‘Et a vous, monsieur.’
It was only in passing that he mentioned the quartier Petit-Montrouge, the Parc de Montsouris, and the Ecole de Dressage, which was at the end of the street, thus letting her know that he knew Paris well enough but that she didn’t have to worry.
But I will, said Ines to herself. There were deep circles around her eyes and he had noticed them, no doubt concluding that they weren’t just from hunger but from too many late nights — particularly the one that had brought her here on the same train as he and that partner of his. The same! Would he check its passenger list? Would he?
More coffee came. The girl sat back with hands in her lap as the waiter poured.
‘Merci,’ whispered Ines, and then … then tried to smile across the table at this giant from the Kripo with the terrible scar down the left side of his face. ‘The Chante Clair Restaurant of the Hotel Majestic is lovely, isn’t it?’ she heard herself saying. ‘Very fin de siecle — turn of the century. Very of another time. Ferns and fishtail palms, Kentias and rubber plants — the smell of the orange and lemon trees in their glazed jardinieres — tulip shades of soft amber glass on goose-necked lamps and, above the widows, stained-glass panels of ladies bathing or drinking the waters and taking the cure.’
The place was filling up. Ministers of this and that would arrive singly or with their wives; the respective assistants would wait patiently, then dash in to ask if anything was required of them, or they would divulge the latest little confidence. Often there were glances up and around, whispers about the two visitors — these two, thought Ines, only to see Herr Kohler grinning at her again and hear him saying, ‘Don’t worry so much. The Minister of Culture won’t pester you while I’m here.’
Was this safer ground? ‘They’re all so serious,’ she whispered, leaning across the table as he did towards her. ‘No one smiles, all seem worried and not among friends.’
‘Tall, thin, short, corpulent or otherwise, they’re all wondering what the hell they should do. Leave the ship or stay until it goes down.’
Had Herr Kohler seen right through her? Had he wanted to test her yet another time? ‘I … I know nothing of such things. For me, it’s enough to have been chosen to do such an important commission, and my room and board is only one hundred francs in total, Inspector, for as long as it takes. A fabulous deal. Mind you, I doubt the family with whom I’m to board will be able to provide such luxuries.’
And where is it, exactly, that you’re staying? She could see him wondering this but there was no time for him to ask.
‘Inspector … Mon Dieu, you certainly don’t waste time! Mademoiselle …?’
It was the Secretaire Geneeral of Police. Incredibly young and handsome for one so powerful, thought Ines, his eyes alive with imagined mischief and loving the joke of what he’d come upon. The hair, neatly trimmed and well back from the forehead, was parted high and to the left; the white shirt and blue tie were immaculate and showed clearly through the open V of his overcoat because there was no scarf, the broad lambskin collar making him look like an immensely successful banker or investment broker.
A lighted cigarette was held between the thumb and forefinger of the right hand. There were nicotine stains on those fingers … ‘Charpentier, monsieur,’ she heard herself telling him. ‘Ines.’
‘The sculptress. Herr Kohler, I might have known! He has a reputation with the ladies, mademoiselle. I would watch it with him if I were you.’
Monsieur Bousquet sat down but continued to enjoy his little discovery. If he was upset about anything at all, he wasn’t going to let the assembled even guess at it. Dashing, always impeccably dressed and self-confident, he was one of the most well-informed and well-connected men in the country and yet here she was sitting at a table with him.
The Marechal arrived with Premier Laval. Dr Menetrel was right behind them. Throughout the dining room, coffee cups were put down, croissants abandoned, napkins quickly used and set aside as everyone stood.
The Glacier and the Moroccan carpet dealer, the horse-trader, the shady operator — le Maquignon — headed across the room to where a screen hid the Marechal’s table from prying eyes.
Petain said a brief good morning to everyone. Laval said nothing, Menetrel ducking round behind the screen to join the conference, Bousquet … Bousquet saying, ‘If you will excuse me, Herr Kohler, mademoiselle, I’d best see what’s up.’
He, too, went behind the leaded glass panels on which bare-shouldered maidens, swathed in soft white towels, their curls pinned up, dabbled their pretty toes in the rushing waters of an imaginary stream.
The four of them are behind that screen, said Ines to herself, but to Herr Kohler, who was watching her reactions closely, she would have to say with a smile she knew would be weak and would utterly fail to mask her thoughts, ‘There is Vichy, Inspector. If you had told me this morning that I would shortly see them gathered around one table like that, I would not have believed you. Now I must leave. Excuse me, please. My presence here will only cause you further embarrassment, and I would not want that.’
Seen in the reflection from the corridor’s wall mirror and through a side entrance, the Chante Clair’s clientele grew increasingly uneasy. Whispers here, others there, thought Ines as she straightened her cloche and tidied her scarf. Oh bien sur, they were now worried. Rumours of an aborted assassination attempt must have circulated; a dancer had been murdered — slaughtered perhaps to protect the identity of the would-be assassin. A hurried, urgent conference had been convened with the Marechal …
From either side of that privacy screen they came, the conference suddenly terminated, Bousquet swift and no longer looking so confident, Menetrel and Premier Laval grim and to the left, the Auvergnat easily elbowing the doctor out of the way so that the closest of empty chairs could be grabbed.
One by one they sat down at Herr Kohler’s table, leaving the Marechal to dine alone but with thoughts of what? she asked herself. The nearness of death while having adulterous sex with a beautiful but lonely young woman whose child had had to be left in Paris, messieurs? Paris! The lack of guards? The affront of their not having been on duty?
‘I’d best join my partner, hadn’t I?’
Ah Sainte Mere, it was the Chief Inspector St-Cyr. For how long had he been watching her? From the moment she had sat down over coffee and croissants with his partner or simply now?
Doubt, suspicion and a too-evident interest filled the look he gave her, since she had pretended to tidy herself in the mirror …
He had seen right through her. Not waiting for a reply, the Surete departed. Fedora in hand and overcoat unbuttoned, he headed for that table and, seizing a free chair along the way, took it with him.
Then he, too, sat down but next to his partner so as to face the others and yet also see her still standing in this corridor.
Ducking her eyes, the girl turned away from the mirror, soon to cross the foyer and leave the hotel. A sculptress, said St-Cyr to himself. A patcher-up of battered detectives.
‘Hermann, a moment. Let me begin.’
‘No, you let me!’ seethed Menetrel. ‘Which of you idiots told the lift operator that the Marechal’s life had been threatened? Come, come, messieurs. I told you to be discreet — I warned you!’
‘Bernard … Bernard, go easy,’ urged Laval, his olive-dark eyes glistening.
‘Easy, when the Marechal has learned the Garde Mobile were not on duty and is furious? He’s … he’s demanding a full inquiry!’