J. Janes - Tapestry

‘A round-the-clock. Flavien is still looking after that one, isn’t he?’

M. Garnier. ‘Yes but … but the inspector didn’t ask this. I did tell him Monsieur de Roussy was seeing another woman twice a week, sometimes more and that … that she was married and the mother of three children.’

‘The wife of a prisoner of war?’

‘ Oui, the chief inspector did ask that.’

‘And what was it de Roussy pays this shameful coquine ?’

‘Five hundred-at least, that is what I told the inspector but also that I … I really didn’t know. “It’s only a rumour,” he said of the five hundred.’

‘And yourself?’

‘I shrugged, I think.’

‘And then?’

‘He told me about a girl that had been found in the passage de l’Hirondelle. She’d been kicked in the face, kicked to death. Why would anyone do a thing like that?’

‘These times are not easy. Now don’t worry, please.’

‘I had to go to the lavatory. I had to leave him alone but only for a few moments.’

‘Of course, but did this St-Cyr say anything else?’

‘Only that he didn’t think Madame Guillaumet was going to live. Why would someone have done that to her?’

‘And the other invoices, the ones that were on your desk?’

She had best tell him everything-the estimate to the Scapini Commission and to the parents of Captain Jean-Matthieu Guillaumet for a full inquiry, the invoice to Madame Morel, but … ‘Would the inspector have gone into M. Garnier’s office to find the files on that one’s desk?’ she hazarded. ‘The one on Madame Guillaumet, the one of Madame Barrault …’

M. Jeannot Raymond put a finger to his lips. He was, she knew, always there in the office even when out on an investigation and often away for days on end. A presence, an anchor, he was in his late forties or early fifties, was tall and handsome, the hair black like silk but receding from a brow that was always furrowed. The lips were thin but when he softly smiled as now, they curled up gently at the corners in such an honest way.

Never once had she seen him wear a shirt and tie. Always it was the black turtleneck under the dark grey pinstripe jacket, always the long fingers without the wedding ring-why was it that he no longer wore it? His wife looked happy in that photograph, the children also.

He handled all the investigations involving the recovery of stolen property and was, with Colonel Delaroche, the one who met with the German authorities. Sometimes the illegal hoarding of food and the black market took him away; sometimes insurance fraud or embezzlement, or even labour strikes and/or prolonged absenteeism in a factory or mine. He didn’t handle the troubled marriages, not since she had been with the agency. He only advised on them. After the client had met with Colonel Delaroche and the fee had been set, such investigations were turned over to M. Garnier and, under his supervision, M. Quevillon-admittedly the bread and butter of the agency and booming now. Other investigations might briefly involve those two but only if Colonel Delaroche or Monsieur Raymond needed help, and yes there were part-time employees she never saw who didn’t even come to the office, nor was any record kept of their names or wages, a puzzle for sure, but fortunately the chief inspector hadn’t asked.

Lost to his thoughts, M. Raymond still took a moment to again reassure her. ‘I once worked in South America,’ he said. ‘The Patagonia-Buenos Aires airmail service. Santiago, in Chile, too, but it was a long, long time ago.

‘Ah! here they are at last.’

The desk was locked and none of its drawers would budge, though Kohler tried each of them. Bob had gone straight to the lower right-hand one and was now waiting expectantly for it to be opened. Louis shrugged.

‘Bob, come,’ said Delaroche, having stepped back into the corridor.

‘Bob, stay.’

Uncertain, Bob looked questioningly up at this Kripo, then toward his master.

‘See that this is opened, Colonel.’

‘ Mon Dieu, what is this, Kohler? You accept the hospitality that is extended while another invades the agency’s premises? You do not have a magistrate’s order and now you tell me what to do in my own offices?’

‘Abelard …’

‘Jeannot, these two have no place here. Hasn’t the Hoherer SS and Polizeifuhrer Oberg explained things to them?’

‘Monday, Abelard. I haven’t yet had a chance to inform them.’

‘Then do so.’

‘Inspectors, we’ve set up a meeting at …’

‘Later,’ said Kohler, his gaze taking in this Jeannot Raymond. ‘I want this opened now. Whose desk is it and where’s the key?’

‘It’s my desk but that drawer has been tightly jammed for months.’

M. Quevillon had said that. Suzette knew he was lying.

A dancer’s candy-striped warm-up stocking was dangled over the desk’s blotting pad to be slowly lowered to coil in on itself.

‘Open it, Hubert,’ said M. Jeannot Raymond.

‘I can’t. I left the key at home.’

St-Cyr knew that if Hermann and himself forced the issue, the agency would rightly conclude that the desk had indeed already been burgled. They would then threaten to use the photo of the boys, yet if no objections were raised and the matter meekly left, they’d believe it anyway. ‘Put in a call to Walter, Hermann. Tell him we’ve run into a stone wall.’

‘Now wait, Inspectors,’ managed Delaroche. ‘From time to time it’s necessary for Hubert and Flavien to produce certain pieces of evidence. Things are constantly being gathered. Clients do, at times, need convincing.’

‘Just like I do, eh?’

‘Hermann, perhaps we should all sit down. Perhaps the restaurant could …’

‘Colonel,’ said Suzette, ‘would you like me to ring through for coffee and …’

‘A few sandwiches …’ prompted the prompter.

A sigh was given. ‘Very well. The ham that I had at noon, Mademoiselle Dunand.’

‘With mustard,’ went on Louis. ‘The Dijon melange cremeux if possible, mademoiselle. A few olives also and please forgive me for having upset you earlier and for deceiving you. I’m not usually like that and am ashamed of myself.’

The creamy mustard, but Louis had meant it too, and was bound to do something about what had happened to her as a result. Flustered, though, and glad to escape the others if only for a moment, the girl turned away and was at the phone when they reached the outer office.

‘Yours, I think, Colonel,’ said Hermann, indicating its totally locked door. ‘If you’ve a bottle of cognac in there, we could all use a drink.’

‘Hubert, find what the inspector was looking for and bring it to my office.’

Check that desk of yours to see if anything is missing or has been disturbed.

As the door to this inner sanctum sanctorum was unlocked and opened, Louis simply said, ‘After you, Colonel,’ but then he stopped in the doorway as if struck.

The painting was absolutely magnificent. Automatically it drew the gaze away from the ample leather-topped, carved French oak desk that faced out from a far corner through a scattering of armchairs. It was seen in the half-mirrored doors of an open Louis XIV Boulle armoire, was seen also in a late Renaissance Spanish mirror, the two throwing the painting’s image back and forth but allowing varied perspectives of prospective clients should the colonel feel the need.

Apart from a bank of filing cabinets panelled in that same oak, the office was all but a salon in the old style. The beautifully flowered Aubusson would smother sounds. Louis XIV fauteuils and settees were strategically placed for quiet tete-a-tetes. There were bronzes-a superb copy of Boizot’s Nymph , another of Chinard’s Apollo …