Bellringer (26 page)

‘Twice, but I. . . I told them I had to wait for an appropriate time.’

Both of her hands had been gripping the gate and she felt him freeing them, but all he said was, ‘Don’t be telling anyone else, not until I give you the OK. Now, I’d best find my partner.’

The lineup outside Herr Weber’s office was that of the silent and subdued. Becky was third from the far end, and when she saw St-Cyr approaching, she panicked and turned away, and when he came near, she flinched but still kept her back to him.

The aroma of spearmint was clear, her left hand surreptitiously opening near to that thigh to drop the crumpled sleeve from a stick of chewing gum.

‘Wrigley’s,’ he said, having picked it up. ‘
Ah, bon,
Mademoiselle Torrence, while my partner is probably now upstairs questioning others, a few small questions for you; nothing difficult.’

‘
Here?
’ she bleated, desperation registering in sky-blue eyes that rapidly moistened as she glanced at others in the line, others who had now taken a decided interest in the proceedings.

‘I won’t detain you long.’

‘But Herr Weber wants to see me.’

Ignoring her panic, he smoothed out the wrapper and its covering, folded them precisely in half, unbuttoned his overcoat, and tucked the silver paper and the other away in a waistcoat pocket.

‘We’ll let him wait if necessary.’

‘But. . . but I haven’t done anything! I really haven’t.’

Pale and quivering, she was vulnerable. The cheeks were fair, though sunken, the lips those of the young, the nose not aquiline or overly Roman but dusted with freckles the colour of which the pallor increased. In all such things St-Cyr knew he searched for answers, and yes, Hermann’s accusations of being overly harsh were true at times, but answers were desperately needed. ‘Let these two go ahead. The theatre is empty. We’ll go in there.’

‘The theatre. . . ?’

Seat after seat was covered in wine-purple fabric, worn and faded by the years, the cigarette burns and spills all too evident, and from the seats came the stench of sour sweat and old tobacco smoke. Art Deco flames seemed to leap and fan out from along the side aisles and from the stage itself, above whose closed curtain hung a huge portrait of the German Führer and two swastika flags, one on either side of him.

‘Smoke damage from the fire in 1920 necessitated redecorating,’ he said. ‘Not bothering to replace the seats must have been a cost-saving measure.’

He indicated one of these next to where he was standing, then took the one directly behind, forcing her to awkwardly turn to face him.

‘The thefts, mademoiselle. What did you lose?’

‘Me?’ she yelped.

He waited. Not for a moment did he take those dark brown, ox-eyes of his from her, felt Becky. The mustache was bushy and wide and badly in need of a trim, as was the hair. Had he no time for such things?

There was the mark of a recent bullet graze on that broad brow. The nose had been broken several times but not recently. A boxer? she wondered, the smell of anise, wet wool, and old pipe smoke coming to her now.

Again he asked.

‘Me?’ she yelped again. ‘A photo from home of the dog we once had. A beagle. Harry. . . his name was Harry. The fake gold compact my brother gave me on my sixteenth birthday. Its mirror had broken long ago and the catch was no longer any good but I couldn’t part with it, not here. . . not in Paris, either. A letter from my mom. A button. It. . . it was pink, from the cardigan she had knitted for me before I left for France in 1939, fresh out of college. I had set that button aside and was planning to sew it back on, but then. . . then it was gone.’

‘Were others in the room at the time?’

‘
Others?
Caroline and Jennifer—yes, yes, Jennifer was there, and. . . and Jill.’ What did he
really
want from her?

‘Madame de Vernon wasn’t present?’ he asked.

‘Jennifer wouldn’t have dared come if that woman had been in the room.’

‘And at that first session with Bamba Duclos, mademoiselle?’

‘We all went, all but Madame. Mary-Lynn had wanted us to try it. Nora. . . Nora said, “Why not?” Marni. . . Marni agreed. Jill set it up.’

‘Tell me about the items in his little basket.’

‘Was something stolen?’

‘Just tell me what you can recall.’

‘So that I can trip myself up if I’m the thief? I’m not, Inspector. I’m not!’

Hermann would have said ‘Go easy, now,’ but Hermann could sometimes let concern for the suspect intrude when least needed. ‘Was anything stolen from it?’

‘How would I know?’

‘But you went twice more, mademoiselle. You would have seen if something was missing.’

‘
What?
What was taken?’

He waited. He didn’t back off. ‘And I was near Mary-Lynn when she died, wasn’t I, and near Caroline too—that’s it, isn’t it? You think I did it. You’re just like Weber. Demanding everything and thinking the worst. He has a list he keeps. Did you know that? Names are crossed off, but mine keeps coming up and I’m being asked back again and again. I
won’t
squeal on my friends. I mustn’t. Sure we have our arguments—who doesn’t in a place like this, but I’d never rat on anyone. Everyone in that room of mine has been good to me except for Madame. I’d. . . I’d kill myself if I did a thing like that to them or to anyone.’

‘Yet Herr Weber keeps asking.’

‘He doesn’t just ask, Chief Inspector. He tells me my papers aren’t very good and that a delegation from Berlin is coming to examine all those in the Hôtel de la Providence, and that he’s going to get them to check mine thoroughly. I. . . I was late getting my visa, the last time I had to, and once one is late for such a thing in France, it’s on one’s record, isn’t it? Well, isn’t it?’

He didn’t answer.

‘Later I. . . I was arrested but simply because I was an American.’

‘Why didn’t you leave when you could?’

‘I had a job with the Foyer International in the boulevard St-Michel. We had exchange students from South and Central America, the States, and other countries. I. . . I stayed because I felt responsible.’

‘Even after the Führer had declared war on America on 11 December, ’41?’

The Foyer’s purpose had been to bring students together to help prevent wars, but did he already know why she had stayed? ‘There weren’t many of us Americans scattered about. I did plan to go into the
zone non occupée
when our embassy moved from Paris to the town of Vichy after Germans declared war on us, and later I did have to check in with the local
commissariat de police,
but no one seemed to worry too much about me being in Paris.’

‘Then the net suddenly closed.’

Had he really believed her? ‘
Oui, c’est correct
.’

‘Mademoiselle, it will go no further.’

Ah, Sainte Mère, Saint Mère!
‘All right, I had a lover. A French boy.’

‘Age?’

Why did he have to know that? ‘Twenty-five.’

‘Eyesight, health? Come, come, Mademoiselle Torrence, at that age he should have been in our forces and, therefore, most probably in a prisoner of war camp in the Reich.’

She turned away but there was nowhere to look but the rows and rows of empty seats and the Deco lights. ‘As a child, he had had tuberculosis. That “Army” of yours didn’t want him. He tried and tried but they. . . they wouldn’t listen.’

‘But you wanted him.’

‘Was that so wrong? He was every bit as French as you are, probably lots and lots more.’

To insist on it was one thing, to emphasize it further, another. ‘And on 29 May, 1942, mademoiselle?’

‘
Why must you ask me a thing like that?
’

‘Because I must if Hermann and I are to help you and get to the bottom of this.’

Salaud,
she wanted to shout at him, but would have to tell him. ‘I made Antoine give me his jacket, damn you. I unstitched that thing you people had forced him to wear, then I told him to go south into the
zone libre,
that I would follow as soon as I could, but. . . but one thing led to another and I had to wait because the Kommandantur in the avenue de l’Opéra wouldn’t let me have the necessary
laissez-passer
and
sauf-conduit
. I was being
kept
in Paris.’

‘And the star, mademoiselle?’

‘I’m not a thief. I wouldn’t have stolen a thing like that from myself. I’d have left it in my sewing basket, where it had been hidden away tucked under the lining for months and months.’

She’ll hate you now, Louis,
Hermann would have said, but weren’t sewing baskets often borrowed by others? ‘Did this boy ever send you a postcard?’

Her lower lip was bitten, the eyes clamped shut to hide her tears but then she turned away, resting her forehead on the back of the seat in front of her, which she gripped with both hands as if he were laying into her with a rawhide
Schlag
.

‘The postcards, mademoiselle?’

‘Two. They were also stolen. Each was so blacked out I could hardly make sense of them.
Am well
. Blank, blank, blank.
No news of my family
. Blank, blank, blank.
Am going to work
. Blank, blank, but where, please. Where?’

The urge to be compassionate would have to be resisted. ‘And then nothing?’ he asked.

She nodded, then blurted, ‘He didn’t even have a Jewish name! His great-grandfather had changed it but now. . . now Herr Weber must know. He must, but he never says. He just smiles and tells me my papers need looking at when I know they don’t!’

At a glance, Kohler could see that Louis had broken Becky Torrence but Weber, having heard of what had been going on behind his back, had drawn his pistol and had had Bamba Duclos brought to the office by two strongarms. That one, his future having flashed before him, had politely dropped his gaze to summon what courage he could. ‘Mam’selle,’ he said, ‘I didn’t tell him you had come to me to read your fortune. Someone else must have.’

‘SILENCE!’ shrieked Weber in
Deutsch
.

Leaping to his feet, he smashed Duclos in the mouth with that pistol.
Gott sei Dank,
a shot hadn’t gone off.

‘YOUR PAPERS, FRÄULEIN. PAPERS!’

Everything was going crazy. Terrified, Becky tore at pullover, blouse, and undershirt, but the uncovered waist-pouch just wouldn’t open.

‘HURRY, WHORE!’

‘THERE’S NOTHING WRONG WITH MY PAPERS. NOTHING!’ she cried in French.

Pouch ripped open, papers and passport were flung onto the desk. Backhanded, knocked all but senseless, she reeled and held her left cheek in shock. ‘You. . . you. . . ’ she began.

‘
Schiesse,
Untersturmführer, leave it.’

‘
What was that you said to me, Kohler?
’

‘Knocking her senseless isn’t going to help.’

‘HELP, IS IT?’

The papers were snatched up. Turning swiftly away, Weber crouched to spin the dial of the safe that sat on the floor behind and to the left of that desk of his, and below the board on which hung the keys to every other lock in the camp: two for each, by the look, and labelled underneath, and if one were missing, would its absence be noticed?

Abruptly the most valuable things anyone could own these days were pitched into the safe, the door slammed and dial spun.

‘There, now we shall see,’ said Weber, noting that St-Cyr had stepped in front of the slut. ‘Very well,
mein Lieber
. Very well.’

Upending the hessian sack that had been brought with the black, tins spilled across the desk. ‘Cans of Klim and Borden’s Sweetened Condensed Milk, Kohler? Others of Maple Leaf Creamery Butter?’

‘Bovril, too.
Ach,
I can see that, Untersturmführer.’

‘
Zigaretten?
Camels, Chesterfields, Players, Woodbines?’

‘Those tins of Kam are probably similar to the American ones of SPAM. Ground ham and pork.’
***

‘And half-kilo bars of Neilson’s Chocolate, with those of Hershey’s, Kohler?’

‘Atlas and Del Bey raisins, too, Hermann,’ said Louis, still perched on the balls of his feet and ready to deal with this obnoxious little desk tyrant who was damned dangerous since he still had backup Schmeissers standing guard over Bamba Duclos.

These
Schweinebullen,
these two from Paris, thought Weber. They were
known
to cause trouble. The American was fingering her cheek and lower jaw. Gingerly the
Schlampe
explored her lips for possible splits, the hatred in her gaze all too clear. Naked, what would she do if she had six of the blacks at her? Scream? Go crazy? Fight certainly.

Two cans of Libby’s pork and beans were selected by him and set aside, two packets of Lucky Strikes, one packet of Oxo cubes, one of raisins, two bars of chocolate, and some chewing gum. ‘You paid this one, Fräulein. Now you will tell me why.’

‘I. . . I have nothing more to say to you.’

‘
Don’t!
’ said Louis in
Deutsch,
grabbing Weber by the wrist as the gun was swung at her. ‘Listen instead, Untersturmführer, and I’ll tell you why this young woman, a prisoner in your care and therefore under the rules of the Geneva Convention, met with this one.’

‘Louis. . . ’

‘
Hermann, if I have to break his arm, I will!
’

‘
VERFLUCHTER FRANZOSE HAU AB!
’

Cursed Frenchman, fuck off. Louis had yet to notice the memorial to Weber’s dead sister on that desk, the swastika-bedecked photo a constant reminder.

The arm was released, the gun came up, but so did a
sûreté’s
forefinger.

‘Orders are orders, Untersturmführer. We are here on those of the Kommandant von Gross-Paris and those of Gestapo Bömelburg, Head of Section IV.’

The Gestapo in France and two old acquaintances, but how deep was this thing going to go? wondered Kohler.

‘Sit down and let’s talk,’ said Louis. ‘For myself, I’m sorry I didn’t first ask your permission to withdraw the Fräulein from your lineup but things were moving too quickly and the need to settle matters had become paramount.’

‘I have letters that prove everything,’ seethed Weber. ‘Letters, Fräulein.’

Again the safe was opened: three turns to the right to land between the 52 and the 58, thought Kohler, two to the left and between the 27 and the 35, and then back around to the 11 or thereabouts. ‘The First American Army again, Louis. Another leftover.’