‘Messieurs,’ she blurted, ‘I did nothing but what I always do when you are not here and Monsieur le Colonel is out of the office and I have to close up. I put the lock on. I swear I did. The chief inspector came with me to the Champs-Elysees exit. He can’t be in there. He can’t!’
‘Espece de salope, ferme-la!’ spat M. Quevillon. He had come to the flat, had slapped her hard, blurring her vision. Now he continued to twist her arm and she knew that if he ever got her alone, he would do things to her. ‘Monsieur Raymond, I beg you. I wouldn’t have let that Surete …’
‘Hubert, see what’s delaying the colonel. Flavien, go with him.’
Give me time alone with this one-Garnier knew that was what Jeannot wanted: always the right move, always that impenetrable calm. The girl was terrified of Hubert and rightly so.
M. Quevillon left in a hurry-Suzette told herself not to look at him. M. Garnier gave M. Raymond a curt nod, herself nothing but a dismissive glance. She had been changing when M. Quevillon had come to get her. She had not even been given a chance to finish buttoning her blouse or put on a skirt and shoes, had simply had her coat thrown at her.
The two of them hurried into the restaurant, brushing past the maitre d’.
‘You don’t use cigarettes,’ said M. Jeannot Raymond. ‘At times like this they help.’
From a jacket pocket he took a silver flask and unscrewed its cap. ‘Have a sip,’ he said, and gave her that smile of his. ‘It’s an eau-de-vie de poire and really very good. Not too sweet, but sweet enough.’
A pear brandy. He lit a cigarette, left her to hold the flask and calm herself, said nothing of its exquisite engraving or of the inscription-an award for something he’d done, a scene of snowcapped mountains in the distance. She had always felt he was different from the others, that he really didn’t belong with them. He had been married once, had had a beautiful wife and two young children. Two boys of six and eight perhaps, and a house in a strange country, but what had happened to them she didn’t know, since all that was left seemed contained in the one photograph that never left his desk.
The eau-de-vie was lovely. He drew on his cigarette, seemed not the least concerned about anything but herself, let his grey eyes rest on her every now and then, knew absolutely how terrified she had been and that her cheeks must still be hurting.
‘Quevillon should never have done that, Mademoiselle Dunand. He shouldn’t have lost control and will definitely apologize.’
Had such things happened before? she wondered. Monsieur Raymond’s smile was there again, the little toss of his head seeming to say, Everything will be all right, you’ll see.
The inscription on the flask read: A Jeannot Raymond, compagnon d’armes et pilote extraordinaire. It was signed Riviere***** and dated 7 December 1930, Buenos Aires.
‘There, you’re feeling better already.’
‘Ah, oui, oui, merci. I really did think the chief inspector would …’
‘Of course you did. Now don’t concern yourself further.’
‘He yanked Madame de Roussy’s invoice from my machine and demanded that I tell him why it was for so much.’
‘A round-the-clock. Flavien is still looking after that one, isn’t he?’
M. Garnier. ‘Yes but … but the inspector didn’t ask this. I did tell him Monsieur de Roussy was seeing another woman twice a week, sometimes more and that … that she was married and the mother of three children.’
‘The wife of a prisoner of war?’
‘Oui, the chief inspector did ask that.’
‘And what was it de Roussy pays this shameful coquine?’
‘Five hundred-at least, that is what I told the inspector but also that I … I really didn’t know. “It’s only a rumour,” he said of the five hundred.’
‘And yourself?’
‘I shrugged, I think.’
‘And then?’
‘He told me about a girl that had been found in the passage de l’Hirondelle. She’d been kicked in the face, kicked to death. Why would anyone do a thing like that?’
‘These times are not easy. Now don’t worry, please.’
‘I had to go to the lavatory. I had to leave him alone but only for a few moments.’
‘Of course, but did this St-Cyr say anything else?’
‘Only that he didn’t think Madame Guillaumet was going to live. Why would someone have done that to her?’
‘And the other invoices, the ones that were on your desk?’
She had best tell him everything-the estimate to the Scapini Commission and to the parents of Captain Jean-Matthieu Guillaumet for a full inquiry, the invoice to Madame Morel, but … ‘Would the inspector have gone into M. Garnier’s office to find the files on that one’s desk?’ she hazarded. ‘The one on Madame Guillaumet, the one of Madame Barrault …’
M. Jeannot Raymond put a finger to his lips. He was, she knew, always there in the office even when out on an investigation and often away for days on end. A presence, an anchor, he was in his late forties or early fifties, was tall and handsome, the hair black like silk but receding from a brow that was always furrowed. The lips were thin but when he softly smiled as now, they curled up gently at the corners in such an honest way.
Never once had she seen him wear a shirt and tie. Always it was the black turtleneck under the dark grey pinstripe jacket, always the long fingers without the wedding ring-why was it that he no longer wore it? His wife looked happy in that photograph, the children also.
He handled all the investigations involving the recovery of stolen property and was, with Colonel Delaroche, the one who met with the German authorities. Sometimes the illegal hoarding of food and the black market took him away; sometimes insurance fraud or embezzlement, or even labour strikes and/or prolonged absenteeism in a factory or mine. He didn’t handle the troubled marriages, not since she had been with the agency. He only advised on them. After the client had met with Colonel Delaroche and the fee had been set, such investigations were turned over to M. Garnier and, under his supervision, M. Quevillon-admittedly the bread and butter of the agency and booming now. Other investigations might briefly involve those two but only if Colonel Delaroche or Monsieur Raymond needed help, and yes there were part-time employees she never saw who didn’t even come to the office, nor was any record kept of their names or wages, a puzzle for sure, but fortunately the chief inspector hadn’t asked.
Lost to his thoughts, M. Raymond still took a moment to again reassure her. ‘I once worked in South America,’ he said. ‘The Patagonia-Buenos Aires airmail service. Santiago, in Chile, too, but it was a long, long time ago.
‘Ah! here they are at last.’
The desk was locked and none of its drawers would budge, though Kohler tried each of them. Bob had gone straight to the lower right-hand one and was now waiting expectantly for it to be opened. Louis shrugged.
‘Bob, come,’ said Delaroche, having stepped back into the corridor.
‘Bob, stay.’
Uncertain, Bob looked questioningly up at this Kripo, then toward his master.
‘See that this is opened, Colonel.’
‘Mon Dieu, what is this, Kohler? You accept the hospitality that is extended while another invades the agency’s premises? You do not have a magistrate’s order and now you tell me what to do in my own offices?’