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Storming into the engraver’s shop and flashing his Gestapo shield, he demanded to see the invitation he had found on Denise St. Onge’s mantelpiece, the Reichsmarschall Goering’s invitation for 31 December, to the Jeu de Paume and the Ritz. ‘There’s been a mistake. I’ve been sent to check it out.’

That ought to put them off. The son stopped what he was doing in the back shop, the elder Meunier scrambled up from behind his desk. ‘A mistake …? But that’s impossible, monsieur?’

‘Orders straight from the top, eh?’ Kohler thumped the counter. ‘Well let me tell you, my fine goateed little printer, the Reichsmarschall’s a very busy man. It’s not every day he gets to ferry supplies in to a sinking army the Soviets are about to annihilate. Winter does something unkind to aircraft engines and ground crews in summer fatigues. It’s the frostbite, I guess. Now give me the invitation. Make it two of them and shove over. I’ve got to have a word with your son in private.’

‘My son …?’

Was it such a ghastly request? ‘The invitations.’ He snapped his fingers and lifted the counter flap to let himself through. ‘My partner’s keen on art auctions and late suppers at the Ritz. I want to surprise him.’

Nervously Meunier found the things and handed them over. ‘Your partner …? Was he the one from the Surete?’

‘Ja, ja, that’s the schmuck. A real asshole and lazy. Now hurry up.’

The boy had come to stand in the doorway. ‘It’s all right, father. I will tell him what he wants.’

‘You fool!’ cried Meunier, lunging for the Gestapo. ‘Run, Paul! Save yourself!

It was all over. Kohler eased the elder Meunier into a chair and patted the collar of the grey business suit. ‘Take it easy, eh? You’re too out of shape. Hey, I’ve had lots of practice. Make yourself a cup of that coffee your son gave Joanne Labelle. Try not to think it’s the end of the world. Look, I’m sorry if I frightened you.’

The elder Meunier shut his eyes and bowed his head in defeat. Things had been going so well for them, but Paul had had to listen to that woman, to that Mademoiselle Marie-Claire de Brisson …

Kohler turned to the son and said, ‘I hope you see the shape he’s in. Now spit it all out and quickly. I have to find my partner before it’s too late.’

‘Three sets of documents were forged. Identity cards, work permits, military discharges and laissez-passers to Provins, 24 December, for two men. The third set consisted only of a laissez-passer for Mademoiselle de Brisson dated 1 January 1943, and a certificate stating that she was allowed to travel to Dijon for reasons of health. A past history of repeated bouts of pneumonia.’

To Dijon, of all places? Dijon was synonymous with rain, but the son had had it all rehearsed just in case the Gestapo should come for him ..

‘My father knew nothing of it, monsieur. Nor my mother and sister. Only myself.’

How helpless. How utterly naive and stupid to think that by saying this he could save them.

Sadly Kohler gave him a nod. ‘Tell me about the two men. Their assumed names, ages, height, weight, all other such details.’

‘The boy didn’t back away from it. Still thinking that the only hope for his family lay in the truth, he said, ‘Both were engineers, one electrical, the other mechanical. I’ll write it all down for you and sign it.’

‘Their ages? They’ll be false but approximate.’

‘Thirty-two and thirty-six. Both wounded during the invasion of 1940 and subsequently released with medical discharges. Raoul Chouard and Claude Deschamps, both lieutenants in the infantry. Both were assigned to the Provins municipal works department. Chouard has blue eyes, blond, curly hair. Deschamps has straight black hair and dark brown eyes. There were scars, the wounds of course. These could not be faked, could they?’

‘Yes, yes, write it all down. Don’t bother to sign it.’

Kohler took out a cigarette and, lighting it, went out to the father. ‘Here, you need this more than I do. Look, Monsieur Meunier, let me give you a piece of advice. Get out of Paris while you can. Claim health, sickness in the family-hey, use your German friends and if not them, then get your son to do a job for you. Lyon, Marseille, Toulon-choose a city in the south. Things are still better there, but go.’

‘Leave?’

‘Was it such an unthinkable thing? ‘Yes.’

Since the travel permits for the two men had been dated 24 December, they must have ditched the car and headed straight for the appropriate railway station, the Gare de Lyon.

Marie-Claire de Brisson had specifically asked that her laissez-passer be for 1 January 1943, the day after the auction. Dijon, verdammt! What did it mean?

The boy was thin, tall and not a runner. Too sickly an occupation, thought Kohler ruefully but his judgement had to be harsh if their lives were to be saved. ‘Listen to me carefully. You can’t possibly tell when someone will blow the whistle. Eighteen million are involved and maybe the murders of fourteen girls.’

‘Murders …? That house …?’ faltered the boy.

‘Look, if you know something, tell me.’

‘Mademoiselle de Brisson, she … she came here often at night to see how the papers were progressing and to offer me advice, Inspector. I … I sometimes wondered if she had just come from seeing someone or something she … she did not like. She was often most distracted and … and sometimes very upset.’

‘Who let her in through the gates?’

‘I did. The shopkeepers have spare keys so that we may come and go if necessary but it’s not something that is commonly known.’

It still wasn’t much. ‘At any time did she say where she’d been?’

‘A party, a dinner, the flat of her friend or simply her own place and a small gathering. Once she was most distressed at not being able to find her mother’s cat. She said that Madame Lemaire’s maid must have taken it in again and that she would have to speak to the girl, but I do not know if she ever did.’

‘The men you forged papers for, did she know them well?’

The boy shrugged. ‘They were friends, that’s all I knew. Friends who needed help. Nothing dishonest-they hadn’t done a thing, she said.’

‘Spit it out.’

‘They … they had to leave Paris so as to avoid the … the forced labour in the Reich.’

‘And she paid you the going rate?’ he asked harshly. ‘1000 francs for each identity card and 3000 for each set of the other documents?’

‘5000 for each job. She was very kind to me, Inspector. Very pretty, very well dressed. Once she came in a black evening dress, more often a simpler sweater, skirt and blouse, but always the perfume.’

You sap, thought Kohler but only nodded and said, ‘She sweet-talked you, so what else is new? Women have been doing it for thousands of years. But you’re certain it was Mademoiselle de Brisson?’

‘Yes. Yes, of course.’

‘Paul …

Stricken, the elder Meunier stood in the doorway.

‘Father, what is it?’

‘There are others.’

‘Others?’

‘The screech of brakes, the sounds of …’

‘Ah Gott im Himmel, run!’ swore Kohler, cursing their luck. ‘Go! Vite! Vite! Merde, idiot! Don’t just stand there blocking the way!’

They ran. He watched through the windows. Father and son entered the stark rows of lindens but didn’t know which way to turn. There was the shrill blast of a whistle, then hard steps on icy gravel, the hammering of many boob and steel-cleated shoes on the paving stones of the arcades.

Paul Meunier dragged his father after him as they ran towards the fountain that was out of sight near the far end of the garden. Kohler thought to shout to the flics in dark blue and the boys in field-grey that they should slow down and take things easy. Then he realized the latter would toss a few bursts from their Schmeissers his way, shattering the shop windows and himself, ah Christ!