12

The comings and goings at that Lokal on the boulevard Saint-Michel were clearly in view, Hermann having drawn the Citroën over to the side of the boulevard Saint-Germain not far to the west of its intersection with the other. It was Wednesday, 6 October, and they’d been on this investigation since the first of the month, yet it seemed a lifetime, felt St-Cyr. It was almost 1000 hours, and in but a moment he was going to have to do what that girl had asked, yet there was still this huge uncertainty over Giselle and Oona and it clouded everything. ‘Hermann, she will at least have tried to free them.’

‘Or been arrested. Had you even thought of that?’

‘Constantly.’

‘Just remember that if you are met, you tell her that she has to come alone and with that bike’s trailer.’

‘Ah mon Dieu, but why?’

‘How else is she going to cart away three suitcases?’

‘You’ve thought of everything, have you?’

‘What I have in mind might just work.’

‘Yet you’ve not had the guts to fill me in on the details or even to discuss it! Bonne chance, mon vieux. Bonne chance!’

Having had but another terrible night in that house of Louis’s mother’s, they were both bitchy, felt Kohler, Louis out of the car before anything further could be said and quickly losing himself among the pedestrians, the foot-traffic the usual for this time of day and midweek. Students, too, of course. Lots of those on bikes and on foot, but mostly female, the boys either dodging the forced labour or having already gone into hiding. ‘But it’s coming, isn’t it?’ he called out. ‘The end, eh, and they all look as if they can hardly wait.’

‘“Spring,” n’est-ce pas?’ said an urgent female voice. ‘Floor it and pull over where suitable.’

Ach, she had ducked into the car so quickly, he hadn’t even heard her open the door. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be meeting Louis?’

‘This is safer.’

Ramming the accelerator to the floor and leaning on the horn, he didn’t say another thing, just headed straight to the Halle aux Vins which wasn’t far and just off the rue de Jussieu, next to the Jardin des Plantes. The rue de Bordeaux was busy, that, too, of the Côte d’Or. Settling on the rue de Bourgonne, he found a quiet place, and turning in and out of sight of most, left the engine running and said, ‘Now tell me what the hell you meant.’

‘Something—I don’t honestly know what—told me not to go in there, and when I saw him hurriedly leave the car, that same instinct told me not to call out, but to speak to yourself.’

Had Louis walked right into it? If so, how could he possibly be freed? ‘Did you manage Oona and Giselle?’

‘The shop Enchantement. Madame Van der Lynn said to tell you Muriel and Chantal would hide them.’

Giving but the deepest of sighs, Herr Kohler very quickly told her where and how the exchange would be made, and how very tight the timing would have to be. And when he said, ‘You’ve a trailer for that bike of yours. Be sure to use it,’ she knew that he could only have seen it in those photos that had been destroyed.

He didn’t ask where she was staying, simply said, ‘I’ll drop you off at the Jussieu métro station. In that uniform you’ll ride free and the sooner you vanish from this quartier, the better. Louis may need me.’

Fewer and fewer were in the Lokal, the increasing emptiness seeming only to focus attention on himself, felt St-Cyr. No one had come to tell him where to meet Anna-Marie. Believing they were meeting, Hermann would have gone on to the Porte de Versailles to connect with Werner Dillmann, but was that whole house of cards of his to now fall in on them?

Emptying his pipe—making sure no little fire remained—he tucked it away, and forcing himself to do so, decided to wait another two minutes. Had she seen that their meeting here was out of the question? Had she been arrested?

Cold, hard, heavy and well known but not his own, the muzzle of a Lebel Modèle d’ordonannce was pressed to the back of his head. ‘Hands flat on the table, Sergeant.’

‘Ah, Rocheleau, and here I thought you would be busy elsewhere, but if you’re intending to cause trouble again, let me remind you of the consequences.’

The blow must be excruciating, felt Rocheleau, the suddenness of oblivion instant!

Blood poured from the salaud’s head. ‘Was that hard enough, Inspector, or do you want another?’

Not being able to understand more than a few words of French, Ludin impatiently said in Deutsch, ‘Remove that pistol of his and hand it to me, then use his handcuffs.’

‘Ah bon, the bracelets. Those will teach him another lesson.’

Two Blitzmädchen had collected Kohler’s women last night, Ludin now knew, the one with papers that had given her name as Annette-Marie Schellenburger. She’d been blonde, blue-eyed and younger than the twenty-eight those papers had stated, but beyond that it hadn’t taken much to figure out where she might well be wearing that uniform and meeting with St-Cyr. Not only was there a Blitzmädchenheim on the rue Saint-Séverin and just off the boulevard Saint-Michel, there was a Lokal on the latter and not far from a Soldatenheim on the boulevard Saint-Germain, and with lots of students from the Sorbonne as a reminder. But he had needed help, and there really had been only one person he could have used.

‘Kriminalrat, this turtle will tell us everything. Just give me a few moments with him at Rudy de Mérode’s. Les joyeuses, n’est-ce pas, then the bathtub with iced water and he’ll soon cough up the answers, if not, a few lessons with the rawhide to mark him like that partner of his.’

Virtually all of what had just been said made little sense. ‘Just clamp a handkerchief to his head and get him into the car. Kohler can’t be intending to collect him. He’d have been on top of us by now, but we’ll take no chances.’

Lying on a table in the Lokal, amid scattered cigarette ashes, saccharine and a wash of acorn water, were the bloodstains and a flat, almost full and forgotten bottle of Jägermeister.

Pocketing this last, Herr Kohler didn’t hesitate. ‘And this Frenchman who hit him?’ he demanded.

‘Owlish with black Bakelite specs, a broken, sticking-plaster covered nose, new suit, fedora, tie and topcoat, and relish at what he’d just done.’

One of the Wehrmacht’s career losers, this unshaven, un-anything­ fifty-year-old ‘cook’ was waiting for a handout. ‘Now tell me where they were taking him since that Kriminalrat was supposed to be on his way back to Berlin.’

While that was interesting, felt Karl Ludwig Hoefle, all he really could do was to give a shrug and then … ‘Ach, after I had helped the frog to get your partner into the backseat of that car, he scribbled something down and handed it to me. Now what the hell did I do with it?’

‘What?’

‘A scrap of paper with an address. Ach, he said that his wife was now working there and needed lessons, and that if I would give her “the works,” I was to tell the boss-madam he would pay for it.’

‘His wife?’

‘Évangéline.’

‘What house?’

Now this was far more interesting and haste was, of course, necessary but …

Peeling off a 500-franc note, Herr Kohler finally handed it over, and when told a 1,000-franc note would help, uncovered the answer. ‘My French isn’t too good but I think it was the Lupanar des garennes.’

The brothel of the wild rabbits and one of the forty that were reserved for the Wehrmacht’s rank and file but obviously also owned by none other than Rudy de Mérode.

‘Apparently the house is on the rue Vignon,’ said Hoefle.

Known as Hookers’ Alley, and just off place de la Madeleine and its boulevard, which all too soon became place des Capucines and home to a certain bank. Were things coming full circle? Heinrich Ludin wouldn’t dare take Louis there and would have to find a place where no one would bother them, but could Louis hold out and stall them long enough to get what needed to be done before the search for him could begin? ‘Tell no one you’ve given me that address, mein Freund. Mention it to anyone and I’ll find you.’

Another 500-franc note was handed over, but to seal such a bargain, a further 500 was found.

Louis would have to be taken somewhere, but where, since Ludin was now disobeying Kaltenbrunner’s orders and that could only mean one thing.

Fumes were what had finally brought him round, felt St-Cyr. Gasoline fumes, not the voices he now heard, but he’d keep his eyes shut. The engine had been switched off, a side window rolled well down—the driver’s side: Heinrich Ludin’s. Rocheleau was the one who was rapidly talking and therefore still feeling his oats.

‘Kriminalrat, if you don’t want to take him to Rudy’s, let’s find a quiet spot in the Bois de Vincennes.’

‘Verfluchter Franzose, Sei still! Kohler has to have gone somewhere. Ach, my gut! Has it burst?’

A moment of quiet was needed, flecks of dark blood perhaps seen on a hastily clutched handkerchief, Rocheleau irritably finding himself another cigarette but crying out when the match either broke or showered sparks into his face.

It was Ludin who again gasped and, doubtless signaling, said in Deutsch, ‘See if there’s another bottle of that stuff, then check to see if you haven’t killed him.’

Ah bon, felt St-Cyr, the wrists had been linked in front, but merde the bracelets were far too tight. Danger that he was, Rocheleau continued to suck on that cigarette, disregarding entirely the fumes and that the prisoner’s face was still crammed uncomfortably against what could only be a hastily filled jerry can of gasoline, apparently one of three or four.

Holding the cigarette well away from himself, his nervous fingers probed for a pulse, that hand being grasped and yanked hard, the head being butted by an already wounded one, Rocheleau yelling so hard his face hit the jerry can, blood erupting from his nose and lips, the cigarette having thankfully fallen to the road.

Slamming him down yet again, took care of him, but now a Walther P38 was threatening from the driver’s seat.

‘Shove him out,’ said Ludin, ‘and lock that door and the other one.’

Good riddance, was it? ‘No one will touch him, Kriminalrat, because of yourself and this car, but he does need medical and dental attention.’

‘Where the hell are we?’

‘Is it that you’re wondering about all those blacks?’

‘Just tell me.’

‘Certainly. All are French citizens, the men veterans of that other war and many of those, the Chemin des Dames and the ruins at l’Abbaye de Vauclair, the absent younger males now prisoners of war in your country and/or enduring the forced labour. Quite by accident, you’ve turned south, and having crossed place de Jussieu and driven right past the back of Halle aux Vins and that also of the Jardin des Plantes, are on the rue Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire and all but at the entrance to the Turkish baths that are in the cellars of the Paris mosque.’

‘What’s Kohler got in mind?’

‘Hermann? Believe me, if I knew I would gladly tell you.’

‘Where’s the Bois de Vincennes?’

‘Make a left at the corner and I’ll guide you.’

That Louis would be needing him was all too clear, felt Kohler, but it was already 1047 hours and the Porte de Versailles was still so busy there had to be another high-priority. Long lines of heavily laden farm wagons, gazo trucks and a few cars awaited entry, while over to the east and nearest the Parc des Expositions, cyclists and foot traffic were also being given the thorough. No one was going to get into or out of Paris, but had Kleiber grabbed that girl and called for a clamp-down or was it simply random?

Scanning the entrance, taking the time when such was no longer available, the cause of the trouble continued to elude him, but over to the west was a little something. Right in Werner Dillmann’s territory was a faded red, 3.5-tonne Renault whose canvas tarp had been flung aside to reveal nothing but an apparent emptiness.

That broad, carefully combed moustache, the shrapnel scars, missing fingers, deceitfully wary blue eyes, and all the rest were the same, the look one also of knowing a little but wanting to know a lot more and expecting everything.

‘Ach, Hermann, mein Lieber, am I glad to see you. Corporals Mannstein, Weiss and Rath, take over. It’s another of those controls. Like the power outages and the raids on the unlicensed brothels, they never tell us until it’s too late, but where is that partner of yours?’

Had he heard something or was he just fishing? ‘Busy as usual and preparing for the pay-off at 1830 hours sharp and not a moment too early or late, understand?’

‘Of course, but is the Vaugirard horse abattoir still necessary?’

Now what the hell had happened? ‘Isn’t it the most perfect of places?’

‘Most certainly, but the boys tell me there are others who are showing a decided interest in it, though those have yet to approach it too closely.’

Kleiber hadn’t listened. Already he must be getting men into position, but the location couldn’t be changed, not with Anna-Marie having been told of it. ‘Just remember the time. In and out, and faster than fast.’

A cigarette was necessary, and after three deep drags, handed over. ‘Dank,’ said Hermann whose gaze, it had to be admitted, had repeatedly flicked to that empty truck.

‘Three suitcases stuffed with forty-five thousand fivers, Werner.’

Those big, beautiful white notes of the English, but had he heard him correctly? Enough not only to buy one’s way out of France and into Spain, but to retire in comfort forever. ‘In exchange for what?’

As if he didn’t already have a good idea. ‘A kilo of boart.’

The cheapest of the cheap and at an agreed-upon price like that? ‘And you need me.’

‘Definitely. Few others would know how to do it.’

‘Then perhaps we should first consider that truck I stopped early this morning. Nothing in the back, my Hermann, but two small and rather shabby suitcases, forgotten, I think, in the haste to leave it. A bicycle as well.’

Scheisse! ‘And the driver?’

That was better, and even more humble when handing the cigarette back. ‘His papers leave a lot to be desired and when questioned not only was he evasive, he tried to buy me off with this.’

A baguette brilliant, a beautifully cut oval, clear-white, and of about two carats.

‘Perhaps it is, my Hermann, that this girl you and that partner of yours have been chasing, felt I might weaken and let him go, but of course, when a whole city has been turned upside down looking for her by a Sonderkommando straight from Kaltenbrunner himself, even such as myself and my men have no choice but to do our duty.’

‘So you’ve kept his papers, taken the keys, told him to sit tight and have been waiting for me to show up.’

‘One Arie Beekhuis who sounds as if from of all places, Rotterdam—that is close to Amsterdam, is it not?’

‘Close enough. And those two little suitcases?’

Gut! ‘Nothing but scatterings of female underclothes, an extra blouse or two, a toothbrush that must have been shared—that sort of thing. And the bicycle, of course. A Belgian one, which is curious in itself, as was the city’s name on it. Did that truck happen to come through Liège?’

There was nothing for it but to beg. ‘Let him go, Werner. Handing him over will only complicate what I have in mind.’

‘And that is?’

Did he need to hear it again? ‘The boart for the cash.’

‘But he’s insurance, my Hermann, and I will need such a release in writing from you, stating, of course, that you have indeed checked his papers most thoroughly and have ordered me to release him, or is it that you …’

The son of a bitch. ‘How much?’

That was better, considering the risk. ‘Two of those three suitcases you mentioned, the last for yourself to do with exactly as you please.’

‘And still to pay Rudi Sturmbacher out of my share? Ach, I think I’ve got it.’

‘Gut. Just don’t try to cross me.’

‘Liebe Zeit, how could I even think of such a thing? Just be there when needed. No sooner, no later than that 1830 hours and over and done in such a rush, no one but us will be the wiser.’

Downing three of the Benzedrine, spitting out the pocket fluff, he got back into the car.

Eighty-four avenue Foch was busy: cars and motorcycles out front, armed men in uniform and not and going to and fro, orders being given, and upstairs in that temporary office of Kleiber’s, the billiard table as nerve centre.

Enlarged, a detailed street map of the eastern half of the Vaugirard clearly showed the abattoirs, arrows pinpointing the entrance off the rue des Morillons, but there was also a photo of the two life-size bronze bulls that still marked it in spite of the Reich’s incessant scrap-metal actions. Apparently nothing was to be left to chance. The routes in by foot, and the rail line which ran along the southern edge, were all indicated, the fences too, for it wasn’t a place for the casual. Another enlargement detailed the sewers and pointed out suspected and known caverns, caves and tunnels in the Left Bank’s bedrock that had supplied so much of Paris with its building stone, but had Kleiber thought of everything? He was using a cue to point things out to Johannes Uhl and Ulrich Frensel. And at the far end of the table was one of the suitcases: alligator leather, not inexpensive, and with the LV monogram of none other than Louis Vuitton.

By the travel stickers alone, its former owner had had a penchant for taking the waters: the Friedrichsbad in Baden-Baden, the Grand at Italy’s Montecatini Therme, the Hôtel du Palais in Biarritz, Vichy, too, and Vittel’s Parc Thermal where last February Louis and he had come up against nearly 1,700 British and a 1,000 American females in that internment camp.

‘Kohler, ach you’re just in time. Two of the suitcases are being fitted with their transmitters. That was an excellent idea of yours. The Reichssicherheitschef was most impressed and has given his full support. We are to let those verdamte Banditen believe they are getting away and will track them with the wireless-listening vans. Already those are in place, others on patrol, and still others on foot with the hidden listening devices up the sleeve or in the fedora for the close-in work. Already, too, and I must inform you of this, we have located one enemy wireless which will be taken out as soon as our Mausefalle has sprung.’

Louis would have sadly shaken his head and said of the irony, Didn’t Hector Bolduc use freshly baited mousetraps in that garage of his? But real coffee, schnapps and Lebkuchen had been laid on, the warmers holding sausages, with mustard, sauerkraut and dill pickles to the side, and another with no less than strudel: the cherry, the plum and the apple-and-raisin. Freshly whipped cream, sweetened with real sugar, was to help that last one go down and stay there.

‘Those were for that traitorously incompetent Kriminalrat,’ said Uhl. ‘Herr Frensel and myself were unaware of his having been recalled in such disgrace.’

‘There will be no more of his mistakes, Kohler,’ said Frensel. ‘Now we are to accomplish the inevitable seizure of the black diamonds those filthy Juden tried to hide from such as myself. Mein Gott, you’d think they might have learned. Ach, they even tried to use their children, thinking that I wouldn’t know where to look!’

In bundles of one-hundred notes, and piled in a heap, even with some still in the pale green linen packets they had come in, the fivers were near that suitcase. Each packet had been sealed with red wax, stamped with the swastika signet and labelled Geheime­ Reichssache.

Stark white against the flowing dark black script, each note had Britannica on a throne in its upper left, the signature of K. O. Peppiatt, chief cashier, in the lower right, and in those and elsewhere would be the hidden security checks that would expose the counterfeit. Additionally, of course, there were all the marks and signs of having been well used: those of the banks each had passed through, the shops, the scribbled signatures, et cetera, and the consequent­ wear.

All the packets were addressed to Munimin-Pimetex and though Göring must have had them sent, all had come directly from none other than Heinrich Himmler. But even knowing of these, if not of the privileged, would carry the death sentence, to which Louis would have said, And didn’t I tell you we were digging a bottomless hole for ourselves?

‘You’ll be checking in with Bolduc, will you, Kohler?’ asked Kleiber. ‘Be sure to tell him that the van, with himself as driver and Serge de Lenz as assistant, is to be here and ready at no later than 1500 hours. I must be absolutely certain that everything is in order. We’ve clocked the route several times and will be using the Pont d’Iéna and an average of seven minutes, thirteen seconds. French traffic police are already stationed at every interchange to clear the way, the speed not too fast, you understand, so as to avoid unnecessary attention.’

Given the repeats and the traffic flics, lots would be sure to watch.

‘I’ll have the suitcases for you, Kohler, and right inside the rear door of that van. I’ll hand them out and take the boart in, you then closing that door and handing them the cash.’

‘A kilo,’ said Uhl. ‘It’ll be in a white cotton bag with the usual tie.’

‘Only one of those suitcases will need to be opened for checking, Kohler—that one,’ said Kleiber. ‘Here’s the key. You can tell them it will open the others.’

If bought at the same time, Louis would have said. Also, une souricière du diable.

‘Doubtless they’ll be using the same car as at place de l’Opéra when they executed that fool of an actor Kriminalrat Ludin insisted on using,’ said Kleiber. ‘A Ford Model C Ten, the same as were made in the Reich from 1935 to 1940.’

‘The Eifel accelerates from zero to 80.5 in 18.2 seconds, Kohler,’ said Frensel. ‘Cruises at no less than 106.2.’

‘Has three forward gears and a four-stroke, side-valve, four-cyclinder­ engine,’ added Uhl.

‘Witnesses have sworn that the car’s wheels were not wire-spoked, Kohler, like those of the British models,’ said Kleiber.

A probable guess and nothing more, though a terrific car, but it was now all but 1200 hours and there was still far too much to do. ‘I’d better be getting over to Hector Bolduc’s bank, Colonel. Louis will be wondering where I am.’

‘Eighteen thirty hours, Kohler, and make sure Lenz is with Bolduc. Since I’ve decided to bring Mérode and the rest of his gang in on this, they’ll be watching the flank areas. Sealed, I tell you, Kohler. This whole area and the rest of the city as well.’

‘Eighteen-thirty it is, Standartenführer. Meine Lieben, until later. Chez Kornilov, I think, and the champagne first, then that partner of mine can get to sample the trout with the walnut sauce that he ordered last night but had to miss and has been complaining about ever since.’

Now here, now there, occasional mushroom seekers scavenged this part of the Bois de Vincennes, hoping to find what the weekend’s traffic might have missed and what the last few days and nights of new growth would have produced. Sticks were immediately snapped into small pieces so as to be hidden in rucksacks, acorns quickly pocketed since it was illegal to gather anything save those feelings of being outdoors and the Bois was exceedingly popular, especially on weekends.

Two bicycles, not where they should have been, were locked, the chain linking them having been wrapped around a tree trunk and given a further padlock, bicycle theft being a major concern these days.

Ludin had unfortunately found the needed: a somewhat out-of-the-way dead end leading to one of the Bois’s inevitable road closures that favoured wilderness walking. Leaves were settling on the windshield, and for once the sun was being cooperative, and were it not for the present circumstance, an afternoon in the forest would have been a delight, but there had been absolutely no opportunity of breaking free. The wrists were not just linked by Sûreté bracelets; those of the Gestapo had been used to tie the first to the grip-bar that had been installed above this seat in the autumn of 1940 for use in high-speed chases. A more awkward and increasingly uncomfortable position could not have been found.

Hermann would have said, Rocheleau should see you now, but Hermann would have other things on his mind and had probably downed still more of those damned pills

Side windows open, the Kriminalrat was giving the ‘Toasted’ Lucky Strikes a brief rest and the present circumstance considerable thought.

St-Cyr would have to be persuaded to tell him everything, but how? wondered Ludin. ‘A kilo of boart for what?’

‘Forty-five thousand fivers.’

Himmler would have had to agree. ‘And then?’

‘Is that why the jerry cans of gasoline? Are you on the run, eh?’

‘Don’t taunt. Just tell me.’

The Walther P38 was again in hand, but while a delay might mean a few more hours of life and perhaps a chance to deal with him, to answer correctly would be to put at risk all that Anna-Marie had sought. ‘If I knew, I would tell you, Kriminalrat, but since she didn’t show up at that Lokal, I haven’t a clue.’

‘Would Kohler have met with her?’

‘Since she had never seen him?’

‘Just answer.’

‘Then that is rather doubtful, especially as Hermann had things to do and tends always not to hang around once he’s dropped me off someplace.’

‘Meyerhof did move diamonds for others. Thousands and thousands of carats. Those two from Berlin were certain.’

‘And since they kept whispering such a fiction to others, especially to Kaltenbrunner, a Sonderkommando was needed, otherwise, that one would have had to answer to none other than Heinrich Himmler. Come, come, Kriminalrat, surely the Sicherheitsdienst can do better? A girl shows up quite by chance in Amsterdam, not once, but on a second visit and Josef Meyerhof who is constantly being watched and behind ghetto wire just happens to see her and make contact and entrust her not only with the family’s life diamonds but the route to whoever knows where all those so-called “black” diamonds are hidden? Why not the son, please?’

‘Meyerhof knew it was chancy enough trying to get the boy and his family through France. Once they were safely in Nice and the Italian zone, things could change.’

‘But then that zone was no longer safe and the son and family arrested.’

‘So Meyerhof had to find another way of hiding what he valued most, and with all the other diamonds he had already hidden not just for himself, but for others. By the way, I gather you and Kohler got that girl to free those two I had consigned to the KZ at Mauthausen, not the one at Stutthof.’

Grâce à Dieu! ‘I hadn’t known.’

‘And now you do, so you will tell me where that girl will have to run to once that supposed sale has been concluded?’

If it ever would be. ‘Shoot if you like, but give me a moment since I must argue with my conscience and everything depends on Hermann.’

Somewhat empty, the courtyard off the rue Volney and right behind the bank should have been warning enough, felt Kohler. Having parked the Citroën, he finally realized what he’d forgotten in the rush. It being a Wednesday afternoon, the verdammt bank would be closed and locked up tighter than the Santé. Merde, now what was he to do, let the whole thing collapse, and with Louis out there somewhere as a prisoner?

Pounding on the door did no good, hammering at it with the butt of his Walther P38 little more, but at last a shout was heard, and then, ‘Espèce de salaud, if you and those other couillons think to continue to torment me, you had better think again. Me, I am about to teach you a lesson you will never forget!’

Flung open, forced to face down the twin barrels of another upland, one had to shout, ‘It’s me, Kohler!’

The rolled-up shirt sleeves, muscular biceps, loosened tie, open collar and absent jacket were those of the desperate.

‘I thought it was those parasites again. Where’s St-Cyr?’

‘Busy.’

‘Sacré nom de nom, must you two smash everything? My bank? All that I have worked for? Major clients threatening to pull their accounts unless I give them the advantage of my being under duress? Those curs of the petite bourgeoisie demanding their paltry savings? The press, they are like leeches, I tell you. Never happy, always clinging. Did you and St-Cyr not realize what you had unleashed when you sicked them onto me? Those things I did were as nothing these days. Nothing, I tell you. If that Annette-Mélanie Veroche, or whatever it is she’s now calling herself, had gone along with Deniard and Paquette and offered up her little capital, there would have been no murders, no half-baked attempt to clean out that van—yes, yes, that’s the very one that has just turned in. The little chatte would have been back in Paris, Kohler, safe and sound, I tell you, and enjoying life to its fullest, not hiding diamonds for others and knowing things she may or may not!’

‘And you wouldn’t have been able to collect the insurance.’

‘We can’t. They’re claiming it’s a criminal matter and now, thanks to you and St-Cyr, I’m to be hauled up before Hercule the Smasher. Hercule whom I had counted among my closest associates and most loyal of friends. Bottle after bottle of the Vieille Réserve; cork after cork of nothing but the finest from the Haut-Médoc and Médoc, the hams, the truffles …’

Président du Tribunal Spécial du département de la Seine, Vichy’s top judge and hatchet man in Paris, and an old acquaintance from last February. Louis should have heard him.

‘Hercule presides over the black-market violators, Kohler.’

‘And the night-action courts.’

Those where résistants and other troublemakers were tried and sentenced, Hercule loving nothing better than to condemn them. ‘Photos, Kohler, and not just of myself, my garage, the tenements I own and my vans and bank, but of the wife, too, with the threatened divorce, and my little Didi and Yvonne. Both of the girls are constantly in tears.’

His daughters, the one named after his secretary and primary line of defence but obviously no longer present, since the wife was her sister.

‘Paris-Soir, Le Matin, Le Petit Parisien—even Le Cri du Peuple. All have been running photo after photo and column after column of sensationalism and outright lies.’

That last being the PPF newspaper to which he had donated plenty.

‘And now, you ask? Oh for sure it will be Je Suis Partout this coming Saturday. They’re always berating the police to arrest those guilty of such things and telling them where they can be found. Pariser Zeitung will also be at it, as will Radio Paris, even Radio Berlin. The shame, the humiliation—am I to be stripped naked and paraded through the streets before stretching the neck under the widow maker?’

Sanctimonious as always, Vichy’s Ministry of Provisioning must have needed a scapegoat to calm the masses. ‘Ach, it’ll soon be forgotten. Heros are what’s needed and Louis and me are about to make one of you. Just have than van over to Kleiber in good time—1500 hours is what he wants—and don’t forget to lock him into the back. We don’t want anyone holding you and Lebeznikov up and stealing all of that cash or those Congo cubes.’

‘That one’s a gangster and you know it.’

‘But for what I have in mind, he’s perfect and he’ll keep Mérode and the others at bay. Now I’d better find Louis. This is going to need all of us.’

The rue Vignon wasn’t far but the Wehrmacht’s boys were two by two right up the staircase and along the corridor to that little kiosk at the far end where the cash was taken, the room assigned, and the regulation grey Kondom and postage-stamp towel handed over, jugs of disinfectant being in the rooms.

Évangéline Rocheleau, the flimsy negligée open and revealing all, couldn’t have cared less. Reddened, soon to be giant bruises on her breasts, and a newly swollen left eye and chin, were evidence enough. That husband of hers was far from happy and still favouring a broken tooth and battered lips of his own. Louis hadn’t just made himself an enemy. He had guaranteed it forever.

‘That Kriminalrat will have taken him to the Bois de Vincennes,’ spat Rocheleau, having at last wiggled the tooth free. ‘He’ll have given the salaud exactly what he deserves and me, I’m glad, do you hear? Glad!’

Ten minutes … would it take that long to find Louis and could he really leave her under a thumb like this?

Hauling Rocheleau out into the corridor, he told the boys to do the necessary, since this ‘husband’ of hers had spoiled their fun and ruined her income.

Closing the door, he said, ‘Get dressed. I’ll be back. I guarantee it. Pack what you still have and we’ll find you a job as a seamstress, but if he touches you again, I’ll kill him.’

Louis would have said, Hermann, don’t you dare make such promises, given what you now have to do.

Had he done the unpardonable? wondered St-Cyr. Had he given away innocent lives in but a stark gamble that Hermann would not only pull off that sale and bring Anna-Marie here, but somehow deal with this ulcer of a Gestapo?

Dark blood had now found its way thoroughly into Ludin’s handkerchief, each cigarette butt bearing further evidence. That the spasms were not only more frequent, but all the more intense was clear enough, the lack of that last bottle of bitters a regretted moment of forgetfulness, but not by this prisoner.

Shackled—chained with that Bois-de-Vincennes extra bicycle chain and the bracelets too, and tightly—he was unable to straighten and had to remain squashed up against the passenger door and its window. As if to mock him—and God would do things like this—the late afternoon light over the Barbizon plain was everything that Millet and others of the Barbizon School had found. Sketching out-of-doors had not been common in the mid-1880s. Scandalous, mocked too, they had carried on anyway, but was there nothing he could do? Ludin wouldn’t just kill him, he’d shoot that daughter of Josef Meyerhof and Monsieur Laurence Rousel, the notary who had risked his life to hide her. But would Ludin wait first to see if Hermann did get here with Anna-Marie?

‘That ulcer of yours has eaten its way through the lining of your stomach, Kriminalrat. You’re not just in urgent but desperate need of medical attention. Are those spare cans of gasoline to get you to Lausanne? If so, make sure you can still drive a car and that you don’t ignite the fumes!’

‘Sei Still! If this is another of your lies, I’ll shoot now, rather than later.’

‘Since the gun is yours, it’s either one or the other and of no consequence, but you will never make it to the Swiss border on your own. Take my advice and use the train. There’s a rapide every now and then. The station at Avon is only two kilometres from Fontainebleau, and that is not more than twenty from here. Let’s just hope the Résistance don’t leave a little something on the tracks.’

Instantly the fear of being shot was all too clear. ‘Now show me where Kohler is to bring that girl.’

‘There’s really only one long street, this one, the rue Grande, and it cuts right through the centre of the village since there are only about six hundred residents. Plus the Occupier, of course, for it’s a favourite of theirs, as it is of Parisians, myself included in the old days before the defeat. Rommel, Keitel, Stulpnägel and others have all dined at the Hôtel Bas-Bréau and Hôtel les Pléiades, and stayed overnight, for the cuisine is still said to be exceptional even with all of the terrible shortages.’

‘And the name of Meyerhof’s notary?’

‘It won’t be on any nameplate, but I do know where the house is.’

A few small shops, one general grocery, a tabac, a PTT, a scattering of other restaurants and a small museum that celebrated those painters all drew the camera-totting Wehrmacht who were on holiday. Cars were of interest, though, to everyone, the locals tending to avoid the tourists since those constantly behaved as though they owned the place and emptied the shops.

Of a storey and a half, ancient and of stucco, the house stood right up against the pavement as did most others, even to the windows that were closed off by shutters. ‘That wooden gate to the courtyard, Kriminalrat, will but offer a tight a squeeze and be solidly locked in any case. Pounding on it will only attract unwanted attention.’

Unfortunately a lane ran alongside the property. Masses of tall lilacs, climbers and a stone wall gave further privacy, the picket fence and its gate at the back, one of stout limbs, though offering access for a car.

Unlocked, the shackle-chain was removed, the Sûreté bracelets left on.

Wild flowers, exactly like those painted by Théodore Rousseau of that school, not the Henri of that name, grew in profusion, though most had gone to seed. Beyond these lay a vegetable garden which showed every indication of diligent tending. Rabbit hutches held four does and a buck. Under worn canvas, and with no tires, but up on chocks, Ludin having flipped the tarp back, was a Citroën convertible and another life, another time, and proof positive that Laurence Rousel did indeed know how to drive.

‘You’re out of luck,’ said Ludin, only to choke and gasp, and smother a cry.

A chicken coop and run with seven hens, half hid the gardener, a gentle dark-haired, dark-eyed girl of fifteen whose gathered apron held the carefully harvested grass and wildflower seeds she had been about to scatter.

Terrified, she noticed the pistol.

Seeds showered as she stood helplessly, defeat registering in silent tears. Bolting for the house, she went into what must be its kitchen, failing entirely to close its door.

‘On your knees,’ said Bohle. ‘I’ve had enough of you.’

Could he not even cross himself? ‘If I were you, Kriminalrat, I would wait. Your French is nonexistent and you’re going to need it if ever you’re to find those black diamonds. While there may well be German soldiers who would come to your aid, for you to call on any would, I think, be most inadvisable. Hermann will …’

Reeking, the abattoir waited for it all to happen, the gobs and mounds of greasy-yellow fat, the hooves, the constant dripping of those verdammte taps. Kohler knew he had really done it this time. Kleiber had the whole area covered: supposed chimney sweeps on the surrounding roofs at resident chimney pots and pipes that couldn’t possibly have much soot; égoutiers lifting manhole covers they’d obviously never had to lift before; flics who weren’t flics and others who were, and all on streets that were otherwise empty in any case, the locals having had the good sense to stay the hell out of the way.

Anna-Marie would see only snipers on those roofs. She’d know beyond a shadow of doubt that while she might get in through that side door that gave out onto the rue Brancion, she’d never leave by it or any other. Kleiber would ask, and she’d try not to answer, and then, Louis would have said, What will you do? Oh for sure, as usual you think you’ve considered everything, but is it that you’ve been so overconfident and in such a hurry you’ve missed something?

Verdammt, what?

That FTP équipe. Did you honestly think they would leave her alone to just come in here on of all things, a bicycle, and with not only a kilo of boart, but that of borderlines and those Meyerhof life diamonds? Think, mon vieux. You must, before she gets here and it all goes wrong.

There wasn’t time. Bolduc was turning in. Lebeznikov was beside him and probably cradling a Schmeisser. Kleiber would be in the back, shut in by all that armour plate and that lock, and able only to peer out the single armoured gun-portal on each side of the van, and the small, iron-meshed glass window into the cab up front or the one in the very back.

‘Monsieur l’Inspecteur, je suis là.’

In the all but absent light over by that side door, she having closed it, she stood with hands on the handlebars. There was a rucksack on her back, a small suitcase in the trailer, and as she came hesitantly toward him, avoiding the offal and all the rest, he saw that the pistol she held was cocked and knew she was going to kill herself. And why did you not think of that, too? Louis would have asked.

Everything in her expression said it, but Louis wasn’t here to help.

Clearly there were plenty of potential weapons in this kitchen that hadn’t seen a touch of modernization in the past fifty years, and just as clearly Heinrich Ludin knew exactly how dangerous any of them could be. Alone, he sat in a far corner, pistol in hand, cognac and cigarettes nearby, and not for a moment did he take his gaze from the three of them.

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.

It was now or never, felt Kohler. Louis would expect it of him, but would have to be given the opportunity to tuck things in as needed. ‘Standartenführer Kleiber’s plan was excellent, as the Reichssicherheitschef has stated himself, Sturmbannführer. It should have worked and netted not only that Dutch girl and the rest of those Banditen, but …’

‘Herr Ludin, Walter. He got Oberfeldwebel Dillmann to intervene.’

‘And when Dillmann dropped that Mischlinge off, Kriminalrat Ludin was ready and waiting for her,’ went on Hermann.

‘He forced her to tell him where these were, Walter. It’s about a kilo, I think, but Herr Frensel and Herr Uhl will be able to advise.’

‘The stones are known, I think, as borderlines,’ said Hermann. ‘Of equal value either as gems or industrials. Half-and-halves, if you like.’

And just like that girl. ‘But a kilo? Ach, mein Gott, Kohler, that’s at least twenty times the value of the boart!’

‘Exactly,’ sighed Louis. ‘Twenty or thirty million American dollars.’

And everybody happy. ‘Those are definitely at least some of the “black” diamonds, Sturmbannführer. When we finally located­ Kriminalrat Ludin in his car at the Avon railway station on the other side of Fontainebleau, this first-class ticket to Lausanne was still in his hand.’

‘This tin of Lucky Strikes was on the seat beside him and this all but full bottle of bitters,’ offered Louis.

‘And these,’ said Kohler.

Two twenty-by-twenty photos of that girl, in the one she having dyed and cut her blonde hair.

‘For the national strike, I believe’ said St-Cyr.

‘Dead, you say?’

‘Of a peptic ulcer,’ said Louis.

‘But definitely heading for Switzerland and a hospital instead of obeying orders and returning to Berlin with that kilo,’ said Hermann.

These two … Ach, though not the thousands and thousands of carats as thought, the diamonds would certainly help, felt Boemelburg, for they would prove beyond any shadow of doubt that the Reichssicherheitschef and the others had been absolutely korrekt.

Searching among the many papers, he finally found what might do. ‘It’s a little place to the northwest of Dijon. An archaeological dig of some sort. Bones and bits of rusty iron. A hillfort probably. That of a Gaul, a Ver … something or other.’

‘Vercingetorix, Walter?’ asked Louis.

It was just what was needed to get them immediately out of Paris and far from anyone here who might care, but also in under an umbrella if needed to save himself in Berlin. ‘Ach, that’s it exactly. One of Himmler’s people, a cousin as well. Someone’s been taking umbrage with what he’s been up to and has not only been stealing his artefacts and spoiling the results, but killing his assistants.’

A dig. ‘Old bones and new ones, Louis.’

‘And time, Hermann. Time to factor in the present with that of the past.’

‘A timeweaver, then, mon vieux. A knitter of years.’

^* The international police commission, the forerunner of Interpol.