Paris Requiem, page 25
‘Have you been inveigled into coming to the opera too?’ he asked me, his tone conspiratorial.
‘Is it really two and a half hours?’ I asked him.
‘I’m sure it will seem a lot longer.’
I felt a huge sadness. I would have given anything to have met a kindred spirit like Peter under any other circumstance than this one. And I didn’t mean the opera, although that was pretty bad too.
A commotion to our left distracted us. A man in uniform with a small entourage was making his way to his seat, forcing the other melomanes to adopt that curious theatre half-crouch and sideways twist while he squeezed past. I recognised him and willed him not to look in my direction. It was the SD officer who’d had me brought in for questioning about the missing prisoners. In his entourage, I spied the older man who’d been with him the day I paid a social call on the Gestapo.
‘Do you know who that is?’ I whispered to Peter, nodding at the older man.
‘That’s Karl Bömelburg, the head of the Gestapo in Paris.’
‘And the one finding his seat?’
His voice hushed a notch. ‘Helmut Knochen. He’s the head of the SD in Paris. Why do you ask? They really aren’t people you want to meet.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ Whoops.
‘Although the SD and the Gestapo are kept very much in check these days. Here in Paris, I mean. That’s largely thanks to General von Stülpnagel, the Military Commander in France. And because the SD is badly undermanned. Badly from their point of view, that is. Knochen there sees his role as mainly information-gathering rather than the sort of thing we’ve come to expect of them.’ He paused to look critically at Knochen before hurriedly looking away and lowering his voice even more. ‘Long may it last, for your sake and ours.’
‘So you’re not a lover of the SD? Or the Gestapo?’
‘I’m a lover of every aspect of the Nazi structure. As I’m sure you are of every aspect of French politics over the last twenty years.’
The lights dimmed and the fun started. If only they’d stop all the caterwauling, I thought, as the music was wonderful. Hochstetter’s synopsis was accurate, a woman dressed unconvincingly as a man to release a political prisoner. I wondered if there was someone working at the opera who’d decided to push as far as they could and was then surprised to find the Nazi authorities agreeing to the opera being staged. If it wasn’t rationed, I’d buy them a drink.
The interval came and I got my eardrums back. I tried ringing Thirty-Six and Madeleine again. Boniface had left, which was good, but there was no reply from Madeleine’s shop. Hochstetter remained in the room the whole time.
‘I have to go somewhere now that you probably won’t want to come,’ I told him, heading for the toilets.
I took refuge in one of the cubicles and sat and thought. I wondered what was happening with Boniface and Dédé, but my mind was distracted by the opera. There was one scene that I grudgingly had to admit to liking with a macabre enjoyment. The ‘Prisoners’ Chorus’ that Hochstetter had been listening to on the gramophone at the Lutétia. All the political prisoners were let out of their cells in the belief they were to be set free. They milled around and sang a lot, most of it unnecessary, until their dreams were suddenly burst and they were put back in their cells in a curious distortion of the case that was robbing me of my sleep. I couldn’t get the image out of my mind.
I was about to leave my cubicle when I heard voices outside. At least two, and they both rang a bell. I heard the sound of peeing and then water running in the sinks.
‘I see Hochstetter is here with his tame policeman,’ one of them said.
It clicked. The voice belonged to the man who’d questioned me on Avenue Foch, the one I now knew to be Helmut Knochen, the head of the SD, thanks to Peter. And the other one was the Gestapo chief, Karl Bömelburg. He spoke now.
‘We’ve had a report from the office in Compiègne. A Paris police detective was there, asking about African prisoners. It was Hochstetter’s man.’
‘African prisoners? I thought it was French prisoners he was asking about.’
‘Both, it would appear. Should we be tackling him more vigorously?’
In my cubicle, I couldn’t help shaking my head.
‘Keep him under surveillance. Should you feel he needs dealing with, do so.’ That got another shake of the head, only more so. ‘This matter of prisoners going missing is quite perplexing.’
I felt my gun under my jacket. Hochstetter hadn’t taken it away from me when I’d arrived. I took it out slowly and put my other hand on the door handle. They were both outside, a door’s width away. Two bullets away. Two problems gone. In one stroke. I looked at my pistol and tried to find a reason not to do it.
The outer door opened and the two men stopped talking for a brief moment. It was Knochen who spoke to the newcomer first.
‘Hochstetter, we were just discussing you.’
‘I’m sure you were,’ Hochstetter replied.
Three bullets, I thought. Hochstetter’s tame policeman, my arse. I heard the other two men leave and the moment was gone. I put my gun away.
‘You can come out now, Édouard. You can’t skulk in there forever.’
I flushed the toilet and emerged to wash my hands.
‘Did you hear anything of interest?’ he asked me.
‘They said you had bad breath.’
* * *
Back in the auditorium for the second half, I couldn’t help looking over at Knochen and Bömelburg. Unfortunately, I caught Knochen’s eye and he stared at me before turning to the officer next to him, who looked back and studied me in turn until the lights went down.
Resigned to sitting it out until the end before I could do anything, a moment in the second act struck me. Thanks to Leonore’s wholly unrealistic pretence at being a man, she succeeded in releasing her husband. Or she would have if some official hadn’t entered stage left and finished the job for them.
When they finally – and mercifully – quit singing, they all applauded themselves and each other and the lights went up. I blinked to get used to it and watched the spectral grey uniforms rise slowly from their seats and drift away to left and right. Next to me, Hochstetter got up and shuffled to the aisle, deep in starry-eyed conversation with Kraus. I sat and pondered, when I felt another tap on my shoulder. It was Peter.
‘So how was that for you?’ he whispered.
‘Truly evil.’
He laughed. ‘Spoken like a true jazzman.’
I watched him leave and sat on my own a moment longer. I hadn’t been joking. It was truly evil. The rapturous applause at a story of political freedom from the very people who were wilfully and steadfastly removing it from every other country around them. I glanced over at Hochstetter, who was signalling for me to join him. And the cultural arrogance of people like him who saw everything they did as better than everything they replaced. I took a deep breath and left my seat.
‘So how was that, Édouard?’ a euphoric Hochstetter asked me when I caught up with him. ‘Much more enlightening than your jazz, wouldn’t you say?’
‘You know, I have to agree with you. I learned a valuable lesson this evening. One that will stay with me.’
He gave a half-smile. ‘Progress.’
‘I hope so.’
I turned to see Knochen throw one last glance in my direction.
* * *
Boniface was waiting for me outside. He couldn’t hide a look of concern on his face. Signalling him to say nothing, I thanked Hochstetter and excused myself to him.
‘Police business,’ I told him.
Hochstetter offered help but I declined. Hurrying Boniface away from the building towards his car as fast as my ankle would allow, I asked him what had happened. I saw Knochen and Bömelburg scanning the crowd outside the opera house. I wondered if it was for me.
‘I went. I tried the café but it was shut. Dédé wasn’t there.’
‘And Madeleine?’
‘She’s out looking for him.’
39
A Traction Avant, its powerful engine growling in the night, cruised past. I ducked back into the doorway. I saw Boniface on the opposite side of the narrow street do the same. He spotted me and grinned. He really had no idea what was going on.
As the car went by, I tried to peer in to see if it was the Gestapo or Capeluche’s employers, but it was too dark to tell. It didn’t matter, either way. They were both out in force hunting us down in the back streets of Montparnasse.
Boniface and I had driven from the Palais Garnier to the neighbourhood to look for Dédé. Turning back as we’d left the opera house, I’d seen Knochen talking to two men in a Traction Avant, which quickly gunned its engine and set off after us.
‘You’d probably better get a bit of a move on,’ I told Boniface.
He looked in the mirror. ‘I’m on it.’
He lost them in the narrow streets south of the Seine and we’d got to Montparnasse with no other car in sight. Curfew was almost on us. We were cops and allowed to be out but if Dédé or Madeleine were caught by a German patrol, they’d be arrested. And if it were Capeluche’s lot that got to Dédé first, his chances were going to be a lot worse. He knew who it was who’d gone through Fresnes, choosing prisoners for impromptu release. I assumed that was Henri Lafont, whoever he was. And whoever he was, he’d be keen on silencing Dédé to make sure we didn’t get to know his identity.
Boniface and I had first gone to the café where I’d been supposed to meet Dédé. It was in darkness, as Boniface had said, but we’d banged on the door until the owner had come down to open it. She looked pale as rationed milk.
‘I thought you were the Boches,’ she’d said, gathering her dressing gown around her chest.
‘Have you seen Dédé?’ I asked her. ‘He was supposed to meet me here.’
‘He can’t have. We were shut.’
She’d suddenly gone silent and looked over our shoulders. And that’s when we’d turned to see the first of the Traction Avants, slowly rumbling towards us. The passenger window wound down and a hand with a pistol emerged from it, like a film slowed down.
‘Get back inside,’ I told the owner. ‘And don’t open the door to anyone. Where would we find Dédé?’
She hurriedly retreated inside, gabbling her words as she went. ‘He’d go and see Julien.’
‘Where?’ I asked her, but she’d gone.
Boniface grabbed me and pulled me around the side of the building. The first gunshot of the evening sent splinters of stone from the café wall rattling around our heads and we ran along the narrow alleyway to the left. The car wouldn’t be able to follow us down there.
‘Who’s Julien?’ I asked when we drew breath at the end of the lane.
‘Who’s after us?’ Boniface had a question of his own. ‘The Gestapo or the Fresnes crowd?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘If it’s French criminals, I’m shooting back. If it’s the Gestapo, I’m not.’
I groaned. He was right. Shooting at the Gestapo was not normally known to be a good idea. We had to get away from whichever bunch of lovelies it was that was following us, but we also had to find Dédé. And Madeleine. I took stock of where we were. She lived above the haberdasher’s, which was just three streets away.
We went together. Two pairs of eyes peeled for pursuers seemed a better bet than splitting up and taking our chances on finding either Dédé or his mother separately. She wasn’t in when we got there. I tried to do the silent knock on her door – enough to get her to open up, not so much anyone else would hear it. She wasn’t in either way.
‘Who in hell’s name is Julien?’ I asked again.
‘The first café we found Dédé,’ Boniface said. ‘Would he be there?’
‘A few minutes to curfew. We’ll try.’
As we got close, though, a Traction Avant came around the corner. This time I saw it was two Gestapo men in the front seats. They’d seen us, so we ran back the way we’d come and cut down a side street. With any luck, the two cars would meet head-on.
‘Did you see him in the café?’ I asked Boniface. He shook his head.
My ankle was beginning to hurt. In my pocket, I felt the tube of Pervitin. When Boniface turned away, I took it out for the briefest of moments, tempted, but I quickly put it back without opening it. We crouched down in a doorway, listening for sound. A car engine went by a street away, and we both instinctively shrank back.
‘Mireille Gourdon,’ Boniface suddenly said. ‘Calais Jacques’ ex. She’s friends with Madeleine. She might know.’
‘Do you know where she lives?’
I sensed him winking in the dark. ‘Got her address.’ I heard him rummaging around in his jacket and pull something out. In a brief flash, he lit his lighter and looked quickly at a piece of paper, before flicking the flame off again. ‘Got it.’
We ran through the streets, from doorway to doorway. A Wehrmacht patrol car went by, no doubt attracted by all the movement or the gunshot earlier.
‘That’s all we need.’
Boniface found the apartment block and we broke the downstairs lock to get in. I stayed downstairs in the hallway, keeping an eye out, while Boniface ran upstairs.
‘No kissing,’ I told him. ‘We haven’t got time.’
I saw his teeth grin white in the darkened stairwell. He was back down surprisingly quickly.
‘Her husband was in,’ he explained. ‘Madeleine was here earlier. Mireille’s told me where I might find her.’
We’d only been out of the door for ten seconds when another gunshot made us run for cover. I hadn’t seen where it had come from, so we ran blindly to the nearest shelter.
‘This way,’ Boniface called by a mews entrance. ‘It’s up here.’
I turned but couldn’t see where the shot had come from. I heard an engine revving somewhere behind me and quickened my pace to catch him up. My ankle was in agony and I half-hobbled, half-ran the final stretch. Boniface was already inside the door of an ancient building and talking to a woman inside.
‘Julien?’ I heard her whisper when I got there. ‘He’s dead. He died years ago. He and Dédé were inseparable as kids.’ She also told Boniface where we could find Madeleine. ‘She was going to the café.’ She named the one we’d first gone to.
I groaned. We began to retrace our steps when a thought occurred to me.
‘You go back to the café to look for Madeleine,’ I told Boniface. ‘I think I know where Julien will be.’
‘He’s dead.’
‘Precisely.’
We took off along the same street for a short distance, Boniface on the opposite side to me, ducking back when a Traction Avant cruised slowly past. I turned away from him at the end of the street and hurried as fast as my ankle would allow to the darkened gates of Montparnasse cemetery.
One of the small side gates on the Rue Émile Richard had been forced. Glancing around me, I pushed it and went in. Montparnasse had been dark, but this was another world altogether. The sounds were different. Scuffling and scurrying in the bushes lining the narrow avenues of the dead were in counterpoint to the silence of the graves.
I took my gun out and crept in. The cemetery was huge. I had no idea where Julien would be buried, assuming my supposition was right, but I decided that he’d be most likely to be in the peripheral plots, away from the fine and famous in the central aisles.
A car engine ran along the road outside and I froze. It retreated and I moved on, treading cautiously amid the stones. I kept away from the paths as there was less cover there. Not that there was much among the graves.
For the briefest of moments I saw a flash of light ahead of me and to my right. I stopped again, fixing in my mind where I’d seen it. Edging forward, I heard the car return. This time it stopped behind me. I guessed it was near the entrance where I’d come in. They must have found the broken gate.
Making as little noise as I could, I pressed on. Ahead of me was whoever had flashed a light. Behind me were the occupants of the car. I skirted slightly to the left, hoping to come up on the person ahead from the side, where they wouldn’t see me.
I heard a stone scrape under foot. This time a torch shone. A voice shouted in German. As the light traversed, I saw that it was a patrol of uniformed soldiers. There was at least one plain-clothes person with them. Gestapo, I had no doubt.
The stone scratched again and I followed the sound. The soldiers’ torch swept and I caught sight of a figure crouching behind a gravestone. The light wouldn’t have shone directly on them, so the torch-holder wouldn’t have seen them. I only saw them because of the shadow cast by the light. They were a slight build. I hoped it was Dédé.
The Germans moved away, scanning their torches among the graves to my right. I approached the grave where I’d seen the shadow. I heard an intake of breath. It was taken in fear.
‘Dédé?’ I said in a stage whisper.
‘Good to see you, Eddie,’ a voice replied.
Only it wasn’t Dédé’s.
‘Calais Jacques,’ I cursed.
‘Come and join us, poulet. See what I’ve got here.’
He stood up, holding a frightened Dédé in his grip. In his other hand, I saw what looked like a gun. I hid mine by my side and carefully walked towards them. As I drew near, Jacques pulled Dédé with him towards the nearest pathway. In the distance, I heard the Germans sweeping around. It sounded like they were coming back towards us. Their torches began to search the graves nearer and nearer to where we were standing. Jacques looked towards their source. He didn’t appear too concerned by their presence.
In one flash of reflected light, I saw that what Jacques was holding was a leather cosh, not a gun. I drew near, one eye on the lights approaching, and raised my pistol.
