‘Were some of the shopkeepers I go to once men under the colonel’s command?’ she asked. ‘Most are veterans, many from Verdun. Some even wear their medals and ribbons on their smocks.’
Fear of himself, of a man and all that it must entail yet the forbidden excitement of it, too, had made her breath come quickly, but she wasn’t aware of this and certainly the little fool had been taking note of far too much. ‘Look, I must get back to the office. Please don’t worry about Hubert. Everything will be fine.’
Pressing her forehead against the door, her fingers still on the lock, Suzette didn’t hear him take the lift. He had gone down one of the staircases. A floor, two floors-on which had the trouble been and why, please, had he to check? Hadn’t Concierge Louveau told him all about it?
Teddy didn’t help. Teddy said, Don’t you dare!
The side staircase was the closer, stocking feet the best, no sign of M. Jeannot Raymond in the corridor below, nor was he on the third floor, not that she could see, but one of the flats nearest to this staircase had been sealed with stickers, they having been placed both above and below the lock and covering the seam between the door and the jamb. Stickers whose eagle clutched a swastika.
‘ “Zutritt verboten. Defense d’entrer,” ’ she whispered as she read the notice. ‘ “Befehl der Kripo Pariser-Zentrum. Par ordre du Prefet et de la Police Judiciaire.” ’
Herr Kohler had signed the notice. The building was quieter than quiet but … Suzette glanced up at the ceiling-had she heard someone in that corridor?
There was no one there, and Dieu merci, it was the same on the fifth. The door to her flat was still tightly closed, she having silently eased it shut. Hurriedly she stepped inside, closed the door, put the lock on … warned herself to do so quietly.
Sighed when it was done, and pressed her forehead against the door again. ‘There,’ she said but couldn’t find the will to turn, couldn’t find her voice anymore, knew only that she wasn’t alone and that he was right behind her.
The cigarette box that Hermann kept digging into on the colonel’s desk was Czechoslovakian, the mid-1930s and a time when such things could still be made. It was of beautifully banded, polished malachite, whose frosted green glass lid held in relief, as if in gauze, a reclining nude, full exposure. At once it was evocative and provocative, and one had to wonder if the box had been deliberately placed there to incite further jealousy in already embittered female clients.
‘You enjoy the finer things in life, Colonel. Again I commend your taste,’ said St-Cyr. Quevillon, Garnier, Hermann and himself were sitting in front of the desk, the colonel behind it, his gestures effusive, the cigar hand slicing the air when emphasis was needed.
‘Come, come, what is this? More suspicion? You know as well as I, the market is flooded with objects of virtu. Business has been good and when I can, I pick up what fancies me.’
Hubert Quevillon couldn’t resist darting a knowing glance at his mentor, Flavien Garnier, who patently ignored his subordinate. ‘Of course, I meant nothing other than that I, too, appreciate such things, Colonel.’ If Hermann had any further thoughts of being incautious, he had, one hoped, now thought better of it. ‘Let’s get back to our discussion of the Ritz. Surely Agent Garnier must have some idea of who our Trinite victim was to have met.’
‘For sex,’ muttered Hubert Quevillon.
‘None,’ grunted Garnier, the black horn-rims lending severity to the silent warning he gave his subordinate.
‘Not a General, a Generalmajor, or even a Major?’ asked Hermann, the Deutsch deliberate.
Garnier tapped cigarette ash into a cupped palm, the dark brown eyes behind those specs not even having to glance down at it.
‘The assistant doorman who delivered the note to the Guillaumet subject’s concierge refused to tell me. His job, he said, and I must agree with him, Colonel, would not only have been jeopardized but forfeited. Decour, the head doorman of the Ritz, is an absolute bastard.’
Agent Garnier was as if of reinforced concrete, thought St-Cyr. No doubt this impersonator of himself ate his meals as though still in the trenches just as Hermann did, stolidly lump by lump while waiting for the next onslaught, but something would have to be said. ‘And how, please, did you learn of her tragic assault?’
Was it to be nothing but the most inane of questions from this Surete? wondered Garnier. St-Cyr must have gone through that desk of Hubert’s and his own but had been valiantly trying to hide the fact. ‘Like everyone else, we noticed it in the newspapers.’
‘She takes a good photo, doesn’t she?’ quipped Quevillon who seemed always to be driven to let his gaze flick from this Surete to Hermann, as if not just to gauge what the response might be, but to incite it if possible.
‘We were as distressed as yourselves,’ countered Delaroche warily.
‘But none of you had the unenviable task of having to find her, Colonel. Perhaps Agent Garnier would be so good as to tell us who else was tailing Madame Guillaumet?’
‘Yes, tell us,’ breathed Hermann, dragging out his notebook as Quevillon brushed crumbs from the creased knees of trousers that still had the turn-ups of the 1930s.
‘You see, Colonel, your assistant may well have noticed he wasn’t alone in asking questions about her,’ said St-Cyr.
‘Someone sure as hell knew what that “subject” of yours was up to,’ added Hermann.
‘Flavien, did you or Hubert … ?’ hazarded Delaroche. ‘Kohler, must you write everything down?’
There were no bite marks on the colonel’s wrists or hands either, no broken-off, closely trimmed fingernails. In short, none of these three could have assaulted the Trinite victim, nor could Delaroche have been bitten by Elene Artur. ‘Oh, sorry. Force of habit, I guess.’
‘There were two of them, Colonel,’ said Garnier levelly.
‘Two?’ asked Louis who had yet to accuse Garnier of impersonating a Surete.
‘Oui. Both of medium height, the one much bigger about the waist than the other, who was built like a wedge, and probably as strong as an ox. They must have seen that I was on to them, for puff, they vanished.’
And how very convenient, thought St-Cyr, but something had had to be given and Garnier had done so. For each advance, first the little retreat; for each lie, the slender element of truth.
Quevillon flashed a knowing grin, but had to lose it suddenly under a scowl from the colonel. ‘And when, please, was that?’ asked St-Cyr.
‘Yes, when?’ asked Hermann.
These two would never be convinced to leave well enough alone and to cooperate, felt Garnier. ‘At first I thought a competing agency must be after the same things, but then they lost interest. Colonel, how was I to have known the subject would be assaulted and robbed? How was Hubert?’
‘Raped and beaten,’ said Quevillon, darting an expectant glance at each of them. ‘But … but wasn’t there something else rammed up inside the …’
‘Hubert!’ cautioned Delaroche.
‘The truncheon of a gendarme de controle, peut-etre?’
A traffic cop. The press hadn’t known of it, thought Kohler, not even that young doctor at the Hotel-Dieu had been specific, but Louis wasn’t going to let on and didn’t pause while repacking that pipe of his and making sure his pouch was again filled to overflowing. ‘And with Madame Barrault and Gaston Morel?’ he asked.
St-Cyr had not only stolen more pipe tobacco, he was like a termite with this little interview of theirs, snorted Garnier to himself. Sometimes one couldn’t hear the termites in the night, sometimes they would set up such a racket, sleep was impossible but as with all such insects, it was often best to give them something to gnaw on while one got the paraffin and the match or the solution of arsenic and sugar. ‘They were enjoying each other’s company in secret, or so they thought.’