Search as he did again, he could not find the papers. They weren’t tucked behind the gas meters or behind the cast-iron drainpipe that plunged down the wall in its far corner beside the trash cans. They weren’t beneath any of the worn lino runners on the stairs of a narrow entrance that leapt off to the right to some warren of other rooms a good ten metres from the hotel.
Marianne … he’d have to force himself to question that one and her Georges. They might have seen or heard something. They might indeed have hidden the papers for Christiane, but if they had, and if they’d known, as they surely must by now, what had happened to her, then why the joie de vivre in that young girl’s voice?
Always there were questions, and often there were no answers.
One had to ask because one had to.
Kohler eyed the concierge. There were twelve coins he’d allow for common viewing, and when washed of their blood, they presented a rather shiny impression to the uninitiated.
Greed glowed through the exhaustion in Madame Minou’s eyes. ‘It is a fortune, monsieur,’ she croaked.
‘Roman, madame. Solid gold aureii from the first century BC. That one,’ he emphasized, stabbing the coin with a forefinger. ‘That’s Julius Caesar himself.’
‘And that one?’ she asked. ‘It is smaller, no?’
Good for her. ‘That’s Nero – first century AD, between fifty-four and sixty-eight AD, to be precise. He’s the guy who burned Rome for the sheer pleasure of it. He watered the money. That’s why the coin is smaller.’
‘Was he a Nazi?’ she asked in all innocence.
He’d have to let it pass. ‘This one’s dated about the second century BC. That’s the head of Mars, the God of War. There’s an eagle on the other side.’
‘There were Nazis back so far?’ She couldn’t believe it possible and was deeply troubled, so much so she asked, ‘Is it that you people will burn Paris, monsieur, when you leave?’
‘Who says we’re going to leave?’
The old girl found the coins again. ‘The Russians perhaps.’
‘I’ve two sons who say the Russian Front will extend well beyond Moscow by the New Year.’
It was a hollow boast and one to be given its due. ‘How is it that you know so much about such as these?’
The coins, none of which were larger than two centimetres in diameter, were lined up in a row on the tiny counter that served as her desk. A letter for Room 4 – 7 hadn’t been picked up. The girl had been in too much of a hurry, and Madame Minou had let her go on up the stairs, thinking she’d catch her later on.
The Bavarian took the letter. She asked again about his knowledge of the coins.
‘We come fully equipped, madame. All things to all situations. Gestapo, remember?’
And German, and therefore wise and all-knowing. The Gestapo seemed to fancy the head of Mars most of all and when, on picking it up to drop it into her hand, he said ‘Exceedingly rare,’ she knew he would not part with it.
‘Those were called sestertii. They come in three denominations – a sixty like that one, a forty and a twenty. Later they made the sestertius out of brass and equal to four copper Asses, and coined the gold into aurei.’
‘Why are you showing me these, monsieur?’
‘Me? Ah,’ he gave the Bavarian rendition of a Frog’s shrug, ‘information costs money, madame. Instead of there being twelve of these little beauties in my report, I’m willing to let there be ten.’
She heaved a contented sigh. She had been right about him after all. ‘What is it you wish to know?’
‘Choose first. Take one Caesar and one Nero. There are duplicates. No one will question their absence.’
The coins were heavy but felt hard. One had a small scratch in which there was a trace of green.
‘It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it. Here, take this one instead.’
There was no sigh. Fear had replaced the greed in her eyes.
‘The “lover”, the client?’ he asked, towering over her.
‘A chubby, older man like your friend. A man with the greying moustache yes, but brushed outwards at the ends. The frank look, monsieur. Dark-brown eyes. Ah yes, he and I understood each other perfectly. No questions, you understand. Not even a spoken word beyond those of Mademoiselle Baudelaire. Simply the lifting of the eyelids and the very quick step for one in his late fifties, but then men …’ She gave a shrug. ‘Perhaps he was fifty-six or fifty-eight, even sixty. It’s hard to tell with men like that. Successful. The good suit, the stiff black bowler hat, eh? The small pin in the lapel – I have decided it must be a diamond. The necktie, the well-pressed knees and polished shoes.’
‘Name?’
Her eyes grew hard. ‘That I never knew, monsieur. The girl, she has called him Monsieur Antoine.’
‘How charming,’ breathed Kohler, taking back the Caesar.
‘Me, I do not think that was his real name.’
‘How many times a week did they meet up there?’
‘Once, somtimes twice. The days varied. Sometimes a Monday, sometimes a Friday. It’s been going on for nearly a year.’
‘And you asked no questions? Come on, madame. Operating a clandestin is against the law.’
‘This hotel is not a secret bordello, monsieur! Who am I to question what goes on behind closed doors when the rent is paid and the book signed?’
‘Who paid the rent?’
‘She did. Each and every week. In advance.’
‘What time did they usually meet?’
‘Sometimes eight, sometimes nine at night. Never later, never earlier except for one Tuesday afternoon. Then they met at four p.m. sharp. Of this I am positive.’
‘When was that? Which Tuesday?’
She would stop her lungs.
He handed back the Caesar, pressing it into her palm and holding it there. ‘Coins with blood on them, madame. Lying causes that, just like withholding information or letting a clandestin operate behind closed doors without a licence.’
He’d have her charged, she knew it. ‘Last Tuesday. Now three … three days ago. The girl was most distressed. He did not stay long and she … she did not change her clothes or wash herself.’
So much for keeping things private behind closed doors.
He gathered up the coins and put them away in a vest pocket. She did not like the way he hesitated, or that he stood so closely to her.
‘That your late husband?’ he asked, causing her to jerk in alarm.
‘Yes … yes, that is him. He was awarded nothing, monsieur. Nothing!’
‘And this one?’ he asked.
She’d not had time to hide the photograph. Ah Mon Dieu, what was to become of Roland? Of herself? ‘That … that is my son, Roland Minou.’
A young man of twenty-six. Gott im Himmel but it was a popular age! ‘When did your husband die?’
She sweltered under the look he gave her.
‘In the summer of 1916. Me, I … I had not seen him for nearly two years, you understand? The father …’
‘The father of your son wasn’t him,’ glowed Kohler. ‘You old sinner, madame. Never mind, your secret’s safe with me.’
Safe with the Gestapo!
The cement of the arrangement was pressed into her hand. Another Nero.
‘We’ll keep in touch. We’ll ask the flics to keep an eye on you but just in case, be sure to lock up at night.’
‘A cafe au lait, please, and a croissant.’
‘Pardon, monsieur?’
The mistake was realized. There were no croissants, of course, and there was no milk. ‘A coffee then, and two fists of bread.’
The proprietor, dwarfed by an oversized jersey, looked perplexed as he waited.
St-Cyr fished in a pocket and, dragging out the green ration tickets Marianne had left for him, shrugged and said, ‘Just the coffee then. These are out of date.’