J. Janes - Mannequin

‘Gabrielle …’ He burst into the cubbyhole she called her own. The door closed behind him and he drew in the scent of her perfume.

‘Jean-Louis …’

There were only two chairs and she was sitting in one of them with her feet up on the other. She reached out to him and he took her hand in his and, suddenly at a loss for words, stumbled over an apology for not having spent Christmas with her and her son at her Chateau on the Loire as planned. ‘Lyon and a case of arson,’ he said. ‘A tragedy,’ only to leave it off and shrug, ‘With you there is no need to apologize. How is Rene Yvonne-Paul?’

‘Fine and still wanting to spend time with you but understanding that, like his mother, he must share you with your work just as he must share me with mine.’

‘My work … ah yes. May I?’ he asked, indicating the other chair.

Must there always be this stiffness between them at first? she wondered, but when he sat opposite her, their knees touched and he took both her hands in his.

She squeezed his hands hard and tossing her head in warning, said urgently, ‘Kiss me. I want to be loved, mon cher. Loved! ’

Merde alors! what was this? Releasing her hands, he cautiously stood and looked slowly around the cramped room, searching always …

There were two tiny microphones-one behind the dressing-table mirror, on the left up high, the other hidden above the ceiling light.

‘A cigarette,’ he said, easing himself into the chair to sit looking at her, worried, ah so very worried.

She moved a piece of paper across her dressing-table and watched as he wrote, What has caused the Gestapo to be interested in you?

She shrugged and smiled sadly, then shook her head to indicate she didn’t know.

Have your contacts in the Resistance any word on the robbery at the Credit Lyonnais? he wrote and saw her shake her head, and when they held each other tightly and he drew in the scent of Mirage, of vetiverol and bergamot, angelica and lavender, she whispered, ‘So far there’s been nothing, but the few I work with don’t think it was a Resistance job.’

None of the microphones could be touched. Another was located with difficulty in the wall behind the fire extinguisher in a corner. She was Russian. She used an assumed name, had escaped during the Revolution and had later married a Frenchman who had been killed in this war.

One could not question her activities or tell her the danger was too great and that, if it came to the worst, it would be hard for Hermann to turn a blind eye and for himself to help without perhaps first killing his partner.

She understood the risks, he understood her need to be involved. As they sat facing each other, he quietly told her about Joanne-the Gestapo would know of the girl by now. ‘She’s like a daughter I’ve watched over,’ he said. ‘I must find her before it’s too late.’

Instinctively a hand touched his cheek and she let her fingers trace down to his moustache to press themselves against his lips. He wasn’t like the wealthy businessmen or politicians, the generals and other high-ranking officers who took her to dinner, bought champagne, sent flowers and asked her to parties and endless official receptions. He was shabby, somewhat diffident, rough-and-ready, a cop-they had met on another case … Ah, how should she say it? He knew himself absolutely and didn’t try to be anyone else. Yes, he was not like so many other men. She felt good with him, good all over. Secure, at ease, at home, so many things. What more did one need?

Chantal and Muriel, he wrote. I must take the photographs to them. What photographs? she wondered and saw him write, Mannequins … clothing …the manner in which the photos were taken, the sequence, Gabrielle.

And then … Leave word for me with them if possible. Always a warning if you’re in trouble, eh? Simply a Yes if the Resistance knocked off that bank, or a No. We must find out so as to eliminate the possibility or include it.

He struck a match and burned the slip of paper. He destroyed the ashes by rubbing them in his palms and then blowing them towards the door. They held each other. They wondered when they would see each other again. His moustache tickled when he kissed her ear-never on the lips, not with him. Her voice, the influenza season … he was too conscious of her well-being, a worrier.

Without a word he left her and for a time she was alone. Chantal and Muriel had a shop on place Vendome. They were old friends and knew the fashion business like few others. He would go to them for information and advice as he always did when necessary. She would leave something there for him if she could.

Poor Jean-Louis, she said silently. He is a cop whose partner, though now a friend of mine too, is of the Gestapo. That alone will tear him apart every time he thinks of me.

Lighting a cigarette, she sought out each of the Gestapo’s bugs and counted them again before worrying about their interest in her and if there were any she hadn’t found.

In the morning, Boemelburg was waiting for them. They had only just parked the Citroen in the courtyard off the rue des Saussaies, when an orderly approached and gave them the order.

‘He isn’t happy.’

‘Is he ever?’ snorted Kohler, hung over and taking a last drag before carefully stubbing out his cigarette and hiding the damp remains in his little tin. A real Kippensammler par excellence. The things one did these days to keep nourishment at hand.

Butt-collecting had become a national pastime, a preoccupation shared by those of their German masters who had fallen from grace and were without a regular supply.

‘Pharand is to be bypassed. Go straight to the Chief,’ said the orderly.

Pharand was Louis’s boss, a file-minded, territorial little French fascist who was insidiously jealous of his turf and believed firmly in the system of wealthy friends who had put him at the top.

‘Our luck,’ snorted Louis. ‘Maybe I’ll keep my job, Hermann, and maybe I won’t.’

It was always the roll of the dice of whim these days. Pharand had lost his cushy office to Boemelburg who had moved in on the day of the Defeat and had kicked him out and down the hall, so that when the little twerp had found the guts to come back to Paris, he had found there had been a few changes.

Humiliated by the loss of status, Major Osias Pharand had elected to make up for it in other ways.

‘Don’t worry about it, Louis. I’ll protect you.’

‘Grace a Dieu, that’s exactly what I’m afraid of!’

They went into an office that was spacious and once filled with Chinese porcelains, Japanese prints, ivory fans, chopsticks-little mementoes of colonial days years and years ago. Other things too, of course.

But now all chucked out in favour of the utilitarian. Maps detailed every nook and cranny of France with pins and flags. Telexes hammered. Telephones waited. From the office next door came the machine-gun sounds of four secretaries typing reports already at 0700 hours Berlin time, 0600 hours the old time, 0500 hours in summer, Christ!

As Head of SIPO-SD Section IV, the Gestapo in France, Boemelburg had the power of life and death over every living soul in the country. A giant, like Hermann, but well over sixty years of age and with an all-but-shaven grey bullet of a head, sagging jowls and puffy sad blue eyes, France’s top cop had been a detective for much of his life, but had included some years in Paris as a salesman of heating and ventilating systems. He spoke excellent French, even to the slang of the quartiers and, what was far more important, could think like the French when needed.

Depending on his mood, however, it could either be French or deutsch. This time he chose the former. One never quite knew with him, and of course, to have known and worked with him before the war on the IKPK, the International Organization of Police, had been more of a detriment than an asset. Boemelburg had known only too well the capabilities of God’s little detective and had put him to work but had given him Hermann as a watchdog.