Mannequin (15 page)

Gabrielle has informed her of my problem, he said to himself. And taking Chantal's hand, brought it to his lips. ‘How marvelous you are,' he said and meant it.

She let him kiss her on both cheeks. Her laughter, though tiny, had a bell-like quality that pleased. Well into her seventies, Chantal Grenier and her lifelong companion had run the shop for over fifty years. As toddlers they had both experienced the Prussians at the gates of Paris in that winter of 1870-71 and, conditioned by such a momentous event, had been wary of Germans and the economy ever since.

He knew they must have a hoard of gold coins stashed away for a rainy day. They had weathered at least three, or was it four, major devaluations of the franc and an equal number of inflations, and all else, very well. They owned the building and had the flat directly above the shop.

The coins would be illegal, of course, but one must not take too seriously the proclamations of the Nazis and those of tax collectors.

Whereas Chantal seldom strayed from the place Vendôme and its little world of refinement, Muriel did the buying, the organizing, the tough jobs, though it was to her that fell the job of manufacturing their own perfumes.

‘So,' she said, on drawing away from an embrace that could have been better had he been more presentable, ‘the wreckage of Provence and Lyon returns to the bosom of Paris but what is this? What have you done with the new hat, coat, suit, shoes, gloves, shirt and tie we provided?'

The others had been ruined on another case. ‘Criminals are no respecters of detective's garments.'

The pencilled eyebrows were sharply raised. ‘Apparendy not, but you are forgiven. Let us send them to the cleaners at once.'

‘Ah, another time, Chantal.'

That little head was perfectly tossed. ‘There is no time at present?'

‘Ah, no. A matter of great urgency. Is Muriel in?'

‘My Muriel? Is it that you wish to see only her and not myself?'

‘No, no, of course not. But the matter is for the toughest, Chantal. For myself, you understand, I would not wish to bruise a sensitivity I cherish always.'

Ah, he was such a gendeman. Handsome still, if only he would take better care of himself. Wounded in the heart, divorced from the first wife, a widower from the second—it was such a tragedy that business of the bomb that had been meant for him, but for the best.

‘Your lover was in to see us. It was she who told us to expect a little visit from you. How may we be of service? Please, the shop is at your disposal. I have steeled myself to whatever infamy you must reveal to my Muriel.'

The shop went on about its business. Swathed in its cocoon of undergarments and scent, of pastel shades and lace like air, he watched the girls amid the gilded statues of Venus, Diana and Aphrodite deal with plod-minded, shy German officers and their French mistresses. Other women also, as before at Chez Denise, but wealthier and far more sophisticated. Really classy, class-conscious and discriminating. Not the fringe of the fashion trade, but the centre.

‘Let us go into the office, Chantal, but please, my dear, dear friend, if at any time you feel the matter too much, leave us to it. This business I have, it is not pleasant.'

Delicately she touched the back of his hand and fixed him with a gaze that in itself implored understanding. ‘I am of sterner stuff, my dear detective. I was once eighteen myself, Jean-Louis, and once, yes, abducted by two men. Ah,' she raised both hands to stop him from saying anything, ‘the matter is closed. I mention it only so that you will understand my reasons better.'

‘You are a friend.' Nothing else needed to be said. Taking her by the arm, he walked that cloud of rose-pink silk and chiffon through the displays past bemedalled, monocled and jackbooted Prussian giants who fingered lace and satin as if they were explosives about to detonate.

Muriel Barteaux was waiting for him in a cloud of cigarette smoke.

Kohler left Madame de Brisson to her house and her own thoughts. Indeed, he didn't say a thing to her about the daughter's ‘Letters to Myself'. Moving purposefully, he entered the garden of the Palais Royal and soon found himself among the lindens.

The daughter had had every reason to take revenge on her father and get out of Paris, but had Louis got it all wrong about the Resistance, had she been the one to ask for the forged papers? Had she played look-out in the rue Quatre Septembre for the two men who had held up her father's bank? Sweet revenge and eighteen millions?

Storming into the engraver's shop and flashing his Gestapo shield, he demanded to see the invitation he had found on Denise St. Onge's mantelpiece, the Reichsmarschall Goering's invitation for 31 December, to the Jeu de Paume and the Ritz. ‘There's been a mistake. I've been sent to check it out.'

That ought to put them off. The son stopped what he was doing in the back shop, the elder Meunier scrambled up from behind his desk. ‘A mistake …? But that's impossible, monsieur?'

‘Orders straight from the top, eh?' Kohler thumped the counter. ‘Well let me tell you, my fine goateed little printer, the Reichsmarschall's a very busy man. It's not every day he gets to ferry supplies in to a sinking army the Soviets are about to annihilate. Winter does something unkind to aircraft engines and ground crews in summer fatigues. It's the frostbite, I guess. Now give me the invitation. Make it two of them and shove over. I've got to have a word with your son in private.'

‘My son …?'

Was it such a ghastly request? ‘The invitations.' He snapped his fingers and lifted the counter flap to let himself through. ‘My partner's keen on art auctions and late suppers at the Ritz. I want to surprise him.'

Nervously Meunier found the things and handed them over. ‘Your partner …? Was he the one from the Sûreté?'

‘Ja, ja,
that's the schmuck. A real asshole and lazy. Now hurry up.'

The boy had come to stand in the doorway. ‘It's all right, father. I will tell him what he wants.'

‘You
fool!
' cried Meunier, lunging for the Gestapo. ‘Run,
Paul! Save yourself!
'

It was all over. Kohler eased the elder Meunier into a chair and patted the collar of the grey business suit. ‘Take it easy, eh? You're too out of shape. Hey, I've had lots of practice. Make yourself a cup of that coffee your son gave Joanne Labelle. Try not to think it's the end of the world. Look, I'm sorry if I frightened you.'

The elder Meunier shut his eyes and bowed his head in defeat. Things had been going so well for them, but Paul had had to listen to that woman, to that Mademoiselle Marie-Claire de Brisson …

Kohler turned to the son and said, ‘I hope you see the shape he's in. Now spit it all out and quickly. I have to find my partner before it's too late.'

‘Three sets of documents were forged. Identity cards, work permits, military discharges and
laissez-passers
to Provins, 24 December, for two men. The third set consisted only of a
laissez-passer
for Mademoiselle de Brisson dated 1 January 1943, and a certificate stating that she was allowed to travel to Dijon for reasons of health. A past history of repeated bouts of pneumonia.'

To Dijon, of all places? Dijon was synonymous with rain, but the son had had it all rehearsed just in case the Gestapo should come for him ..

‘My father knew nothing of it, monsieur. Nor my mother and sister. Only myself.'

How helpless. How utterly naive and stupid to think that by saying this he could save them.

Sadly Kohler gave him a nod. ‘Tell me about the two men. Their assumed names, ages, height, weight, all other such details.'

‘The boy didn't back away from it. Still thinking that the only hope for his family lay in the truth, he said, ‘Both were engineers, one electrical, the other mechanical. I'll write it all down for you and sign it.'

‘Their ages? They'll be false but approximate.'

‘Thirty-two and thirty-six. Both wounded during the invasion of 1940 and subsequently released with medical discharges. Raoul Chouard and Claude Deschamps, both lieutenants in the infantry. Both were assigned to the Provins municipal works department. Chouard has blue eyes, blond, curly hair. Deschamps has straight black hair and dark brown eyes. There were scars, the wounds of course. These could not be faked, could they?'

‘Yes, yes, write it all down. Don't bother to sign it.'

Kohler took out a cigarette and, lighting it, went out to the father. ‘Here, you need this more than I do. Look, Monsieur Meunier, let me give you a piece of advice. Get out of Paris while you can. Claim health, sickness in the family—hey, use your German friends and if not them, then get your son to do a job for you. Lyon, Marseille, Toulon—choose a city in the south. Things are still better there, but go.'

‘Leave?'

‘Was it such an unthinkable thing? ‘Yes.'

Since the travel permits for the two men had been dated 24 December, they must have ditched the car and headed straight for the appropriate railway station, the Gare de Lyon.

Marie-Claire de Brisson had specifically asked that her
laissez-passer
be for 1 January 1943, the day after the auction. Dijon,
verdammt!
What did it mean?

The boy was thin, tall and not a runner. Too sickly an occupation, thought Kohler ruefully but his judgement had to be harsh if their lives were to be saved. ‘Listen to me carefully. You can't possibly tell when someone will blow the whistle. Eighteen million are involved and maybe the murders of fourteen girls.'

‘Murders …? That house …?' faltered the boy.

‘Look, if you know something, tell me.'

‘Mademoiselle de Brisson, she … she came here often at night to see how the papers were progressing and to offer me advice, Inspector. I … I sometimes wondered if she had just come from seeing someone or something she … she did not like. She was often most distracted and … and sometimes very upset.'

‘Who let her in through the gates?'

‘I did. The shopkeepers have spare keys so that we may come and go if necessary but it's not something that is commonly known.'

It still wasn't much. ‘At any time did she say where she'd been?'

‘A party, a dinner, the flat of her friend or simply her own place and a small gathering. Once she was most distressed at not being able to find her mother's cat. She said that Madame Lemaire's maid must have taken it in again and that she would have to speak to the girl, but I do not know if she ever did.'

‘The men you forged papers for, did she know them well?'

The boy shrugged. ‘They were friends, that's all I knew. Friends who needed help. Nothing dishonest—they hadn't done a thing, she said.'

‘Spit it out.'

‘They … they had to leave Paris so as to avoid the … the forced labour in the Reich.'

‘And she paid you the going rate?' he asked harshly. ‘1000 francs for each identity card and 3000 for each set of the other documents?'

‘5000 for each job. She was very kind to me, Inspector. Very pretty, very well dressed. Once she came in a black evening dress, more often a simpler sweater, skirt and blouse, but always the perfume.'

You sap, thought Kohler but only nodded and said, ‘She sweet-talked you, so what else is new? Women have been doing it for thousands of years. But you're certain it was Mademoiselle de Brisson?'

‘Yes. Yes, of course.'

‘Paul …
'

Stricken, the elder Meunier stood in the doorway.

‘Father, what is it?'

‘There are others.'

‘Others?'

‘The screech of brakes, the sounds of …'

‘Ah
Gott im Himmel,
run!' swore Kohler, cursing their luck. ‘Go!
Vite! Vite! Merde,
idiot! Don't just stand there blocking the way!'

They ran. He watched through the windows. Father and son entered the stark rows of lindens but didn't know which way to turn. There was the shrill blast of a whistle, then hard steps on icy gravel, the hammering of many boob and steel-cleated shoes on the paving stones of the arcades.

Paul Meunier dragged his father after him as they ran towards the fountain that was out of sight near the far end of the garden. Kohler thought to shout to the
flics
in dark blue and the boys in field-grey that they should slow down and take things easy. Then he realized the latter would toss a few bursts from their Schmeissers his way, shattering the shop windows and himself, ah Christ!

There was a burst of firing—oh how he knew that sound. The father would see his son suddenly throw up his arms in shock and watch as the boy collapsed. He would try to pull the son to his feet. He would plead with the boy as the dark shapes swarmed after them among the trees.

In his mind's eye Kohler saw that the boy didn't move. In panic, the father tried to make up his mind. They were almost upon him now. He would turn. He would start to run again. The light wasn't good. He would hit a tree and stumble backwards fighting for balance …

Another burst and another ripped through the commotion.

Kohler swept up two blank cigarette cases that had been waiting to be engraved. He gave the troops a few seconds to gather about the bodies, was ready when an SS-Haupsturmführer entered the shop with some others, pistols in hand.

‘Idiots!
' he shrieked at them. ‘I had those two right where I wanted them and you had to come along and spoil it!'

There was surprise at his presence in the shop, there was suspicion. Tossing the cigarette cases on to the desk, he said gruffly, ‘Kohler, Gestapo Central, you
dummköpfe.
Pick up the pieces and while you're at it, tell me who gave you the buzz-word and when?'

The SS-Haupsturmführer didn't like him being here at all. For several seconds Kohler saw reassessment being put to the test, then at last the pistol was slid away.

‘It was an anonymous call, Herr Kohler, at 1507 hours.'