Sometimes there were controls on all of the bridges across the Seine, sometimes on only one or two or even none. Somehow she had to let the Occupier know that she had crossed the river, for only then would they broaden their search for her beyond the 13th arrondissement, the Gobelins, and the 14th, the Observatoire.
There were two on guard and by their silhouettes, Felgendarme. They’d shoot. They wouldn’t hesitate. Both were smoking cigars and that could only mean they must have had some luck and perhaps had been given or taken a bottle or two.
Walking the bike toward them, she would have to do the totally unexpected, and as the sound of her bell broke the silence, one called out, ‘Halt! Was wollen sie?’
Momentarily blinded by their flashlights, she shielded her eyes. ‘Nicht schiessen, Herr Offizier. Nicht schiessen. Meine Name ich heisse Annette-Melanie Veroche. I’m a translator, you understand. I’m late again but only because I had to work and there wasn’t anything I could do about it. There never is.’
‘Eine Dolmetscherin?’
‘Jawohl, Herr Offizier.’
‘Franzosin, Fraulein?’
‘Aber naturalich, Herr Officier.’
‘Yet you speak Deutsch?’
‘And do what I can to help with the interrogations, but it’s very late and I must get home.’
‘Ihre Papiere, Fraulein. Bitte.’
Verdammt, a stickler. ‘Ach, einen Moment. I’ve a letter that’s signed and stamped by Brigadefuhrer und Generalmajor der Polizei Karl Albrecht Oberg and also by Gestapo Boemelburg.’
‘The Oberbonzen, Rolf. She won’t have heard a thing of that blast and all those cars and trucks that raced to it. She’ll have been indoors.’
‘In the cellars at the Sante, meine Herren. A difficult session. Three men, all of them Banditen.’
An angel, and a blonde. ‘Ach, Rolf, so few speak our language, and here’s one who helps with the arrested. Auf Weidersehen, Fraulein. Morning will come soon enough.’
On the pont Royal, the two were busy with others and didn’t even hear or see her ride past to reach the Left Bank again and finally head for 3 rue Vercingetorix.
The rue Daru was not entirely in darkness. Next to the artists’ entrance of the Salle Pleyel, their lights still blazing and engines running, were the cars of Sergei Leneznikov and Rudy de Merode.
‘There’s no sign of Ludin, Hermann.’
‘Not yet and that can only mean one thing.’
Kleiber had gone for reinforcements. ‘Then let’s get this over with as quickly as possible.’
‘Those shoes, Louis. Have they come back to haunt us yet again?’
Hermann hadn’t been told. ‘I left them in the armoire, but she may well have taken them if only to help us, for there was a suitcase packed in readiness under her bed, and if my guess is right, she’ll have taken it, too.’
‘And that note you left?’
‘Most certainly.’
None of the Neuilly Gestapo had bothered to summon Concierge Figeard. They had simply fired shots into the locks, thrown shoulders against the door and burst in to head for the loge.
Torn from his bed, pistol whipped into silence, Armand Figeard, in his long underwear, gloves, toque and scarf, lay propped against a wall, blood pouring from a forehead gash. ‘Me, I didn’t tell them anything, Chief Inspector. It’s an outrage what they’ve done! What has happened to the Paris I once knew and loved?’
‘He’s going to need stitches, Hermann.’
Things like this did happen, and for all they knew there’d be a heart attack.
‘I’m fine. Go and give them a taste of what they’ve given me.’
Lebeznikov and Merode hadn’t waited with that room either. Smashed, overturned, dumped out, whatever, they had left only that dress hanging neatly in the armoire and had rushed up to the roof, thinking to chase after her.
‘Louis, I should have brought the Purdey.’
‘And now you’ve decided to tell me?’
Up on the roof, the rabbits had scattered, their cages in ruins, the chickens also. Trampling broken bell jars, Lebeznikov and Merode urged the flashlights of others on and over the Himalayas of the adjoining roofs.
‘Call them back,’ said Louis. ‘She’s long gone.’
‘Espece de salaud, you knew who she was!’ said Lebeznikov, turning his light on them. ‘A pair of shoes whose colour wasn’t the same? A monogram that was nowhere what it should have been?’
‘And the shoes, please, where are they?’
‘Not here,’ said Lebeznikov.
‘But you were lying and I’m the proof positive!’ shouted one of the others in a brand-new fedora and topcoat, and armed with, of all things, a Lebel Modele d’ordonnance 1873. A little man with damned big glasses whose black Bakelite frames now made him look even more owlish, thought Kohler. ‘He didn’t stay locked up for long, Louis.’
‘There’s blood on that Lebel, Hermann.’
‘Don’t! Not yet. How’s Evangeline, my fine one?’ asked Kohler, pushing the Lebel aside.
‘Working the streets where she belongs,’ spat Rocheleau. ‘Ten a night. That’s the minimum or it’s another damned good thrashing like the one I gave her.’
‘Now it’s your turn, Louis, since he threatened you with a revolver.’
Felled, blood pouring from a broken nose and opened forehead, Rocheleau lay stunned as the Lebel was pocketed and then Louis’s own before that Surete calmly turned back to ask Lebeznikov the name that girl had been using. ‘Or is it, that you were in such a hurry, you saw only the room number?’
‘Embrassez mon cul, salaud. When we find her, I personally am going to tear her apart.’
‘Why? To be in such a rage you must have a reason?’
Did they not know? wondered Lebeznikov. ‘My son was fond of her.’
Louis seldom if ever backed off, even when facing a gathered mob. ‘And he is where, please?’ he asked as if but the usual inquiry.
‘A subdeacon at the cathedrale.’
‘And a neighbour. This gets more interesting by the moment, Hermann. His name, Monsieur Lebeznikov?’
Louis had even hauled out the notebook and pencil, having put a foot down on Rocheleau.
‘Foutez-vous le camp, trou de cul,’ said Lebeznikov. ‘There are far too many of us and we won’t hesitate, not now that we’ve been given permission to hunt for her and the offer of fifty-fifty of anything we find.’
Just like Dillmann, thought Kohler, and a deal when cut is always a deal.
‘When we find her,’ cried out Rocheleau, ‘we’ll let you watch!’
And Evangeline but a decent woman deprived of a little fun, thought Kohler, and a career she had desperately wanted. ‘Madchenhandler, eh? That’s another offence, Chief.’
White slave trader.
Dragged up and turned around so that Louis could slap the bracelets on, he blurted, ‘My nose. I must hold the handkerchief.’
‘Let him go,’ said Merode. ‘There are far too many of us and you know it.’
‘But I’m also a chief inspector. Stand aside so that I may exercise my duties.’
This would only get far worse, felt Kohler, though now there was the sound of hastily arriving trucks and cars in the street far below.
Reluctantly, so as not to waste them, St-Cyr unlocked the bracelets and pocketed them, even to emptying that extra Lebel before handing it over. ‘The street, Hermann. Ourselves first so that when confronted by Heinrich Ludin and his colonel we will have the answer for them.’
It wasn’t just the rue Daru that was being cordoned off. It was the cul-de-sac of the avenue Beaucour, too, and a touch of the avenue du Faubourg Saint-Honore.