‘Four kilos. In value perhaps between 35,000,000 and 50,000,000 francs. It’s illegal to sell them, of course, except through the official channels. They should all have been declared long ago.’
‘Yet you could still buy them, even though “unofficially”?’
‘That’s understood.’
The lift began its upward traverse again. Hermann had purposely left the door to the suite open so that they might hear it.
Again they listened and again it passed beyond the first floor. Crestfallen, Wehrle fidgeted uncomfortably, even to muttering, ‘She’ll come. You’ll see she will. She had nothing to do with this. I’m certain of it.’
Never one to sit still for long, Kohler got up suddenly. ‘Sure she will. Hey, that’s 1,750,000 to 2,500,000 Reichskassenscheine.’ (The Occupation marks, about ?175,000 to ?250,000.) ‘Was there anything else?’ he demanded, taking a last drag. ‘Or was that enough for her and the Gypsy to share?’
The bullet graze across Kohler’s brow was fading, the scar down the left cheek from eye to chin surely not the work of duelling? wondered Wehrle. Even for a Bavarian and a detective, Herr Kohler was formidable. A Fritz-haired, greying giant with shrapnel scars about the face as well as a storm-trooper’s lower jaw and build and faded blue eyes – were they always so lifeless?
The nose was pugnacious, the age perhaps fifty-five years, so a good three years older than the blocky, shorter, somewhat portly Frenchman, and perhaps the same amount younger than the grizzled one who was fresh in from the Reich and smelling of old cabbage.
Wehrle tried not to avoid their gazes. ‘There were some napoleons in my money belt. Fifteen, I think, but I can’t be precise. I buy when I can, you understand.’
Kohler pulled down a lower left eyelid in mock surprise. ‘And?’ he asked.
Must they all be at him? ‘Some sovereigns in a cloth bag, some American gold eagles and … and my stamps. These last are a hobby, at least they … they were unless I can get them back.’
It was time for a little sweetness. ‘Can you supply us with a list?’ asked Engelmann, using a pocket-knife to ream a thumbnail.
‘Of course. It’s in my desk. There was also the office postage and petty cash. Would you like a record of those as well?’
‘Where is the office?’ asked St-Cyr swiftly.
‘The Hotel Majestic, naturally.’
St-Cyr tossed his head in acknowledgement. When the Germans had marched into Paris on 14 June 1940, the Wehrmacht had taken over the Majestic and other such places. Lots of them, with sentries at the entrances and ausweise needed to come and go, but why had the safe not been housed there?
Again the sound of the lift interrupted things but now it seemed to hesitate, putting them all on edge. But then it went away and for a moment there was silence. ‘She’s not coming,’ grunted Engelmann. ‘Perhaps after all, you had best tell us about her.’
‘Look, we know how it is,’ said Kohler companionably. ‘Paris is a long way from home. Leave is something your superiors, if they’re anything like mine, feel irrelevant. A man does need a little female company now and then.’
How utterly pious! snorted St-Cyr inwardly. Just recently divorced but long married, Hermann lived with two women he had rescued. Giselle was a former prostitute, a very intelligent, purposeful and beautiful girl with jet black hair and violet eyes; Oona, a Dutch alien without proper papers, was beautiful also – blonde, blue-eyed, about forty years of age and nearly twice the age of the first. God’s little dilemma.
Nervously Wehrle got up and went over to the bar then thought better of it and sought out the champagne only to hold the bottle up to them as evidence. ‘He opened it. Neither of us were in the room. He filled the two glasses – even I can see that – but he couldn’t have had more than a sip.’
As the Surete watched, Herr Max’s dispassionate gaze lifted to settle on the victim. ‘And what, please, makes you so certain your mistress did not let the thief into these rooms?’
‘Nana’s not my mistress, damn you! She works for me and I pay her well. She has an ear for things and is often in the right place at the right time. As a diamond buyer I can’t be too obvious, can I? Discretion allows the timid to come forward without fear of arrest. No names are necessary or recorded. I pay in cash and there are no questions asked.’
Perfect, then, if one had robbery in mind.
It was Louis who said, ‘But … but if in cash, were there not also bundles of banknotes in your safe? And why, please, was the safe not housed in your office at the Majestic?’
Again there was that nervous, self-conscious little smile as if still clawing at thoughts of his Nana’s having betrayed him.
‘We had just closed a deal and were to celebrate. That’s why there wasn’t much cash in the safe. That’s why the champagne.’
‘And the caviar.’ He was just too wary, too full of doubts about her, felt Kohler. Louis sensed it too, and so did Herr Max.
‘The caviar, yes. It was a promise, a little treat. Nana loves it. And as for the safe being here, I travel a lot. Mostly I work away from the office. I always have.’
Again they heard the lift, again they waited, breaths held, hearts pounding now perhaps.
The damned thing stopped. The gate came open. Every step the woman took was muffled by the carpet but they each knew when she would appear in the open doorway and then, there she was.
Kohler swallowed hard. Louis, he knew would be intrigued. Herr Max apparently took but a moment to imagine flinging her into a chair before switching on the spotlight to shine it into her eyes. Slap, slap! and blood on her beautiful lips …
‘Nana …’
‘Hans, what has happened? Who are these men?’
‘Ihere Papiere. Bitte, Fraulein. Bitte.’
‘Hans …?’
‘Fraulein, he can do nothing for you now. Just give me your papers,’ grunted Engelmann impatiently snapping his fingers.
Reluctantly Louis translated, and as he watched her, Kohler thought he detected an all but imperceptible wince. A handsome woman. Tall, proud – haughty even. Andalusian? he wondered. Spanish certainly. Part Moor? She was making him think of hot sun, lolling cattle nearby and midday silence. An abandoned hacienda among ancient olive groves. Two horses, no blanket on the ground. Just the sun high above and seen through the dusty grey of the leaves.
Her hair was jet black and thick, worn loose and long beneath the stylish hat of Arctic fox. Her eyebrows were dark and wide and served only to enhance eyes that did not flash in anger but could, though now they remained as if looking well into the distance to something other than themselves. They were large, dark olive eyes with deep touches of the Moor, the Carthaginian perhaps, or Phoenician – Louis would have run back through the gamut of her ancestry and perhaps this was what she was seeing in the distance.
The chin was proud, the lips not compressed, just wide and very firm in resolve. A touch of lipstick. No wrinkles yet at the age of what? he asked and told himself, thirty-eight. No powder, no rouge, her skin not white, not coffee brown but of the softest shade of hazel. Perfume … Was she wearing any?
She didn’t flinch under his scrutiny nor that of his partner but remained immobile as Herr Max thumbed her papers, grunting from time to time as a pig would at its swill.
At last Kohler thought he detected a quivering nostril as she waited, not looking to either side but straight at her Generalmajor with … Was it hatred, he wondered; was it, I will kill you for this if you do not defend me?
The white cashmere gloves would be soft. The off-white overcoat was of alpaca, a fabulous thing cut so that it brought out the tallness of her, the shoulders.
‘Herr Kohler, don’t take too great an interest in our guest. Fetch some coffee. While you’re at it, call your superior officer. As Sturmbannfuhrer Boemelburg is Head of the Gestapo in France, and has taken a definite interest in our Gypsy, he will be waiting in his office for just such a call. Inform him of the details. An all-points alert for our friend. Every rail station and road. A sweep of what remains of the gypsy haunts – please include the … Ah, what was it?’ he asked himself and peered again at her papers, even to lifting his specs out of the way and squinting myopically.