Luftwaffe security types were all around them. Heaving a troubled sigh, Kohler braced himself. ‘Reichsfuhrer, I’ll do as you request, but must ask that you give me a paper stating I’ve released the woman into your custody and that I believe her to be guilty of the crimes of murder, robbery, kidnapping and extortion.’
‘I have done no such things, Reichsfuhrer! I am totally innocent! Wounded to the quick by such false accusations!’
‘Extortion?’ muttered Goering. ‘Kidnapping? Franz, what is this? The paintings you promised me …? Andreas, what is this one saying?’ He indicated Kohler.
‘That he will agree, Reichsfuhrer, to release her into your custody,’ said Hofer gently.
‘Gut. That’s all I want.’ Goering hunched his shoulders to better lift the overcoat back up on to them. Someone helped. Someone else found him another cigar and offered a light. He inhaled deeply and blew a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling. ‘A Durer, Franz. A Cranach… Please, you must show them to me.’
‘We’re not finished,’ breathed Kohler to the woman. ‘You didn’t just help that cousin of yours lure those girls to that house. You took part in everything.’
The handcuff around his wrist came loose and fell away to dangle from her own wrist. Sucking in a deep breath, she caught it up and swung hard, smashing him across the face. ‘Maudit salaud!’ she shrieked. ‘Liar! I did no such thing!’
Kempf and le Blanc gathered her in and took her away with Goering to view the works of art she had put up for sale.
‘All of those taken from that house, Hermann,’ said St-Cyr exasperatedly. ‘The Reichsfuhrer apparently provides forty-eight hours’ notice of when and if he will arrive.’
‘Then that’s our delay, Louis.’
‘And that is why the house had to be emptied in such a hurry. Until the notice came, they didn’t know if he would show up, even though the invitations had been sent out. Denise St. Onge is haunted by guilt and fear, Hermann, and knows only too well we mean to walk her to the guillotine.’
‘Where’s Gabi?’
‘Gone to the club for safety’s sake. Apparently Michel le Blanc was once a freelance photographer but gave it up to become a reporter after the Defeat when there was a temporary shortage of suitable applicants.’
‘He has jet-black hair.’
The Surete’s nod was grim. ‘Mademoiselle de Brisson made a list of all the works her boss put up for sale.’
‘It didn’t take Denise a moment to figure out who the forged papers were for and to put that together with the scattered photographs. She knows Marie-Claire intends to pin it all on them.’
‘On her body, Hermann. Unless I am very mistaken, Mademoiselle de Brisson plans to leave the evidence on her when she kills herself in Dijon.’
‘Or here, Louis. Here. They’ll try to stop her. They’ll have to. She’ll be aware of this.’
‘Kempf will leave Denise with Goering.’
‘Marie-Claire will head for her flat and then …’
‘Either try to hide until the train tomorrow or try to kill herself.’
Unfortunately, the place de la Concorde was jammed with parked cars, velo-taxis, horse-drawn carriages and gazogenes, and so was the rue de Rivoli. Unfortunately, the Citroen was lost among them and Hermann, still badly shaken, couldn’t quite remember where he had left it. Unfortunately, the rain had changed its mind and now fell as half-frozen pellets of ice to make the pavements worse than sheets of glass.
When they reached the house of the banker on the rue de Montpensier, the front door was ajar, the lights off, the only sound that of the pellets as they hit the street behind them. Thousands of them. Some fully frozen, others not. Some bouncing to roll about beneath a distant blue lamp, the only one in the street, others simply breaking.
‘You first or me?’ whispered Hermann breathlessly.
From somewhere came the sound of an accelerating car and then that of the skid and crash. ‘Me, mon vieux. It was always my affair.’
‘Piss off. I’m better at this than you. Count to thirty and then follow. Work to the right.’
St-Cyr held his breath. The pellets hit the barrel of the gun he clutched. They hit his head and shoulders, the back of his hands, filling the air with their sound and the chill they brought.
At last he could stand the waiting no longer and stepped into the house. It would all be for Joanne and Dede. Yes, Dede would have to be told of it. Every last little thing. The smell of the freezing rain, its sound, the depth of darkness, the faint odour of cognac and whisky, was it whisky?
The smell of blood, of death, of powder, black powder-yes, certainly, an old Lebel 1873 just like the one in his hand and the one that had killed Gaetan Verges and the bank teller.
The sharpness of sulphur, saltpetre and burnt charcoal but faint, so faint … a window open or a door … a door upstairs.
9
Try as he did, Kohler could recall little of the salon de Brisson. He took a step and then another-would go right around the room if necessary. Lamps, tables, chairs, vases of silk flowers, paintings on the walls … Where were the bastards? Chasing Mademoiselle de Brisson out on the balcony, driving her to that empty house whose doors would be locked unless … A key, of course. She must have had one of her own. How else could she have scattered the photographs without the others knowing?
Crouching, he waited. Feeling the carpet wet but only in little places, he followed these places out across the floor until his fingers touched hair.
Louis …? he began. Louis, ah Gott im Himmel.
Holding back the urge to throw up, Kohler felt the face, the open eyes and broken glasses. Blood trickled from parted lips. The bullet had smashed the nose.
He found the cushion that had been used. He found Madame de Brisson’s purse, its contents so scattered a careless step would have broken a pencil or compact mirror. This made him realize her body had been moved. It made him cringe and hesitate as he wiped his fingers on her sweater and tried to clean them as best he could.
Louis would have gone on ahead of him. Louis … Where was Kempf sitting-waiting … waiting for them to turn on a light! Yes, yes!
Ah merde, thought St-Cyr. Hermann must have gone upstairs.
The surface beneath his fingers was lacquered, and when he explored a little further, he found it must be a grand piano-pianos always had a smell to them. Dusty, of felt pads and wire, of ivory and ebony keys … Was someone sitting on the bench?
His heart racing, St-Cyr held his breath. Seldom was darkness so absolute one could not distinguish degrees of change and pick out shapes …
The piano was near a corner of the room, next to the windows. It was near the fireplace, too. He could smell damp coal ashes. The fire hadn’t been lighted in days, the furnace was on, the radiators were warm …
Yes, there was someone sitting on the bench, waiting. Having sent le Blanc after Marie-Claire, had the Sonderfuhrer returned to the salon to trap them?
Edging closer, he tried to better define the shape before him. Was it de Brisson hunched over the keys? The top of the piano was up and braced, the music stand would have to be down so as to allow the freedom to fire across the room.
For perhaps ten seconds, St-Cyr waited. Raising the revolver, he began to ease the hammer back completely, having already had it on the half-cock. The figure moved. The figure vanished. One moment it was there, the next …
He stepped back, felt himself come up against the wall. Hermann … where was Hermann?
The sound of the freezing rain came to him, the feel of a draught from an open window or door, the stirring of ashes in the grate …