Clandestine (23 page)

‘Madame Gould will have been attending an auction and showing of paintings at the Jeu de Paume with the Oberleutnant Bremer and others, and is to dine at Prunier.'

Just to the west of the
place
Vendôme, at 9 rue Duphot, and the number one place for lobster, fish and oysters. ‘Then for now, her secretary will do.'

It had really happened. It must have, felt Dumais. ‘Madame Volnée visits with her mother on Sundays, returning to us at ten o'clock always.'

Louis would have said God had sent this one. ‘Then I'll have a little chat with one of Madame Gould's maids. There are three of them, but only two share that
chambre de bonne
and the winter's cold up there in the attic, thanks to yourself, no doubt.'

But did this one also know what could well go on in that room if a little adventure was needed by one or two of Madame Gould's ‘unexpected' guests and herself, or that those ‘maids' could then come downstairs if desired? ‘Mademoiselle Beauchamp will be in Madame Gould's residence.'

‘Good. Stay here. Just give me the key to Boemelburg's guest suite and have those bags sent up.'

Louis, though he hadn't said anything of what he was going to do in that room at the Salle Pleyel, would absolutely have to be helped. No question.

Grâce à Dieu
, felt St-Cyr, darkness now all but hid the rue Daru. One by one, the little blue lights above the Salle Pleyel's other entrances came on, and then that for Chez Kornilov. Pausing still, he would wait to make absolutely sure the coast was clear.

Ducking into the artists' entrance, he again would wait.
Merde
, had he
heard
someone?

More audible now, the steps came on.
Sacré nom de nom
, had he been so foolish as to have led those
salauds
to her very doorstep?
Bien sûr
, they had been good, but …

Holding a breath, he waited. Trying to silently unbutton his coat to get at the Lebel in his left jacket pocket, a button flew off. Irretrievable, of course. Irreplaceable, too.

Muted, the evening's traffic filtered in, the smell, too, of the one who stood out there facing him and not of tobacco, not really. Of herbs, rosemary in particular.

He'd use the Lebel as a club and would shoot only if necessary, but the steps started up again. Following, they led him to the Cathédrale Alexandre Nevesky. Vespers would be held on Sunday after sundown, the beginning of the Orthodox day. Incense is what he had smelled.
Incense
. Others would be arriving, the Occupation having filled the churches of every denomination.

Returning to the Salle Pleyel, he found Concierge Figeard at his evening meal, sitting in his
loge
at the head of a table on which were two place settings. Candles made of stubs were ready to light, wineglasses awaiting water from a small, stoneware pitcher. A plate of radishes, perfectly cut into fans, accompanied lettuce leaves and sprinklings of chives from the roof garden, the aroma now fully of rabbit stew with carrots, onions, the white of a leek, garlic, thyme, all from the roof garden, and rosemary too. A small dish of chopped parsley was at the ready, but no guest had arrived. Sadly, Figeard was fingering that empty bottle of Château Latour, the half of which had generously been shared last December on just such a return from visiting an ill mother in Rethel.

‘Inspector … ?'

Touching the lips would urge caution. ‘Please, a moment. I may have been followed.'

‘It was only that boy from the
cathedral. More candle stubs and questions of where Annette-Mélanie is and why she hasn't returned to bring him more of that rosemary. I've sent him away twice and have told him funerals take time, and that the house, it would have had to be closed up and left for her mother's attorney to sell, but he pays no attention. Instead, he tells me subdeacons, which is what he is, must decide whether to marry or not
before
being made deacons, and that afterward it is forbidden, but he hardly knows her. Annette-Mélanie has never spoken to me of him in that way and would have. Me, I would have seen it in her eyes and smile.
Bien sûr
, he has taken her to dinner at Chez Kornilov with his father early last February and then again more recently, but for him to be asking her to marry and she to be agreeing, it's just not possible.'

‘The boy who prepares the incense?'

‘
Oui.
The one who then feeds the censers and lights their little charcoal fires. Annette-Mélanie and myself do manage to grow some on the roof, but rosemary, it likes the heat and dryness. Even under the bell jars we have had but a modest success.'

‘His name, just for the record.'

‘Pierre-Alexandre Lebeznikov. I have it here. I made him write it down so that I could inform her of it correctly.'

The son of Serge de Lenz and not one but
two
meals across the road!

‘Chief Inspector, what has she done? Come, come, you return at this hour and suggest you may have been followed? You still have that in hand, or had you forgotten?'

Tucking the Lebel away, there was, he knew, only one thing he could do despite the risk. ‘Since I must take you into my confidence, I must ask that you tell no one of my visit.'

Or visits. ‘Since she has been like a daughter to me, how could I not agree? Now, please, what on earth has she done to cause such as yourself to take interest in her: obtained rosemary for religious purposes from one of the gardeners at the Jardin des Plantes?'

The things one learned. ‘Accidentally witnessed the murder of two bank employees and the partial robbery of their van.'

Yet there had been no news of such in any of the papers. ‘Partial? Me, I will go upstairs with you since it is her room you wish to search, is it?'

Having missed a little something on the last visit—was this what Figeard was now thinking? ‘Just stay where you are and stop any who might attempt to follow.'

‘Unless there's a concert, I lock that side door at dusk and am just a little late this evening.'

The artists then having to ring for him. ‘Then lock it and leave me to do what I have to, but tell me this: You mentioned part-time positions as an usherette here and as a salesperson at the German bookstore. Did Mademoiselle Jacqueline Lemaire happen to have anything to do with getting her those jobs?'

Since a beautiful dress, shoes and expensive underthings had been delivered to
that
address last year on 14 August by a shoe salesman. ‘And the job every other Sunday afternoon at Madame Bordeaux's residence on the rue de la Boétie?'

And circles within circles. ‘Yes, that one too.'

‘Those shoes, though brand new and very expensive, didn't quite fit as they should have.'

‘So you suggested she stuff some newspaper into the toes that fortunately weren't of the open style?'

There was no need to give the chief inspector the name of the paper or its date. ‘Annette-Mélanie had never had anything so good as that dress, those shoes and the pearls.'

‘What pearls?'

And sudden interest. ‘The necklace she'd been given on loan.'

‘By whom?'

And yet more interest. ‘Mademoiselle Lemaire. There was also a bracelet of diamonds from Cartier. Of course Annette-Mélanie­ could not possibly accept such a loan. She said she would be terrified of losing them. Madame Bordeaux offered to keep them for her so that they could then be worn only at the Sunday gatherings.'

Diamonds and pearls, and with Jacqueline Lemaire and Hector Bolduc present. Hermann wouldn't hesitate. He would simply say, If you hadn't been so preoccupied using the cameras of the mind on your
first
visit, you'd have thought to ask Figeard about those jobs and all the rest.

The suite was magnificent, felt Évangéline. Never had she seen anything like it, and turning to Herr Kohler as he tipped the porter, thought to throw her arms about him but already he was indicating what he had arranged. Beyond the entrance room with its mirror, vase of flowers, stand for coats and place for walking sticks and umbrellas, there was the
salle de séjour
with a carpet so thick one wanted only to walk barefoot. Sofas, settees and armchairs seemed at every turn, a desk, too, with writing things. A liquor cabinet on little wheels had such a selection, the glasses for every sort of drink and all of crystal. There was a cocktail shaker and an ice bucket with tongs.

Attentive, Herr Kohler's generous smile said that he was delighted by her every reaction. In the bedroom, there was a mirrored armoire that would tell no lies and another facing the bed that would tell none of its own, either.

‘There's also an
en suite
,' he said.

Bath, lavabo and bidet had their own room in white tiles and with towels, the bidet something she had seen only in torn catalogue pages used for somewhat the same but outdoors, of course. ‘It even has hot water,' she heard herself saying.

‘Real soap, too,' he said, letting her catch the scent. ‘Soap like it used to be. Perfumes too. Samples. Lanvin's Mon Péché.'

He had chosen My Sin.

‘The
parfumeurs
are still very much in business,' he said. ‘Coco Chanel's shop still sells Chanel No. 5 and all the other things her firm makes, but she's decided to retreat a little and has holed up in the Hôtel Ritz with her German lover. Remember to try them all and when your visit's over, tuck a few into your purse. Guests always do. It's expected. The toilet paper, too, and the soap.'

There was no question Herr Kohler was used to such places and would know exactly what to do with a girl like herself, but first she would have to ‘freshen up.'

‘Check out the rest of the suite,' he said. ‘Pack away your things. Just give me a few minutes to settle something, then we'll go down for a drink in the Bristol's lounge, or have one here.'

Évangéline would keep for the moment. Louis was going to need all the help he could get, himself as well, and there was only one place and way to get it: give Mrs Florence Gould exactly what every arch-socialite desired the most. Gossip none of the others had, something new to talk about, but for later.

Diminutive, with soft brown eyes and long lashes, her uniform grey-blue and complete with white lace-trimmed cap and apron, Mademoiselle Beauchamp was not quite seventeen but probably thirty in experience. ‘Is this the residence of Mrs. Florence Gould, the American who constantly avoids arrest and being interned in the camp for foreign nationals at Vittel's Parc Thermal?' he asked. ‘The one who pays her way out of it but should be with every other American woman and girl over eighteen and locked up as in the autumn of 1942 along with all the British females, too, those who hadn't escaped when the Occupation first started in June 1940 and were summarily arrested then?'

Ah mon Dieu, mon Dieu,
they had arrested Madame, felt Yvette, and would now arrest herself and the others, Madame Volnée as well.

‘Hey, go easy, eh? Easy. I only need her help with the murder investigation my partner and I are working on.'

‘A murder? In this hotel?'

‘Not here, elsewhere, but perhaps if I were to come in, I could explain things in confidence.'

He had even looked both ways along the corridor to see if anyone else was listening. Like so many of
les Allemands
, he was big and tall but also wore the slash of the fencing sword from the left eye to chin.
Formidable
, Madame would have said of him.
Monté comme un étalon aussi.
‘Your name, please? Madame, she will insist.'

‘Oh, sorry. Kohler, Kripo, Paris-Central. A detective inspector.'

And a womanizer but also one of Gestapo Boemelburg's men, that one having been to several of Madame's Thursday lunches, his people constantly listening in to madame's telephone calls. Those of others, too, both staff and guests.

‘Mademoiselle Beauchamp, let me have your first name. It'll be easier.'

This ‘Kripo' had closed the door behind himself and had even put the lock on. Well, one of them. ‘Yvette.'

‘Good. That's a lovely name and one I won't forget. Yvette, we're after the killer of two bank employees. Apparently he had his mistress with him, for she left her shoes behind in the bank van he then robbed with the others of his gang. All the press need is a photo of something like those shoes, and me, I thought Madame Gould might have a pair and be only too willing to oblige.'

A gang, a killer and a mistress, a moll,
une nana de gangster
. ‘Is it that you are hoping someone will come forward who saw something?'

Maybe she wasn't as ‘old' as he'd thought. ‘Detectives have to try everything.'

Yet he didn't have the shoes, only the memory of them. ‘And the reward,
Monsieur l'Inspecteur
, does it include a little something for such assistance?'

Lieber Gott,
had the Occupation corrupted her too? ‘Five thousand for the loan of the shoes, ten if I don't manage to get them back to you.'

He had a thick wad of those notes. ‘Back to my mistress, wasn't it?'

Louis should have heard her. ‘Fifteen, then.'

Three big ones and she would stuff them down her front since that was what he would be expecting. ‘The shoes, they are this way, Inspector.'

In a suite of rooms upon rooms with floor-to-ceiling damask curtains and paintings, sketches and pieces of sculpture, knickknacks too, Florence Gould had one reserved for the clothes she wore, and in it, a wall of shoes and a pair probably for every day of the year.

‘Perhaps if you were to tell me what was needed, Inspector, I could find them, since one of my jobs is to look after these and I might, I confess, have misplaced a pair under her bed or behind a settee or armoire, she having kicked them off in a hurry with one of her lovers.'