‘Louis wouldn’t do that. He has his pride.’
‘So, where did he go then?’
One could push shits like Glotz only so far. ‘I don’t know. Looking up a few friends, I guess. Louis has plenty of them from before. He’ll be working on the murder. He’ll tell me all about it when I see him. We’re heading south again.’
‘You taking the Frenchman’s shooter with you?’
‘Yeah, I’m taking it with me.’
‘How long?’
‘Overnight – a couple of days – a week. Christ, I don’t know.’
‘What about von Schaumburg’s daily reports?’
Did Glotz have ears everywhere? ‘What about them, eh? We’ll telephone the old fart and let the world know all about it.’
Implying the Gestapo tapped von Schaumburg’s line, which they did.
Glotz fiddled with a pencil. ‘This murder, Hermann. From what I hear it’s a matter of some concern.’
The diamonds, probably. Jesus Christ! ‘It’s a nothing case. A nobody. Just some pretty boy who got his head bashed.’
‘By a girl.’
‘Yes, by a girl.’
Glotz fingered his double chin. ‘You’re not telling me much, Hermann. It would be better if you did.’
‘Fuck off. You creeps don’t know your jobs. Me, I thought you were supposed to be really something. Top quality. Right from Himmler’s nest.’
Eggs. So, all right, you prick! ‘Care to hear a little something, or are your ears still plugged from the Somme?’
‘Listen, you …’
‘Okay, so I’ll listen.’
Kohler knew Glotz had him where he wanted him but even so he had to say, ‘You should have been with us. We’d have shown you what war was all about.’
‘Lawyers don’t manhandle field guns.’
‘No, I guess they don’t. Besides, you’d have been too young, wouldn’t you? Still at your mother’s breast.’
‘I resent that. I was eight years old at the time.’
Kohler nodded. ‘You see what I mean. Some men never leave the tit.’
The hand closed over the cigarettes and matches. As he got up, Glotz tugged the heavy suit jacket down over his fleshy rump and paused to button it.
‘You’re getting fatter,’ breathed Kohler. ‘Like pork. Paris suiting you, eh?’
Glotz ignored the remark. One word to von Schaumburg from Kohler and there’d only be more trouble. But still there was the matter of the diamonds to consider. Yes, there was that, and something else.
Down in the bowels of the Su rete, the smells rocketed up at them. They passed several detention cells. There was water on the stone floor in two or three places, blood in another. Weeping from one cell, the sounds of some poor bastard throwing up his guts in another.
Kohler gripped himself. An interrogation already? That maid … that little piece of ass with her boulder …
They went into the sound room at the far end of the corridor. Green lights, headphones, perpetual dusk and silence, batteries of tape recorders slowly turning. Secrets,… secrets … Only one of so many such rooms.
Glotz took him to a spare machine and found a spool of tape. ‘So, the earphones, Hermann. You put them on, in case you didn’t know.’
They both did, and the spool began to turn. At first there was nothing, then some static, the scraping of bedsheets perhaps. Finally, a woman’s earthy sigh.
Then the voice of a man, the accent unmistakably German. ‘Liebchen … higher … higher. Yes … yes, that’s it. Higher still. Now in.’
The woman gave another sigh, a moan – a series of these – and then a savage grunt as she pushed herself back against him.
The bed began to rock, she to moan and twist her head from side to side and suck for air, Steiner to laugh. In and out. In and out. ‘Erich … Erich … more … more. Hurry … Hurry. I’m coming, cheri. Coming. Ah, Mon Dieu, Mon Dieu … Come, Erich. Come!’
She threw her face into the pillows, perhaps biting them, was utterly lost apparently as Steiner slammed home and let her have it with a ragged gasp, a slap of choice rump, and a final, ‘Ahh,’ that was long and tortured.
The woman cried out too. ‘Your knees … Your knees, Erich. I must grip them as I …’
She must have straightened up – left the pillows or something. Then the purring started, the whimpering. ‘Erich … Erich, don’t ever leave me.’
Kohler dragged off the earphones but found only sadness and defeat.
Glotz watched him closely. The Bavarian’s eyes were a pale, insane blue and very hard. No smiles … none whatsoever.
‘So, what the fuck do you want me to say?’
‘Nothing. I just thought you’d like to hear it. We’ll try to have some film for you the next time you’re in.’
‘And Louis?’ Kohler swallowed.
Glotz removed the spool of tape and caressed it. ‘That depends entirely on yourself, Hermann. A little more co-operation, I think. Yes … yes, that and a closer watch on your friend.’
And the diamonds – one mustn’t forget them, thought Kohler, sensing even greater trouble but not wishing to think about it.
‘Shits like you deserve the Russian Front.’
‘Perhaps it is yourself who deserves it, Hermann.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
The creep slid the spool of tape back into its box. No doubt he’d listened to it several times.
The Bavarian didn’t like him, but liking or not liking really had nothing to do with things. He wouldn’t look at Kohler yet. No, he’d pause, and then he’d say, ‘Full reports on this murder, Hermann. Everything you give von Schaumburg. Everything you give the Sturmbannfuhrer Boemelburg and,’ he turned to look up at him, grinned, and continued, ‘everything that Frog of yours finds out. Yes, that, Hermann, and everything the two of you hold back. It’s a matter of priority. Orders straight from Berlin. Now bugger off and find him. Make the Frog croak or else we’ll have him in for a listen.’
Kohler grabbed the jacket and burst the button. ‘You shit! You haven’t the fuck of an idea what it’s like out there, have you?’
The jungle.
Glotz brushed himself down and examined the empty threads. ‘Berlin will hear of this, Hermann. Your conduct is under investigation so don’t forget it.’
The scissors and the sewing machines were going like crazy in the cutting room of the Salon Chez Nadeau above the shop on the rue de la Paix.
St-Cyr could see his fingers beneath the remnant of silk, it was so sheer. The late afternoon light filtered in. Outside, a bit of snow was falling.
He brought the silk up to his nose. Ah, Mon Dieu, such sensuality. A cheek was brushed.
For an age he sat there, an island in that sea of busy women, a man in touch with an image, a mirage.
His fedora lay on the table to one side.
‘Is she tall?’ he asked, but the girl had left him to give orders to someone or to carry them out herself. Very capable, a very petite jeune fille. Brown hair, brown eyes, still a certain fierce hesitation even yet. That of a cornered rat. Age twenty-four now and still unmarried. Rescued from the streets at the age of fifteen and given a lecture, 300 francs and a job or else.
Saved, some would have said, but not to her face. Too busy now to remember, and anyway, one shouldn’t hold that sort of favour over a girl. Ah no, one certainly shouldn’t.
He reached for the shears and carefully cut off a wedge of the fabric, sufficient to catch its shimmering iridescence.
Sylviane Valcourt came back with her boss, he tall, suave and extremely handsome – age forty-two, married with three children, a mistress in Auteuil and a summerhouse near Chateaudun.
Julian Nadeau’s hand was on the girl’s shoulder. The dark grey suit had the look of elegance about it, so did the silvery blue tie and the white shirt with its starched collar.
The dark eyes betrayed a certain inner anxiety. The girl was watchful.
‘Sylviane, would you leave us, please?’ asked St-Cyr. ‘I’m sure you’d sooner get on with something else, eh? Just for a few minutes. I promise I won’t keep him too long. It’s really nothing.’