‘And then killed her before the tidying, thereby giving them the identity of her killer? Sergeant, did you see anyone enter this building?’
Though the chief inspector now knew he had earlier been lied to about any of them having been asked to meet with that girl, he was still on their side, thought Senghor. ‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Corporal Duclos, did you?’
Senghor threw him a look that said a lot, thought Kohler, but the corporal concentrated on the dung at his feet and lost himself in God only knew what.
The sun had risen, thought Bamba, but Grandpapa and Papa had said one must never read one’s own future; nor should the gift ever be used for profit or in competition with another such as Madame Chevreul, even though the desperately needed food and cigarettes would pour in; nor should one ever claim to be able to go beyond the future to speak to the dead and hear what they had to say.
‘Well?’ demanded Louis.
‘Bamba, mon ami, you must tell them,’ said Senghor.
The sharpshooter’s insignia, his own, thought Bamba, had been upside down, the blanket pin of the dead French soldier hooked through the gold wedding band of the woman who had died of a bomb blast in that other war and given birth to twins they had then had to bury.
The points of the scimitars had touched the little brass bell as if to ring it one last time, the cock’s foot had been turned inward, the thigh bones scattered.
Herr Weber would see that both Senghor and he were beaten to death. Not today, not tomorrow, but soon. The receiver of the gift and the giver of it would be no more, and the juju lady of the Hôtel Grand would win. ‘I did look back once as we neared the church. I did see that one enter this place.’
The victim.
‘Though in a hurry, Mademoiselle Lacy glanced our way,’ said Duclos, ‘and I knew then that things would not go well for her.’
‘There, you see.’ Weber smirked. ‘Others were waiting in here, weren’t they? Others of you blacks. You knew what they were going to do to her. They grabbed her from behind, didn’t they? They shoved a filthy rag into her mouth, tore at her clothes, forced her down and pushed her face into the ground before flipping her over so that she had to look at them as they raped her, one after the other, before stabbing her to death with that pitchfork.’
Gott im Himmel, would nothing convince him otherwise? wondered Kohler.
‘And wiped it clean, Untersturmführer?’ asked Louis, defying the odds.
‘Ask them, don’t ask me.’
‘Hermann, be so good as to take the mademoiselle to the Vittel-Palace. We’ll join you when we’ve moved this one to the morgue.
‘Untersturmführer, who reported the killing and what did you find here? Please go over everything as closely as possible.’
‘Louis, are you sure you don’t need me?’
One look said it alclass="underline" Merde, mon vieux, why must you ask? Just bugger off and make use of the opportunity.
The safe was not as easy to open as it was thought. Kohler spun the dial again, bringing it to between the 52 and the 58. Listening for the tumblers, he moved it a degree and then another and another before leaning back to look at the verdammte thing.
There was no mistake. It was the basic, three-tumbler combination locking mechanism, a Yale, though that really wouldn’t matter much, for all such had about a million possible combinations. Oh for sure he’d narrowed the range down, but still. .
A frantic search yielded nothing, not even behind the photo of Weber’s sister, but then tucked inside the cover of der Führer’s Mein Kampf was a slip of paper: 3 right to the 57, 2 left to the 32, and back around to the 11.
Again he listened for Weber’s approach. Again he realized that there could be no reasonable excuse for his being there.
Beneath the cartons of cigarettes, tins of the same, and of pipe tobacco, there were the files the Untersturmführer had gleaned from the former Kommandant’s desk before Colonel Jundt had arrived. Telex after telex laid it on from Colonel Kessler to the Oberkommando der Wehrmacht, the OKW, the High Command of the Army: ‘The men are desperately needed here. Already I have had to send far too many. Barely enough remain to adequately guard and patrol the camp. I can let you have three and no more.’
For the Russian Front, and guess whose name was top of the list? ‘Untersturmführer Weber is most anxious to prove himself in combat.’
And in another file, this one not from Colonel Kessler to the OKW but from Weber to Obergruppenführer-SS Kaltenbrunner, head of the Reich Central Security Office in Berlin and a drunkard, a sadist, and an anti-Semite if ever there was one but, worse still, an intriguer who was suspicious of everyone and everything.
‘Attention, most secret. Kommandant Kessler is a traitor to his country. His cosy friendship with the Americans indicates he is convinced the Reich will lose the war. Having taken a mistress from among them, he has made her pregnant, which unfortunately has led to her suicide on the night of 13–14 of this month. The padlocked gate of an elevator shaft was tampered with and the third-storey gate opened by the victim who then jumped to her death.
‘Easy on the Jews who hide here with false passports, Colonel Kessler continually rejects my urgent demands that the Reich Central Security Office be asked to have their Honduran and other papers examined.’
Another file gave the deaths of the Senegalese while out in the forest cutting and hauling logs. ‘Killed during an escape attempt. Death from heart attack,’ this last a favourite with SS and Gestapo interrogators.
Three such notices stretched back to well before Kessler had been recalled, but there were also telexes from the former Kommandant to the OKW complaining of the Untersturmführer’s ‘attitude.’
Weber didn’t just have that photo of his sister with its tiny swastikas at the upper corners of the frame. There were others in an envelope in the safe that, judging by the stamps on the backs, could only have been taken by the police photographer in Koblenz. Overcoat and dress were in disarray and well above the waist, the girl flat on her back, legs slack and spread widely, arms thrown out, blood on the snow near the head and thighs, mouth open, eyes staring, shoes and stockings lying under the shadow of the Schutzmann who must have found her, those of the district’s Polizeikommissar and one of his detectives falling on the white woollen bloomers the mother had insisted on.
She’d been a student, having completed the first year of what would have been a six-year program to become a home-economics teacher. Dead, Friday 23 December, 1921, at 1807 hours, age eighteen years, four months, and eleven days.
Kessler had had good reason to be worried and Weber plenty to have gotten rid of him, but there was no sign of the directive Kessler would have left for Louis and this partner of his.
An envelope gave Jennifer Hamilton’s Paris address on the avenue Henri-Martin, the full name of her maid, Thérèse Marie Guillaumet, an often-added-to list of the paintings and antiques, the address of the Head Office of the Paris ERR, the Einsatzstab Reichsleiter Rosenberg-the covetous collectors of all such things-and a telex from Weber to them stating that when in Paris on leave in mid-April he wished to meet to discuss a matter of common interest that had come up in the course of his duties.
This boy was a climber who could rightly claim that the valuables had been bought from Jews on the run and for others who were clients in America. Jennifer Hamilton didn’t have a hope in hell of leaving, and as for Becky, if her papers and passport were removed, Weber would be the first to realize it and to telex Berlin about a certain two detectives.
Reluctantly he replaced everything only to take up the girl’s papers and passport again. Convinced that Louis and he had judged her guilty, she had stood all alone outside this office, hadn’t known what he would be doing in here, only that should Weber come along she was to have given the door a damned good thump.