‘I warned you, Louis. I told you, you shouldn’t have let him go.’
And me? wondered Ines. Am I to be victim number five? Betrayed just as Celine was; killed just as she and Lucie and the others? Removed to silence; left secure?
At a glance, Kohler took in the dimly lit foyer that was such a sugar cake of dusty ornament, and had once been the watering place and campground of kings, counts and visiting courtesans. Gilded putti clamoured for seashells or shot arrows from above draperies and columns of variegated marble. Bathing sirens soared to a well-muscled Neptune who stood with trident upheld and a dolphin curled about bare toes, atop a tiered heap of drained Vicenza stone, where buxom mermaids cradled once-spouting cornucopia. The vault of the ceiling rose through several storeys of railed galleries to cavorting bathers among still more horns of plenty.
‘It is, and must once have been, stupendous, Hermann,’ exclaimed St-Cyr in awe of what they found themselves in, for the wives and Madame Petain had given no such indication. ‘Magnificent, mon vieux. Neo-baroque, 1870 at least, and a national treasure.’
As if that were all they had to worry about! snorted Kohler inwardly. Everywhere there were bas-reliefs of bathers, of amphorae, fruit, helmets, horns, shields, masks and lutes; everywhere the health-giving powers of taking the waters, but all gone dry. ‘Just where the hell is the receptionniste, Louis? The concierge, if it’s another dosshouse!’
‘Mademoiselle, wait by the desk.’
‘Don’t leave me!’ shrilled Ines.
‘Louis, stay with her. I’ll find him.’
It didn’t take long. ‘The salaud was on the telephone to Menetrel,’ shouted Kohler. ‘We’ve trouble, Louis, but this one has lost his tongue!’
Dragged from the switchboard’s little room, thrust up against the Carrara marble desk where half-sized copies of Carrier Belleuse’s La Source emptied amorini from the shoulder while supporting the rest of the structure, the concierge threw a terrified glance at each of them, then apprehensively wet his lips and let his faded grey eyes settle doubtfully on herself, Ines noted. He was hoping for sympathy no doubt.
‘Verfluchte Franzosen!’ shrieked Kohler. ‘Ein Gestapo Detektiv Aufsichtsbeamter, Dummkopf Schnell! Schnell!’ Hurry! Hurry! ‘Open up that can of worms of yours and spill out everything the doctor said!’
The echoes came. The echoes rebounded. Hermann was really very good at this play-acting of his when necessary, but something would have to be said. ‘Herr Hauptmann der Geheime Stattspolizist, please go easy on him. He’s too old to be shoved around like that and can’t understand a word you’re saying.’
‘Comfort from a Surete, eh? Then you shoot him and we’ll claim he tried to escape and died of a heart attack!’
Herzlahmung — would they really do so? panicked Ines. Cardiac arrest was a favourite excuse of the Gestapo of the rue des Saussaies, the SS of the avenue Foch, and the French Gestapo of the rue Lauriston. ‘Monsieur, these two …’ she blurted. ‘They’re in a terrible hurry.’
The doctor hadn’t mentioned a valise-carrying girl. ‘I’ll lose my job. I’ll not be able to find work, not at my age!’
‘Fuck your age!’ railed Herr Kohler, jamming the muzzle of his pistol into him.
‘Menetrel … The doctor, he has telephoned in great urgency to … Ah sacre nom de nom, must you force me to say what I’ve been forbidden? You … you had no right to arrest Dr Normand and steal his file on Madame Deschambeault. You have now initiated a national crisis that Dr Menetrel will be forced to deal with.’
‘Angry was he?’ breathed Kohler.
‘Furious.’
‘And demanding that we return the file and stop everything immediately?’ he asked.
‘Most certainly.’
‘Gut!’
Herr Kohler snatched the key from among a scattering of others and headed for the stairs, bypassing the bronze birdcage of a dubious lift. Out of the shadows, a life-sized Cupid and Psyche adorned the first landing, a copy of the Louvre’s shy and lovely Bather, by Falconet, the second, the figure caught gracefully looking down at the water while timidly dipping an exploratory toe.
A copy of Paju’s Psyche decorated the third landing; a superb Venus stood beside a mural of voluptuous women taking the cure. One suckled a child, another raised her measured glass in salute, a third gazed raptly into a Cupid-held mirror as satyrs picked fruit and hair was combed, but all were as if removed, as if suppressed by the faded light the Occupation demanded.
‘Room 3-17 must be at the far end of the gallery, Louis.’
How haunting the sculptures were, but could she remember their locations? wondered Ines. Could she find her way in the dark if necessary?
‘Menetrel will call out the troops, Louis. If not the Garde Mobile and Henri-Claude Ferbrave, then the local Milice!’
The formation of France’s newest militia had been announced by Petain not long ago right here in Vichy but already they were old acquaintances. ‘Stay close, mademoiselle. It seems that we’ve ruffled more than the feathers of a few stuffed birds.’
Caught in a large cheval mirror, the sculptress appeared pale and shaken at the sight of the room, which was, of course, nothing like the wives and Madame Petain had indicated.
Instead of a bed that squeaked when used and stank of stale piss, one could see at a glance, St-Cyr told himself, that this canopied masterpiece was simply unmade, its sheets, blankets and spread thrown back but of excellent quality, if of that other time and a touch worn.
There was no second-hand water pitcher, but an unblemished Sevres jug; a copper bath that gleamed even in the faded electric light; a large, handsome marble sink with gilded bronze and porcelain taps, the hot and the cold; even the luxury of a bar of soap that could be left lying around; and plenty of towels, most certainly not thin, for one could hardly have worn them out.
Cold ashes lay in the grate, ample charcoal and wood indicating that a welcome fire could always be lit. The regulation notice as to safe and unsafe sex had, of course, had to be posted just inside the door, he noted, but here violets, dried long ago, had been woven round it, probably by Mademoiselle Marie-Jacqueline.
The carpet was an Aubusson. The armoires, desk and chairs were Marjorelle and nothing to be sneezed at, even if not neo-baroque but most certainly of the turn of the century.
‘Louis, I’d best check the street.’
‘You won’t see anything,’ yelped Ines. ‘They’ll not let you.’
‘It’s what I’ll hear that counts.’
Herr Kohler left them, left the door wide open. Again Ines took in the bed, again she told herself Celine couldn’t have had time to make it, for that had been the rule. After each visit, each of them had tidied up.
Tuesday … last Tuesday afternoon, she said, 2 February, lying naked there in the arms of Honore de Fleury. Celine whose laughter had been so gentle and yet full of warmth and excitement. Celine whose smile had always been so encompassing.
‘There’s … there’s a ballet shoe under that chair, Inspector,’ she heard herself saying. ‘A practice slipper.’
And we are alone at last, mademoiselle, but you haven’t yet decided if you should tell me all you know. ‘It’s the other shoe that puzzles me,’ said St-Cyr. ‘Don’t ballet teachers who have to rush off early in the morning throw their things into a bag of some sort? Her handbag hasn’t turned up, yet her ID has.’
‘The bag, it … it was of a soft brown suede, a rucksack I bought her before the Defeat.’
‘Before the death of her husband?’
And attempted suicide? ‘Yes. Well before that. She was so happy, so full of life. Annette had just been born. On my way to see them at the Hopital Cochin, I came across it in the window of a second-hand shop on the rue Mouffetard and knew she’d have the baby to carry and everything else, so would need something easy to handle.’