‘And you. Until the 31st, then,’ he said. ‘Here, let me help you with your coat.’
Was he burning the last of the scrap boards so as to enjoy a final fire in case he didn’t return?
‘It could be perfect for us, Jean-Louis.’
‘Yes, perfect. We’ll have to take a little holiday in the spring. Always my mind, it goes back to late last spring.’
‘Last spring?’
‘And a suicide that didn’t succeed.’
‘Ah! I almost forgot. Muriel said to tell you Mademoiselle de Brisson was found in her bathtub by Denise St. Onge.’
‘Not by the father?’
‘No, not by the father or the mother. Denise stayed with her at the hospital until the crisis had passed.’
‘And then paid frequent visits?’ he demanded.
He was so intense. ‘Of course. It’s what friends do, isn’t it?’
‘Friends or those who wish to make sure she keeps her silence.’ His mind ran away from her lost among dates, and only as he muttered them to himself, did she understand they were the dates eight of the victims’ bodies had been found.
’7 October 1940-missing since 15 August, Gabrielle. 21 December ’40; 3 March ’41; and Renee Marteau on 15 August ’41 …’
‘And then?’ she asked and saw him look up as if startled by the intrusion.
’26 October ’41; 18 December ’41; 14 February ’42 and 6 May ’42.’
The late spring …
They looked at each other. He didn’t ask. She answered softly, ‘Jean-Louise, Marie-Claire de Brisson was taken to the hospital on the night of the 5th. It was all hushed up but there was talk. Muriel said everyone in the fashion business eventually heard of it.’
He reached for a photo but kept it from her. ‘And this one died of acid burns. Acid all over her body but not on her face.’
Just before dawn it was very cold. Darkness hugged the wooded escarpment which formed the north-western fringe of the Cote d’Or but snow among the vineyards on the slopes below gave some light and to this were added the tiny, isolated winkings of fires in sheet-iron barrows between the rows.
Louis was beside himself with worry about what they would find at the Chateau near Provins, but first there was a visit with the former mannequin in Dijon.
Kohler let the perfume of the fires come to him. They had been on the road for hours. Fontainebleau Woods and memories of a murder case there and trouble, much trouble, then Sens, Joigny and Chablis and yet more shared memories but just before Montbard overconfidence, sleepiness or the distraction of not knowing what they would find had caused him to take a wrong turn. Louis had been adamant they should take the left fork. The Bavarian half of the partnership had won out, and they had come down off that escarpment to meet the fabled route du vin well to the south of Dijon. There they had pulled over, to walk off the stiffness and fatigue.
A former convent stood stark and bleak among the vineyards, having probably been there since at least the seventeenth century. More modern presses would have been installed and expanded cellars in the caves below, but still there would be the prayers for the vendange, the harvest of each year, still that supreme sense of continuity. Wars might come and go but always there would be the vines and always the wine.
Breaking out the coffee and biscuits, Kohler filled two tin mugs from the hamper Rudi Sturmbacher of Chez Rudi’s had provided, and added a generous dollop of cognac.
‘Quit fussing,’ he called out.
‘I’m not,’ came the shout from down the road. ‘I’m restoring the soul. That escarpment you ignore so patently provides the microclimate which is so necessary to the vines, Hermann. Moisture from its run-off carries lime to enrich the soils. The southwesterly face prolongs the day, further lessening the effects of frost and extending the time of harvest so that more sugar can be gained in each grape.’
Ah Gott im Himmel, another tiresome lecture and travelogue but a good sign his spirits were up.
St-Cyr approached. ‘When I was a boy, Hermann, I dreamed of living here. My aunt had a farm near Beaune.’
Kohler ignored the passionate outburst and got down to business. ‘So, tell me all about that shooter you’re wearing. If Gestapo Central wouldn’t issue you one, where’s the store?’
One had known it was coming. One had just not known when it would be asked. ‘My service revolver. A slight oversight, Inspector. It’s nothing. In the haste of the Debacle I merely forgot.’
An offence punishable by lengthy imprisonment, deportation or death, to say nothing of having kept it since the Armistice of 1919 and discharge from the army! Then see that you use it when needed and shut up about it’
‘Of course, but please don’t be so pious. You’ve a spare pistol taped to the inside calf of your left leg. The tape is itchy. Don’t scratch so much if you want to keep the weapon secret.’
‘Verdammt! Did Giselle tell you about it?’
‘Or Oona? Plain detective work. Use a tensor bandage, not tape, and tell me where you got the pistol.’
‘Fair’s fair, eh? Provence, mein Kamerad der Kriminalpolizei. Up in those hills to the north-east of Cannes and from a certain Italian. It’s a Beretta nine millimetre Parabellum, the 1934 model and b … e … a … utiful. I’m really quite proud of it.’
‘And stolen! Ah nom de Jesus-Christ, you can’t be trusted!’
‘Hey, I brought it along for you. You should have kept that revolver quiet and trusted your big Bavarian brother to take care of things!’
‘I did, but couldn’t guarantee it would be possible for you to find me something.’ Had Hermann really made such a sacrifice?
‘So, what else is new?’
‘The changing pace of the war, Hermann, and the need for extra weapons others don’t know about.’
To this there was no response. The coffee, though welcome, was drunk as if tasteless when really it was excellent and very real.
The biscuits were dry.
‘Franz Ewald Kempf, Louis.’
St-Cyr accepted the proffered cigarette and found his matches.
‘The fags are his,’ said Kohler-they had been through everything countless times on the road south. ‘Kempf accepts a position with Berliner Tageblatt, summer of 1937, as a reporter covering the Luftwaffe, but doesn’t take the wife and children along to Berlin. Likes beautiful young women. Plays around and never mind the tears. Spends like a mogul, drives his racing car, plays polo. Becomes assistant editor in the fall of 1938. Joins Auslands-presse-Abteilung der Reichsregierung in the spring of ’39, the foreign press relations office.’
‘Just in time for the invasion of Poland,’ muttered St-Cyr, still hoping to catch the first light on the escarpment.
‘On June 1940 arrives in Paris as a special officer.’
‘Is one of Goering’s boys but obviously a little more than that.’
‘Wants to curry favour with the big cheese so gets himself and his girlfriend invited to an art auction and supper,’ snorted Kohler.
‘Have they paintings to sell that are not theirs?’ mused St-Cyr, still looking off towards the escarpment. ‘He has been with the girlfriend since arrival. That’s a long time for him to be with one woman, is it not?’
It was! ‘She’s a distant cousin and a girl who likes her fun. Did they meet in Berlin before the war?’
There was as yet no light among the distant trees. Again Hermann asked about Berlin-impatient, must he always be so impatient? wondered St-Cyr. A shrug would be best and then … ‘Perhaps, but if so, is the love affair as strong as it once was, and how is it, please, that Denise, who has lost a brother to your soldiers and has another in a POW camp, can take up with such a one as Kempf?’
Ignoring the need to save it, and wishing Louis would quit watching the fucking escarpment, Kohler tossed his cigarette butt away. ‘That affair’s as strong as ever. Success demands it, and success is sweet. She’s a realist, dummkopf. A realist!’