She winced. ‘He … he complained of pulled muscles-the racket ball, the “squash”, he said. He … he went for heat treatments and a massage; afterwards a swim at the health club and then … then to lunch at Maxim’s.’
A nice life. ‘Gut. Now tell me where I can find his driver.’
‘Harald has gone home on a five-day pass to see his wife who is pregnant.’
‘How convenient.’
There was a photograph of Kempf’s wife and two children in better times, another of the Sonderfuhrer astride a handsome gelding, yet another of him in a racing car. A regular playboy. ‘When you asked, What has he done now, fraulein, to what exactly were you referring?’
He waited. Trapped in the doorway, she sweltered under the scrutiny of faded, lifeless blue eyes.
One by one the cigarettes were again removed from the box.
‘Gambling, the … the expenses-the borrowings against his pay cheque for dinners and holidays everyone knows he … he cannot possibly afford, not now that he … he has lost everything. The wife, the children, the house of his father and mother, the family business, everything.’
Kohler indicated he understood and was sympathetic. ‘Did Mademoiselle St. Onge ever come here?’
‘Sometimes, when … when she needed help.’
The woman looked as if she was digging her own grave. ‘Relax. What sort of help?’
‘Help with her creditors and … and suppliers. The Sonderfuhrer has many contacts.’
‘Did they ever talk about having a litile fun?’
‘Fun?’ she bleated.
‘A threesome,’ he said. ‘Two women and your boss. The one perhaps much younger than Mademoiselle St. Onge. A teenager perhaps.’
Fortunately the telephone rang and when she had grabbed it and understood who was calling, she blurted, ‘Gestapo!’ and thrust the receiver at him.
It was the Sonderfuhrer just checking in. ‘The Press Club,’ said Kohler, hanging up. ‘A ratskeller?’
‘In one of the cellars of the Lido. He … he usually goes there for a drink after work.’
‘So let’s have an answer to the fun, eh? Two women and one man. Your boss.’
‘I … I wouldn’t know about such things. I’m only his secretary.’
‘How long have you been with him?’
She could feel the Gestapo’s breath on her forehead, Herr Kohler was now that close to her. ‘Since … since the beginning. Since the summer of 1940.’
Kohler nodded. ‘Once again I’m going to ask you, Fraulein Schlaak. A young girl with chestnut hair and deep brown eyes, Mademoiselle St. Onge and your boss for a little fun. French girls who didn’t matter.’
The puffy eyelids blinked. Fragments of conversation came to her from over the past two years. Had it begun right after his arrival? First that cousin of his, this Mademoiselle St. Onge- beautiful, leggy, smartly dressed and knowing her way around-and then … then other girls. ]a, ja. Lots of them. Mademoiselle St. Onge had seen it, too, in his eyes, in the way he had looked at her and had …
‘I cannot say, Herr Kohler. I do not know of such things.’
‘He would have left the office early, would have stayed out late and not used his driver.’
She shook her head but when Herr Kohler had left the office, she felt as if gutted and wept openly until another tart was found but the coffee was cold.
The Sonderfuhrer was so handsome and well educated. Very sure of himself, very well placed and with lots of important friends. The Reichsmarschall and Reichsfuhrer Goering himself had personally seen that an invitation to yet another art auction had been sent over from Luftwaffe HQ Paris but this time there was a late supper at the Ritz. Mademoiselle St. Onge and the Sonderfuhrer were to attend both the auction and the dinner together. They were still friends. The woman still clung to him. Women like that always did even though often ignored.
‘You should get yourself a man,’ he had said to her several times, to his secretary who was such a credit to him. But he had never once asked her to the Press Club for a drink.
St-Cyr didn’t like it one bit. The emergency call from Hermann to the shop of Muriel and Chantal had said only that he was to come at once.
The Lido had an entrance in the middle of the Arcade des Champs-Elysees. As a warren with escape routes it was ideal. In addition to the dancing-saloon, floor show and rotating stage, there was a swimming pool where the girls and customers could take the plunge. Lots of distractions, then, and cellars off the main area. Sewers below. Back stairs as well. Pour I‘amour du ciel, what the hell was up?
Hermann was standing next to the brass railing that sealed off the most expensive tables nearest the stage. Girls-women- naked from well below the bellybutton and up, except for ostrich plume head-dresses and sequins, went round and round in a tableau reminiscent of a circus, while others, on swings high above the decorated pool, cavorted to music as the chorus line kicked their gams and jostled their boobs and the crowd, mosdy officers, collaborators, SS or Gestapo and their girlfriends ogled them and grinned while still others bathed to hoots and shouts.
‘If you can tear your eyes away from that Alsatian wet nurse, mon ami, please tell me why the urgency?’
‘Louis, verdammt, idiot! What took you so long? The bastards may have buggered off. I can’t watch everything myself.’
The gaze hadn’t altered. Hermann was clearly agitated and in need of calming. ‘What took me so long? Discussions, of course,’ said St-Cyr drolly. ‘Besides, you have the use of my car; myself, that of my feet! The place Vendome is …’
‘Don’t get bitchy! Look, I’m sorry I had to tear you away from those two old girls in the underwear trade but nom de Jesus-Christ, idiot, we have trouble.’
A cigarette girl in meshed stockings rubbed shoulders, spreading her wretched scent of cheap perfume, garlic and toilet water. Fake flowers were being sold in lieu of cigarettes. ‘Trouble?’ bleated St-Cyr.
At last the Frog was listening. ‘This one is an excellent shot with the pistol. Three times champion of the Reich. Two Olympic gold medals. Rides in the steeplechase, plays polo when there isn’t snow and ice, drives a racing car, swims the marathon, fucks like a tiger and was absent from his job the day of the robbery. Absent, idiot! Absent!’
A German … Must God do this to them? ‘Kempf?’ asked St-Cyr. Hermann was keeping his eyes on the entrance to a distant cellar beyond the stage and to the left.
‘Have you got your shooter?’ he snapped. Being Gestapo, it was Hermann’s responsibility to take charge of their guns and only release them when needed.
‘My shooter,’ mused St-Cyr, wishing his partner would slow down long enough for a little conference. ‘Ah yes, Inspector, my revolver. The Saone, remember? The ice and that little swim we had to take? I lost it in Lyon on that last case.’
So he had. ‘Wouldn’t Stores issue you another without my okay? Hey, you’re making me feel sick-you know that, don’t you? The son of a bitch is over there in the Press Club’s ratskeller. He’s with a Frenchman, one Michel le Blanc of Paris-Soir, a reporter. Their … their descriptions, Louis … They exactly fit those the engraver’s son gave me.’
The dancers smiled and kicked their stockinged legs. The girls above the pool peeled off everything so as not to spoil their costumes …
‘Forged papers?’ asked St-Cyr. Had things come to a head so soon?
‘Ah yes,’ snorted Kohler. ‘Kempf is the blond, blue-eyed, curly-haired playboy in Luftwaffe blue whose new name is Raoul Chouard. Le Blanc wears a grey business suit, white shirt and dark blue tie, all pre-war. Straight black hair, dark brown eyes and maybe three or four years senior to our boy, so about thirty-six years of age and bang on for the robbery. New name, Claude Deschamps. I couldn’t get a line on him. Becker at Gestapo Central knew nothing of him when I called in but promises to do a little digging if I pay him 10,000.’