‘Sliced testicles of water buffalo in sauce lyonnaise,’ seethed the Surete as they followed the maitre d’ among the tables. ‘Braised anaconda steaks in cream with poached cobra eyes! Hermann, mon vieux, you must leave this one to me, eh? Let me have the son of a bitch on little wedges of toast!’
‘Be my guest!’ grinned the Bavarian. ‘Remember I’ve got the only shooter.’
‘His is between his legs!’
Oh-oh, the Frog was really hopping.
Louis pushed the maitre d’ aside so as to make the introductions himself. ‘Monsieur de Brisson? Madame, mademoiselle, please forgive this slight intrusion into what I know must be a private family supper.’
‘Georges, what is the meaning of this?’ demanded de Brisson of the head waiter.
‘Don’t fuss,’ hissed St-Cyr. ‘It’s not his fault. Tip him generously and see that he finds us two chairs before the embarrassment of our visit causes you grief.’
The chairs were brought. The truite aux amandes pochee au vin blanc-the poached trout with almonds-looked superb. Cooked in white wine first, then dipped in egg yolk, rolled in thinly sliced almonds and lightly browned in butter and olive oil, the meal made a poor detective sweat with desire. Where had they managed to get all the ingredients?
Kohler lifted a bottle to examine the label. ‘The dregs of a Romanee-Conti 1915, Louis. Jesus, merde alors, where were we then, eh? Cleaning the dust and shit from the shelling out of our eyes and ears, or was it the remains of some poor bastard’s guts?’
‘Hermann, please! A few simple questions.’
Andre-Philippe de Brisson was in his early sixties. The immaculately tailored grey suit with dark blue tie and handkerchief went with the image. The dark blue eyes which, from behind gold-rimmed spectacles, returned his gaze were those of a banker about to dismiss a dishonest employee.
‘Monsieur,’ began St-Cyr.
The knife and fork were at last carefully set down on his plate. ‘Inspector, what is the meaning of this? You have no right.’
A tough one. ‘Monsieur, eighteen millions have been stolen from your bank and a teller killed. Surely it is in your interest to co-operate a little?’
‘Here?’
Still handsome, suave-eminently successful and master of all that was around him-de Brisson appeared to be a man of little patience and much arrogance. ‘Here, there, what does it matter,’ said St-Cyr, ‘so long as the money is recovered and the criminals apprehended?’
‘Then contact me at my office. I will have them roll out the carpet of welcome.’
Was he a friend of the prefet and of Pharand, the boss of this humble servant of justice? Probably. Ah yes. A self-conscious grin and a little shrug of apology would therefore suit. ‘Unfortunately time does not allow us the luxury of polite custom. The Sturmbannfuhrer Boemelburg wishes my partner and me to settle the matter as expeditiously as possible.’
‘Boemelburg. Ah very well, you may proceed.’
The closely shaven, rounded cheeks would smell but faintly of an aftershave. The puffiness beneath the eyes suggested late nights and too much work, the receding hairline a vanity that regretted such a loss. ‘The shipment from your head office, monsieur. Is it customary for such large sums to be transferred to Paris?’
Though the one from the Surete concentrated almost totally on him, the one from the Gestapo kept looking from Marie-Claire to Berenice. Maudit salauds, what were the two of them really after? ‘The German authorities, Inspector. They wish us to put the notes back into circulation as soon as possible so as to save on the printing costs and paper. Once every two months Lyon ship to us. Oh bien sur, it was nothing new. Merely routine.’
‘Eighteen million?’
‘In October seven million. In August only four.’
‘But always on the 24th of the month?’ asked Louis still meeting the steely gaze of the banker.
‘Unless it’s a Sunday or a Wednesday, the half-holiday. In which case, the next working day. Inspector, what is it you wish me to say? That someone outside of my immediate staff had learned of the shipment and been so indiscreet as to let someone else know of the matter?’
‘Could that have been possible?’
‘Never!’
‘Then could your teller have recognized one of the two men from a previous visit?’
The cheeks were blown out in exasperation. Immediately the face came alive with the preposterousness of such a thing. ‘Ah no, no, of course not! Monsieur Ouellet, he had merely reached for the alarm button which was just beneath the counter and to the right of his cash drawer. A brave man-he’ll get a citation for sure-very conscientious and due for a promotion to head teller as soon as the post came free. Isn’t that correct, my dear?’ he asked the wife, disturbing at once her stony gaze and silence, and awakening the downcast eyes of the daughter, their little mouse.
‘Yes, of course, my dear. You are correct,’ said the woman.
As always? wondered St-Cyr. How could such a positive-looking woman have stood for the continued sexual abuse of her daughter? A fine-looking woman but one who, in the company of her husband, was so used to taking a back seat, she couldn’t force herself to rise above it.
‘It’s sad,’ went on the banker. ‘Ma chere, you must come with me when I visit with his wife and children. Perhaps a hamper? A few little things …? Inspector, you see how it is. At the Credit, the employees really count. My wife and I were very fond of Monsieur Ouellet.’
‘Certainly.’ But why lie about it, wondered St-Cyr, if not to hide something else? ‘The suitcases, monsieur. Why suitcases? Why not banker’s dispatch cases?’
‘Why, indeed, Inspector? Ask Lyon, don’t ask me. Maybe all the cases were in use.’
‘Had they ever used those suitcases before?’
‘No. No, of course not but there is always a first time, is that not correct?’
‘Louis Vuitton and alligator leather, monsieur? Their choice was admirable to say the least and very handy for the thieves, but what I can’t understand is why those two men discarded them?’
‘Then why not ask them, Inspector? Maybe they can tell you.’
Patiently Kohler watched the proceedings, still wondering if Louis would confront the banker with the statements of Madame Lemaire’s little maid and the daughter’s ‘Letters to Myself’. Mademoiselle de Brisson obviously feared the worst, though she could only know of his own visit to her flat, not what they had discovered.
The golden mohair dress fitted Marie-Claire like a glove, even to hiding the razor marks on her wrists. The green eyes that still looked down at her plate held nothing but despair. Was she knitting her fingers in her lap? he wondered. Was she swearing to kill herself and not botch the job this time?
‘Those two men were nothing but gangsters,’ said the father. ‘Nothing but rubbish, Inspectors! The dregs of a society that, if given half a chance under our German friends, will shape up, eh? They had no reason to kill Adrian. He was such a kind man and so good with his children. There are six, or is it seven? Ah, I can never remember. It was always a little joke between us.’
‘Of course,’ said the Surete who had taken to studying Madame de Brisson. ‘There was a woman in the street, monsieur?’
Madame de Brisson! sighed Kohler inwardly, and the banker setting up the robbery of his own fucking bank and having the wife play look-out even though she was a bit too old for the part, or was she?
‘Talk. Nothing but talk.’ The banker shrugged and tossed his hands and head. ‘You know how it is, Inspector. One witness says this, another says something else-ah! it was all over in a few seconds. The gun, the demand, the cash, the shot, the car and zoom, those bastards were gone!’