J. Janes: Mayhem

Shit and more shit, and the day had only begun.

‘Would you really attempt to hide things?’ asked Kohler as they went along the hall.

‘Of course not. How could I with you looking over my shoulder?’

‘I just thought I’d ask, Louis. Nice of your boss to remind me, though.’

‘He’s all heart, that one, and often confused.’

‘Well, leave this one to me. Boemelburg’s got his head screwed on.’

‘Word has it that he’s becoming forgetful.’

‘At least he knows what building he’s in.’

More couldn’t be said, for Kohler had knocked. ‘Enter,’ came the summons with just a trace of impatience. ‘Both of you this time, Hermann. I want answers.’

The office, though spacious, had none of Pharand’s former trappings. Gone were the works of art, the clutter of Chinese porcelains. In their place were street maps of Paris and all the major cities and towns in France, batteries of telephones and teleprinters, and, lost among the pins, the obligatory photograph of the Fuhrer.

No man for the finer sensibilities, Boemelburg hadn’t thought the antique limewood desk large enough and so had had the carpenters nail boards over its top. The clash of plain pine with the Louis XIV carvings always moved St-Cyr to whimsy. But then he’d known Boemelburg from before the war, from their work with the IKPK, the International Organization of Police, with its headquarters in Vienna.

An old and much respected policeman, Boemelburg spoke fluent French, having worked for a time in Paris in his younger days as a heating and ventilating engineer.

The Head of SIPO-SD Section IV, the Gestapo in France, was a favourite and much trusted friend of Gestapo Mueller in Berlin.

The handshake was firm. ‘Well, Louis, it’s good to see you.’

‘And yourself, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer.’ What else was he to have said? wondered St-Cyr. I am as the rabbit while passing through the lion’s cage.

‘Hermann, a chair,’ thundered Boemelburg, indicating that the two of them were to sit opposite the desk. ‘So, gentlemen, a small murder? Perhaps, Hermann, you could fill me in and then, Louis, you could add the more important details your partner will no doubt have forgotten.’

Kohler grimaced at the warning. St-Cyr half-listened as his partner began. Boemelburg was well up in his sixties, the blunt head almost shaved of its bristly iron grey hairs, and the blue Nordic eyes watery but not from sympathy.

A big man, like Kohler, he had the split-minded compartmentalization necessary for the first-class cop. He knew Paris like the palm of his hand and, like all first-class cops, had the inherent suspiciousness of a small boy who has just had his favourite pencil stolen in class.

No bully, he had knocked about, and it showed not so much in the ragged countenance or the tired lift of the eyes, but in his silent analysis of what had really gone on. The truth.

As Head of the Gestapo in France, Boemelburg dealt mainly with counter-terrorism and subversion – the Resistance and the Allied agents who were increasingly being dropped into France – but there were spill-overs into all other departments: the black market, the press, common murder, bank robberies, et cetera.

His liaison with the Surete had begun on that fateful day of the defeat and St-Cyr could still remember how Boemelburg had barged in the front door from that empty, empty street only to find him in Records and shake his head before saying, ‘Now, Louis, that will be enough of that.’

Fair was fair in Boemelburg’s eyes, but now that the order had changed, he’d expected one hundred per cent co-operation or else.

The choosing of hostages and the signing of their execution orders also fell to him.

As a sideline, he had the distasteful task of overseeing two notorious French units: the Intervention-Referat – hired killers and known criminals who did the Gestapo’s work when they wanted to appear dissociated from it, as in kidnapping, extortion, murder or bombing of some nuisance politician or industrialist; and the Bidder Unit whose school trained informers and infiltrators before sending them out to do the Gestapo’s bidding.

With Pharand both St-Cyr and Kohler knew they might avoid things, with Boemelburg it would be out of the question.

‘This purse, where is it?’ asked the Chief.

‘In the lock-up,’ said Kohler blandly.

‘Has Louis had the privilege of seeing its contents?’

‘Not yet. I thought it might be better, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer, if we discussed it in private.’

‘Why?’

Kohler shrugged. ‘There’s nothing specific, Herr Boemelburg. Women’s things – cosmetics, a small amount of money …’

‘How much?’ rapped the boss.

‘A million francs.’

‘Idiot! A million … Gott in Himmel , Hermann, a cop’s lockup? Why isn’t it in my safe?’

‘I was going to suggest that, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer. The money isn’t in francs – she’d have had to have a sack for that. It’s in diamonds.’

‘Diamonds!’ stormed Boemelburg. ‘The black market, eh? A currency fiddle? Theft – what about it? Were they reported?’ All such things had had to be written down and the lists submitted to the authorities. This purse, go and get it.’

‘Of course, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer.’ Kohler even clicked his heels and bowed.

Boemelburg fumed. ‘Diamonds … Louis, what do you make of it?’

Trust Hermann to keep that little bit of information to himself. St-Cyr affected a dryness that was admirable. ‘It’s news to me, Walter.’

The head tossed briefly in acknowledgement. ‘What’s it smell like then?’

‘Still a crime of passion.’

‘Then why is von Schaumburg so interested?’

‘Perhaps because the Kommandant of Barbizon is a personal friend of his.’

‘Talk … these days there is always talk behind our backs. So, how have you been?’

‘Busy.’

Again there was that nod, the intuitive understanding that enough had been said. ‘Did Pharand insist on your checking the boy out with Records?’

‘He did, but my feeling is, Walter, they won’t have anything.’

‘Even with the diamonds?’

‘Yes, even with them. You see, the boy looks to be of money, isn’t that right? The son of an aristocrat, one of our wealthy industrialists perhaps. Records won’t have anything because if they once had, the file would have been … Well, you know what I mean.’

Pulled. ‘It’s the same at home, Louis. Some things never change. See that Hermann behaves himself. Drop everything. Satisfy von Schaumburg we’re doing a good job. Berlin has asked for this.’

Berlin.

More couldn’t be said because Kohler had entered without knocking. The Bavarian strode up to the desk and dropped the purse in front of his boss. With heavy hands Boemelburg shoved aside the day’s mountains of paperwork before emptying the purse on to the desk.

A hand spread the contents out, then he stood up to get a bit of distance and have a better look at things.

‘A woman of substance,’ he said, indicating the crystal perfume vial, the ivory cigarette holder, monogrammed silver cigarette case, lipstick, compact, small, tight roll of ten-thousand-franc notes, condoms in their very own little silk purses, a tiny pencil in its silver tube …

‘Address book, where is it?’ demanded Boemelburg, saving the whereabouts of the diamonds for the last.

Kohler drew himself up. ‘Not present, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer.’

Was that pity in Walter’s gaze? wondered St-Cyr.

‘And the diamonds?’ asked Boemelburg quietly.

‘Being evaluated, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer.’

Evaluated ! Bullshit! ‘Where?’

‘Fournier’s on the rue du Faubourg St-Honore.’