A hand was tossed at fate, a shrug given. ‘He threatened all sorts of things and shouted, “Do you think we will let you and that partner of yours destroy everything we have worked so hard for?”’
They stood in silence, looking down at the rebus, then Kohler found his voice and said, ‘Where’s Peretti, Louis? Why the hell isn’t he here with you?’
It would have to be said. ‘Ovid has been sent to Lyon, Hermann. He only had time to give me his report and to release these items into my care. De Passe and the others got to him. He said he was sorry, but …’
Louis shrugged again. It was the way of things these days. Someone was always interfering.
Kohler told him of the telex from Mueller. Longing for a cigarette, he found he had none.
‘Lies upon lies, Hermann,’ said Louis, offering one and a light. ‘Always the song they all must sing infuriates the ears of one who once played the euphonium in the police band. But we shall see if, as singing masters to them, we can’t improve things.’
Oh-oh. ‘You didn’t …’
It had best be said quickly. ‘I told de Passe we would hold an audition in the Palais’s Grand Tinel this evening at twenty-two hundred hours. I advised him most strongly to have the singers present as well as the judges and Madame Simondi, though I felt, and still do, that that one would not be “well”.’
‘Dummkopf! Verdammt!’
‘Hermann, I really had no other choice. When our prèfet told me to pack up and leave immediately or else we’d be lucky to escape with our lives, I had to give him the only answer I could.’
A purist! ‘What about Frau von Mahler, eh? You’re forgetting her.’
‘Not at all. That’s why we’re going to take these things to her for safe keeping.’
‘Idiot, von Mahler won’t let you get within shouting distance of that woman!’
‘Then we shall have to see that he does.’
Darkness had fallen and with it had come a fresh uneasiness Kohler didn’t welcome. Across the place de I’Horloge the Kommandantur was just too busy. Though showing a light from any window or door was verboten, repeatedly there were glimpses of the entrance. Armed men in uniform came and went. Two sentries guarded the door and oh bien sûr those boys had been there earlier, as they were each and every hour of the day, but now he was going to have to pay particular attention to them. ‘Louis, this is crazy. They’ll have Schmeissers.’
‘Trust me. It’s the only way. Just keep the engine running. I won’t be long.’
‘You’re an idiot. You know that, don’t you? He’ll have you shot.’
‘Perhaps but then … mais alors, mon vieux, perhaps not.’
Louis was gone from the car before anything further could be said. Still keeping his eyes on the entrance, Kohler reached over the back of the seat to Nino for comfort and felt the dog respond immediately. ‘You were there at the Palais the night she was killed,’ he said.
She licked and nuzzled his hand, got all excited. Was he going to let her out of the car? Were they going for a hike?
‘Hey, take it easy. No, stay in the back seat. Stay, Nino. Stay!’
The beagle had a mind of her own and found his lap readily enough. Eagerly she licked his face, was all over him. He had completely missed seeing Louis go into the Kommandantur.
‘You know all of them,’ he said as he patted her head and scratched behind her ears. ‘You had this around your neck, didn’t you?’
At the sound of the clochette, bedlam ensued. Nino barked joyously and tried to get out of the car. It took time to calm her down. ‘Who else was there?’ he asked. ‘Was it Madame Simondi?’
Nino put her head down on his lap and waited to be punished.
‘Was it Genèvieve?’ he asked and felt her lift her head instantly at the sound of that name.
She got up and looked out into the night. When he said the Primo Soprano’s name again, Nino searched the darkness and barked expectantly.
‘Good for you,’ breathed Kohler. ‘Now let’s try Mireille. Where’s Mireille, Nino?’
The dog returned to his lap and tried to work her muzzle between the buttons and in under his overcoat.
‘You loved her, didn’t you?’ he said. ‘Almost as much as you did Xavier. He tidied things up, didn’t he? He had to. He couldn’t have us knowing that sickle came from the props room. Where’d he hide it, eh? Come on, you can tell me.’
*
Seated at his desk, the mayor of Avignon passed unblinking moist brown eyes over the sudden intruder and let him be. But in that one glance was summed up so much. The humiliation of having to work under the Occupier, the outright willingness now to not see things one should even if it meant an assassination and that the intruder could well be a résistant, the knowledge, too, that they were both patriots.
Not one of the Comité secret or of its Cagoule, not anything but an honest, hard-pressed individual in his mid-fifties, the mayor knew very well who it was and went calmly on with his work beneath the portrait photograph of the Maréchal Pétain that graced every such office. Teleprinters hammered beyond the confining walls of the corridor. Telephones rang. Conversations in French and German incessantly bombarded the ears. Something was said about Banditen in the hills, something else about the Reich’s need for olive oil and other foodstuffs.
Words went on and on about the Service de Travail Obligatoire and February’s inauguration of the local detachment of Vichy’s newest police force, the Milice. Strong-arm boys and men whose job it would be, among other things, to fill the labour quotas — 50,000 a month was demanded — with those plucked from the streets, homes, tramcars, buses and cinemas, remembering always that if such were on a bicycle or in a gazogene-powered lorry or auto, or merely carrying home a few hard-won staples for an impoverished larder, these items were an added bonus.
Von Mahler was on the telephone. St-Cyr cursed his luck, for all three doors to the office were open and he was certain one of the secretaries in an adjacent anteroom had seen him. Hermann had been right. This was crazy, but desperate situations require desperate solutions.
‘St-Cyr, Sûreté,’ he said, softly mouthing the words to the secretary and, putting a hand over hers, pushed the telephone receiver she had been listening in on down until it was back in its cradle. ‘Come with me. Please walk in front. I am, as you can see, armed.’
Louis still hadn’t returned; he was taking far too long. ‘Verdammt! What the hell has happened to him, Nino? Christ, I need a cigarette!’
The dog licked hands that trembled. She got up to look out into the darkness as he was now constantly doing. She knew he was anxious and wanted to help.
‘You’re beautiful,’ he said, remembering the souls of dogs long past. ‘Giselle and Oona could take you for walks. They’d love you, too, but it isn’t healthy for dogs in Paris these days. Count yourself lucky. The citizens here aren’t quite so hungry, not yet.’
But give it time, he said sadly to himself and went to open the door, to follow Louis, to …
The engine idled. His breath, and that of Nino, were causing frost to build up inside the windscreen. He began to scrape this away. He occupied himself, fought for patience, and asked, ‘What really happened in those last few moments before she died? If, as the judges have stated, they left the Palais together, then they left that girl all alone up there in the Grand Tinel. But she wasn’t alone — we all know this — and Albert Renaud said he thought he had heard someone in the stairwell when he went to get the chairs.’
Nino put her head down in his lap and felt his hand come to rest, warm and gentle, so gentle.
‘Why did Renaud come forth with that little bit of info, Nino, unless trying to plant the thought that blame must surely lie with Madame Simondi?’