Tapestry (38 page)

‘Except that someone went looking for the collection and noticed that the stamps were no longer in the Lévitan’s former furniture store.’

‘Where the Aktion-M squads deposit the furnishings of countless homes for further sorting, packing, repairs, if necessary, and shipment.’

‘To the Reich, to party officials who’ve been bombed out or to others of them who are setting up house in the eastern territories.’

The first such shipment had been made in April of 1941, the second in October of that year, but in July of 1940, the Maréchal Pétain and his government in Vichy had passed a law
allowing
the sale of such confiscated property after six months had passed. All proceeds were then to have gone to the Secours National, which, in spite of continued protests from Pétain and others, hadn’t yet received a sou, nor would it. But Hermann would never taunt his partner with such complicity and collaboration on the part of this country’s government. Hermann was just too conscious of his partner’s feelings, especially at times like this.

‘We have to face it, Louis. The Agence Vidocq aren’t just working for themselves and Oberg, but also for the ERR.’

‘As are others, each supplying the ERR with targets.’

‘As well as giving the SS the names and locations of
résistants
.’

‘Business must be really good.’

‘And we’ve stepped right into it.’

A late supper was in progress, the Tour d’Argent that epitome of culinary majesty.
Ach
,
mein Gott,
how the other half lives, thought Kohler, taking it all in from behind the grill of the
patron’s
cash desk and head waiter’s stand. Uniforms everywhere, beautiful
Parisiennes
too. BOFs, of course, in suits and ties, and
Bonzen
sporting their Nazi Party pins and gongs. Paris-based administrative types too … Dr. Karl Epting of the Deutsche Institut no less, with wife Alice, a Swiss, the legendary hostess entertaining another crowd of writers, artists and musicians: the latest going-away exchange group that would tour the Reich in the name of
Kultur
, not forced labour or worse, and no ration tickets needed here. Absolutely none. Would Epting even have heard that one of his part-time teachers had been savagely raped and beaten?

‘Messieurs …’ began the maître d’.

‘St-Cyr, Sûreté. Just go about your business and leave us to ours.’

‘But …’

‘No buts. Kohler, Kripo, Paris-Central. Is this the register you keep the duck numbers in?’

It was. Pages dated from 1890 when the great Frédéric Delair had bought the place and started smothering six-week-old ducks brought all the way from the Vendée market at Challans. Every last one of them had been given a number. His
canard à la presse ou canard au sang
. Both the same. Pressed duck or duck with blood.

‘Hermann …’

A battery of silver presses was available, the front row tables next to the heavily draped windows best for viewing as sous
-
chefs screwed the briefly roasted creatures down. ‘Twenty minutes in a hot oven, Louis. Slice the filets thinly, then squeeze hell out of the carcass to catch the blood. Add a dash of lemon juice, if such is still available, a little salt and pepper, spices—only the current chef knows the alchemy of those—the mashed raw liver of yet another duck, though, and a touch of Madeira, a glass of good port—nothing but the best champagne
aussi
, the Heidsieck perhaps, or the Dom Pérignon—and cook for another …’

‘Yes, yes, Hermann. Twenty-five minutes and don’t you dare take any more of that Benzedrine.’

‘Serve piping hot from a silver plate, but don’t boil the juice. Look, Louis. The Grand Duke Vladimir of Russia ate number 6,043 in 1900; King Alfonso XIII of Spain bit into number 40,362 in 1914 just as we were pulling on our boots and saying our prayers and good-byes to loved ones. Hirohito, Emperor of Japan, had number 53,211 in June of 1921, so why is he now an ally of the Reich?’

‘HERMANN …’

‘Franklin Delano Roosevelt ate number 112,151,
*******
though, in 1929. I hope he enjoyed it. Göring … The Reichsmarschall and head of the Luftwaffe had numbers …
Ach,
I always wondered how many times that one had caused young ducks to be smothered. Ten … fifteen … Surely a trencherman and avid art buyer like Göring wouldn’t have passed this place up?’

‘HERMANN, WE SIMPLY HAVEN’T TIME!’

The restaurant would have been taken over had the owners refused to cooperate and closed the place back in June of 1940. ‘Oh, sorry, Chief. I was just curious and trying to keep myself sane and not worry about Giselle. Found them, have you?’

‘Table thirty. Monsieur …’ Louis turned to the maître d’. ‘If you or any of your staff so much as clear away, I will personally empty my revolver into the ceiling. This is a murder inquiry and my partner and myself have had it up to here.’

‘With bodies,’ confided Kohler, pulling down his lower left eyelid to buttonhole the starched shirt and tails. ‘Young girls who had all of their lives ahead of them,
grands mutilés
, dancers, boys. Bring us two chairs and hurry.’

‘But … but, please, Inspectors. Madame Rouget has a bad heart. Could it not wait a little? Surely they can have nothing whatsoever to do with …’

Louis let him have it. ‘They have
everything
to do with our inquiries.’

‘But it is
Monsieur le Juge
’s birthday celebration?’

‘Then that makes it even better.’

Not bothering to remove that fedora or overcoat, Louis started in among the tables, a dark-blue, gold-lettered Vuitton leather secretarial case tucked under each arm like a government accountant on a tax fraud. Records … case histories that Denise Rouget had brought home from work and that the judge’s sleepy-eyed little maid of all work, having been awakened, had not been able to prevent them from ‘borrowing’ from the entrance hall’s table when they had called at the house to find that he was here.

‘Judge Rouget? Judge Hercule Rouget?’

Others were taking notice. ‘What is the meaning of this?’

Stung, Louis tossed that head of his. ‘The meaning? There’s the body of a dancer in that flat you keep on the rue La Boétie, Judge. We understand that you knew her well.’

‘How dare you?’

‘Élène Artur …’ gasped Vivienne Rouget, unable to prevent the name from escaping.

Quickly the daughter laid a hand over that of her mother, Germaine de Brisac—it must be her, thought Kohler—taking the other. Two very well-dressed, beautiful girls in their mid- to late thirties. Friends for life, ardent social workers. The first, brown-eyed like the father, but not mud-brown, the second with fabulous green eyes and absolutely perfect reddish-blonde hair and what else? he asked and had to admit, she’s uncertain and damned afraid.

‘A few questions, Judge. Nothing difficult. We’ll save those for later,’ said Louis, clearing the plates and glasses aside to set down the cases. ‘But first, Mademoiselle Denise Rouget, I gather from questioning the family’s maid that it was your custom to bring such records home.’

‘My daughter’s caseload is heavy, Inspector. Would you not want her to go over things in the evening in preparation for each following day’s interviews?’

A cool one when the chips were down. ‘
Ah! Bien sûr,
madame. It’s perfectly understandable. It’s just that …’

‘Well?’

‘May I? It helps the thoughts and makes what I have to say easier.’

Pipe, tobacco pouch and matches came out. Ignored, the judge was far from happy but conscious of the Walther P38 that had been laid on the table and was pointing at him.

‘Hermann, be so good as to check on our Trinité victim. The
Hôtel-Dieu
is just along the quai de la Tournelle and across the pont de l’Archevêché. Take the first turning to your left when you are on the Île de la Cité. That will lead you quickly to
place
du Parvis and the hospital. It’s dark outside, but … Ah! I hate to ask it, Mademoiselle de Brisac, but would you be so kind as to show him the way? A few moments of your time. Nothing much, I assure you.’

‘But required of me, is that it?’

Must beauty come in so many forms? ‘
Oui,
and please don’t bother to argue, Judge. This party of yours is now over.’

Louis had seen it too. The judge’s birthday present.

The folio was also from Vuitton and of dark-blue leather like the secretarial cases. Imprinted in gold leaf, a boldly handwritten flourish gave
Juge Hercule Rouget
, and below this, in somewhat smaller writing,
Président du Tribunal Spécial du Département de la Seine
.

The night-action courts.

It would be best to let the fingers of an apparent envy caress the folio. ‘May I?’ asked St-Cyr—he wouldn’t set the pipe aside, would simply clench its stem between the teeth. Unaware of what she’d done as the daughter had released her hand, Vivienne Rouget had gripped the dessert spoon she had been using when so rudely interrupted.

‘IT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THAT SLUT!’ she spat, crashing the spoon down flat on the table to disturb the adjacent diners.

‘VIVIENNE!’ hissed the judge.

‘Of course the death of Élène Artur has apparently nothing to do with this, madame, but as I once collected stamps, I would appreciate the opportunity. Judge?’

‘Look if you must, but it will be your last.’

The cloud, the hurricane, the fierceness were all there as if on the bench. ‘She was cut open, that mistress of yours, Judge. Deliberately disembowelled and allowed to run—ah! forgive me, Madame Rouget, mademoiselle. The detective in me slips up from time to time.’

‘Cut open …’ blanched the daughter, throwing wounded eyes at her mother who savoured the news only to realize this Sûreté had seen beyond such an impulse to its harder truth.

‘
Ah, mon Dieu,
Judge, the 1849 to 1850s twenty-centime black. The blue also, though it was never issued. The Vervelle, the colonials … A stunning collection. Perfect if donated—is it to be donated to the Nation on your death?’

‘Inspector …’

‘Madame, this collection, except for its rebinding, matches entirely one that was stolen at between twelve twenty and twelve thirty a.m., Friday, but it’s curious, I must admit. You see, though my partner and I were definitely not to have investigated that crime, the gold louis that were also in the safe were not taken by the thief or thieves. A simple smash-and-grab one would otherwise have thought, but done to order. It must have been, that little something left as hush money.’

Everyone said St-Cyr was despicable, thought Vivienne, a cuckold who would gladly have forgiven that wife of his if he could have. A seeker of truth with the holier-than-thou attitude of a martyr!

But when met and held, the deep-brown eyes registered neither condemnation nor forgiveness and understanding, only an inherent curiosity. ‘If you
think
I am about to inquire as to how it is you have concluded such a thing, Inspector, you are very much mistaken. I purchased that collection from a very reputable source, and only after much deliberation.’

‘I’m sure you did, but please bear with me. You see, those gold louis were borrowed by the
flic
who was first on the scene.’

‘The fool! Did you arrest him?’ demanded Rouget.

‘Judge, don’t look for sparrows among the crumbs. Leave such things to the hawks of a reformed conscience since the
flic
, though tempted, has a family and he put the louis back next day for me to find when I called on Monsieur Félix Picard of Au Philatéliste Savant in the
passage
Jouffroy.’

‘Denise, take your mother to the
toilettes
for a tidy-up.’

‘Judge, you are under instruction. Please don’t be difficult. We’ll get to Élène Artur and the child she was carrying soon enough.’

‘ESPÈCE DE SALAUD! LÉCHEUR DE CHATTE!’

Fucking bastard; cunt-licker … ‘HERCULE, NOT IN PUBLIC!’

‘
MAMAN,
LOWER YOUR VOICE!’

All conversation ceased in this culinary paradise, all eyes were on the table. Some stood for a better look, among them the Standartenführer Langbehn, who let his napkin fall to the floor and then cautioned a waiter not to pick it up.

‘Judge, before that one reaches us, it’s my considered belief that Élène Artur was disembowelled to find the fetus she was carrying and dispose of it. Fortunately my partner recovered the body of what would have been your son.’

Kohler let the match flame linger as a shiver ran through Germaine de Brisac, green eyes wincing as she drew on the cigarette he’d given her.
‘Merci,’
she muttered—guilty, was she, of knowing too much? Damned afraid, in any case. He’d make her sit here in the car on
place
du Parvis, would let her feel the pitch-dark silhouette of the
Hôtel-Dieu,
would let her freeze in that woven shawl with its threads of burnished copper-gold that set off the colour of her hair and eyes, the Schiaparelli dress, silk stockings, high heels and brand-new camel-hair overcoat with its broad lapels and turn-down flaps, her perfume exquisite. A woman of exceptional taste, with emerald drop earrings from Cartier to catch the last of the match’s flame, and so much for the cigarette lighter that had recently been acquired. He’d take his time with her until she realized he wasn’t going to get out from behind the Citroën’s wheel until he had squeezed every last little thing out of her.

Then he’d make her visit Adrienne Guillaumet. ‘So, tell me about Lulu. On the evening of Monday, January eleventh, you left your mother’s Irish Terrier in the car outside Chez Bénédicte at about six thirty and went down into the Lido to find out what was delaying Denise Rouget.’

Did he know everything? ‘
Maman
worshipped that dog. When one is dying, Inspector, a companion such as Lulu means all the more. Lulu gave my mother life. To have stolen her … to have killed and
eaten
her was to have …’

‘You knew she’d been eaten?’

Ah, merde
! ‘We assumed she had. Don’t those people
eat
dogs?’

Deliberately Herr Kohler gave her a moment to calm herself.

‘Correct me, Mademoiselle de Brisac, but wasn’t Colonel Delaroche­ still looking for Lulu? If so, how is it that you knew Lulu had ended up in the soup pot? It’s probably a culinary delicacy, just as was horse meat here in France before this lousy Occupation.’