‘It’s lovely, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Very delicate, very feminine. Renee found it in a shop in Paris and gave me a little.’
The shop Enchantment on place Vendome and the signature perfume of Gabrielle Arcuri, the chanteuse who had come into his life, but did God have to do this to him? wondered St-Cyr. ‘Treasured,’ he said, ‘and now worn in memory of Renee Ekkehard.’
‘Why, yes. I … I had to do something. She …’
Sophie Schrijen had reached out in comfort, or had it been to silence her?
Frau Macher was again at her desk and typing, the foyer a no-man’s-land he’d have to cross, thought Kohler wryly. He also knew that at any moment Lowe Schrijen could ask for something in his daughter’s office or ring Sophie up if he hadn’t been told she had left. An intercom button connected this one to his and to Frau Macher, and opportunity enough to quietly listen in to the daughter, since there wasn’t a light to give the game away.
In the rush to leave, Sophie Schrijen had forgotten her keys which lay in a bundle in the middle of the desk: keys to the administrative offices and this one in particular, those to the filing cabinets, the house in the country, the padlocks on the wagons at the Karneval, even a flat in town? he had to ask.
Keys were always going missing, girls always misplacing theirs, temptation the foremost of detective sins.
The sound of the typewriter continued. Things in here, though, were so tidy it had to raise alarm bells. Sophie Schrijen had even kept the desk drawers all but as her brother must have left them, and if that wasn’t curious, what was? Only in the right front corner of the central drawer had space been set aside for herself. There was a newly purchased lipstick, of that horrible wartime Quatsch that burned the lips, but had it been used to write a suicide note? The urge to pocket it came, but if absent, she’d know that someone had been in and had lifted the keys.
An eraser-sized chunk of pink granite was curious. The quarry? he had to ask, but if so, why keep it so close it had to be a constant reminder?
A phosphorescent swastika button lay beside it-one of those that were meant to be worn during the blackout, but had obviously not been, and that, too, was curious. Had she been out and about in Kolmar?
A token, one of those little collectibles the Winterhilfswerk sold to parents and schoolchildren, was here too, the thing depicting a grim-faced Wehrmacht 1935-style helmeted soldier boy, strong and handsome, but this was not the only toy soldier. There was a broken lead one on a horse, one of those spike-helmeted unfortunates the Kaiser had let gallop into machine-gun and artillery fire until those had cut them down and killed good horses. Splendid mounts.
This one had lost a right foreleg but had also been scratched and picked at with a nail or pin, though elsewhere the paintwork was still like new. Had it been one of her brother’s as a child and if so, why keep it here and not elsewhere? Had she stolen it in revenge perhaps over some childhood squabble, and if that, why, then, was she still feeling guilty about it?
Or had she found it at the Karneval?
The only sign of untidiness was a hastily removed sticking plaster, but why yank it off and not throw it into the wastepaper basket, why put it here in this little corner if not to hide it from Frau Macher or someone else, the basket bound to have been searched?
A forefinger … A single droplet of blood, now dried, had half-missed the gauze and hit the adhesive tape, indicating that the bandage had been hastily applied and then just as quickly removed. That ampoule? he had to ask and favour his own middle right finger. Had it been done by a broken neck of glass, the hand shaking so hard she had cut herself?
The sound of the typewriter had stopped. Rudel must have come into the foyer and said something, for Frau Macher’s voice came clearly now. ‘You’re to go right in, Herr Oberstleutnant. Generaldirektor Schrijen is waiting.’
And in without even knocking.
Between where the keys had lain and the chair, there was a single file folder, a speech Sophie had been going over for a meeting of the Frauenschaft this coming Saturday, 13 February, at 8.00 p.m. Loneliness, Loyalty, and Constancy. Finding the Strength to Wait.
Pages of type held underlined words and passages. Beneath them were examples-advertisements torn from the Personals columns of the Frankfurter Zeitung, Berliner Morgenpost and Deutsche Allgemeine Zeitung, the Kolnische Zeitung and Munchner Neueste Nachrichten, the latest Night Focus.
To quote: ‘Geli is eighteen, 160 cm in height (5’3”) and of good figure. Likes to dance and to party with friends. Loves long walks in the country or park and evenings at the cinema. Is happiest when with a loving, caring man who has a good sense of humour. Apply Box 183.’
Beside the advertisement, Sophie Schrijen had written, ‘Geli misses her Ludwig terribly. When last heard from he was at Stalingrad.’
Again to quote: ‘Emmi is blonde, hazel-eyed and 42. Seeks male companion between 35 and 55 who can provide a caring home. Is experienced with children but past the age of childbearing. Is willing and able to cook, clean and keep house for a widower and his little family in return for his respect, love and kind support.’
Here Sophie Schirjen had written, ‘Emmi’s husband, Heinz, is stationed somewhere along the Atlantic Wall in France and hasn’t been home in two years. When asked, Emmi hotly claimed he was “Ein boser Mench” (a bad man) who beat her, but when pressed, admitted she was terribly lonely. “I haven’t had a man in all that time,” she wept.’
‘Anneliese is dark-haired and dark-eyed. A pleasantly plump girl, she is 22 years old, likes to grow vegetables, make preserves and mead the old-fashioned way, and to read while listening to recordings of Wagner by the Berlin Philharmonic, the Gotterdammerung especially. Seeks an older man who can give her guidance, friendship and much love. Apply Box 1521.’
The Munchner Neueste Nachrichten:
‘Anneliese is married and has two children. Her husband, Gunther, is stationed in Greece, she thinks. He does not write, she says, because he is too embarrassed to ask one of the others to do it for him. The loneliness is unbearable. The long nights and the children-I have only myself to rely on and must be both mother and father, she says. Her parents were killed in Koln during the firestorm.’
All over the Reich, and in France too, the lonely and the desperate were placing advertisements like these, the costs often negligible or given free of charge. Girls-women who needed companionship, security and sex, damn it, just like Gerda had. Women and girls who were seeing their youth and lives fly by. A tragedy.
Caught among the folds of the Munchner Neueste Nachrichten were two ten-by-eight-centimetre head-and-shoulders photos of company Sophie Schrijen or any other woman would definitely not want. One wore a white, thin-collared, too tightly buttoned shirt, black tie, heavy black woollen waistcoat and suit jacket. Round in the shoulders, his head was down on them, the perpetual evening shadow doing nothing to alleviate the expression in dark, half-hooded eyes that said, Ah, yes, you make the next move, mein Herr, and we’ll see what happens.
The other one had a Hitler soup-strainer and eyebrows to match. Dissipated, a drinker too, and whoremaster who obviously sucked on more fags than he should, he was big in the shoulders, big everywhere and had the look of one who knew what he had to do and wouldn’t give a damn about anything else.