The Abwehr then, but another branch of it. The visitor and his girlfriend who had left the pate et cetera at the Villa Audit. ‘Anyone else?’ he asked suddenly.
Offenheimer pushed the woman’s head forward. He’d shove her aside as Kohler came at them. ‘Hogenburg, a nephew of the Minister of Armaments. They are all friends of Audit, Herr Kohler. They all think very highly of him and that is why the avenue Foch turned the matter over to the rue Lauriston.’
So much for ‘delicate’ matters. Antoine Audit must damned well know of it too.
Kohler teased the knife from the Captain’s hand. ‘Two last items, my fine. First, are Lafont and Bonny still holding Giselle le Roy?’
Oona Van der Lynn began to sob with relief; Offenheimer hardly breathed. ‘Yes … yes, they still have her. She … she was too badly beaten to release.’
‘Did the kid refuse to co-operate?’
The pistol was pressed harder. ‘Yes, she … she wouldn’t spy on you.’
‘I’m not worth it. Now, did you smash this “Hilda” or not?’
Granny’s boy broke down completely. Kohler yanked Oona to her feet and wrapped his coat about her. She couldn’t find her voice, went all to pieces.
‘Yes … yes, I killed my sister, damn you!’ shouted the Captain. ‘She deserved to die!’
The urge to be his executioner was there, a foolish thought. ‘Then live with it. Go and smash another statue.’
‘YOU’LL PAY FOR THIS, KOHLER! THEY’LL NEVER LET YOU AND ST-CYR LIVE, NOT AFTER WHAT YOU DID IN VOUVRAY!’
‘Oona … Oona, hey listen. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to go that far. Honestly I didn’t. Look, I’m going to take care of you. I really mean it.’
She could not walk, she could not talk. Kohler swept her up into his arms and carried her back to the car.
The Club Mirage was on the rue Delambre in Montparnasse. At 2.47 a.m. behind locked doors, the place was jumping. Kohler breathed in the syrup of tobacco smoke, beer, wine, sweat and brandy, and grinned with relief.
Louis was tossing dice up at the zinc. From the balcony there was an excellent view. Eight hundred of the Wehrmacht’s finest laughed, jeered, whistled and clapped or beckoned as they swilled their collective booze and eighteen naked girls and mothers who should have known better stomped, kicked and jiggled their way through the number and the band let them have it!
Oona still shuddered at the memory of what had just happened to her. Hermann Kohler’s coat was rough and far too big. Cringing in her nakedness under it, she looked down to see watermarks where her bare feet had trod.
‘Relax, eh? Hey, try to forget it, Oona. Louis’ girlfriend will have a little something for you to wear.’
‘None of them have,’ she said blankly.
Kohler chucked her under the chin and gave her a grin. ‘She’s not one of those. Just give me a moment, eh? I’ve got to scan the horizon.’
Louis swept up the dice and raised a fist. Once, twice – three times he shook them. There was that little flick of the wrist and crash! the bones hit the zinc to scatter and run. Then the process began again. He was completely oblivious to the racket and to the clamouring herd that tried to reach the watering-hole while thrusting out their fistfuls of bills.
Blind to the eighteen beauties. Crash again. Now the sweep, now the first – always the right one … a taunt, a threat, a toss.
Kohler dragged his eyes along the line of threat and when he found the table, he picked out Henri Lafont, Pierre Bonny and Nicole de Rainvelle.
Giselle was with them. She’d been badly beaten – had had a ‘fall’ as the madams say in the trade. Bruises marred the fresh young cheeks, yellowing up into half-closed eyes. Her nose had been broken, her lips were swollen.
‘Herr Kohler, what is it? What’s wrong?’ Oona yanked at his jacket sleeve, only to hear him swear.
‘Look, I’m sorry. I’ve just seen someone.’
The girl clutched a grey fox-fur coat under her chin just as she was clutching Herr Kohler’s coat. The racket came to an end and the place erupted in a deafening roar as the dancers romped away and the house lights were dimmed.
Then she saw, as all of them were breathlessly seeing, a mirage walk on to the stage in a shimmering sky-blue sheath that was covered with tiny pearls. Tall, willowy, a gorgeous figure, a blonde with shoulder-length hair and what appeared at this distance to be absolutely stunning blue eyes.
There were diamonds on her fingers and wrists. Diamonds at her throat.
‘My dear, dear friends, a little song for you.’ The voice had warmth, depth, resonance and power. Not a man in the place stirred and even Hermann Kohler finally had to tear his gaze away from the little one in the fur coat, and Oona saw the tears running down his sagging cheeks.
A lion in its winter; a man in torment with himself.
She slid an arm through his but he had no time for her, only hatred for himself.
Crash! The dice hit the zinc in irritation. Crash again.
‘This is a song of lost love, my friends. Of a home that is far away, and of things we all wish and hope for. It is of a girl who has lost her lover and yearns for him with all her tender years. Letters do no good – isn’t that so?’
Eight hundred men, many of them sailors on leave, some from the submarines of the North Atlantic, held their collective breath. Gone were the floozies, the big-breasted laughing girls who had sweated and kicked their legs so high. In their places, this one’s voice lifted. It struck to the heart, the soul. It was bell-like, crystal clear, sweet, so sweet and earthy too.
It sang in French, it sang in German and once, just for a few brief seconds, a little Russian slipped in and Hermann Kohler knew the woman had done this especially for his friend.
Kohler wet his throat and tried to think. The song went on, lifting everyone. Not a man’s glass was touched, not an eye wavered. Bonny sulked, Henri Lafont beamed, Nicole de Rainvelle sipped champagne while Giselle lowered her swollen eyes.
One sailor wept openly. Another held him by the shoulders. Shell-shock? Lost comrades? Battle fatigue?
A boy in the olive-grey of the army stood out as if the chanteuse was singing only for him and he’d never been in love before that moment and would die for it.
‘Come on. Let’s find Louis. He and I have to talk.’
‘Is that her?’
‘Yes, that’s her. She gets ten per cent of the gate and she packs them in like this every night of the week.’
‘I meant the other one. The little one.’
They went downstairs quickly, too quickly, but the crowd was jammed and no one would let them through until the song had come to its close on a high, sad note. Hermann dragged her by the hand. He hit the first of the men as they cheered and applauded. He was shouting now. ‘Gestapo! Gestapo! Get the fuck out of my way!’
They reached the bar and he swung her in front of him. ‘Louis, what the Christ is up?’
St-Cyr tossed his head to indicate the table. The Corsicans – the Rivard brothers who owned the place – were keeping their distance.
‘A scratch!’ leapt the Frog. ‘A cat in the dark, Hermann. A Corsican cat!’ He threw the dice at Remi Rivard, the one with the face of a mountain, the one with the dark eyes that were so swift.
‘Sealed lips, eh?’ shouted Kohler angrily.
‘Eighteen stitches, Hermann. My left hand. Always the left side.’
‘Louis, this is Oona. Oona, meet Louis.’
St-Cyr brushed momentary eyes over the woman, nodding sagely. ‘We’ll discuss it later, madame, but for now, my partner and I have things to settle!’
It was a hiss, that last word. Hermann Kohler laid a revolver on the zinc. The one called St-Cyr swept it up and cocked it.