Virtually all of what had just been said made little sense. ‘Just clamp a handkerchief to his head and get him into the car. Kohler can’t be intending to collect him. He’d have been on top of us by now, but we’ll take no chances.’
Lying on a table in the Lokal, amid scattered cigarette ashes, saccharine and a wash of acorn water, were the bloodstains and a flat, almost full and forgotten bottle of Jagermeister.
Pocketing this last, Herr Kohler didn’t hesitate. ‘And this Frenchman who hit him?’ he demanded.
‘Owlish with black Bakelite specs, a broken, sticking-plaster covered nose, new suit, fedora, tie and topcoat, and relish at what he’d just done.’
One of the Wehrmacht’s career losers, this unshaven, un-anything shy; fifty-year-old ‘cook’ was waiting for a handout. ‘Now tell me where they were taking him since that Kriminalrat was supposed to be on his way back to Berlin.’
While that was interesting, felt Karl Ludwig Hoefle, all he really could do was to give a shrug and then … ‘Ach, after I had helped the frog to get your partner into the backseat of that car, he scribbled something down and handed it to me. Now what the hell did I do with it?’
‘What?’
‘A scrap of paper with an address. Ach, he said that his wife was now working there and needed lessons, and that if I would give her “the works,” I was to tell the boss-madam he would pay for it.’
‘His wife?’
‘Evangeline.’
‘What house?’
Now this was far more interesting and haste was, of course, necessary but …
Peeling off a 500-franc note, Herr Kohler finally handed it over, and when told a 1,000-franc note would help, uncovered the answer. ‘My French isn’t too good but I think it was the Lupanar des garennes.’
The brothel of the wild rabbits and one of the forty that were reserved for the Wehrmacht’s rank and file but obviously also owned by none other than Rudy de Merode.
‘Apparently the house is on the rue Vignon,’ said Hoefle.
Known as Hookers’ Alley, and just off place de la Madeleine and its boulevard, which all too soon became place des Capucines and home to a certain bank. Were things coming full circle? Heinrich Ludin wouldn’t dare take Louis there and would have to find a place where no one would bother them, but could Louis hold out and stall them long enough to get what needed to be done before the search for him could begin? ‘Tell no one you’ve given me that address, mein Freund. Mention it to anyone and I’ll find you.’
Another 500-franc note was handed over, but to seal such a bargain, a further 500 was found.
Louis would have to be taken somewhere, but where, since Ludin was now disobeying Kaltenbrunner’s orders and that could only mean one thing.
Fumes were what had finally brought him round, felt St-Cyr. Gasoline fumes, not the voices he now heard, but he’d keep his eyes shut. The engine had been switched off, a side window rolled well down-the driver’s side: Heinrich Ludin’s. Rocheleau was the one who was rapidly talking and therefore still feeling his oats.
‘Kriminalrat, if you don’t want to take him to Rudy’s, let’s find a quiet spot in the Bois de Vincennes.’
‘Verfluchter Franzose, Sei still! Kohler has to have gone somewhere. Ach, my gut! Has it burst?’
A moment of quiet was needed, flecks of dark blood perhaps seen on a hastily clutched handkerchief, Rocheleau irritably finding himself another cigarette but crying out when the match either broke or showered sparks into his face.
It was Ludin who again gasped and, doubtless signaling, said in Deutsch, ‘See if there’s another bottle of that stuff, then check to see if you haven’t killed him.’
Ah bon, felt St-Cyr, the wrists had been linked in front, but merde the bracelets were far too tight. Danger that he was, Rocheleau continued to suck on that cigarette, disregarding entirely the fumes and that the prisoner’s face was still crammed uncomfortably against what could only be a hastily filled jerry can of gasoline, apparently one of three or four.
Holding the cigarette well away from himself, his nervous fingers probed for a pulse, that hand being grasped and yanked hard, the head being butted by an already wounded one, Rocheleau yelling so hard his face hit the jerry can, blood erupting from his nose and lips, the cigarette having thankfully fallen to the road.
Slamming him down yet again, took care of him, but now a Walther P38 was threatening from the driver’s seat.
‘Shove him out,’ said Ludin, ‘and lock that door and the other one.’
Good riddance, was it? ‘No one will touch him, Kriminalrat, because of yourself and this car, but he does need medical and dental attention.’
‘Where the hell are we?’
‘Is it that you’re wondering about all those blacks?’
‘Just tell me.’
‘Certainly. All are French citizens, the men veterans of that other war and many of those, the Chemin des Dames and the ruins at l’Abbaye de Vauclair, the absent younger males now prisoners of war in your country and/or enduring the forced labour. Quite by accident, you’ve turned south, and having crossed place de Jussieu and driven right past the back of Halle aux Vins and that also of the Jardin des Plantes, are on the rue Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire and all but at the entrance to the Turkish baths that are in the cellars of the Paris mosque.’
‘What’s Kohler got in mind?’
‘Hermann? Believe me, if I knew I would gladly tell you.’
‘Where’s the Bois de Vincennes?’
‘Make a left at the corner and I’ll guide you.’
That Louis would be needing him was all too clear, felt Kohler, but it was already 1047 hours and the Porte de Versailles was still so busy there had to be another high-priority. Long lines of heavily laden farm wagons, gazo trucks and a few cars awaited entry, while over to the east and nearest the Parc des Expositions, cyclists and foot traffic were also being given the thorough. No one was going to get into or out of Paris, but had Kleiber grabbed that girl and called for a clamp-down or was it simply random?
Scanning the entrance, taking the time when such was no longer available, the cause of the trouble continued to elude him, but over to the west was a little something. Right in Werner Dillmann’s territory was a faded red, 3.5-tonne Renault whose canvas tarp had been flung aside to reveal nothing but an apparent emptiness.
That broad, carefully combed moustache, the shrapnel scars, missing fingers, deceitfully wary blue eyes, and all the rest were the same, the look one also of knowing a little but wanting to know a lot more and expecting everything.
‘Ach, Hermann, mein Lieber, am I glad to see you. Corporals Mannstein, Weiss and Rath, take over. It’s another of those controls. Like the power outages and the raids on the unlicensed brothels, they never tell us until it’s too late, but where is that partner of yours?’
Had he heard something or was he just fishing? ‘Busy as usual and preparing for the pay-off at 1830 hours sharp and not a moment too early or late, understand?’
‘Of course, but is the Vaugirard horse abattoir still necessary?’
Now what the hell had happened? ‘Isn’t it the most perfect of places?’
‘Most certainly, but the boys tell me there are others who are showing a decided interest in it, though those have yet to approach it too closely.’
Kleiber hadn’t listened. Already he must be getting men into position, but the location couldn’t be changed, not with Anna-Marie having been told of it. ‘Just remember the time. In and out, and faster than fast.’
A cigarette was necessary, and after three deep drags, handed over. ‘Dank,’ said Hermann whose gaze, it had to be admitted, had repeatedly flicked to that empty truck.