Christabelle Audit; Christiane Baudelaire. Two sets of papers, the one correct, the other false, but the occupation of art student and artist’s mannequin the same, as if pride could not let her make some more sensible choice for at least one of them.
The dressing-room was small. The stove had gone out and the door was still closed but would it open suddenly some day, would he come for her also, this murderer?
A Corsican …
Gripping her shoulders, she rubbed them for warmth but stood alone wondering … wondering … How did she die? Terribly.
The warehouse was one of hundreds in the bustling dock area of Saint-Ouen to the north of the city near the Seine. The faded yellow logo of a hand of bananas was just visible on the rusting corrugated iron above the main shipping door and entrance. Kohler was struck by the thing. It could not possibly have anything to do with Oberg, the Butcher of Poland, but was it a reminder that one should never forget one’s bosses?
The noise was unbelievable. Donkey engines, overhead cranes, pneumatic drills – three, no four shunting locomotives, gangs of French labourers pulling track and laying down others, gangs of the Wehrmacht’s finest too, soot and coal dust in the air and everyone pausing to get an eyeful of Madame Van der Lynn, who didn’t like it one bit.
There were mountains of coal, stacks and stacks of firewood, steel drums that carried labels of all kinds. Kerosene, alcohol, glycerine, liquid fertilizer (i.e., pig shit), concentrated apple juice, a real cocktail.
The collector of stuffed canaries had been forewarned. Offenheimer avoided looking at Madame Van der Lynn and concentrated on him instead. ‘Herr Kohler, as you can see I’m very busy.’
Kohler gave the Abwehr’s man a Gestapo’s ‘Heil Hitler!’, crashed his heels and shook hands formally. One had to do things like that. ‘Brandl said you’d co-operate. It’s good of you to see me.’
‘Yes, yes. Oh, very well. Sit please. You may not smoke. I would prefer it if you didn’t.’
Well, what do you know about that? In these days of high anxiety tobacco was out and that could only mean real coffee was in. Lots of it and strong. He indicated the cup on the desk and asked if they could have some.
Karl Ernst Offenheimer was forty-four years old, of medium height, light build, wore unrimmed eyeglasses that didn’t do anything for the round and unhealthy face whose pallor spoke of too many late nights but doing what?
The naval uniform was far too tidy. The short black hair was heavily pomaded and parted in the middle. He’d shaved but already near noon there was a blueish shadow.
‘Tell me about Schraum,’ said Kohler.
The dark eyes glistened with barely suppressed anger. ‘There is nothing to tell. As you can see, I have been going through the accounts. Kapitan Brandl is convinced we will find something. Myself, I think we know enough.’
‘And have for some time.’
‘I don’t like your manner, Herr Kohler. I resent your coming here. It’s my job to find the coins, not yours!’
‘The coins are only a part of it. What we want are the murderers.’
‘Yes, yes, the killers. Schraum ran this warehouse for the Bureau and had, as I’m sure you can well surmise, a direct pipeline through to his uncle in Stralsund.’
‘The Gauleiter, the SA-Sturmbannfuhrer and collector of coins. A distant relative of the Reichsmarschall Goering.’
The dark eyes flicked to Madame Van der Lynn but raced away to the ledgers as if guilt had slapped a wrist and mummy had said no.
‘Yes, the Reichsmarschall. He is himself somewhat of a collector.’
‘Aren’t we all,’ breathed Kohler. The bastard was up to something. ‘Brandl operates the Bureau Otto on the principle of the barracuda in thin waters, Herr Kapitan. He lets the little fish fatten among the coral heads until they make mischief. Then he eats them. Right? So what’s your game?’
Kohler was the nuisance who had embarrassed the SS and Himmler himself. ‘My game is this. The coins, though forged, are copies of real ones that must have been syphoned from a substantial hoard of undeclared valuables. Schraum should have brought the matter to our attention but chose not to.’
And got eaten by the barracuda? Was it that simple?
‘He bit off too much, Herr Kohler. All little fish must understand that the reef is controlled by the big fish.’
‘Meaning me? Come off it, Herr Kapitan. I can’t even swim. How long have you been working on this?’
‘Since long before the murders.’
‘What’s stored here? What kind of goods did Schraum handle?’
‘Coal, firewood – don’t tell me you haven’t noticed?’
‘Bananas?’
‘Bananas?’
‘Yeah, there’s a logo above the door.’
‘Oh that. It has nothing to do with us. It must be something from the past.’
No sense of humour at all. ‘Oberg was a banana merchant. Oberg, my fine Abwehr twit! Oberg. Now give.’
The shadowed cheeks quivered. The dark eyes flicked to Oona, to her legs, her chest, her face and hair; they made the trip and came right back to settle on the ledgers, thus avoiding a confrontation. ‘Otto said you would help us. Is this the help of one who says he is a friend?’
‘And needs his friends right now?’
With a supreme effort of will, Offenheimer pulled his gaze from the columns of figures. So many tons of coal, so many cords of firewood. Even a donkey could have written them.
‘No one crosses Otto Brandl, Herr Kohler. The reef is to be kept peaceful at all times for the good of us all.’
Out of a corner of his left eye Kohler saw Madame Van der Lynn tug her skirt down and smooth it over her knees. ‘Tell me what happened with the coins; let’s begin with them.’
It would be best to appear judgemental, to place his fingertips together and bring them to his lips in thought. ‘Ten days ago Schraum’s uncle received the coins in a consignment of liqueurs, old silver, tapestries and wines. Schraum was apparently confident he’d scraped the surface of something big. We have since learned that the uncle wasn’t happy. The coins didn’t get past his scrutiny, Herr Kohler. Unfortunately, Reichsmarschall Goering’s appetite had already been whetted.’
‘Only duds turned up and the uncle turned nasty, that it, eh?’
‘In so far as the deaths are concerned, yes. The uncle was embarrassed, and when you are an SA-Sturmbannfuhrer and Gauleiter you can’t afford to be embarrassed by a careless nephew, even though he might have been useful to you in the past.’
‘Someone was hired? Sent straight from Stralsund? A debt-collector perhaps, assuming cash had been paid for goods received?’
‘Precisely. Victor Morande had been Schraum’s source. They’d been working on the deal for months. Morande was forced to tell the killer of the girl’s whereabouts, then she was killed and finally Schraum.’
‘The knife, the wire and then the pistol,’ oozed Kohler with feigned wonder. ‘You should have been a detective.’
The mackerel, the girl and then the corporal. Offenheimer polished his glasses. ‘The Reichsmarschall is, of course, insisting we locate the real coins. Apparently the gold sestertius is of some personal interest.’
Their coffee came. Oona clutched her cup with both hands. As she took a sip, she chanced a look across the desk at Offenheimer. She would not wish to be left alone with this one, ah no. There was something wrong with him. Sex … had it to do with sex?
Kohler took out his cigarettes. In alarm, Offenheimer’s spoon stopped stirring. ‘Oh, sorry. I almost forgot. It’s a good thing Louis isn’t here. Then there’d be three of us to one of you.’
‘Will there be anything else?’ asked Offenheimer.
He’d ignore the hint. ‘Schraum was approached by Victor Morande. They’d had the coal and firewood exchange going for some time but now it was fifty-fifty on a deal Victor thought he could deliver.’