Vomit rose in her throat and she gagged on it. Even Herr Kohler would be powerless to help her.
‘Don’t say a thing, mademoiselle,’ said Kohler grimly. ‘Let me tell him.’
It was Munk who said, ‘Very well. Proceed.’ In dismay, Kohler realized the bastard had used the weaver to trap him into talking.
‘Hadn’t you best remove the painting?’ he asked.
‘It’s Gestapo Leader Munk, Herr Kohler. You will address me properly.’
Kohler nodded. ‘The painting,’ he said. ‘Let’s see what’s in the safe.’
A ramrod in a black uniform yanked the painting away and threw it aside, ‘It’s open,’ he said in German. ‘Empty, Gestapo Leader. The safe is empty.’
Savagely Munk swung his black leather gloves. Stung by the blow, the weaver reeled into Kohler. Blinded by her tears, she fought for some sort of sense and shrilled, ‘Empty? Empty? This I cannot believe!’
As she looked into the safe, Kohler held her. Every nerve and muscle in her body quivered. Quickly she turned aside. ‘A chair,’ he seethed. ‘Gott im Himmel, let the woman sit down!’
Delphane swung a chair across the carpet. Someone brought a lamp and they made her look up into it but this she could not do without help, so one of them simply seized her by the hair and yanked her head back.
‘Now talk, Herr Kohler,’ said Munk. ‘Already your sympathies are in question. The Sturmbannfuhrer Boemelburg has left the matter entirely in my hands so do not look to Paris Central for help.’
Kohler could barely control the outrage he felt. He wanted so much to say, Hey, listen, my fine, I’m a detective and we’re dealing with a murder, but he knew that was of little consequence in the scheme of things. ‘Perhaps, Gestapo Leader, it is the Inspector from the Deuxieme Bureau who should talk. Unless I’ve missed something, that safe should have been crammed with bundles of francs, and that was exactly what Mademoiselle Darnot expected. So if she expected to find it loaded, and this one told you it was, then ask him where the cash is.’
Delphane glanced questioningly at the safe and then at the weaver. ‘The money, Viviane …?’ he said.
‘It’s gone, Jean-Paul, but Anne-Marie could not have taken it.’
Kohler filled things in. ‘The Buemondi woman was desperate for cash. On the Saturday before she was killed, Madame Buemondi pawned a kaleidoscope in Bayonne. In exchange, she received 35,000 francs.’
‘Which she then passed on to a Basque guide who knows the routes across the Pyrenees into Spain,’ offered Delphane. ‘She had a little problem on her hands, isn’t that so, Viviane? A dead pilot was in her house, is that not correct, eh?’
‘Easy, my friend. Easy,’ cautioned Kohler. ‘The body had been there for a good two or three weeks, maybe more. Abwehr Central knew of it. Colonel Henri gave me the pilot’s identity disc. They’d been watching the Inspector here and had their doubts about him.’
‘What doubts?’ challenged Delphane. ‘Come, come, my fine Inspector from Gestapo Central, Paris, spill the beans.’
‘It’s the lentils I want to spill,’ said Kohler but didn’t elaborate. ‘Doubts about what you’d been up to in Bayonne, Inspector. Visits to Madame Buemondi’s house there.’
‘Oh for sure, that means nothing. Nothing! I’ve been a friend of hers for years. I knew her father well. One of the old school. A great man at boules.’
How nice. ‘Visits to this villa, Inspector? Conveniently it has a back entrance.’
‘Most of them do,’ said Delphane blandly. ‘It is so that the help can come and go.’
It was Munk who reminded them of the pilot’s body and the need for cash.
Kohler let him have it. ‘First, she had to dispose of the body in Bayonne and no doubt that is why she gave the 35,000 francs she had received for the kaleidoscope to the daughter of the mountain guide. Then five days later she found she had to redeem her pledge, and thus needed yet another 35,000 francs.’
‘The … the kaleidoscope has the combination to the safe hidden in it,’ confessed Viviane Darnot. ‘Anne-Marie said she had an engraver in Marseille cut letters on some of the chips. The letters can be transcribed into the numbers of the combination. It … it was her way of ensuring that if anything should happen to her, I … I could eventually get at the money. At least, that is what she said before … before she died.’
‘And the money?’ asked Gestapo Munk. ‘The bundles of francs?’
She would not open her eyes to the lamp though they would make her do so. She would kiss the back of her hand and wipe her lips one last time.
‘Louis knows the answers,’ said Kohler. ‘Louis has the cash.’ Wolfishly he grinned at Delphane. ‘My partner opened that safe, my old one. Now what are you going to do about it? Mess with him again?’
‘I already have,’ snorted Delphane.
Kohler looked down at the old Lebel six-shooter that had been a devil’s gun in the right hands. Cases and cases flashed across the screen of memory. Vouvray, the carousel …‘Louis?’ he gasped. ‘Not Louis.’ He leaped at Delphane. He was clubbed and kicked and forced to his knees.
‘The village, I think,’ said Munk. ‘Bring them both.’
*
‘A pastis, please. Make it a double, then get me another.’
‘Shove off. There is no alcohol today.’
‘Then make it one or you will feel the weight of my boots, monsieur. The Surete, eh? And impatient.’
St-Cyr dragged out his badge and ID. ‘Look, I’m on a case and on the run. A patriot’s life is in danger. A village will be razed to the ground if my partner and I do not stop it.’
‘Then why sit here asking for drinks that cannot be served under the laws and ordinances you obey?’
A wise one. ‘I obey them because I have to. That doesn’t mean I agree. Ah Nom de Jesus-Christ, don’t be so difficult! I’ve had nothing substantial to eat for far too long and must fortify my constitution for the terrible task that lies ahead.’
He had meant it too. ‘Can you pay?’
‘Pardon? Ah, the cash. Yes, yes, certainly.’ St-Cyr dug deeply into the sack at his feet, and dragged out a bundle. ‘Thirty thousand, I think, if you will hire me the taxi with a motor that runs on gasoline.’
Ah no. ‘But … but the Boches …’
‘Hey, listen, idiot. Did you think I would come to a place like this for a pastis? I need transport and I need it immediately.’
Raoul Santoni threw a razor-look over the few customers who already knew enough to keep to themselves. ‘The warehouse,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s just across the tracks. Meet me there in five minutes.’
‘Don’t be silly. You would only telephone the Hotel Montfleury. Neither of us need those jokers breathing down our necks.’
A mouse-eared little Corsican, the proprietor wiped the zinc and reached beneath it for a green bottle. ‘The bike’s not mine. Some idiot left it there two weeks ago and hasn’t come back. It’s trouble. Maybe you can help me out.’
Oh-oh. ‘A bike?’ hazarded the Surete, watching as his glass was half filled.
‘Water?’
‘Ah, no. No. Straight. Merci. A bike …?’
This one had the squawk of a chicken in heat! ‘Can’t you handle one?’
The pastis was good. Pre-war stuff and 90 proof. ‘Of course. The Surete can handle anything. Me, I only wondered whose bike it was.’
The glass was refilled. ‘And me, I thought such things, they would not matter, monsieur, since you are in a hurry?’
Ah Nom de Dieu, the Corsicans were a breed apart! ‘Proceed. The warehouse, eh? You first and then myself so as to cover you with my revolver.’
‘What revolver? I see no revolver?’
St-Cyr gathered up the sack and the bundle. ‘Ah, don’t worry about it, monsieur. The revolver is always kept hidden until needed. Rest assured I would not lug around a few million francs and seek the life of danger without it.’
The warehouse was a garage suitable in size for one car and little else. The BMW R75 with side-car and under filthy canvas was in mint condition. ‘Fresh camouflage paint,’ muttered St-Cyr, aghast at what he’d stumbled on to. ‘Straight from the factory in Germany and one hell of a problem for you, monsieur, if caught with it. Ah yes.’