‘The pistol,’ breathed the one behind him.
‘Look, Louis is out there some place. I wouldn’t want him to get the wrong idea. He might think you’re Rejean Tourmel or Charles Audit.’
‘The pistol, Herr Kohler.’
‘Hey, come on. It’s brand-new. I’ve only just checked it out. Gott im Himmel, the paperwork. Stores aren’t the same any more.’
Kohler was just fucking about. ‘You won’t be needing another. You can forget about the paperwork.’
‘It’s all up to you, my Hermann.’
‘Otto …’ Antoine Audit began to lower his aching arms.
‘Don’t!’ breathed Kohler. ‘Just relax. They mean business.’
The grin faded. The hands climbed back up. ‘Otto … the … the coins, they are not here.’
‘Nor the emeralds or the diamonds?’ snorted Kohler. ‘What’d he do, Otto? Call the Bureau for help? Who was it took the message, eh? Offenheimer? Was he the one?’
Brandl stood at the foot of the stairs. Had that been a car screeching its brakes in the street outside? Company so soon? ‘As a matter of fact, Hermann, the Captain was the first to take the call, but then I myself talked to Antoine.’
‘Idiot! Offenheimer’s been working for the rue Lauriston. Lafont and Bonny have been putting the squeeze on him.’ Kohler still held his pistol. If only Brand! would lay into Offenheimer. If only …
The cellar was too confined. Audit would be killed, himself … The candle was not that far. A sudden gust, the toss of something?
The Schmeisser nudged him. ‘Don’t even think of it, Herr Kohler. Just drop the gun.’
In the Name of Jesus was there nothing that could be done? Offenheimer would have tipped off the rue Lauriston. Lafont would go berserk! ‘Louis knows where the coins are hidden. The Frog’s got it all figured out, Otto, but being a Frog, the bastard’s kept it to himself.’
The front door slammed. Steps rushed along the hall above them … Brandl snuffed out the candle. ‘So, we wait, yes, and see what happens.’
A burst of firing shattered the silence of the cellar, ripping boards and smashing things. ‘Henri … Henri, in the Name of Jesus, slow down!’ shouted Pierre Bonny. ‘It is Brandl, Henri. Otto Brandl!’
‘CARBONE … It’s that Corsican son of a whore’s basket! That dog’s offal! I’ll kill the swine! I’ll kill him!’
‘Henri, Henri, wait! He’s not here,’ shouted Bonny desperately. ‘Brandl, Henri … the Bureau Otto.’
Another burst of firing tore into the walls, the floorboards above them, and armfuls of wine bottles. Kohler found his pistol on the floor and started to worm his way across the flagstones. If only he could reach the stairs. If only Louis would come by.
Son of a bitch, the place had gone to silence! The stench of cordite was everywhere. Littered shell casings lay about in the pitch-darkness. One of them stirred and fell suddenly from a step. It rolled away.
‘I want the coins!’ shrieked Lafont, his falsetto ringing.
Someone anxiously fumbled for a flashlight but was told to leave it be.
Brandl hazarded a few words from behind a pillar. ‘The coins aren’t here, Henri, but there is enough gold and emeralds for us to share. What do you say?’
‘NEVER! Goering has ordered the avenue Foch to find the coins and they have ordered me to do the job! You are trespassing on my turf!’
Another burst of firing sent splinters everywhere. Kohler cringed and pulled himself along.
‘Where’s Kohler?’ hissed someone.
‘Kohler?’ shrilled Lafont, fighting to reload that thing of his. ‘St-Cyr! I’ll kill that bastard! I’ll tear him to pieces!’
Kohler made a break for the stairs. He pitched into someone, fell, got up, tripped on the steps, heard shots … more shots!… and threw himself out of the cellar and into the hall. ‘Louis … Louis, where the hell are you?’ he yelled.
The street was blocked by opposing pairs of cars, one behind the other, engines idling. Headlamps lit up everything. There’d barely be room to pass. The Citroen would have to lose its fenders. Would the doors be taken?
‘Get down, madame! Lie on the floor,’ shouted St-Cyr.
More firing came from the villa. Men poured out of the car behind Lafont’s Bentley. Others spilled from Otto Brandl’s backup. Would there be a fusillade, no chance to get away? Ah Mon Dieu, Mon Dieu, glass was so expensive these days, windscreens almost irreplaceable.
Someone in bare feet bolted through the open doorway to the courtyard only to leap back from the light. St-Cyr leaned on the horn and trod on the accelerator. These old cobblestones … the narrow kerbs and pavements, the lampposts … awnings that were folded back but had their side bars low on the walls …
Kohler flew through the doorway of the courtyard. Ducking wildly, he shot across the street between the cars.
The brakes were slammed on. The door was flung open. The fenders went. A drainpipe fell. Bursts of firing took out the rear windscreens and then the one in front of them. ‘The tyres … they have hit the tyres!’ shrieked St-Cyr.
Banging and throwing sparks, they just made it around the corner and into the rue Saint-Luc. ‘Enough! Enough! Abandon the car! Head for the Church of Saint Bernard, Hermann. Father Eugene will just have to give us a hand.’
They beat it. They went to ground and bathed their faces in the baptismal font.
The church was cold, and like the Hotel of the Silent Life, it had cellars that became tunnels which turned into vaulted rooms where wine had once been stored.
Madame Minou was surprised to see them, but they could not stay long.
Kohler drained his shoes and put them on. At 2 a.m. the Villa Audit was now quiet. Only faint traces of perfume remained to mingle with the stench of cordite.
‘The perfume is Mirage,’ said St-Cyr sadly. ‘Nicole de Rainvelle has been in to have a look.’
‘Lafont and Bonny won’t touch Gabrielle, Louis. They wouldn’t dare.’
‘They will and they probably have by now, Hermann. In any case, we must pry Giselle le Roy away from them and try to save the hostages.’
‘There’s a telephone in the bal musette on the corner. Why not call the Club Mirage and warn her? She might still be singing.’
‘That would only let them know where we are. The lines are constantly monitored, eh? No, we will simply have to tough it out. Two things remain to be done before we can lay our hands on those blasted coins.’
‘Find Roland Minou and find Charles Audit and Rejean Tourmel.’
‘The latter two first, for I’m beginning to believe I know where Madame Minou’s son must be.’
‘In Hell?’
‘Or Heaven.’
‘I’ll see that the car’s repaired, Louis. No problem.’
‘Good. So, a small journey for me, Hermann. Let’s agree we meet at the carousel in …’ he glanced at his watch ‘… in about three hours.’
‘You’re sure you don’t want me to come along?’
‘Positive. Madame Van der Lynn will need constant attention.’
‘You talk as if Giselle was ancient history.’
St-Cyr looked at his partner and friend. ‘Let us just say that I hope I am wrong. Without the car, our hands are tied. In any case, Father Eugene and Father David have only one bicycle.’
‘Enjoy yourself then. Take care.’
‘You too.’
The night was cold but fortunately there was no rain. It would soon be Christmas. Christmas 1942, and what?
Father Eugene had not gone to sleep, nor, indeed, would he pass the night in anything but prayer.
The bicycle was wheeled from the vestry lock-up, the loan granted without surprise or comment. Muffled thanks were accepted with but a toss of the hand, dark in the darkness of the night.
As with the animals of the carousel, so with the pedals of the bicycle. As they went round and round, they went up and down. Each moment, each facet of the case appeared before St-Cyr. The streets were empty and if not, if the sound of an approaching car or patrol were heard, sufficient time was allowed for cover.