J. Janes - Tapestry

‘Yes, yes, Hermann. Twenty-five minutes and don’t you dare take any more of that Benzedrine.’

‘Serve piping hot from a silver plate, but don’t boil the juice. Look, Louis. The Grand Duke Vladimir of Russia ate number 6,043 in 1900; King Alfonso XIII of Spain bit into number 40,362 in 1914 just as we were pulling on our boots and saying our prayers and good-byes to loved ones. Hirohito, Emperor of Japan, had number 53,211 in June of 1921, so why is he now an ally of the Reich?’

‘HERMANN …’

‘Franklin Delano Roosevelt ate number 112,151,******* though, in 1929. I hope he enjoyed it. Goring … The Reichsmarschall and head of the Luftwaffe had numbers … Ach, I always wondered how many times that one had caused young ducks to be smothered. Ten … fifteen … Surely a trencherman and avid art buyer like Goring wouldn’t have passed this place up?’

‘HERMANN, WE SIMPLY HAVEN’T TIME!’

The restaurant would have been taken over had the owners refused to cooperate and closed the place back in June of 1940. ‘Oh, sorry, Chief. I was just curious and trying to keep myself sane and not worry about Giselle. Found them, have you?’

‘Table thirty. Monsieur …’ Louis turned to the maitre d’. ‘If you or any of your staff so much as clear away, I will personally empty my revolver into the ceiling. This is a murder inquiry and my partner and myself have had it up to here.’

‘With bodies,’ confided Kohler, pulling down his lower left eyelid to buttonhole the starched shirt and tails. ‘Young girls who had all of their lives ahead of them, grands mutiles , dancers, boys. Bring us two chairs and hurry.’

‘But … but, please, Inspectors. Madame Rouget has a bad heart. Could it not wait a little? Surely they can have nothing whatsoever to do with …’

Louis let him have it. ‘They have everything to do with our inquiries.’

‘But it is Monsieur le Juge ’s birthday celebration?’

‘Then that makes it even better.’

Not bothering to remove that fedora or overcoat, Louis started in among the tables, a dark-blue, gold-lettered Vuitton leather secretarial case tucked under each arm like a government accountant on a tax fraud. Records … case histories that Denise Rouget had brought home from work and that the judge’s sleepy-eyed little maid of all work, having been awakened, had not been able to prevent them from ‘borrowing’ from the entrance hall’s table when they had called at the house to find that he was here.

‘Judge Rouget? Judge Hercule Rouget?’

Others were taking notice. ‘What is the meaning of this?’

Stung, Louis tossed that head of his. ‘The meaning? There’s the body of a dancer in that flat you keep on the rue La Boetie, Judge. We understand that you knew her well.’

‘How dare you?’

‘Elene Artur …’ gasped Vivienne Rouget, unable to prevent the name from escaping.

Quickly the daughter laid a hand over that of her mother, Germaine de Brisac-it must be her, thought Kohler-taking the other. Two very well-dressed, beautiful girls in their mid- to late thirties. Friends for life, ardent social workers. The first, brown-eyed like the father, but not mud-brown, the second with fabulous green eyes and absolutely perfect reddish-blonde hair and what else? he asked and had to admit, she’s uncertain and damned afraid.

‘A few questions, Judge. Nothing difficult. We’ll save those for later,’ said Louis, clearing the plates and glasses aside to set down the cases. ‘But first, Mademoiselle Denise Rouget, I gather from questioning the family’s maid that it was your custom to bring such records home.’

‘My daughter’s caseload is heavy, Inspector. Would you not want her to go over things in the evening in preparation for each following day’s interviews?’

A cool one when the chips were down. ‘ Ah! Bien sur, madame. It’s perfectly understandable. It’s just that …’

‘Well?’

‘May I? It helps the thoughts and makes what I have to say easier.’

Pipe, tobacco pouch and matches came out. Ignored, the judge was far from happy but conscious of the Walther P38 that had been laid on the table and was pointing at him.

‘Hermann, be so good as to check on our Trinite victim. The Hotel-Dieu is just along the quai de la Tournelle and across the pont de l’Archeveche. Take the first turning to your left when you are on the Ile de la Cite. That will lead you quickly to place du Parvis and the hospital. It’s dark outside, but … Ah! I hate to ask it, Mademoiselle de Brisac, but would you be so kind as to show him the way? A few moments of your time. Nothing much, I assure you.’

‘But required of me, is that it?’

Must beauty come in so many forms? ‘ Oui, and please don’t bother to argue, Judge. This party of yours is now over.’

Louis had seen it too. The judge’s birthday present.

The folio was also from Vuitton and of dark-blue leather like the secretarial cases. Imprinted in gold leaf, a boldly handwritten flourish gave Juge Hercule Rouget , and below this, in somewhat smaller writing, President du Tribunal Special du Departement de la Seine .

The night-action courts.

It would be best to let the fingers of an apparent envy caress the folio. ‘May I?’ asked St-Cyr-he wouldn’t set the pipe aside, would simply clench its stem between the teeth. Unaware of what she’d done as the daughter had released her hand, Vivienne Rouget had gripped the dessert spoon she had been using when so rudely interrupted.

‘IT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THAT SLUT!’ she spat, crashing the spoon down flat on the table to disturb the adjacent diners.

‘VIVIENNE!’ hissed the judge.

‘Of course the death of Elene Artur has apparently nothing to do with this, madame, but as I once collected stamps, I would appreciate the opportunity. Judge?’

‘Look if you must, but it will be your last.’

The cloud, the hurricane, the fierceness were all there as if on the bench. ‘She was cut open, that mistress of yours, Judge. Deliberately disembowelled and allowed to run-ah! forgive me, Madame Rouget, mademoiselle. The detective in me slips up from time to time.’

‘Cut open …’ blanched the daughter, throwing wounded eyes at her mother who savoured the news only to realize this Surete had seen beyond such an impulse to its harder truth.

‘ Ah, mon Dieu, Judge, the 1849 to 1850s twenty-centime black. The blue also, though it was never issued. The Vervelle, the colonials … A stunning collection. Perfect if donated-is it to be donated to the Nation on your death?’

‘Inspector …’

‘Madame, this collection, except for its rebinding, matches entirely one that was stolen at between twelve twenty and twelve thirty a.m., Friday, but it’s curious, I must admit. You see, though my partner and I were definitely not to have investigated that crime, the gold louis that were also in the safe were not taken by the thief or thieves. A simple smash-and-grab one would otherwise have thought, but done to order. It must have been, that little something left as hush money.’

Everyone said St-Cyr was despicable, thought Vivienne, a cuckold who would gladly have forgiven that wife of his if he could have. A seeker of truth with the holier-than-thou attitude of a martyr!

But when met and held, the deep-brown eyes registered neither condemnation nor forgiveness and understanding, only an inherent curiosity. ‘If you think I am about to inquire as to how it is you have concluded such a thing, Inspector, you are very much mistaken. I purchased that collection from a very reputable source, and only after much deliberation.’