J. Janes - Kaleidoscope

How nakedly she had laid herself open to him. St-Cyr drew in a long breath. ‘The herbalist … Yes, yes, my partner has met him.’

She asked about his partner and he told her, ‘Hermann Kohler of the Gestapo, mademoiselle.’

And you hate yourself for having said that to me – is that it? she wondered. You think it cheap of yourself to have made a threat like that to a woman like me. ‘All right, I am English, Inspector. Good God, I never once expected that my accent would become a threat to me. My French, it is pretty good.’

‘How long have you lived among us?’

Still there was that hunter’s look about him and her heart, it could not keep from sinking. ‘Since our school-days, Inspector. Anne-Marie and I grew up together in … in the convent. The Sisters of Charity – some charity. Hah! Me, I shall miss her for the rest of my life.’

‘What about her husband?’

‘Carlo? That pig? He spent all her money and he abused her terribly. He calls himself an artist but he shits far better.’

Ah now, what was this? ‘And the twins?’ he asked.

‘The twins,’ she said, and he knew at once by her tone of voice that her heart had always included the daughters of her dearest friend.

She dropped her eyes to the tapestry which he could see only from the front. She touched a bobbin, noted the play of colours that would give those delicate nuances she wanted so much. ‘The twins were always a constant worry, Inspector, and me, I shared that burden with my lover.’

There, she had said it in foolishness perhaps, or in defiance and pride.

‘Josianne-Michele was at the farm,’ he acknowledged with that nod.

‘The one who has the epileptic fits?’ she asked, somewhat taken aback.

Again he nodded. ‘It is the other one I am interested in, Mademoiselle Darnot. Josianne believes her sister is still in Paris but me, I am not so certain it is as easy as that.’

‘A dancer, an actress and … and a mannequin … yes, yes, Josette-Louise is in Paris. Her mother and she were not on speaking terms, Inspector.’

‘They were estranged.’

‘Yes … yes, all right! I was forbidden to write to the girl but, since Anne-Marie is no longer here to be angry with me, I can tell you that I did. I also sent her money when I could. Not much, for we did not have much, you understand. But a little something every now and then to keep her off the streets.’

Again there was that curt little nod but was he satisfied? It was so hard to tell. ‘I can let you have the last address, Inspector. It is a few weeks old and she may well have moved since then. The mails … these days they are not so good, isn’t that right?’ She gave a shrug when he didn’t respond and said, ‘In any case the girl can tell you nothing since she never came home to see us.’

‘Not the father?’ he asked.

She didn’t blink – he was certain of this. Cold, was she that cold towards the father? Did the hatred cut so deep?

‘Not even her father, Inspector. Not since she went away to school as both her mother and I had done before her.’

‘At the age of twelve?’

‘Yes, after Josianne-Michele contracted the encephalitis and began to have the fits, we sent Josette-Louise away. It was only fair that we do so.’

Fair to deny the one sister the love and help of the other? St-Cyr took a chance – a gamble. ‘Mademoiselle, I am not of the Germans, though I must work under them. If there is anything you should confide in me, do so now before you encounter my partner.’

‘My papers are in order, Inspector.’

‘But you are English. You, yourself, have admitted this. By rights you should be in the internment camp at l’lsle-sur-la-Sorgue in the Vaucluse.’

She did not move. Her gaze never wavered. ‘If you wish to check, you will find that I am Irish, Inspector, and since the Irish, they are not at war with the Reich, my papers really are in very good order.’

‘Yet you must tread carefully, mademoiselle. Me, I am not so stupid as to miss such an obvious thing. Your accent is like broken glass to those whose ears are in tune.’

‘All right. I have a friend who arranged for me to get a proper set of papers but I really have lived in France nearly all my life.’

‘This friend, is he the one who made sure Madame Buemondi would have a proper laissez-passer for the travel to Bayonne and return?’

‘Yes … yes, he’s the same one.’

‘Good. Now tell me why she had that pawn ticket in her hand.’

‘What pawn ticket? Me, I know of no …’

‘Mademoiselle, please ! Time, it is of the essence! Jean-Paul Delphane is also on the case.’

Jean-Paul Delphane … Ah no. This one, he had remembered Chamonix.

Tall French windows overlooked the city and the sea beyond the spacious grounds of the Hotel Montfleury. Kohler sought the yacht basin only to see that most of the boats had been beached due to the Occupation. He felt time ticking by and knew he’d have to say something.

The Gestapo Gerhardt Munk, a hard, quick, bitter little man of thirty-six, irritably fingered the pencil that lay lost among the papers on the ornate desk behind which no one sat.

‘Well?’ asked Delphane. ‘We’re waiting, Herr Kohler. We can’t wait long.’

‘It’s Hauptsturmfuhrer Kohler, or Inspector to you.’

‘The notebook!’ hissed Munk. ‘These … these …’ He snatched it up and thrust it under the Bavarian’s nose. ‘Telephone numbers!’ he shrilled. ‘Communists! Agents provocateurs !’

‘Come off it, don’t make me laugh.’

‘This is no laughing matter!’ seethed Delphane. ‘We have the necessary proof. The woman was carrying that notebook when found.’

Kohler returned the leaden gaze, was shocked again at the near-image of himself. Only in the hair and the eyes was there difference. A shrug would irritate – he did so and noted the stiffening of the ramrod back, the swift determination to return the slight with good measure. ‘Removing evidence from the scene of a murder is against the law, monsieur. Both here in France and at home in the Reich.’

‘You’re a fine one to talk,’ snorted Munk, watching them both.

‘Then why call Louis and me in, eh, seeing as you’ve got it all figured out?’

‘All right, all right.’ Delphane tossed a pacifying hand. ‘So, my friend, it is more than a list of telephone numbers.’

‘But you don’t know how much more and you’d like us to find out,’ sighed Kohler, reaching for the cigarette box only to have Munk place a hand firmly on top of his own.

‘Not so fast, Herr Kohler. There is a small matter the Inspector, here, wishes to settle.’

Delphane did not like being put on the spot by anyone, let alone a divisional head of the Gestapo. Hesitating, he took up a folder, then found the hornrimmed glasses his sixty years had made necessary.

When he glanced at Munk only to receive the curt nod of suicide or else, his eyes were like ripe olives in oil. Ah yes.

The Deuxieme Bureau’s agent began to read, the voice gruff with the humiliation he himself had only just received. ‘Kohler, Gestapo Central, Paris. Has recently moved out of free room and board among his associates at the Hotel Boccador to take up lodgings at Number 44 rue Saint-Andre-des-Arts in the Latin Quarter with the young prostitute Giselle le Roy.’

‘The flat’s right across the street from the lycee . I was hoping she’d take the hint and go back to school.’

‘At twenty-two years of age?’ scoffed Munk. ‘Come, come, Herr Kohler, the address is not far from that of the bordel of Madame Chabot on the rue Danton.’

Once a whore, always one, was that it? ‘I was afraid the kid would get homesick. She’s half Greek, half Midi French and doesn’t know the city all that well.’