J. Janes - Mayhem

There was no negative of him and Kohler. Either the photographer hadn’t listened, or Kohler had pocketed it.

Failing these two possibilities, there was a third: that someone else in the Gestapo had taken it; and then a fourth: that the Kommandant of Barbizon had had a look or had asked one of his staff to do so, in which case the negative had been pilfered so as to have a visual record of the two men who were on the case – a possibility, yes. Very much so.

And finally there was a fifth possibility: that somehow the Resistance had got to that pouch or to that photographer.

He dropped the last of the negatives on to the pile. Couldn’t something have been easy? Just one little thing?

The office was on the fifth floor of the Surete, overlooking the courtyard that led on to the rue Saussaies in the heart of the city. The Citroen wasn’t in the courtyard, so either Hermann hadn’t been in yet, or he’d been in and had gone out.

Chances were Hermann had the negative.

St-Cyr wondered what sort of squeeze his partner had put on the photographer. Had the Bavarian wanted to share the blame and give the photographer the chummy evidence of this? Had that been the reason for the photograph of the two of them?

Or had it simply been because of the purse and its handkerchief, because of his asking to have the spoor photographed – a kind of mutual blackmail, You don’t tell the boss, and I won’t show this to you-know-who?

It was one more thing to worry about in a morning of worries but serious. Ah, Mon Dieu, it most certainly was. The Resistance, they were beginning to kill collaborators. They tended to shoot first and listen afterwards to explanations of why one hadn’t been a collaborator at all.

They’d never understand, not those boys. Things had already gone too far, and were only worsening. They’d not believe he’d thought of resigning many times, had thought of applying for a transfer south – neither of which would have been allowed.

They’d never believe the lives he’d saved by destroying their dossiers.

They’d only look at that photograph and pull the trigger.

The dog-eared, badly smudged business card gave the name Herme Thibault, Photographer with Excellence, Barbizon , and the telephone number. Beneath the name were the words: Christenings, weddings and funerals , as if space was so limited, life demanded no further record.

The bill that had been submitted revealed a firmness not seen in the photographer. He reached for the telephone, said to hell with the Gestapo listeners, and asked the switchboard to get him the number.

A harsh female voice broke like glass over his head. ‘Hello! Hello!’ as if she’d tear his heart out.

‘Madame Thibault?’

Instantly the woman was wary. ‘Yes … Yes, it’s me.’

‘Madame, I am Inspector Jean-Louis St-Cyr of the Surete Nationale. Your husband took some photographs for us yesterday. He was to include all of the negatives but …’

He heard her suck in a breath. There was a longer pause, during which a head was shaken vehemently perhaps.

Then the harshness crept back. ‘You’ll get the last one when the bill has been paid in full.’

‘Madame, I must warn you …’

‘Warn if you like, Monsieur the Inspector. We’re sick of you people not paying your bills.’

The bitch hung up! At once there was that sense of loss, of self-doubt. Of course, a little blackmail of their own, and why not?

But why hadn’t he anticipated it? He should have. He would have if Marianne hadn’t …

Kohler stood in the doorway, grinning from ear to ear. ‘Want to take a little drive?’ he asked.

‘Let me send them the money, eh? Just this once.’

It wasn’t easy being a French cop working for the Nazis. Kohler almost felt sorry for him. ‘It’s just not your day, is it?’

‘No, I don’t think it is.’

‘Von Schaumburg wants to see us in his office at eleven o’clock. The Major’s asking for us now, and Boemelburg, being Boemelburg, wants his word as well. After the Major.’

‘But … but we haven’t even got started?’

Kohler shrugged. ‘I told you we should have let that bastard rot in a pauper’s grave. Pretty boys like that are always trouble. Any new thoughts on why our young friend wasn’t in a prisoner-of-war camp or in the Reich as a labourer?’

‘None … None at all at the moment.’

‘Well, you’d better have a damned good reason, Louis. Word has it von Schaumburg’s out for blood.’

‘Then we’ll use the possibility of the priesthood for now.’

‘I knew you’d see it my way,’ roared Kohler. ‘Now relax. I’ll tell the old fart the boy broke his vows and was in trouble with a married woman.’

‘Was he?’

Kohler pulled down a lower eyelid and stared at him but said nothing further. As St-Cyr stepped into the hall, the Bavarian opened their lock-up and took from it the Frenchman’s gun in its shoulder holster. Without a word, he thrust the weapon into St-Cyr’s hands and motioned him to put it on. After all, it was only a Lebel six-shooter, the old Model 1873.

But a devil’s gun in the right hands. Besides, it would impress the French Chief and show the little bastard that the two of them meant business and the Gestapo trusted St-Cyr.

Shooters for the French cops were only issued when on serious operations. Handcuffs always.

Vain, insanely jealous of his position, very political, officious and a real shit, Major Osias Pharand glared at them from behind what had once been his secretary’s desk.

‘Von Schaumburg,’ he hissed. ‘Only this moment another call. Beauschamp, the Prefet of Barbizon, wishes to know why he was not notified and why the Surete should think to arrogantly bypass the local police. Auger, the Mayor of Barbizon, has also telephoned. So, what have you to report, eh? Out ripping off the tabacs when you should have been attending to business?’

‘As a matter of fact, Monsieur le Director, I’m out of tobacco,’ said St-Cyr.

Pharand never spoke directly to the two of them, preferring the French edge of the sword. ‘Well, what about it?’ he demanded.

With a knuckle he irritably dusted the carefully trimmed black pencil of his moustache before clasping the pudgy hands in impatient expectation.

Kohler stood back while St-Cyr laid out the photographs and went over things with his boss. Pharand hadn’t been around the day of the defeat. He’d run just like most of them but had been only too willing to return, even if it had meant giving up his precious office. Violently anti-Semitic, a real Jew-baiter, he hated the Jews even more than the Resistance which he hunted down with rabid enthusiasm.

Their necks or his, and wasn’t war wonderful? No in-betweens, thought Kohler.

‘Details,’ muttered Pharand acidly. ‘Von Schaumburg will want details.’

‘Once we’ve identified the victim, the rest should be easy,’ said St-Cyr.

‘Have Records come up with a blank?’ demanded the Major.

‘No … No, they have not begun the search, Monsieur le Direc …’

‘Then ask them to do so immediately. Let me know the moment you have anything. Don’t breathe a word of it to anyone else.’

He snapped his fingers for the photographs St-Cyr had held back. ‘More shots of the body, Monsieur le Director. Nothing new.’

‘Yes, yes … Quickly!’ A snap again. ‘Please allow me to judge.’

When he came to the photograph of Kohler’s spoor with its white silk handkerchief he lifted questioning eyes to St-Cyr but went on.

The safari photograph caused but a moment’s impatience. At fifty-eight years of age, Osias Pharand knew the ropes.

‘The Sturmbannfuhrer Boemelburg can see you now. Dismissed.’ He tossed a hand but couldn’t resist adding, ‘I’m warning you, St-Cyr. If this affair involves the Resistance, please do not attempt to hide things. I know you’re soft. It won’t be tolerated a moment longer, eh? Do you understand?’