cork. Handing it to me, she said, 'I found this. The missing plug from the fire extinguisher in your room. It was in the wastepaper basket of the man in Room 55.'
'Good girl. Can you find out the name of the officer who's in fifty-five?'
'I already did. His name is Lieutenant Willms. Nikolaus Willms.' She paused. 'Do you know him?'
'I met him for the first time on the train from Berlin. He's a cop specialising in vice. Hates the French. Face like a snake charmer only without the charm. That's about all I know about him. I can't imagine why he would want to kill me. It doesn't make any sense.'
'Perhaps he made a mistake. Got the wrong room.'
'A French farce by Georges Feydeau doesn't normally include murder.'
'What will you do now?'
'Nothing, for the moment. I have to leave Paris for a few days. Maybe I'll have thought of something by the time I come back. In the meantime how would you like to earn some more German money?'
'Doing what?'
'Keep an eye on him?'
'And what am I supposed to look for?'
'You're a smart girl. You'll know. You found this top from the extinguisher, didn't you? Just bear in mind that he's dangerous and don't take any risks. I wouldn't like anything to happen to you.'
I took her hand and, a little to my surprise, she let me kiss it.
'If I didn't think I'd start coughing, I'd kiss you.'
'Then you'd better let me do it.'
She kissed me and, in my weakened condition I let her. But after a moment or two I needed the air. Then I said, 'When he gave me that shot this morning, the doc warned me that I might feel like this. A little euphoric. Like I was Napoleon.'
I pressed myself hard against her belly.
'You're too big for Napoleon.' She kissed me again and added, 'And way too tall.'
CHAPTER NINETEEN: FRANCE, 1940
Le Bourget was about ten kilometres north of Paris. And so was I. It's strange how physically and mentally restorative one or two kisses can be. It felt like a new kind of fairy tale in which a sleeping prince gets himself rescued by a plucky princess. Then again, that could have been the dope.
At the entrance to the aerodrome was a statue of a nude woman taking flight from her grey stone plinth. It was meant to commemorate Lindbergh's flight across the Atlantic but the only memory that was alive in my head was the feel of Renata's body and what it might look like if ever I saw her out of that maid's uniform.
There were three of us – me, Kestner and Bomelburg – pinned in the back of the staff car like a collection of taupe- coloured moths. In the front was an SS driver and a handsome young chief inspector from the Office of the Paris Prefect of Police. As we drove towards the airport building a four-engined FW Condor was landing on the runway.
'Who do you suppose that is?' wondered Kestner.
'It's Doctor Goebbels,' said Bomelburg. 'Taking his cue from the Fuhrer to see the sights of Paris. Here to cause trouble, no doubt.'
We were obliged to remain in our car for reasons of security until the Mahatma Propagandi had left the airport in an enormous beige Mercedes. I caught a glimpse of him as his car swept past ours. He looked like a malignant goblin on his best behaviour.
When Goebbels had gone our car made for a smaller, twoengined plane that was awaiting us. I'd never flown before. Neither had Kestner nor the Frenchman, and we were all a little nervous as we walked toward the plane's passenger door. Inside the fuselage we found another Frenchman waiting for us – an older, taller man with a Lautrec beard, pince-nez and a quiet forensic manner. He was a commissioner of French police and his name was Matignon. The younger Frenchman was even taller than his commissioner. He wore an extremely well- cut charcoal-grey summer suit and a pair of thick rose- tinted glasses. His name was Philippe Oltramare. Neither of the two Frenchmen seemed to speak much German, but that was hardly a problem with French-speakers like Kestner and Bomelburg on board.
The plane, a Siebel Fh 104A, started its engines as soon as we were all aboard, and that was the cue for everyone except me to light a cigarette. Following the injury to my lungs, the insult of cigarettes seemed too much to bear, and it wasn't long before another fit of coughing look me, which prompted the others politely to extinguish their tobacco, so I enjoyed a smoke-free flight down to Biarritz without further irritation to my lungs. I sounded like the audience at a dirty movie.
Mostly the conversation was in French, but there were several names I recognised, among them Rudolf Breitscheid, the former German minister of the interior, and Doctor Rudolf Hilferding, the former minister of finance. Both men had fled Germany after Hitler's election. I asked Bomelburg about them.
'We think the two Rudolfs are staying at a hotel in Aries,' he said. 'The commissioner here has already applied for their arrest. But he seems to be encountering some local resistance.'
I was pleased to hear it. The two Rudolfs had been the leading lights of the German Social Democratic Party, which I had voted for myself. Arresting a thug like Erich Mielke was one thing; arresting Breitscheid and Hilferding was quite another.
'We trust the commissioner's physical presence in Aries will overcome any opposition,' added Bomelburg, and showed me a list he had compiled of other wanted men. Mielke's name was second from the top, underneath Willy Muenzenberg's, a former Comintern agent and leader of Germany's communist exiles. Other names were less familiar to me.
'I can't help noticing that this plane has only five seats,' I told Bomelburg. 'How am I supposed to get my prisoner back to Paris?'
'That all depends. If we manage to pick up Grynszpan and Mielke and some of these others we may have to have the French deliver them first to Vichy and then apply to have them extradited across the border. At least that's what Commissioner Matignon thinks. So he's arranged for a French lawyer to meet us on the ground in Biarritz.'
'It's already looking more complicated than we had supposed,' complained Kestner. 'It turns out that this damned Kuhnt Commission isn't supposed to go into the camps until the end of August. Of course if we wait that long these commie Jew bastards might easily give us the slip. So we're treading on eggshells at the moment. We're not even supposed to be here.'
The flight was more straightforward, and for the last forty minutes of a journey that lasted just under two hours we hugged the coastline of France and the Bay of Biscay. From the air the city of Biarritz appeared to be exactly what it was: a luxurious seaside town. It was a hot day and the beach was packed with people intent on having a good time in spite of the new German government. I hadn't enjoyed the flight from Paris. There were too many potholes in the air for me to feel entirely comfortable with the experience of air travel. But when I saw the size of the waves rolling onto the banded agate that was the beach I felt very glad I hadn't travelled there by boat. Under the clifftops that adjoined the sand the ocean was like the milk in one enormous frothy cappuccino. Just looking at it made me feel seasick, although in truth that probably had a lot more to do with what I'd just learned about the two Rudolfs. That really made me feel sick.
'Muenzenberg I can understand,' I said. 'Grynszpan, too. But why the Rudolfs?'
'Hilferding is one of these Jewish intellectuals,' said Bomelburg. 'Not to mention the fact that he was the finance minister who was in league with other bankers who helped bring about the Great Depression. Anyway, it's not our problem. It's a French problem. A test of their Vichy government's resolve to become a German ally. It'll be interesting to see what happens. Why? Do you have any objections to his being arrested?'
For a moment the plane dropped like a faulty lift. I felt my stomach rise in my chest. I wanted to puke right in the major's lap. He fumbled in his tunic and produced a hip flask.
'Me? No, I'm just an old-fashioned copper. You know? Shortsighted. I see all kinds of things and I never do anything about them.'
