Clandestine (47 page)

Thin, tall and well into his sixties, and wearing the suit, vest and tie he no doubt always would, Laurence Rousel exuded the notary so much, one didn't need a second glance. Reserved, cautious—wary to the extreme, given the present circumstance—he sat at the near end of the table, spoon, napkin and glass of
vin rouge
all waiting. Head not bowed, not yet.

Michèle Guillaumet, housekeeper, gardener and cook, had found some inner strength and had obviously told herself to concentrate on the meal ahead. Giving the soup yet another stir and sampling, she removed it from what had to be one of Godin's original cast-iron ranges. Wood was added to the firebox, the contents of the oven checked, for she was drying the seeds, having sprinkled a little of the precious salt over them first. Ladling the soup into two plates and one of those ghastly china Pétain mugs, she added a sprinkling of chopped chives and said, ‘There, it's ready.
Bon appétit
,' Ludin insisting on a translation, which as prisoner still in handcuffs, was dutifully given.

‘I think the mug might be easier for you, Inspector.'

She had applied the iodine and precious sticking plasters to the back of this twice struck head, had tried to make him as comfortable as possible and would have lived in fear for well over two years that something like this might happen. Oh for sure she and Rousel would have talked it over many times, and yes, there would definitely be those who would question such an arrangement as her living here with a man nearly five times her age. In any village, not just this one, she could not have remained hidden without others knowing. Monsieur le Père for one and probably feared by most, the mayor
aussi,
the schoolteacher, too, for there was a pile of books and notes awaiting her concentration. Then, too, the grocer, shopkeeper, and in Barbizon, not a
garde champêtre
but a préfet with two
flics
at least. None, however, would dare to intervene, given that Citroën
traction avant
out there, and while there would be those who regretted it, others would say, Me, I told you so, as word of that car spread, and still others who would claim, It's about time someone cashed in on her!

Additionally, of course, she obviously had come to love to cook and that could only mean that someone had been teaching her. ‘The aroma is magnificent, mademoiselle. Onion, of course, but shallots as well and a diced potato, am I not right?'

‘And?' she asked, uncertain of what he was up to, Ludin getting the full translation.

‘Chicken stock and the small pumpkin, again neatly diced, and all put through the French mill when cooked to give such a perfect purée. Not too thick, but just thick enough for that delicate yet complete fullness of taste. Ground cumin is a natural, but to this you have given it that rarest of things these days, a tender grating of nutmeg, black pepper as well, and equally rare, lastly the chives. I envy you your chef, Monsieur le Notaire. This is superb and something I haven't tasted in years. Grand-maman would make it for me once a year, sometimes with ginger—she said it was a Russian thought—at other times with caraway instead. The Russians do like pumpkin and caraway, don't they?'

This, too, was translated, since it had to be, the Gestapo having become increasingly agitated at the length of the discourse and wondering what the inspector was up to. Apologetically she would whisper, ‘We were going to smash all of those mugs and that portrait when the Allies got here.'

Yet again, came a translation, Ludin immediately shouting,
‘Ruhe!'
and vomiting blood.

The portrait hung above the crucifix, indicating that the household believed Pétain considered himself that way toward the crucified. Ludin had, of course, earlier asked about the black diamonds and had received vehement denials of such a foolishness from Rousel, but would keep returning to that thought and had yet to search the house.

Hermann would have to arrive and if and when he did, he had better not rush into things, otherwise Ludin would kill the girl and her guardian and then this Sûreté.

Smoke poured from a nearby abattoir, one of the earliest, for apart from its sheet-iron roof, it had been made of wood. Billowing—filling the roadways among the buildings—the smoke brought the clanging
pompiers
and those, the ambulances, and through it all raced that green camouflaged Wehrmacht truck of Dillmann's, but would Werner do as thought? wondered Kohler. The bank van was on his own right, Kleiber locked in and peering out through its back window, but would he, too, do as thought, and what about Anna-Marie?

She had seen Kleiber and had put the muzzle of that pistol into her mouth!
‘Don't!'
he cried. ‘Please. Louis needs you. That's why he isn't here.'

Moving—not trying to stop her anymore—Herr Kohler ran to the cab of that van to grab the keys that had been thrust at him. Now he was unlocking its back door, was going to let the one in there arrest her just as Aram had felt might happen, he insisting, ‘You will have to kill yourself. We can't chance your not telling them everything.'

The suitcases were being lifted out, her own being shoved in, Herr Kohler shouting, ‘Standartenführer, wait! Give me five, then check that bag for the boart.'

Closing and locking that door—leaving the key in it—he gathered up the suitcases and hurried toward her, but of course three of them could never have been fitted into her trailer and he'd have to be told. ‘Put the one on top and tie this around them.'

She had even thought to bring a rope! ‘Let me have the pistol. He'll expect me to take it from you, that's why Sergei Lebeznikov isn't already out here. Kleiber's told him to stay put for the moment.'

Opening only one of the suitcases, he showed her what had to be a fortune's worth of those big white notes, Aram having wondered why the SD would ever agree to do such a thing, Herr Kohler saying, ‘Don't worry, the other suitcases are the same. This unlocks them all.' But now brakes were being slammed, a sergeant leaning out from behind the wheel of that truck and shouting, ‘
Gefrieter Mannstein, Weiss und Rath, schnell machen!
Bike, trailer and angel into the back!'

Racing through the
pompiers
, clipping one of the ambulances, Dillmann headed for the exit even as Kleiber must have opened that suitcase of hers and given the little string tie of that kilo bag a tug.

The flash in the rearview was every bit as thought, felt Kohler, the sound the usual. Plastic for sure and probably the equivalent of at least five or six sticks of 808, and so much for the Reich ever getting their hands on that boart.

Speeding after Dillmann, he turned east onto the rue des Morillons. Others were giving chase but as yet without wheels. Street by street it wasn't far, but
place
Denfert-Rochereau was busy. Too many bicycles and
vélo-taxis
, pedestrians crossing where they shouldn't, buses off-loading Wehrmacht for late visits to the Catacombs, a gazo truck, a horse-drawn wagon …

Ach
, Dillmann had stopped. Bike, trailer and angel were being set on the pavement, that deceitful son of a bitch having done exactly as thought, even to tossing him a joyful wave and yelling, ‘
Vielen Dank, mein Hermann
. See you in Spain,' and keeping all the cash.

‘Into the car,' he said.

‘I can't leave my bike. I mustn't!'

Liebe Zeit
, what the hell was this? ‘Are you crazy?'

‘It's all I have.'

Those tracking vans were coming, police cars too, but Louis would have said, Do it, Hermann.

Using the rope, they tied it onto the back bumper but had to shove the trailer into the car.

‘Barbizon,' she said when asked. Just that, but first a little detour to the north to where some architect had, in 1934, installed big windows around the cinema Studio Raspail so that the apartments he had built would be all the rage and look like artists' studios.

Shattered, there was glass everywhere, scorched fivers floating down, the collective citizenry still cowering, for Werner hadn't been able to resist the temptation and had done exactly as felt, Kleiber having also done the same to make certain none of those
verfluchter Banditen
ever got away no matter what.

Having jerry cans of gasoline to pay off those in the
marché noir
wasn't helping. The fire trucks would soon be here, those tracking vans as well. ‘Barbizon,' he said. ‘Maybe Louis will be there and maybe not, but I sure hope he is because he'll have to admit that this time I really did think it all through.'

At 2147 hours Hermann still hadn't arrived. Maybe it was just the blackout and driving far too fast on roads that ought to be familiar to him after
three
years of this Occupation. But maybe, too, he hadn't pulled things off at that abattoir, maybe they had gone terribly wrong just as they had here.

Oh for sure, Ludin was now desperately ill. Having vomited fresh blood again and again, he had forced Michèle Guillaumet to her knees and had put the muzzle of that pistol to the back of her head. Tearful prayers were being rapidly given, the neck-chain's silver cross being pressed to those lips, the girl begging God for forgiveness of sins that could never have amounted to much.

‘Michèle, you must,' urged Rousel. ‘If you have hidden
any
such thing—and Kriminalrat, I knew nothing of it—please tell us. Josef would never hold you to account. Not Josef. Did he give you
anything
to keep for him?'

All was dully translated, Michèle finally blurting, ‘Only that sand in the cellar.'

‘But … but those bags were for your aquarium at home?' stammered Rousel.

Again, Ludin, having snatched up the towel, vomited; again he cried out and clutched at his stomach, then harshly said, ‘Get it!' to Rousel.

No translation was necessary. Four bags of sand, each weighing a good twenty kilos, were placed on the table, each bearing the name tag of a tropical fish:
TETRAS
,
DANIOS
,
GUPPIES
and
HARLEQUINS
.

It had to be a code, felt St-Cyr, each representing the name of the firm and its owner or owners, Meyerhof having been persuaded on that last trip to Paris before the Blitzkrieg to do as others had begged, though doubtless never for himself and his firm.

Each had to be emptied before the hidden could spill: gem rough of all sizes, fancies among them, the clear whites mingling with the exceedingly rare emerald green to soft rose and ruby-red, the sky-blue as well and deepest of sapphire-blue, the citron-yellow, too, even those subtle shades of what were known as the naturally occurring black.

Having hurriedly managed to light yet another cigarette, Ludin dug a hand into them and began to laugh only to cough, panic and vomit repeatedly. Dropping gun and diamonds, he collapsed, hitting his head on the edge of the table.

‘Ah merde,'
swore St-Cyr, leaping up from the chair to press fingers to that neck, ‘now he's even more of a problem and Hermann … Hermann is nowhere near when so desperately needed, for how am I alone to deal with this and keep you both and all you have from the Occupier?'

Clutching two rabbits he had been about to gently toss into the kitchen to cause havoc of their own, Kohler nudged the blackout curtain aside and stepped into the kitchen, Anna-Marie right behind him and quickly closing the door to shut out the night.

‘Walter, Hermann. What are we to tell him?'

Ludin was definitely dead, but in death was there not the answer or answers?

To the cellars of the rue des Saussaies, there was but a rending scream, from the front desk but the brutal snapping of fingers. Known here by all, they were not only to show their identity papers but to leave their weapons.

Formerly the headquarters of the Sûreté before the defeat of June 1940, the rue des Saussaies had become that of the Gestapo
and
the Sûreté. Major Osias Pharand, that acid little boss of Louis's, had been shoved out of his palatial office and down the corridor to that of his secretary, Boemelburg having tossed out the arty clutter and plastered the walls with maps of Paris and the country.

Teleprinters were never silent, telephones constantly ringing, orderlies coming and going, that beautifully carved Louis XIV lime-wood desk of Pharand's having been enlarged with plain pine planks to hold the accumulated clutter of the Occupier, the death notices of the ‘troublemakers' as well.

They wouldn't even be allowed to sit, felt Kohler. Those rheumy Nordic-blue eyes didn't lift from the document in hand. The dome of that blunt head bristled with all-but-shaven iron-grey hairs. Quite obviously beyond the threatened retirement and having gained weight as a result, but with muscles, too, as head of SIPO-SD Section IV, the Gestapo in France, Boemelburg knew Paris like the back of his hand, having in his early days been a heating and ventilating engineer here before returning to the Reich to become a cop. A good one, too, Louis had always insisted.

The sagging countenance was just as grim as the tired lifting of those eyes. ‘Well, Kohler, what have you to say for yourselves? Five dead Wehrmacht, including Standartenführer Kleiber, now a national hero, one banker and one of Rudy de Mérode's most trusted henchmen? No black diamonds, no
Halbjüdin
either, and especially no other
Banditen
. Reichssicherheitschef Kaltenbrunner­ is demanding the fullest of explanations before your court-martial­ and execution, but has reluctantly agreed to allow me to at least hear what you have to say.'

‘Walter …'

‘Louis, just because we worked together on IKPK
*
cases before this conflict, please don't presume you can speak.'

Was it to be the end of them? wondered St-Cyr. They had dropped Anna-Marie and her bicycle off at a
maison de compagne
to the west of Sézanne. A Madame Martine de Belleveau and Arie Beekhuis, the alias of Hans van Loos, had been overjoyed to see her. Hermann and himself had spoken to the
préfet
of Barbizon and had hopefully cleared Laurence Rousel of any connection to what had happened, a gravely ill Heinrich Ludin having simply dropped in to the house to ask directions and needing a rest. But they had had to leave all those diamonds hidden with Michèle Guillaumet, the Meyerhof life ones as well, until after the Liberation, had tried to cover all tracks, but had had no other choice but to come here, having first taken care of Évangéline Rocheleau.