J. Janes - Tapestry

Fornicateur that he was himself, or so Denise had been told by her mother, Herr Kohler held on to the cigarette he had placed between her lips, making her tremble at the nearness of him, at the musk such men exuded. ‘Well?’ he demanded.

‘Denise was in tears when I found them at that table of his in the Lido. He had two thousand francs in the fist he had thrust at her, his daughter! She gripped my hand and held it to her lips. I felt her tears. I … I told her we’d best leave, that the car was running. So many of the women we have to deal with have no morals just like Elene Artur. They try to deny it to our faces when confronted with the evidence. Marie-Leon Barrault is the same. We’ve photos of her in the Hotel Grand, waiting for the lift. Photos with Gaston Morel, sometimes the two of them even with her daughter, Inspector. A child of eight! Just what must Annette be thinking at such times, a mother who disappears upstairs in a huge hotel like that? A mother who …’

‘La fellation?’

‘Isn’t that what such men always want from such women?’ Ah, Jesus … cher Jesus , why had she let him drive her to say such a thing? ‘I didn’t mean that either. I really didn’t. Annette Barrault is very worried about her mother and missing her dear papa terribly just as I did my own.’

‘You’ve interviewed her separately from the mother?’

Did he know nothing of social work? ‘We always do that. It helps to get the children off by themselves. Things the mother won’t admit are then sometimes revealed.’

‘Just like detectives-the real ones anyway. Divide and conquer, eh? So when did it all begin, Denise taking client case files home and that mother of hers going through them?’

‘I don’t know. How could I?’

‘You and Denise are as close as your mother and Vivienne Rouget, if not closer.’

‘HOW DARE YOU?’

‘Sorry.’

‘I’m cold. Could we not go in and get this little visit of yours over?’

‘Adrienne Guillaumet has two lovely children who desperately need her.’

‘Then why didn’t she control herself? Why did she deliberately arrange to have an assignation with a man who was not her husband? Why hire a velo-taxi to pick her up at an agreed upon time and the shouts of her name from another who would guide her to it?’

‘You knew there were two men waiting for her?’

‘I … I just assumed. It’s very dark on the rue Conte at that time of night outside the Ecole Centrale. There’s always a rush after classes.’

And two men had been waiting for her-this was what Herr Kohler was now thinking as he pinched out his cigarette and added shy; it to his little collection. ‘This precious Madame Guillaumet of yours had already sold a good deal of her clothing. What better, then, than to sell the use of herself?’

‘To whom?’

Ah, bon! ‘A general. Why not go right to the top, if you’re from a class that aspires to it and can speak the language fluently?’

‘A general …’

‘ Oui . At the Ritz.’

She and Denise Rouget had checked it out. They must have. ‘His name? Just for the record.’

‘Schiller. Hans-Friedrich, from Baden-Baden and a very old and well-established family. The youngest of four brothers and an architect before the call-up.’

‘A lonely man?’

Must Herr Kohler still taunt her? ‘Why else his wanting the use of a woman? Oh don’t get the idea Denise and I have met or even spoken to him. It simply took a phone call to the desk and a little name dropping. Admit it, Inspector, the bitch was having trouble paying the rent and wouldn’t listen to our advice on how to budget more carefully. She could have gone to her in-laws and begged them to forgive her for stupidly having not asked her father-in-law’s permission while her husband was away. A holiday in Deauville she just had to have before the children were born? The husband’s parents would have gladly helped her now, had she but humbled herself, but …’

‘Adrienne didn’t want to listen.’

And got exactly what she deserved-was this what Herr Kohler wanted most to hear? ‘We tried, Inspector. We really did. Henriette Morel …’

‘Put up the money and you and Denise hired the Agence Vidocq shy; to follow Madame Guillaumet and find the proof.’

‘That is correct.’

‘And with Marie-Leon Barrault and others it was the same.’

Did he have to hear that, too? ‘But fortunately she wasn’t hurt so badly. With some of the others, it …’ Ah, merde, merde, he had done it again!

‘Yet, if I understand things clearly, Mademoiselle de Brisac, her offences were even worse? Gaston Morel repeatedly; the manager of the Cinema Imperial also-enough for some dark-minded little priest to write letters about her to the Scapini Commission.’

‘Filth, and worse, yes, but is the sin of the one really any different than that of the other?’

‘Or that of Elene Artur?’

‘I believe so, yes.’

And really uptight about it. ‘But neither you nor Denise thought to ask Madame Morel to pay for having that one followed?’

‘Vivienne …’

‘Was behind it all, wasn’t she? The rapes, the beatings, the punishment. A little campaign that got out of hand.’

Standartenfuhrer Langbehn was in mufti. Tall, handsome-polished, ah mais certainement, thought St-Cyr. The successful businessman or banker perhaps, the greying, dark hair close-cropped in military style, the forehead high, face thin, eyes iron-grey and always noting things but giving very little away, the lips wide and full, the expression sardonic, the chin sharp and closely shaven. Not a medal on him or a wound badge, only the SS-Dienstauszeichnung with runes and ribbon, the long-fingered hands with their meticulously pared nails and broad gold wedding band perusing the stamp collection of Monsieur Bernard Isaac Friedman, no doubt a guest of the SS-Totenkopfverbande if still alive.

All around them the Tour d’Argent had settled back into the heads-in-the-sand of its bons vivants . Oh for sure the SS and their Sicherheitsdienst would have made a point of knowing exactly where Judge Rouget was at all times, especially on his birthday. Langbehn had probably only intended to offer congratulations in public while reminding the judge and family of that one’s duties by bringing the Fraulein Remer along, but now the unexpected intrusion of this Surete would have to be dealt with.

Grinning, the Standartenfuhrer leaned back to consider each of the family before saying, ‘It’s a splendid collection, Madame Rouget. My compliments. Judge, you’ll be the envy of all such collectors and must be immensely proud of this dear lady of yours.’

Coffee, cigars and cognac had been brought from Langbehn’s table. But what of this girl of the Belgian barley sheaves and handbag theft, this stalwart liar in an immaculately pressed, made-over Blitzmadchen uniform? wondered St-Cyr. The expression was one of cold appraisal, the look in those china-blue eyes one of what? Of the threat of ‘I dare you to try to stop me from condemning those four neighbourhood boys of yours to death or deportation along with every member of their families?’ After all, a uniform had been disgraced and the Germans … ah, mon Dieu , but they loved theirs.

‘That collection was stolen, as I’ve stated, Standartenfuhrer. Since it is a key link in a long chain of murders and assaults, it must be held by me as evidence.’

‘Judge, lock it up,’ chuckled Langbehn as he handed it back to Rouget.

‘Standartenfuhrer …’ One had to try.

Langbehn reached for his cognac in salute. Sonja Remer didn’t waver, but sipped only water, Denise Rouget all but knocking her glass over, Vivienne softly saying, ‘Hercule.’