There was a burst of firing-oh how he knew that sound. The father would see his son suddenly throw up his arms in shock and watch as the boy collapsed. He would try to pull the son to his feet. He would plead with the boy as the dark shapes swarmed after them among the trees.
In his mind’s eye Kohler saw that the boy didn’t move. In panic, the father tried to make up his mind. They were almost upon him now. He would turn. He would start to run again. The light wasn’t good. He would hit a tree and stumble backwards fighting for balance …
Another burst and another ripped through the commotion.
Kohler swept up two blank cigarette cases that had been waiting to be engraved. He gave the troops a few seconds to gather about the bodies, was ready when an SS-Haupsturmfuhrer entered the shop with some others, pistols in hand.
‘Idiots!’ he shrieked at them. ‘I had those two right where I wanted them and you had to come along and spoil it!’
There was surprise at his presence in the shop, there was suspicion. Tossing the cigarette cases on to the desk, he said gruffly, ‘Kohler, Gestapo Central, you dummkopfe. Pick up the pieces and while you’re at it, tell me who gave you the buzz-word and when?’
The SS-Haupsturmfuhrer didn’t like him being here at all. For several seconds Kohler saw reassessment being put to the test, then at last the pistol was slid away.
‘It was an anonymous call, Herr Kohler, at 1507 hours.’
Not that long ago. Had it been Madame de Brisson? ‘Was it a woman or a man, Haupsturmfuhrer? Well, come on?’
‘A man.’
Had she telephoned the banker who had then called in the alarm? he wondered, or had she called the daughter who had got someone to do it for her? Kempf, perhaps, or someone else?
Marie-Claire de Brisson wouldn’t have asked anyone to do it for fear of bringing the Gestapo down on her head should the Meuniers have talked …
‘Herr Kohler, how is it, please, that you knew those two were hiding Jews?’
Jews, not forgers? Ah verdammt, then it could have been the daughter after all, or her father, or Kempf or someone else! ‘Let’s just say I had my suspicions. Don’t wreck the place. They aren’t here.’
Picking up the two cigarette cases, lovely pieces really, he gave the bastards an abbreviated version of a Heil Hitler and left the shop.
Darkness had fallen. Suddenly exhausted and badly in need of a drink, he made his way to the street.
The boy’s mother and sister would be deported. There wasn’t a thing he could do for them and he knew it, was thankful Louis hadn’t been with him because Louis would have insisted they try to help them.
When he found the note Louis had left for him in that empty house, he knew where his partner was but wouldn’t intrude. ‘Kempf,’ he said to himself. ‘I’ll go and find that bastard and ask him about his girlfriend.’
Muriel Barteaux grimly passed her stern grey eyes yet one more time over the photographs that covered her ample and very cluttered desk.
‘First, there are the clothes and the way they were asked to model them, Jean-Louis,’ she said, her voice one of gravel. ‘And then there is the matter of the photographs and the manner in which they were taken.’
He waited. More than a hundred years of accumulated experience was before him in these two so vastly different women. The office held remnants of fabric from ages ago, sample books, pattern books, patterns and perfumes-he loved to explore this world of theirs, renewing old memories and finding new things always. But for today they had the business at hand.
‘The clothes are good copies, not originals,’ said Muriel. ‘The delicate ecru silk of this dress is very feminine. I like the cut of it, the tiny pleats, full sleeves … even the allure of this decolletage of crocheted lace.’
The pudgy, beknuckled and beringed fingers automatically reached for her smouldering cigarette without even a glance at the ashtray. The grey pinstripe suit, with its broad lapels, had ample pockets that were always useful for keys, scissors, measuring tapes, cigarettes, order books and other things.
‘This crepe georgette is really quite elegant, don’t you think, dearest?’
Still stricken by the horror of row on row of murdered-yes, murdered-girls, Chantal Grenier could only try to answer but without success. ‘Be brave, little one,’ said Muriel. ‘Why not attend to the tea? You know we always take it together in here at the close of each day. There’s a good girl, there’s my love.’
They waited while that little bird in pale rose chiffon hurried from the office. They heard her give a ragged sob and retch, and knew she would go straight upstairs to the flat and stay there until composed.
‘Louis, if this has anything to do with that shop of Denise St. Onge, then we should begin with it,’ said Muriel firmly. ‘Mademoiselle St. Onge fancies herself at the very pinnacle of the fashion trade yet still refuses to stock originals-they’re too expensive. That one uses copiers, not originators and sticks to the styles of the thirties. That, in itself, is fair enough if one doesn’t wish to rise to the top. But she shouldn’t run her business on the knife edge of bankruptcy and should pay off her creditors and suppliers, not threaten them with the Gestapo if they don’t cough up or give her more time.’
He was grateful for the information and sighed deeply to show his appreciation. The pipe and pouch were taken out. They could now get down to work.
‘Does Mademoiselle St. Onge have a line of credit at that bank of Mademoiselle de Brisson’s father?’
Muriel nodded. ‘The word is that Denise will only be allowed to stretch that little friendship so far.’
‘The father has been after his daughter to speak to her boss?’
Again there was that nod. ‘Denise St. Onge will never rise to the top, not if those among us who care are around to stop her.’
‘The shop is good.’
‘And why not when you’ve friends who can ask others to make certain you get the best materials available?’
‘But … but you all do this? You couldn’t survive otherwise.’
‘But not in the way she does, Louis. We don’t threaten and we do try to pay up on time and sometimes even in advance.’
‘Tell me about the modelling.’
‘A woman, not a designer, told them how to model these. Her judgement wasn’t always right-that is to say, she didn’t accurately match each of these girls to the clothes they were asked to wear. There are subtle differences. Some girls just can’t wear certain things. Also, this girl is a little too tall for that skirt. They should have lowered the hem but didn’t bother to.’
Muriel picked up another of the photos. ‘Well off the shoulder is lovely if you have good shoulders. If not, then less of the shoulder is exposed. It’s only natural. To each figure, the patient adjustment so that the dress, the suit, slip or whatever looks its very best. Spaghetti straps and mid-thigh slits take talent. These girls were instructed by someone who was very positive about what she wanted but blind to the subtleties of variation or in far too much of a hurry.’
Slivers of emerald satin, midnight lace and blue silk undergarments showed between the photographs as if to emphasize the horror of what had happened and to call all such frivolities into question.
‘It was definitely a woman in your opinion?’ he asked.
‘A woman,’ she said, not backing away from it. ‘Look at each of these girls as they came to bare themselves. Go on, don’t be ashamed. I know you enjoy the naked female body as much as I do. It’s a work of art, a gift from God, not a curse.’
‘They … they are hesitant but …’
‘But she has reassured them, and they have done as she asked. The woman was a partner in this business, Jean-Louis. I could be wrong, but you have asked my opinion. Shall I give you another?’
‘The photographer?’