But now a light switch was thrown. Variegated jade-green marble panels and mirrored glass lined the boardroom while fair-breasted bronze lamps revealed that money had simply been no object when the bank had moved in. Fortunately the blackout drapes were still drawn. Not only did the table seemingly go on and on under electric light, the two dozen straight-backed art nouveau chairs funneled the vision to one of Klimt’s larger masterpieces. Jewels of light were replete with haunting female thoughts not just of carnal lust but of vengeance if not careful. Yet another was on the wall behind them and each was worth an absolute fortune.
‘Bought at the Jeu de Paume, Louis?’
Where the confiscated art collections of the deported were placed on display to be auctioned off for the good of Vichy and others, especially the Reichsmarschall Goring and the Fuhrer.
‘Our Chairman Bolduc has taste, Hermann.’
Left to themselves, a mistake of course, they soon had the connecting door unlocked and were able to enter that sanctuary of sanctuaries, for Hermann had found a spare key tucked under that end of the table in case Monsieur le President should forget his own or someone else should need to get in. Classed as degenerate art by the Nazis, paintings by the Czech artists Alphonse Mucha and Frantisek Kupka were entirely evident, as were several by the Yugoslavian Leon Koen, with glassware pieces by the Daum brothers and Rene Lalique and Emile Galle, and bits of sculpture by Rodin and others.
‘Exceptional investments, the Reich won’t mind since they need the cash, but he also lacks taste,’ said St-Cyr, for beneath some of the sketches, and even among Rodin’s pieces atop a mahogany cabinet, were maquettes, but not the usual. These were not of plaster or papier-mache but had been cast in bronze along with some of the statues they had led to, and at a time of war.
Big, muscular, virile examples of Germanic manhood were ranked side by side with the equally naked Valkyries of Arno Breker’s Paris Exhibition of May 1942 in the Orangerie, much of its larger pieces done in plaster of course. But having lived and worked in Paris up to 1934, Breker had become known for the subtle and exquisite sensitivity of his sculptures, though all of that had changed and gone downhill when, just after signing the Armistice, Hitler had gotten the sculptor to give him a guided tour of the city he had just conquered. Breker had instantly become the Third Reich’s chief sculptor and ever since then had given the Fuhrer exactly what that one had wanted.
‘Bolduc is well connected,’ said Kohler, ‘but if he has any sense, he had better be having these melted down or buried in the garden at home.’
Behind a spacious desk with Lalique dragonfly lampshade, was a wall map devoted to the pickups and deliveries of, in total, a fleet of eight vans. Virtually all of the Ile de France and beyond was covered, the entrances assigned being not just those closest to their respective routes but definitely circled.
‘Our van didn’t just make those stops suggested by Rocheleau, Louis. It went to Meaux first, then east to Chalons-sur-Mer for the wine and champagne, northeast to the Ardennes, and only then would have gone to Reims before hitting Laon, Soissons and stopping also in Villers-Cotterets, then Senlis and finally Paris with unrecorded side trips wherever necessary. If every one of these vans is gathering goods for sale on the marche noir, our Bolduc is deep into it and has all the gasoline allotment needed.’
Thanks to his overseers. ‘And is one of the BOFs, eh?’
The beurre, oeufs et fromage boys. The big dealers. ‘We’ll have to ask him.’
Tidy files lay on the desk to the left of its chair. ‘Vineyards and chateaux to the north of Bordeaux, in the Haut-Medoc, Louis, but promising resort areas to the south, along the beaches of the Cote d’Argent and Cote Sud des Landes and in the dunes behind. Wars can never last forever and bank presidents with extra cash on their hands have to plan for the future. He’s already purchased some of these and has offers on others.’
Framed in art nouveau and complimented by a silver pen-and-ink stand with kneeling nude at the inkwell was a photo of the wife, two daughters, a villa in Neuilly, probably, and the family poodle.
‘Messieurs … Messieurs, what is this? You invade the privacy of Chairman Bolduc’s office without permission? You search but I do not have the necessary … Vite, vite, immediatement, s’il vous plait … The magistrate’s warrant!’
This keeper of the spare key had even snapped her fingers. ‘Deal with her in the boardroom, Chief Inspector, while I take a more thorough look at these files and that route map. There’s got to be a garage to service those vans and a depot to store all that contraband. Ask her where it is. If she objects, tell her that the Action Courts will be interested.’
Objecting to being hustled out of the office, she refused to budge and sharply cast the early-morning’s hastily made-up deep brown eyes at what Hermann was up to.
‘Madame,’ insisted this obstinate Surete to distract her and give that partner of his time to find out all he could, ‘the names, please, of the driver and his assistant.’
He had even thumped his little black notebook on the desk in front of her and had taken the monsieur’s pen and was now dipping it into the inkwell. ‘The Action Courts, Inspector? What is this, please?’
Nothing but damage control was racing through her mind, felt St-Cyr, noting that beauty often came in various forms at the age of forty-four or forty-six and that dealing with trouble was paramount among such attributes. ‘Items not usual for a bank van were found with what remained of the cash, madame.’
Merde! It had finally happened and she had let the pen betray her feelings. ‘Though I still wear the wedding ring lest that reminder be cut off, Inspector, it’s Mademoiselle Yvonne Roget and has been ever since I joined the bank in 1934. Murders of whom, please, and was our van robbed but not of all of its cash?’
‘Only some of it.’
‘That’s not an adequate answer. What’s this all about?’
‘Two murders with subordinate charges.’
They could see that she had been badly shaken, felt Yvonne, the Surete drawing out a chair for her, the Gestapo having found what he had felt necessary and pouring her a stiff one.
‘Merci,’ she quavered, but had they really believed her? Flashing the Gestapo an anxiously fleeting smile, she would let the tears come and the lips quiver. ‘Both the driver and his assistant? Ah mon Dieu, mon Dieu, quel desastre, quelle tragedie! Both have little children and big families. Why would anyone do such a thing?’
Offered the Surete’s handkerchief, she found it clean and ironed well enough, though smelling of the stewed ivy-leaf-with-pine-needle water he had used instead of the soap most could never get these days. Dabbing at her eyes and hoping that he had shaken out all of the sand he would also have used, she tried not to smudge shadow, foundation, rouge and face powder, but heard again that one saying, ‘Their names, Mademoiselle Roget? Please, it is necessary, and the addresses. And while you’re at it, jot down those of Chairman Bolduc’s mistress. One never knows when such information might be useful.’
This salaud was going to want everything! ‘Rene Deniard was the driver, Raymond Paquette, the assistant. Both have been with the bank for some time, the first since 1938, the second since 1939. They were to have returned last Thursday, possibly late, but Chairman Bolduc, he felt we should give them a little more time.’