‘Who the hell are you, luv?’ called the woman in English, the throaty yell of it echoing.
‘I think she means you, Louis.’
‘You’re mistaken, Hermann.’
‘But you’re the chief inspector, aren’t you?’
‘Sacré nom de nom, Hermann, elle est la plus formidable! Madame,’ St-Cyr called down en français. ‘What seems to be the trouble?’
In French she answered, ‘Those bitches are trying to put the blame on us. If they want to kill each other, that’s their business, but we had nothing to do with it!’
Foolishly Louis held up a hand to intercede. One could have heard a pin drop were it not for the sounds of collective breathing and the smell that arose from the assembled.
‘THEY’LL NEVER GROW A GODDAMNED THING IN THEIR GARDENS THIS SUMMER, MISTER!’ shrieked someone in English.
‘WE’LL TEAR TH’ FUCKING THINGS UP!’ shouted another.
‘WE’LL MAKE THEM EAT THE SHIT THEY’LL SECRETLY SPREAD IN HOPES OF GETTING BIGGER SQUASH AND TATERS THAN OURS!’
‘Taters? Ah, merde, what on earth are they?’
‘Potatoes, Louis. Last autumn the Americans raided the British vegetable gardens in retaliation for the way they’d been treated. When they first got here, they were billeted with them.’
A sigh would have to be given. ‘Things didn’t work out to everyone’s satisfaction.’
‘Food had to be shared and they had none to contribute since they hadn’t Red Cross parcels of their own. A lot of them also had to double up and sleep on the floors between the beds of their hosts. The drains packed it in because of the traffic. The bathtubs and washbasins were never cleaned. Hand soap was stolen from the Americans, what there was of it. Cigarettes, perfume, costume jewellery, lipsticks too, and cash. . ’
‘The two hotels, being side by side, they are Allies elsewhere but enemies here-is that how it is?’
‘Don’t get huffy. The new Kommandant did indicate the British had invited the Americans to a party they’d put on last Christmas.’
‘To make amends?’
‘Perhaps. Now, deal with it, will you? Mrs. Parker and that one faced off on the stairs and guess who won?’
‘That why you’re looking so rattled?’
‘They’ve got my gun.’
‘Ah, bon, a difficult assignment. If I don’t get it back, I’ll be blamed.’
‘And if you do, they’ll be eating out of our hands.’
2
The fist that clasped the broom handle was beet-red, the fingers painfully chapped and thick, but on the third, fourth, and fifth digits there were rings, the look of which no soap or margarine would ever free. Bolt cutters would possibly be needed, thought St-Cyr. It was that or determination.
The little finger wore a ring whose faceted rectangles were of clear-white diamond and dark-green emerald, the design from the early ’20s and Art Deco: Van Cleef amp; Arpels, no doubt. Then came a canary-yellow diamond of at least sixteen carats, the faceted navette surrounded by brilliants in the style of Boucheron and probably dating from 1915.
The last was a sapphire cabochon of thirty carats and exquisite colour, with brilliants all around-Cartier, he was certain-the three rings a tidy fortune for such a one as this, to say nothing of the fact that she was in an internment camp where such items were invariably taken from one and an oft-worthless receipt given.
‘FERME-LA, MES AMIES!’ the woman shouted to shut up the racket. ‘GIVE US ROOM WHILE I DEAL WITH THIS TURD AND PULL HIS LITTLE CHAIN!’
The laughter and other disturbances died off as if struck. Shabby, thin, tall, gaunt, dumpy, or not, to a woman they wore hats. Some of these were tiny, like this one’s, which was perched atop hennaed hair whose roots were fiercely black. Uncompromising, the hair was thick, long, and wiry and pulled back into a bush that was tied with a Union Jack. Others, though, wore hats that were large and floppy; others still, tiny pillboxes with bits of forgotten veil, but all used hatpins that were obviously daggers in their own right.
Surrounded, collectively the looks were contained but in ribald expectation of the fistfight to come.
Ah, merde, thought St-Cyr, chancing a glance back and upward to Hermann who had remained standing at the third-storey’s railing with Nora Arnarson. Perhaps the girl had gripped the railing out of fear of heights, Hermann having laid a hand firmly on hers.
‘Madame. . ’
‘IT’S SIMPLE THEFT, COUILLON! A PHOTO, A POSTCARD, A LITTLE BIT OF GLASS, A PEBBLE, A ROCK CRYSTAL!’
Must she call him an asshole and let her voice fill the hotel? ‘Madame, un moment, s’il vous plaît. Simple theft?’
‘IT IS THEN THAT EVERYTHING BEGAN, FIVE MONTHS SINCE THOSE CHATTES ARRIVED HERE!’
Those cunts? ‘Ah, bon, je comprends. When the Americans arrived, the thefts began, and from petty theft things developed into an accident, and from there to murder-is that how it was?’
‘Oui.’
The once navy-blue overcoat, still with all of its buttons after the years of internment, had a sable collar that would be pleasantly warm but definitely didn’t belong with the original coat, and though the eyes were small and of a dark grey-blue, they were swift and hard behind octagonal gold-rimmed specs that must have belonged to someone else. ‘Your name, madame? The face, the figure, the stature. . Was it in Honfleur that we encountered each other? La rue du Dauphine, perhaps, or was it Le Havre and along le quai Videcoq?’
The docks, in any case.
The grin was huge, the teeth tobacco- and tea-stained, and broken or absent; the woman as tall and big across the shoulders as Hermann, who was probably congratulating himself on the little problem he had managed to dump on his partner.
‘This Occupation, madame,’ said St-Cyr. ‘This war. People come into contact in the strangest places only to lose contact while others come back unexpectedly.’
I had better drop the voice, she thought. ‘Listen my cow that moos, I’ve never seen you before.’
And gangster slang for police, but one must be cheerful and sing out, ‘Ah, the dialect, that’s it. One hears so many in my line of work, one automatically tries to place them. Les Halles, madame? The rue des Lombardes? The house at number twenty-seven. I’ll have the date in a moment.’
The belly of Paris, the central market, and an unlicenced house. ‘Couillon, ferme-la!’
‘Of course, but one good turn deserves another.’
And wouldn’t you know it! ‘Qu’ est-ce vous désirez, Monsieur l’inspecteur? The love of the chase, the hunt, the young and beautiful or the more mature?’
‘Our overboots and my partner’s gun, and not without every last one of its cartridges, which I will have already counted.’
He was definitely a shitty bastard. ‘Marguerite, hand over the gun, Hortense, give back the overboots. There’ll be another time.’
Was Hermann pleased? wondered St-Cyr. He didn’t smile, still stood with that hand of his clamped over that of Nora Arnarson of Room 3-38. They were talking. The girl looked as though trapped. .
‘You’re afraid of them,’ confided Kohler to the girl.
Nora winced. ‘Please let me go, Inspector.’
‘Not until you tell me. That woman down there mentioned stealing little things of no earthly value and you immediately began to tremble. I’d like to know why.’
‘You don’t understand, do you? You can’t. But you’re letting them all see me with you. They’ll think I’ve told you things and ratted on them. They’ll wait. They’ll find a moment when I’m not watching out for just such a thing.’
‘And then?’
‘They’ll shove me.’
Louis had the gun and the boots and was quietly asking the woman down there something. .