bob even recognizes it, don’t you, Bob?’

The head was immediately lifted. From deep within him the answer came and with it a long and mournful baying that was as much of grief as it was of anything. ‘There, you see, Colonel. Bob loved her, didn’t he?’

‘Idiot, he’s friendly with all of them. She was just one of many.’

‘ Ach, then let’s use him, eh? Let’s let Bob to find her other leg warmer.’

Again and again St-Cyr tripped the light switch. Fortunately the match didn’t shower sparks as he set the open packet on Hubert Quevillon’s desk, one every bit as tidy as Flavien Garnier’s. Here, though, the in-tray was empty-Quevillon must have been in earlier to clean it out. The other tray held a single file folder, thin and as if waiting for more.

‘The boys?’ he heard himself blurt.

Sickened, he blindly groped for another match as he stared at the photo. Downcast and in tears, they were lined up on the pavement, and behind them was the house at 3 rue Laurence Savart.

Returning Sonja Remer’s handbag hadn’t been enough. The names of Antoine Courbet’s sisters were on another slip of paper. Lovely girls Madame Courbet would never have allowed to fraternize with the enemy, Claudette, the oldest, having promised herself to a young man who was now in one of the prisoner-of-war camps.

A further note, in a different but far more professional hand, gave only, Standartenfuhrer Langbehn, 1000 hours Monday, ave shy;nue Foch , the note transferred by Quevillon from his in-tray, but had Gabrielle been taken to dinner and then arrested? The note had been signed by a Jeannot Raymond whose office must be next door.

Beneath the photo there was one of Giselle le Roy who had been caught unawares yesterday while leaving Adrienne Guillaumet’s building and must have been followed to the House of Madame Chabot where she’d been turned away, only to then realize she hadn’t been alone.

The desk drawers were locked and he had to wonder why, since Garnier had taken no such precaution. The secretary? he had to ask.

He was running out of matches and out of time. Lighting one of the few that were left, he got down beside the chair to peer under the desk. Had she known, Suzette Dunand could easily have opened the side drawers. These could only be locked when the central drawer was completely closed and the key turned fully round and to the right in its lock. Doing so tripped two hooks, one for each pair of side drawers, dropping a locking bar into place, which could then be released if one either pushed up or pulled down on it from beneath the desk, and then pulled back on the respective bar. Sometimes one went round to the front and felt behind the central drawer, for these hooks could also be located there, but were here at the back on either side as he had suspected. The central drawer remained locked, of course, for it needed the key but this could now be opened if …

‘ Ah, bon, mademoiselle. Remind me to show you how this is done and what you’ve been missing. Hermann … Hermann, give me a little more time.’

The shops were closing. Soon, Suzette knew, there would only be those who were hurrying to the restaurant or leaving it much later if they had a pass. Alone with Messieurs Raymond, Garnier and Quevillon, she stood outside the Agence Vidocq. The last trains of the metro would leave at ten, the curfew was at twelve. Alone, she would be arrested for breaking the curfew, or maybe someone would follow her and, thinking she was selling herself to the Germans, grab her, beat her, tear her clothes …

‘Messieurs,’ she blurted, ‘I did nothing but what I always do when you are not here and Monsieur le Colonel is out of the office and I have to close up. I put the lock on. I swear I did. The chief inspector came with me to the Champs-Elysees exit. He can’t be in there. He can’t!’

‘Espece de salope, ferme-la!’ spat M. Quevillon. He had come to the flat, had slapped her hard, blurring her vision. Now he continued to twist her arm and she knew that if he ever got her alone, he would do things to her. ‘Monsieur Raymond, I beg you. I wouldn’t have let that Surete …’

‘Hubert, see what’s delaying the colonel. Flavien, go with him.’

Give me time alone with this one-Garnier knew that was what Jeannot wanted: always the right move, always that impenetrable calm. The girl was terrified of Hubert and rightly so.

M. Quevillon left in a hurry-Suzette told herself not to look at him. M. Garnier gave M. Raymond a curt nod, herself nothing but a dismissive glance. She had been changing when M. Quevillon had come to get her. She had not even been given a chance to finish buttoning her blouse or put on a skirt and shoes, had simply had her coat thrown at her.

The two of them hurried into the restaurant, brushing past the maitre d’.

‘You don’t use cigarettes,’ said M. Jeannot Raymond. ‘At times like this they help.’

From a jacket pocket he took a silver flask and unscrewed its cap. ‘Have a sip,’ he said, and gave her that smile of his. ‘It’s an eau-de-vie de poire and really very good. Not too sweet, but sweet enough.’

A pear brandy. He lit a cigarette, left her to hold the flask and calm herself, said nothing of its exquisite engraving or of the inscription-an award for something he’d done, a scene of snowcapped mountains in the distance. She had always felt he was different from the others, that he really didn’t belong with them. He had been married once, had had a beautiful wife and two young children. Two boys of six and eight perhaps, and a house in a strange country, but what had happened to them she didn’t know, since all that was left seemed contained in the one photograph that never left his desk.

The eau-de-vie was lovely. He drew on his cigarette, seemed not the least concerned about anything but herself, let his grey eyes rest on her every now and then, knew absolutely how terrified she had been and that her cheeks must still be hurting.

‘Quevillon should never have done that, Mademoiselle Dunand. He shouldn’t have lost control and will definitely apologize.’

Had such things happened before? she wondered. Monsieur Raymond’s smile was there again, the little toss of his head seeming to say, Everything will be all right, you’ll see.

The inscription on the flask read: A Jeannot Raymond, compagnon d’armes et pilote extraordinaire . It was signed Riviere ***** and dated 7 December 1930, Buenos Aires .

‘There, you’re feeling better already.’

‘ Ah , oui, oui, merci . I really did think the chief inspector would …’

‘Of course you did. Now don’t concern yourself further.’

‘He yanked Madame de Roussy’s invoice from my machine and demanded that I tell him why it was for so much.’