‘I … I’ve no idea. Too much, probably.’
‘1,250,000, I think. Of the new francs, of course.’
The woman was tall and in her late thirties perhaps, though it was hard to tell. Not blonde but hair of an exquisite amber. A gorgeous figure, a sheath of dark Prussian blue silk that shimmered. Diamonds at her throat and wrist, and violet eyes that were absolutely stunning and brought instant envy.
‘Gabrielle Arcuri,’ said the woman of herself, ‘and you?’
The hand was cool and slender, the fingers long. ‘Marie-Claire de Brisson. Your perfume, it’s Mirage.’
‘I love it. But … but you must have some! I insist. Please, a moment. Here … hold my programme. Merci. This bag, it’s not my usual one. Tissues, keys … Ah, here I have it. Allow me to present you with a little sample. A very dear friend makes it for me and in return I advertise it a little. But … but your eyes, Mademoiselle de Brisson? Something has upset you.’
‘Nothing. It was nothing.’
‘That man who was speaking to you was from the police.’
‘Yes. A detective.’
‘Ah merde, those salauds axe everywhere these days, aren’t they?’
A waiter came and they each took a glass of champagne. The woman who called herself Gabrielle Arcuri offered to dry the corners of her eyes without smudging the mascara and she let her do this for her. They spoke of the sale, of the crowd.
The woman said, ‘I hear the Reichsmarschall and Reichsfuhrer Goering will attend. It’s bound to be a huge success, isn’t it? He always gets what he wants. Though the dealers bid against him and run the prices up, in the end the Reichsfuhrer always wins.’
‘Yes, I believe he does.’
‘Manet is a favourite of mine. Will he buy this one, I wonder?’
The woman touched her lovely lips in thought as she examined the painting by standing back a little and then by walking right up to it to study the brush strokes. She shook her head but indecision crept in and at last she said with a shrug of her exquisite shoulders that perhaps after all Goering would purchase it. ‘Manet was severely criticized for painting nudes with the faces of playing cards, yet this one is a study of introspection. A woman thinking she isn’t desirable when, in fact, she’s very much herself and perfect.’
They discussed the sale a little more. Marie-Claire saw that Gabrielle Arcuri sipped her champagne with great delicacy. So little was taken, only the lips were wet. A German general with a monocle stopped by to formally bow and kiss the woman’s hand. Her smile was at once gracious and warm yet still she managed to hold herself back, remaining aloof and proud but not letting him see this. ‘A chanteuse …?’
‘It’s nothing. It gets me into parties like this. Now I must find my lover before he takes offence and finds another. That one … Ah, he’s always such a wanderer!’
She was tall and willowy, graceful, regal, stunning …
They met at the head of the main staircase, this woman and her ‘lover,’ Jean-Louis St-Cyr of the Surete Nationale! They kissed on the cheek and delicately held each other, she admiring his dinner-jacket, he raising his deep brown ox-eyes so that he looked up into that radiant, beautiful face! Had they discovered everything?
Arm in arm, they went down the stairs. She tried to follow them, tried not to let them see her. She mustn’t! She must find out what they knew …
Others got in the way. Others. ‘Please, I must get past. You don’t understand …’
A champagne glass was knocked aside. A shriek rent the air as a dress was drenched. Another glass hit the floor …
They were at the foot of the stairs now and though she couldn’t hear what they said, she knew he was telling the chanteuse how it must be, that Denise had offered the paintings and sculptures of Monsieur Verges for sale but that there could be only one buyer. One.
‘Goering,’ whispered Marie-Claire in despair as she was jostled from behind on the staircase and forced to squeeze out of the way and hug the railing. ‘Goering.’
Always there was a crowd of hangers-on around the Reichsfuhrer, always the onlookers, but when confronted with a beautiful young woman handcuffed to a man twice her size, Goering lost his grin. The lighted cigar was clutched between his teeth. For perhaps five seconds the leaden blue eyes fought to comprehend exactly what was before them, then cruelty entered.
Desperately Kohler glanced from side to side. Kempf stood to the right of the Reichsfuhrer. Michel le Blanc was just behind the Sonderfuhrer, dark, darting eyes, doubt, fear … so many things were registering in the anxious looks he gave.
‘The handcuffs,’ blurted Goering, taking the cigar from his lips. ‘Please remove them at once. That lady is under my protection.’
Baron Kurt von Behr, head of the Paris ERR, was on the other side of the Reichsfuhrer, Andreas Hofer, Goering’s chief art adviser and dealer, just behind the Baron.
Kohler heard himself saying, ‘I can’t, Reichsfuhrer. It’s a matter for the courts.’
Denise St. Onge tried to step forward but was yanked back and nearly off her feet. The long beige camel-hair overcoat that had been draped over Goering’s shoulders slipped. The dark brown velour trilby that had been pulled well down over the broad brow was pushed up out of the way. ‘What? You would dare to challenge my authority?’
Silence fell. Laughter and excited talk trickled off to nothing. Again Kohler heard his own voice. ‘I can’t remove them, Reichs-Fuhrer. Not without the authority of my immediate superior officer and that of Gestapo Mueller.’ Louis … where the hell was Louis?
Enraged, now florid and quivering with indignation, Goering shrieked, ‘Do it! you Schweine Bulle. Don’t be a dummkopf!’
Ah Gott im Himmel! A bully, a natural-born killer … As a boy, Goering had been expelled from school repeatedly because of his excessive temper and wilful behaviour. As a young man in the Great War, he had earned the coveted Blue Max and had commanded von Richtofen’s famed Jageschwader I after the Baron’s death, the legendary Flying Circus. A hero …
Kempf tried to intercede. Denise St. Onge took another step towards them and was savagely yanked back again. ‘Reichs-fuhrer,’ said Kohler, ‘she’s one of the principal suspects in the murders of fourteen girls, in the robbery of the Credit Lyonnais, in the theft of valuable works of art from a house overlooking the garden of the Palais Royal, and in the deaths of their owner and his friend.’
The cigar was flung at him. Frantically Kohler ducked and tried to brace himself. Enraged, Goering unleashed a torrent of verbal abuse, then screamed, ‘Do you expect me to believe such shit? Free her at once or suffer the consequences!’
Had he taken drugs? wondered Kohler apprehensively. Here was the vain bastard who had promised the Fuhrer faithfully to supply von Paulus’s Sixth Army at Stalingrad with daily air drops and had failed miserably. Here was the man who, with others like him, had deserted Jurgen and Hans Kohler, two farmboys who should have gone to Argentina like their papa said.
Kempf leaned closely to whisper something. Startled, Goering turned to him. ‘What?’ he asked. ‘What is this, Franz?’
‘She’s a cousin, Reichsfuhrer. You will remember that you met Mademoiselle St. Onge at Horcher’s before the Polish Campaign. Denise was paying us a little visit and I was showing her the town.’
Berlin and its most famous restaurant. Ah damn, thought Kohler …
‘Horcher’s,’ muttered Goering, blinking to clear his mind and wishing suddenly that the whole affair would disappear and he could get on with the party. ‘Of course I remember, Kohler … Kohler, if you don’t remove the handcuffs, I’ll have my men cut off your arm.’