CHAPTER ONE
Monday, July 15, 1940
I stepped out of the Police Préfecture, pausing to light up a cigarette, and set off to walk to the scene of the robbery by myself, which went against protocol these days. Albert Durand was supposed to partner me, but his asthma was acting up and he didn’t fancy the walk in the heat. Nor did he want to suffer the new views of Paris we were all being subjected to, especially after yesterday, Bastille Day, which was normally a day to celebrate France. For me, at least, it was a day to sit behind my desk and try very hard not to be ashamed of her. Even today, as I left the building, I kept my eyes on the cobbles under my feet, unable to meet her gaze. From time to time I had to look up, of course, and every time I did there they were, the garish, bloodred banners and black swastikas with which the Germans had stained every important building in the city. All I could do was light another cigarette, keep my head down, and walk.
Also, I knew Durand would grumble about me smoking, which I can do without. He’d read reports that doctors were now saying smoking could give you cancer or blacken your lungs, but given how many people smoked, and for how many years, I doubted it. In any case, you’d think that when your city is overrun by uniformed savages from the east, people would have more to worry about than someone else sucking in a lungful of peace, relaxation, and (maybe) slow death.
Durand was useless as a partner, anyway, slow on the uptake and more likely to get me in trouble than out of it. Since the Germans had taken Paris not even a month ago there’d been tension between the people who used to wield authority (us cops) and the conquering force who now did. Not only had the bastards taken our precious city, they’d knocked us down in the pecking order of things. I’m not afraid to bang a few heads now and again, but in general I find my mouth to be more effective than my nightstick. But plenty of other cops had taken the power dilution personally and our chief, Roger Langeron, wanted an immediate stop to street flics and detectives talking back to the Germans and getting slapped about for their troubles. Two-men teams were thus mandated, on the theory that at least one of the two would have a cool head. Thing is, Durand isn’t a hothead and I only like to goad the people I work for, so it’s a pointless pairing.
Heading southwest, I crossed Pont Saint-Michel and passed two grim-faced nurses who glanced my way—they were middle-aged German women and we called them les boniches, “maids,” for the large white bonnets they wore as part of their starched uniforms. The Germans love their uniforms … Durand told me yesterday that to preserve their image as dignified conquerors, the bastards weren’t even allowed to loosen their ties in public. What a joke.
At least those maids get shade from the summer sun, I supposed as I refused to acknowledge their existence.
I stayed on the sunny side of the street myself. Not because I wanted to get sweaty but because the Boche in their wool uniforms stuck to the shady side and the fewer of those cabbage-munchers I encountered, the better for my mood.
Still, it was impossible to ignore the signs of them. Often literally—on rue Grégoire-de-Tours I stopped to read a notice on the front door of one of the forty brothels throughout Paris the Germans had requisitioned. There was a notice with some drivel written in German, and one below it in French: NO ENTRY FOR CIVILIANS OR FOREIGNERS.
And just like that, we weren’t even allowed to screw our own women.
I’d heard of the rules les Fritz have for their own men in these places: no alcohol allowed, no civilians inside, prophylactics always, and the most ridiculous of all, a soldier was required to note the reference number of the girl he’d been serviced by, after the act. All in the name of efficiency, no doubt, but compare that to the French brothels—no one went inside unless they were drunk or drinking, which meant that condom use was occasional, and only if the girl put it on for you. And no goddamned reference numbers; they had real names like Chantal and Princess and GlouGlou. (Well, no one is christened “Gobbler,” but how nice she got to choose a name to match her skills.)
I crossed boulevard Saint-Germain and started down rue de Rennes, slowing as I passed the open doors of a bakery, the smell of fresh bread and sweet pastries drawing me in like a siren. I stopped in my tracks when a baby-faced German got to the door first and held it open for me, an anxious grin on his face.
“Suddenly, I’m not hungry anymore.” I said it slowly so he’d understand, and I watched the grin drop from his face, enjoying every second of his discomfort, and then kept walking. I turned my mind to what little I knew about the robbery: the victim was a famous psychoanalyst who lived in a beautiful house and was well-connected. I touched my jacket pocket to make sure my trusty notebook and pencil were ready to flesh out those meager details, but by the time I got to the three-story house I was just glad to step out of the heat. Even gladder when I saw the lady of the house had put a tray on the foyer’s circular table with glasses of cold water for … the cops who were already there. Which I was not expecting.
There were two, and my heart sank at the sight of them. One in particular. I didn’t much mind Marcel Rapace, I’d only come across him and his drooping mustache a couple of times and we’d never had a beef. Not so with Georges Guyat, with whom everyone at the Préfecture had had the whole cow. His nickname was GiGi, and not just for his initials—he had the long face and big eyes of a horse, but one that hadn’t been fed in a month. His trench coat, which he wore no matter the weather, hung off his thin, sloping shoulders and no one, I suspect not even his mother, had ever seen him smile.
Of course, the other thing that made my heart sink was that they were murder detectives.
“What are you doing here?” GiGi asked. Being a fine detective myself, I recognized the sneer he barely bothered to conceal.
“I was told there was a robbery.”
“There was. And then a murder. Or the other way around, it doesn’t much matter. Either way no one needs a bumpkin from the robbery division.”
I moved past him into the living room of the grand house and looked around at the velvets and silks for furniture fabric, the paintings of horse races and pheasant hunts on the stretched canvases, and took in the smell of polish and gentility all around. Which, I thought, I wouldn’t recognize if I was a real bumpkin.
“Where is that accent from?” Rapace asked. I couldn’t tell if he was sucking up to GiGi or genuinely curious. I gave him the benefit of the doubt.
“Pyrénées.” I looked around. “So, what happened here?”
“Nothing you need to know about.” GiGi looked past me as a woman entered the room. She looked to be about sixty, with wavy, graying hair parted neatly down the middle and a long pearl necklace she worried at with her fingers. She had thin lips and a rather prominent nose, but her most interesting feature was her wide-set and intelligent eyes. She looked past the other two detectives, directly at me, and her eyes were a lot steadier than her hands.
“And who might you be?” she asked.
“I am Henri Lefort, madame.” I gave her a small bow, which was rather out of character for me. It would make more sense later, though.
“I am Marie Bonaparte,” she said, her eyes never leaving my face. “And this is my home.”
“It’s very beautiful,” I said, not knowing what else to say.
“Thank you.” She looked at GiGi. “Why do I need a third detective?”
“You don’t,” he said curtly. He unwrapped a stick of gum and I felt my blood pressure instantly rise. The few times I’d been around him he chewed gum like a cow, with maximum force and maximum noise. I cursed the Americans for bringing the damned substance to France. I hated that sound more than any other in the world, and I hate a lot of sounds. “Especially not this farmhand.” He didn’t try to be nice, even when we were with our clients.
“Farmhand?” Bonaparte raised an eyebrow.
“He’s from the mountains,” GiGi said snidely, popping in the gum. “Maybe a shepherd.”
“I’m from Castet in the Pyrénées,” I told her. “And don’t chew that anywhere near me, if you want to keep your teeth.”
“Try it,” GiGi said, and smacked his lips to rile me.
“You don’t like each other?” Bonaparte asked. She seemed almost amused.
“No one likes him,” I said, and she glanced at Rapace for confirmation or denial. He just shrugged, giving her the former.
“Well, since you’re here you might as well help.” She tilted her head just slightly, still looking at me.
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