‘A cutthroat, a bowstring knot and then an arbour knot which is also used to tie neat little bundles of medicinal iron.’
Eugene Thomas’s nail and stone, left on the floor of that office toilet, were silently pointed out, Hermann then tapping a forefinger against the copy of Schone Madchen in der Natur and then at the magazine photo of a lone, buck-naked, grinning German soldier.
Unnoticed until now perhaps, the boy’s carefully folded uniform was on the ground at his feet, but only a corner of this showed.
‘SS,’ whispered Hermann. ‘I didn’t want to point it out to you.’
‘A postcard,’ breathed Louis. ‘A lonely, loving wife who could well have been desperate for money.’
‘A Postzensuren up to mischief.’
‘Perhaps but for now … ah, mais alors, alors, mon vieux …’
‘A Karneval to raise substantially more cash than last year since Gauleiter Wagner can be very demanding.’
‘Months and months those men have been at it, Hermann, but why, please, would your former commanding officer have agreed to such a thing?’
‘Since by doing so the son of a bitch left himself vulnerable.’
‘And others too, others like Frau Lutz and that husband of hers.’
‘Lies, lies and more of them, Louis; half-truths or none at all.’
‘And only after the death of Eugene Thomas at around midnight Friday does he then decide to seek help elsewhere.’
‘Knowing the chemical formula for trinitrophenol has been scribbled on a scrap of notebook paper and that he definitely can’t trust his own detectives to keep quiet about it.’
‘Since they’ve been watching him and are a direct pipeline through to Natzweiler-Struthof, knowing also, though, that it was torn from Victoria Bodicker’s school notebook and that Lowe Schrijen, chairman and owner of the Textilfabrikschrijen, gives his daughter everything she needs for her Karneval.’
‘But does so to please Gauleiter Wagner. He must, Louis. We’re in the Reich and the Oberbonzen call all the shots. There’s also a target date of Saturday, 6 March.’
And to hold anything in public, even a Karneval, the Gauleiter’s permission would have had to have been given. Rasche had also warned them never to underestimate Lowe Schrijen, but had only reluctantly revealed that the son, Alain Fernand, had been engaged to Renee Ekkehard, his secretary who had been like a ‘daughter’ to him.
‘A girl who skis all night, Louis.’
‘Only to then be distracted by a piece of costume jewellery.’
‘While being drugged.’
They hadn’t bothered to unpack their grip, those two detectives. They had so little in any case, thought Yvonne. A sliver of prewar hand-soap smelled faintly of lilacs and just as faintly bore the impress of the Crillon, a luxury hotel on place de la Concord. The Bavarian had probably pocketed it while on an investigation in late 1940, for the Wehrmacht and the SS had taken over many of the hotels, or so Otto had said after that first visit of his. They had even built a makeshift wooden walkway above the rue Royale between that hotel and the former Ministry of the Marine, and so much for culture and architectural beauty in a city of them.
Begging herself to remain calm, she set the grip on the bed Herr Kohler had used and emptied it item by item. ‘One spare hand towel,’ she whispered. ‘Socks with holes in them. Limited changes of underwear. Two spare shirts, an extra necktie, three handkerchiefs-St-Cyr’s?’ she asked, for they had been carefully pressed as if by a man, and he probably used them for collecting some of the things he did.
Two handguns were wrapped in the woollen pullover Herr Kohler had brought and laid on the very bottom of the grip. One of them looked like the pistol Alain Schrijen had laughingly shown Werner when the boy had come to escort Renee to his father’s house on Christmas Eve.
Mat-black, clean, sleek, much worn and therefore used, this one had a P38 incised a little in front and above the trigger, a Walther too, the soft curve of the maker’s name, the lie of what was now in her hand.
Well oiled, it fitted easily, the brown, crosshatched wooden grip perfect, but for a moment she couldn’t move, could only stand with this thing pressed to a thigh in defeat, her shoulders slumped. Was she going to go to pieces?
‘I can’t! I mustn’t! Genevieve,’ she whispered. ‘Darling, please be careful. Please don’t become involved in anything no matter how strongly you feel about the way things are, just hide while you study.’
The other gun was a Lebel Modele d’ordonnance, the old 1873, heavy, ugly, brutal, a six-shot revolver bearing the inscription of the Saint-Etienne Arsenal. It too had a crosshatched brown grip. Some sort of very hard wood-tropical perhaps, or was it of dyed bone?
The barrel, indeed the whole of this thing in her hand, was scratched, nicked, banged up but well oiled. Spare bullets were in a packet and heavy. Eleven-millimetre black-powder cartridges, but why should the Frenchman have such an antique when his partner had only the most modern?
Clips for the Walther pistol held eight 9mm Parabellum cartridges, and there were four spares and a full packet as well, gun oil too, and the cleaning rags, those that he had wrapped the guns in before using the pullover to hide them.
St-Cyr had slept in the box bed, he being the shorter; Herr Kohler the four poster with canopy which, like the other bed in its alcove, like the whole of this room and house, was now drawing in the light of day to glow warmly and securely from its panelled walls. Walls that showed off the lovely grain and knots of the wood and made one think always of a forest and of belonging.
Quickly, deftly, Yvonne made the beds and smoothed their quilted, chequered Kelsch-covered duvets and pillows, pausing at the foot of Herr Kohler’s bed, the warmers now clutched. ‘Cherry pits,’ she had heard him mutter late last night, their light out at last. ‘They radiate the heat even better than bricks, Louis, and are a hell of a lot softer.’
And then, as if he had longed for home, ‘Meine Oma taught us how to make them. The pits are gently dried in the sun. My brother and I used to turn them for her. You let the flat of your hand move lightly over them so as not to pile them up. The seed shrinks inside the stone and leaves an air space that holds the heat in longer. They’re cosy too. My Gerda used to pack bags just like these.’
His grandmother and then his ex-wife … St-Cyr had tersely muttered something about Saarbrucken and a farm there and knowing all about it. ‘Tomorrow, Hermann.’
‘Ach, don’t get fussed. I only thought it might help if you felt the warmth would last the rest of the night.’
Tomorrow, today. They had left the house, had overslept and taken only one cup of coffee each and black-had refused the milk she had offered, had said, ‘We’re no longer used to it,’ and she had understood that to request such a thing in Paris would have been to tell others one hadn’t been in France for very long and definitely draw attention to oneself.
Otto had already left by then, having taken Werner with him. Otto had known she was afraid the detectives would go through Renee’s things before leaving the house, but they hadn’t. Renee had used Genevieve’s bedroom which was on the floor below and across the staircase landing from his. In the autumn of 1940 the girl had come from Strassburg, hadn’t known anyone in Kolmar and had needed a place to stay. What else could one have done-told Otto that it wasn’t a good idea, that the arrangement was contrary to army rules? Kommandant and secretary living opposite each other, their doors opening in the middle of the night. ‘They had, Otto,’ she murmured as if he were there beside her. ‘Moonlight fills that room in summer when the blackout drapes are open as Renee had liked and had lain there all but naked, her nightdress rucked up, the white gauze of the mosquito netting you’d found for us her only defence as you stood watching her sleep, listening to her every breath. Did you see me in her, Otto, the girl I once was? Just what made you stand there so long and at other times?’