‘He won’t freeze, will he?’ asked Kohler.
‘Not with the farts he’s been letting off.’
‘Make sure he can breathe. We don’t want him puking all over the place.’
‘Shall I awaken him?’
‘He’ll only start shrieking again.’
They took the lift. Hermann seemed too tired to care. He didn’t even wince when they had to stop at the third floor. But on the fourth, he did look back in surprise as the gate was closed and only then realized he’d been in the lift.
‘I’m still shaking, Louis. That bastard is out to get us. Three boulder-breakers and so nicely wired, I couldn’t have done it better myself, but he’s like a hop-head. That blasting cap he used was so corroded it could have blown his fingers off.’
The sticks of dynamite were old and at their ends, an oily, pale yellowish fluid had formed little beads that were sticky. Lint from Herr Kohler’s overcoat pockets clung to them as the sticks lay on the end table beneath the foyer’s mirror.
Terrified by what he was now seeing, Herr Kohler seemed unable to say anything.
Nana Theleme threw her eyes up to questioningly look at him in the mirror as he stared down at those things. ‘Louis …’ he finally said.
‘Ah nom du ciel, idiot! What have you done?’
‘Carried them. Thought nothing of it. That blasting cap … I guess I was concentrating too hard on freeing it and didn’t really notice.’
St-Cyr was swift. ‘Is there a telephone, mademoiselle?’
She found her voice. ‘Downstairs. On the concierge’s floor, near her loge or in the club, by the bar.’
‘Stay here, Hermann. Don’t let her touch them. Don’t drop anything.’
‘Just call the bomb boys and have them bring one of their little boxes, Louis. Tell them this one’s for real too.’
Still they stood before the mirror, and still Herr Kohler stared at those things.
‘Taken from the magazine of an abandoned quarry,’ he said at last and the emptiness of his voice matched that of the faded blue eyes. ‘The French … the Resistance, eh? How could the silly sons of bitches have carried it at all without killing themselves? Nitroglycerine with sawdust or gelatine as the filler. That’s all dynamite is. Fifty per cent strength – you can just make out the number on the side. Velocity better than 5300 metres a second. Sends a powerful shock wave which creates a tremendous shattering effect even when unconfined.’
She waited and he tonelessly continued. ‘Extremely useful for wrecking old machinery or blowing apart the car of unwanted detectives, preferably with them in or near it.’
She winced. ‘I … I know nothing of this.’
‘Nothing? Then why the hell did that bastard park the car directly under your windows?’
The stench of the nitroglycerine was so powerful, she gagged and turned away only to have him yank her back. ‘Ah no, Mademoiselle Theleme. If I’m to die because of you, I’ll need your company. One good knock, eh? That’s all it needs when the sticks are like that. Shock or friction, and to think I was so lucky down on that street of yours not to have blown myself to kingdom come.’
Still they waited. A little later he said, ‘When breaking railway lines, bridge abutments or gun emplacements we used to put down a patty of wet clay first. A good daub of it. Then the sticks lying side by side but never ones like those, and only one would have the cap and fuse, or cap and wires if we were to use electrical blasting. It’s all really very simple once you get the hang of it and quit being afraid. More clay covers the charge – a thicker layer. Works every time. Defused them too, the other side’s. Had to. Orders were orders. I want the truth, mademoiselle, ‘cause you and those damned things are scaring the hell out of me.’
‘He’s the father of my son, my Jani.’
‘Janwillem De Vries, the Gypsy.’
‘Yes, but we never married. He was arrested in Oslo and was sent to prison.’
‘That why he hates you?’
‘I … I don’t understand what you mean?’
‘Then I’ll make it plainer. Did you tip off the authorities in Oslo so that they could put him behind bars?’
‘No, I didn’t. I hadn’t seen him in ages by then. Nearly two years. I thought … why, that he’d gone completely out of my life.’
He hated to correct her. ‘When was your son born?’
Ah damn! ‘5 November 1938.’
Kohler didn’t say anything. He let her think what she would, but as sure as that God of Louis’s had made birds to sing, the Gypsy and this one had been together in late January or early February of 1938. De Vries had been arrested 20 April of that year. Would the news of fatherhood have pleased him? he wondered, then thought briefly of Giselle and looked again at the dynamite.
‘So, now he’s turned up in Paris again and he’s aware you’ve moved from Saint-Cloud to here.’
‘Yes, but … but don’t ask me how he became aware of it.’
‘Tours,’ he said. ‘Was he the reason you went there last Tuesday?’
‘No! I went there because of the diamonds. Monsieur Jacqmain, the prospector, would not sell them to Hans unless I … I personally guaranteed his safety by making yet another visit.’
‘You’re a busy woman. You go to a party on the previous night. You sing your heart out for the SS who are occupying your villa, then you catch the 5 a.m. express to Tours.’
‘Not quite. The train did not leave until eight.’
‘Tell me something, mademoiselle. Who attended the party and why was it given?’
‘Now listen, I’ve already told you at the Ritz all I know about who was there. As to why the party was given, those kinds of people don’t tell people like me anything. We played and sang for them, that is all.’
But was it? he wondered. ‘And on Thursday the fourteenth the Gypsy is seen in Tours boarding the train for Paris.’
‘Look, I’m sorry those men were killed at the house in the rue Poliveau and I’m sorry he tried to kill you but …’
‘“The” house – you said “the”, mademoiselle? That implies you knew of it.’
Ah no … ‘I didn’t.’
‘But maybe you did, and when my partner gets back we’re going to sort you out. Oh by the way, in case you were wondering, Jean-Louis St-Cyr’s name is still on some of the Resistance’s hit lists. Could that be why your Gypsy’s trying to put paid to us?’
‘I … I wouldn’t know. The Resistance …? Please, what the hell do I have to do with those people?’
‘That’s what I’m asking myself.’
The two detectives spoke quietly, and Nana Theleme wished with all her heart she could hear what they said. The bomb-disposal unit were packing things up. The car on the street below was being given another going over. The sewer had been opened to find the blasting cap.
They’d trace the dynamite – this would cause them some delay but she really didn’t know how she could possibly stop them from doing so. She still could not understand why Janwillem had left such a device below the apartment of his son, the little boy he’d never seen.
Had the bomb gone off, it would, at the least, have sent flying glass inwards, perhaps killing Jani and herself.
Letting the edge of the velvet drape fall from her hand, she stood a moment undecided – wished then that she had not been trying on the loose-fitting, rose-coloured, striped silk chiffon trousers with their long waistcoat of rose and gold lame and the outer one that came to just below her waist but was of many vibrant colours and much fine needlework. She wished she had not had her dancing shoes on. The heavy, black high-heels with their sturdy straps gave her height, strength and that overt alertness and suppleness of body she did not want at the moment.
St-Cyr was studying her. He’d remember that her hair was still loose and that there was the look of the gypsy about her. He’d see the gold ear-rings, the heavy gold bracelets and rings. He’d think there was more to her than met the eye.