To ask if Elene Artur had suffered more than he had already stated would only invite his, Why not go and see for yourself? To ask if there was blood everywhere in that room would elicit but, Can you not smell the carbolic?
She could give him only what he wanted. Nothing else would suffice.
‘A few small questions, mademoiselle. Nothing difficult, I assure you.’
How could he be so calm?
‘The forensic staff and our coroner will be able to pin things down,’ he said, indicating the bedroom. ‘That stamp collection, Mademoiselle Denise Rouget.’
‘Actually it is Catherine Denise Rouget, Inspector.’
‘After your mother’s lifelong friend.’
‘That is correct.’
The wavy, permed, thick auburn hair, carefully made-up, chiselled face and big brown eyes that could, at times, be soft perhaps, were there but so was the strain. ‘Ah, bon, mademoiselle. One tries, doesn’t one? While at the Tour d’Argent your mother stated that she had purchased the stamps only after much deliberation and from a very reputable source. Her statement indicates that she viewed the collection on more than one occasion.’
Must he be so pedantically precise?
‘Well?’ he asked.
‘That, too, is correct.’
Companionably the pipe-hand lifted. ‘You helped her to choose it?’
Ah, merde! ‘Oui.’
‘From whom, please?’
‘I … I’d rather not say.’
‘Then let me remind you, mademoiselle. To not answer is to …’
‘The Baron Kurt von Behr. He and Colonel Delaroche are friends-good friends. More than acquaintances, you understand.’
And wasn’t that a cosy way of putting it? From Mecklenburg and speaking fluent French, this son of an aristocratic family was totally unscrupulous and as a consequence, had recouped the family’s fortune tenfold. ‘The Baron …’
‘Oui. Colonel Delaroche … Abelard put us in touch with him.’
But she and her mother and Germaine de Brisac and others would have met von Behr at any number of the socialite parties that had been thrown for his benefit and that of his British wife, or thrown by them, since extravagance was their style and everyone who was anyone always said that people should see what Von Behr was up to. ‘You first viewed the collection where?’
‘At an office on the avenue d’Iena.’
And but a short stroll from the SS and the avenue Foch. ‘Number fifty-four?’
Did he have to hear it from her? ‘Yes!’
Head Office of the French branch of the Reich’s Ministry for the Occupied Territories, but one must be pleasant. ‘And then?’
‘Again, but … but at a large warehouse on the …’
‘A former store whose owners once specialized in making furniture?’
And whose large, once neon-lit letters atop the building hadn’t been removed but simply overhung by a huge swastika. Once again the chief inspector was making her say things. ‘Oui. In … in the rue du Faubourg Saint-Martin.’
‘The Levitan?’
‘If you know, Inspector, why force me to admit it?’
‘Because, Mademoiselle Rouget, you and your mother must have known you were buying stolen goods.’
‘It wasn’t stolen! It had been legally expropriated!’
The day of reckoning would come-one had to believe this, otherwise what hope was there? ‘Look on it any way you like. This reputable source of your mother’s is none other than the director of that office you went to. Until last month, though, the Baron Kurt von Behr was also deputy director of the Einsatzstab Reichlieter Rosenberg to which he will have retained close ties since he is a much-valued associate of the Reichsmarschall Goring, for whom he often finds important works of art.’
Paintings, Old Masters, porcelains, coins and tapestries, thought Denise, all of which had been ‘stolen’ and to whom, everyone who was anyone knew, Von Behr and his wife had gone to Berlin last year on 12 January, the forty-ninth birthday of Goring, to present to him the original of the Treaty of Versailles with all its signatures.
‘A letter to Napoleon III from Richard Wagner was also included, mademoiselle,’ said St-Cyr, having read her thoughts. ‘He moves in nothing but the highest of circles, this reputable source of your mother’s. Oh please don’t trouble yourself about the mess in that bedroom and what is delaying your parents. The Standartenfuhrer is patiently explaining to them that they must understand that the Hoherer SS und Polizeifuhrer Oberg has only their best interests at heart and that the Sicherheitsdienst are watching over them at all times, even to having tidied things up so as to deny my partner and myself the victim’s corpse as proof and to allow that father of yours to continue to pronounce nothing but the stiffest of sentences.’
‘The night-action courts …’
‘And those trials of juvenile delinquents, mademoiselle, that come before him, the littlest of black marketeers also, and unlicenced prostitutes, especially those unfortunate enough to be married to absent prisoners of war. The price of the stamps was negotiated, wasn’t it?’
‘Colonel Delaroche …’
‘How much did your mother give him to deliver to the Baron von Behr?’
‘Three hundred and fifty thousand francs.’
‘Old ones?’
‘New ones. Mother … Mother had me count them for her since …’
‘You had contributed your share.’
Must he continue to blame herself?
It could only be said with sadness but one had best sigh heavily and then let her have it. ‘A new folio was ordered but the stamps went missing and the colonel discovered who must have taken them.’
‘Please, I … I don’t understand?’
‘Of course you don’t, but for now that is all I want from you.’
Through the rain and darkness, the headlamps shone fully on the Fountain of Mars. Kohler rubbed away the fog that kept collecting on the inside of the front windscreen. Germaine de Brisac was cold and soaked through yet hadn’t complained, had kept silent since the Hotel-Dieu except for having guided them through a city that had shut down so hard, they’d met but one patrol and had had no further difficulty. Simply empty streets at 0221 hours Sunday and not a soul.
‘Hygeia,’ he said of the fountain as if relieved to have found it at last.
‘Inspector, do I really have to apologize to those children of Madame Guillaumet’s? I’ve two of my own and know how they must be feeling.’
‘Nothing worthwhile is ever easy, is it? My partner brought me here in the autumn of 1940. He was “educating” me, showing me a city he said I had not only to get to know, but also love, and even after everything the two of us have had to go through, I still did until now.’
‘It is beautiful. It doesn’t always rain.’
‘Old soldiers counted most for us then and still do, since we’d both had enough of war and of this one also.’
Old soldiers … ‘Former compagnons d’armes?’
‘Former enemies, Mademoiselle de Brisac. Stay here, then, but I’ll have to switch off the headlamps and the engine, and take the key.’
He didn’t trust her. He got out of the car and left her for what seemed with each passing minute to take longer and longer. She would say nothing further to him, because she had already said far too much. What should have been a simple assault, a lesson, a rape, yes! had turned into the murder of Adrienne Guillaumet, and Denise and herself were as guilty as any since they’d both known Vivienne and Maman had gone through the case files to find names for Abelard to deal with and then … yes, then, Denise and she had hired the Agence Vidocq themselves for Madame Morel.
‘I’m a murderess,’ she softly said to herself. ‘I’ve allowed my hatred of a dead husband and my yearning for a father I hardly knew but blamed for betraying Mother come to this, and my children will learn of it if I don’t do something.’