J. Janes - Mayhem

Boemelburg glanced at his watch before fixing Kohler with a general’s eye. ‘How are things going for our boys on the Russian Front, Hermann? I ask because I haven’t the time to listen to the wireless.’

Kohler swallowed before lamely saying, ‘Not too well, I guess, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer.’

‘Then you’d best go and get them, eh? Oh, and Hermann, take a velo-taxi. Don’t you show up in front of the Kommandantur in that car Louis has been forced to let you drive. We’re to be seen as needing an increase in our gasolene allocation. Be late for your meeting with von Schaumburg. Five minutes, so as to emphasize we’re overworked. Oh, and leave the guns here. You’re not going to impress him with those. You’re not members of the Carbone* gang, not yet. And have a strategy,’ went on Boemelburg. ‘The two of you back to the site of the crime for some spadework then on to the seminaries – work on the red herring of the novice priest. Lay it all out for him and listen to what he has to say. Don’t mention the purse or the diamonds. Let him tell you about them. Berlin … I’m warning you, Hermann. Berlin has asked for this.’

‘Berlin?’ bleated Kohler as they beat a retreat down the hall.

St-Cyr gave a magnanimous toss of his hands. That just shows you what happens when generals talk to generals.’

‘And the Wehrmacht has to give in to Himmler’s wishes and let the Gestapo look after the policing of France. No doubt that little vegetarian fart has addressed a joint meeting of the Oberkommando der Wehrmacht, the High Command itself!’

Everyone knew that the honeymoon was over. In the first years of the Occupation the Army had been very correct with the people – far more decent with the French than if the shoe had been on the other foot. True, the economy had been and was being plundered, and now the young and not so young were being taken away to enforced labour. And true, in spite of all protestations to the contrary, more than 1,500,000 French soldiers still languished in prisoner-of-war camps within the Reich.

But acts of violence had increased – some of which had been set up on Himmler’s orders – and now the Wehrmacht had been forced to relinquish the policing to the Gestapo.

Understandably they weren’t happy about it.

‘Who is this guy anyway?’ demanded Kohler, glaring at one of the photographs.

‘A nobody, Hermann. A flea in the elephant’s ear.’

‘Or up his ass!’

‘You should have told me about those diamonds.’

‘I couldn’t.’

‘Any special reason?’

‘No … No, nothing special. Just a feeling I have.’

‘Walter’s asked me to keep an eye on you, Hermann. I think I’d better.’

‘Want a fag?’

‘Yes … yes, I would like that very much, and a canister of pipe tobacco if you can find such a thing.’

Kohler knew he’d have to let him have the last word but couldn’t resist saying, ‘You’re learning, Louis. Gott in Himmel but you are!’

Turcotte was in charge of Records, lord of his empire. The Surete’s card index files and dossiers occupied the whole of the sixth floor, the top floor, and the card indexes before the war had been as good if not better than the Gestapo’s in Berlin. Even the innocent had cards just in case they should stray from the straight and narrow or be related to someone who did. Apply for a hunting licence, a marriage certificate, passport or visa and automatically one got a card. Age, sex, marital status, number of children, closest relatives et cetera, et cetera … It was all here.

Beyond the maze of lead-grey filing cabinets, neglected windows gave back the surrealistic smearings of careless pigeons.

More rain, thought St-Cyr – his mackintosh was leaking. He’d have to find some glue or varnish – waterproofing compound was unheard of with Stalingrad so much in the news and the Russian winter begun.

Idly he wondered what would happen here if the Germans should lose, which they would. He was certain of it. A faint glimmer of hope. It was what kept one going. That and Marianne and the boy, and thoughts of the small farm he’d like to have …

Provence and retirement from all the slime, but now … why now, there was only Stalingrad.

Turcotte came back into view. ‘Well, what is it this time?’

Kohler showed him the worst of the photographs. ‘We need an ID on this one. He’s very dead.’

The lark’s eyes snapped light. ‘Do you always carry a purse like that, or is today something special?’

‘It’s St-Cyr’s birthday plus one, so we’re going out to celebrate. Now give, eh? The boss has to know.’

‘The boss … Your boss.’

St-Cyr got ready for the load of wind but it didn’t come. Boemelburg must have phoned upstairs.

He shot the green requisition ticket over the counter but didn’t receive any thanks.

Turcotte had a staff of seventy detective-clerks in grey smocks but dealt with this request himself, disappearing into the warren to find the photographic section and and the missing persons’ bank. ‘When was he killed?’ came the shout, fast fading.

‘Three a.m., 3rd December,’ called St-Cyr, not wishing to complicate things. ‘A back road from Fontainebleau to Barbizon.’

‘No other leads?’

‘None, I’m afraid.’

‘Thanks. Thanks a lot, my friend. Why don’t you guys do your homework before you come up here to demand the world?’

He was at the photographic desk now. They could hear him saying, ‘Top priority,’ but then his voice must have dropped to a whisper.

Kohler pulled down a lower eyelid and made a face. ‘Are you really serious about that tobacco?’ he asked quietly.

‘Yes, of course I am.’

‘Won’t half a tin do?’

‘At a pinch, yes. Yes, of course.’ Anything. I’m desperate, St-Cyr wanted to say but didn’t.

The Bavarian glanced around before flicking open the counter door and stepping through. He had perhaps ten seconds and he used them all to reach Turcotte’s frosted, glassed-in cubicle, wing open the lower desk drawer, find the tobacco and return.

He was beaming when the lark came back and demanded the return of his tobacco. ‘Don’t you ever let me catch you doing that again!’

‘Sorry, Emile. You know how it is. Louis, here, is fresh out. His wife’s buggered off and the poor bastard has the humps.’

The lark clucked his tongue. ‘Come back this afternoon. We’re to do a full search. The Sturmbannfuhrer Boemelburg has demanded it.’

‘You could have told us.’

‘You’re not trustworthy. I had to find out.’

‘The diamonds …? But, monsieur, they are not here.’

Kohler gripped the edge of the bevelled Victorian glass counter. ‘What the hell do you mean, they’re not here?’

The manager of Fournier’s was a frightened little man who couldn’t keep still. ‘We had to take them to an expert – one who is very well qualified, you understand?’

‘A Jew?’ snapped Kohler, rocking the air.

Frantically the manager’s eyes flew to his customers who were scattered about the fashionable shop. ‘Yes … Yes, I’m sorry, monsieur, but …’ He threw up his hands in despair. ‘I can have them back by five o’clock.’

Kohler’s fist hit the glass. ‘You’ll have them back in one hour or else.’

‘Hermann, please. Allow me,’ soothed St-Cyr with a brief smile. ‘Monsieur, you did not let the diamonds leave this shop. To do so would be to lose all credibility and your licence. So …’ He ran his eyes over the sunken treasure that lay beneath the glass. ‘So you will have the diamonds here by five o’clock as you’ve said, or else.’

‘But…’

St-Cyr raised a silencing hand. ‘No buts, my friend. Your messenger won’t be followed. Just see that the stones are ready and have your evaluation clearly recorded on the packet, signed by yourself and witnessed with the date as well, so that we can compare it with our other appraisals.’