Philip Kerr - Field Grey

I nodded and she went out of my room and returned a moment later carrying a brass extinguisher. Made by the Pyrene Manufacturing Company of Delaware, it had an integrated hand-pump that was used to expel a jet of liquid towards a fire and contained about nine litres of carbon tetrachloride. The container wasn't pressurised and was designed to be refilled with a fresh supply of chemical after use through a filling plug.

'When I found you, the filler cap had been removed,' she said. 'And the extinguisher was lying beside your bed. The chemical had poured onto the carpet beneath your nose. In other words, it looked deliberate.'

'Have you mentioned this to anyone?'

'No one's asked me. Everyone believes it was an accident.'

'For your own safety it would be best if they continue to believe that, Renata.'

She nodded.

'Did you see anyone enter or leave my room? Or hanging around in the corridor outside?'

Renata thought for a moment. 'I don't know. To be honest, with everyone in uniform, all Germans look more or less alike.'

'But not all of them are as handsome as me, surely?'

'That's true. Perhaps that's why they tried to kill you. Out of jealousy.'

I grinned. 'I never thought of that. As a motive, I mean.'

She sighed. 'Look, there's something I haven't told you. And I want your word that you'll leave my name out of it whenever you do what it is you're going to do. I don't want any trouble.'

'It'll be fine,' I said. 'I'll look after you.'

'And who looks after you? Maybe you were a champion when you walked into this hotel, but right now you look like you're in need of a good corner man.'

'All right. I'll keep you out of it. You have my word.'

'As a German officer.'

'What's that worth after Munich?'

'Good point.'

'How about my word as someone who detests Hitler and all that he stands for, including this ridiculous uniform?'

'Better,' she said.

'And who might wish the German Army had never crossed the Rhine except for one thing.'

'What's that?'

'I wouldn't have met you, Renata.'

She laughed and looked away for a moment. She was wearing a black uniform and a little white pinafore. Hesitantly, she put a hand in the pocket of her pinafore and took out a brass plug about the size of a champagne cork. Handing it to me, she said, 'I found this. The missing plug from the fire extinguisher in your room. It was in the wastepaper basket of the man in Room 55.'

'Good girl. Can you find out the name of the officer who's in fifty-five?'

'I already did. His name is Lieutenant Willms. Nikolaus Willms.' She paused. 'Do you know him?'

'I met him for the first time on the train from Berlin. He's a cop specialising in vice. Hates the French. Face like a snake charmer only without the charm. That's about all I know about him. I can't imagine why he would want to kill me. It doesn't make any sense.'

'Perhaps he made a mistake. Got the wrong room.'

'A French farce by Georges Feydeau doesn't normally include murder.'

'What will you do now?'

'Nothing, for the moment. I have to leave Paris for a few days. Maybe I'll have thought of something by the time I come back. In the meantime how would you like to earn some more German money?'

'Doing what?'

'Keep an eye on him?'

'And what am I supposed to look for?'

'You're a smart girl. You'll know. You found this top from the extinguisher, didn't you? Just bear in mind that he's dangerous and don't take any risks. I wouldn't like anything to happen to you.'

I took her hand and, a little to my surprise, she let me kiss it.

'If I didn't think I'd start coughing, I'd kiss you.'

"Then you'd better let me do it.'

She kissed me and, in my weakened condition I let her. But after a moment or two I needed the air. Then I said, 'When he gave me that shot this morning, the doc warned me that I might feel like this. A little euphoric. Like I was Napoleon.'

I pressed myself hard against her belly.

'You're too big for Napoleon.' She kissed me again and added, 'And way too tall.'

Le Bourget was about ten kilometres north of Paris. And so was I. It's strange how physically and mentally restorative one or two kisses can be. It felt like a new kind of fairy tale in which a sleeping prince gets himself rescued by a plucky princess. Then again, that could have been the dope.

At the entrance to the aerodrome was a statue of a nude woman taking flight from her grey stone plinth. It was meant to commemorate Lindbergh's flight across the Atlantic but the only memory that was alive in my head was the feel of Renata's body and what it might look like if ever I saw her out of that maid's uniform.

There were three of us – me, Kestner and Bomelburg – pinned in the back of the staff car like a collection of taupe- coloured moths. In the front was an SS driver and a handsome young chief inspector from the Office of the Paris Prefect of Police. As we drove towards the airport building a four-engined FW Condor was landing on the runway.

'Who do you suppose that is?' wondered Kestner.

'It's Doctor Goebbels,' said Bomelburg. 'Taking his cue from the Fuhrer to see the sights of Paris. Here to cause trouble, no doubt.'

We were obliged to remain in our car for reasons of security until the Mahatma Propagandi had left the airport in an enormous beige Mercedes. I caught a glimpse of him as his car swept past ours. He looked like a malignant goblin on his best behaviour.

When Goebbels had gone our car made for a smaller, twoengined plane that was awaiting us. I'd never flown before. Neither had Kestner nor the Frenchman, and we were all a little nervous as we walked toward the plane's passenger door. Inside the fuselage we found another Frenchman waiting for us – an older, taller man with a Lautrec beard, pince-nez and a quiet forensic manner. He was a commissioner of French police and his name was Matignon. The younger Frenchman was even taller than his commissioner. He wore an extremely well-cut charcoal-grey summer suit and a pair of thick rose- tinted glasses. His name was Philippe Oltramare. Neither of the two Frenchmen seemed to speak much German, but that was hardly a problem with French-speakers like Kestner and Bomelburg on board.

The plane, a Siebel Fh 104A, started its engines as soon as we were all aboard, and that was the cue for everyone except me to light a cigarette. Following the injury to my lungs, the insult of cigarettes seemed too much to bear, and it wasn't long before another fit of coughing look me, which prompted the others politely to extinguish their tobacco, so I enjoyed a smoke-free flight down to Biarritz without further irritation to my lungs. I sounded like the audience at a dirty movie.

Mostly the conversation was in French, but there were several names I recognised, among them Rudolf Breitscheid, the former German minister of the interior, and Doctor Rudolf Hilferding, the former minister of finance. Both men had fled Germany after Hitler's election. I asked Bomelburg about them.

'We think the two Rudolfs are staying at a hotel in Aries,' he said. 'The commissioner here has already applied for their arrest. But he seems to be encountering some local resistance.'

I was pleased to hear it. The two Rudolfs had been the leading lights of the German Social Democratic Party, which I had voted for myself. Arresting a thug like Erich Mielke was one thing; arresting Breitscheid and Hilferding was quite another.

'We trust the commissioner's physical presence in Aries will overcome any opposition,' added Bomelburg, and showed me a list he had compiled of other wanted men. Mielke's name was second from the top, underneath Willy Muenzenberg's, a former Comintern agent and leader of Germany's communist exiles. Other names were less familiar to me.