The Milliner's Secret (46 page)

Even as she let her outrage flow, the honest part of her soul acknowledged that she was doing better than most. Her child got meat four times a week, courtesy of the Luftwaffe HQ kitchen.

‘Married now, you two?’ she asked Julie.

Martel answered, without looking at her, ‘Not yet.’ He turned back to Dietrich. ‘You know, von Elbing, I think you’re one of those aristocrats who want Germany to lose the war.’

‘Which aristocrats are those?’

‘The ones who want to replace Hitler with one of your own kind. Dachterrasse.’

Dietrich had picked up his brandy, but now he put the glass down. Looked first at Serge, then at Julie. ‘If you believe you have something on me, turn me in.’ He held them in an unblinking stare. ‘My only regret would be to have wasted a fine evening in a badly run brothel.’

‘I run no brothel.’ Martel’s colour rose.

‘That this is a whorehouse would be obvious to a fifteen-year-old farm boy on his first visit to the city.’

‘I am not running a brothel.’ Martel spoke through clenched teeth.

Dietrich concentrated his gaze on Julie. ‘Do you live here with this man?’

Julie squeaked, ‘What are you suggesting?’

‘That you should do a better job of protecting him. It is illegal for a man to be in charge of a brothel. To be so would render him a pimp. It follows that, if you are Martel’s fiancée, his consort, you are the madame. That makes you liable for the good order of the place.’

‘What’s he saying, Serge?’ Julie hooked a curl off her brow and twisted it nervously.

Martel muttered something. A threat, a denial.

‘You are breaking two laws, Mademoiselle Fourcade.’ Dietrich took a long sip of brandy and Coralie thought, He’s good at making people squirm. I can vouch for that. ‘One, you employ foreign girls. That is verboten. Second, you have not subjected them to the required medical checks.’

‘How d’you know?’ Martel flashed back.

‘Because I consulted with the chief medical superintendent of Paris only yesterday. You are violating every law there is.’

Serge Martel searched inside his tuxedo and, a moment later, handed Dietrich a card.

Dietrich glanced at it. ‘Gestapo membership. I heard they are taking anybody, these days.’ He held the card in the candle flame, even as the flame bent around his fingers.

Martel stood up and shouted.

‘He’s bringing those buggers over,’ Coralie warned.

‘Let them come.’ Dietrich dropped the flaming card into an ashtray, and clicked his fingers at Félix Peyron, who had stayed close by and seemed to be enjoying the spectacle of his employer trying to put out the flames.

Seeing him, Martel roared, ‘Do something, you old fool!’

To Martel’s horror, Félix pointed a soda siphon, spraying liquid and ash everywhere.

‘Idiot. Get out of my sight!’ Martel screamed first at Félix, then at Dietrich. ‘You will answer for this, von Elbing. I have friends who will make you answer.’

‘Understand one thing, Martel.’ Dietrich did not lower his voice, though people at nearby tables were straining to catch his words. ‘The Gestapo have great power, but it is not limitless. Even they know that it is the Wehrmacht, the army, who will fight and win this war. They know also that the army has three enemies: Russia, the Western allies . . .’ he savoured the moment ‘. . . and foreign brothels peddling venereal diseases to our troops. To catch the pox is one of the greatest dishonours that can befall a German soldier. For the pimp and the madame supplying contaminated girls,’ he turned to Julie, who looked bewildered, ‘there is even less mercy.’

‘Is there some disagreement?’ The Gestapo officer with the scar and spectacles had come over. He stated in German, ‘Something was burning just now.’

‘Major Reiniger, good evening.’ Dietrich met the major’s practised scrutiny without flinching. The Pour le Mérite hung over the collar of his shirt and Coralie saw Reiniger take stock of it and mentally change tack. ‘Herr Generalmajor. Apologies, I thought, perhaps, there was a difficulty.’

The shaven-headed subordinate standing behind his major regarded Dietrich with almost fanatical respect.

‘There is no difficulty,’ Dietrich said. ‘Merely that Monsieur Martel has accused me of plotting to murder the Führer.’

Martel gulped, then stammered something. His broken nose, old injury though it was, must be impeding his oxygen flow because he changed colour and spittle joined the soda water and charred paper on his tuxedo. Coralie began to see that Dietrich was not, perhaps, entirely mad.

Dietrich continued, ‘By insulting me, he insults our army and the air force upon which the Führer’s vision of a greater Germany depend. He insults my war record and my name, which, in honour, I must defend.’

Major Reiniger stared at Serge Martel, his lenses shining like the eyes of a fox in the dark. ‘You are drunk, Martel. Why else would you insult a German officer?’

Martel pointed at Julie. ‘She gave me the information.’

Julie stared, slack-mouthed, at Martel, evidently waiting for him to announce the joke. Coralie said quietly to her, ‘Admit you made a mistake. Say you’re sorry and we’ll all go away.’

Julie thrust a finger at Coralie. ‘She’s a spy!’

At that moment, the Klebers joined them, seemingly shocked at finding the table they’d left ten minutes earlier ringed by tense bodies. Reiniger and Kurt Kleber already knew each other, and as Kurt introduced his wife, Coralie allowed herself to hope that the situation would dissolve into friendly handshakes.

The Vagabonds had completed their first set and people were streaming off the dance floor. ‘You have an office where we can discuss this privately?’ Reiniger asked Martel.

A minute later, eight of them were climbing concrete stairs to an upper storey.

Martel’s office was untidy, a surprise – Coralie had always judged him on the evidence of a spotless tuxedo. Papers covered his desk and a greasy telephone suggested he made calls while eating.

Julie was blank with shock, and started crying when Reiniger snapped at her in German: ‘Explain what information you have heard of Generalmajor von Elbing.’ He repeated the question in French. Slowly.

‘My fiancé said that he – Graf von Elbing – wants to sacrifice himself to save Germany.’

They all looked to Dietrich, who raised an eyebrow. ‘I may well have said that. You may have said the self-same words, Reiniger.’

‘I mean, he wants to kill Hitler,’ Julie explained desperately. ‘Sacrifice himself by killing Hitler. Somebody told my fiancé, somebody who knows him.’

‘Who?’ demanded Reiniger, but Julie shook her head.

‘I don’t know.’

A silence followed, so intense Coralie could hear somebody’s watch ticking.

Martel was leaning against a wall, arms folded so tightly his knuckles were bloodless. ‘You’ve got it wrong, Julie. Tell Major Reiniger that you always get things wrong. What Herr Graf von Elbing has been overheard saying is that he wants to sacrifice himself for Hitler.’

‘That’s not what you told me!’ Patches were forming under Julie’s arms, darkening her satin dress. ‘He made one attempt and failed. You told me that.’ She stepped towards Martel, her fingers knotted in a distorted prayer.

‘Gentlemen, my fiancée,’ Martel pinched his mouth in distaste, ‘my former fiancée, has a weakness. She invents things to make herself the centre of attention.’

Coralie knew it was over for Julie when Reiniger said to her, ‘You accuse an officer of the German air force of this most disgusting, shameful crime for your own amusement?’ He rapped to his colleague, ‘Get her out of my sight.’

Julie’s screams ripped along the corridor, before stopping abruptly. Coralie saw Kurt and Fritzi Kleber move closer to each other. She sought Dietrich’s eye but he was gazing beyond her, his expression empty. She looked at Martel, who had thrown a girl he supposedly cared for off a cliff.

Martel made an appeasing motion of the hands. ‘If you gentlemen—’

But Dietrich pushed him back against the wall. ‘Your woman made accusations against Mademoiselle de Lirac. A spy, she said.’ Coralie froze. ‘Has she special reason to suspect her of espionage?’

Dietrich stepped back and Martel scuttled over to a filing cabinet. He reached deep inside and brought out a white card. ‘Julie found it in one of Mademoiselle de Lirac’s handbags, but I’m sure it’s nothing important.’

‘Why keep it, then?’

‘I – I had meant to tear it up.’

So there had been something in the bag. Something of hers or of Sheila Flynn’s? Or something she’d picked up on her journey to Paris with Dietrich?

Dietrich took the card, staring at it for a good half-minute, an aeon to Coralie. He said, ‘It is a race card, from an English racetrack. The Derby Stakes.’ He passed it to Reiniger, who gave it to Coralie. Who dropped it, picked it up but could hardly read it, she was trembling so badly.

Priced sixpence. She and Donal had bought one each.

‘You were at that race?’ Reiniger asked her.

Coralie sought Dietrich’s eye but he was staring past her. Her choker ribbon felt suddenly too tight. ‘I can’t entirely remember.’

‘She was there, Major Reiniger, as my guest.’ Dietrich shrugged. ‘It was 1937 so no crime for either of us. I was there on business—’

‘What business, Generalmajor?’

Dietrich gave a small smile. ‘The business of art. Using my position, my title, to get invitations to as many great English houses as I could. I made discreet inventories of their art treasures so that when we invade Britain I can ensure that the best pieces are reserved for the enrichment of the German people and the personal pleasure of the Führer.’

‘Why take Mademoiselle de Lirac? Why take a Frenchwoman?’

Dietrich laughed out loud. ‘You need ask? Because I adored her, as I still do.’

Reiniger clicked his fingers for the race card. Coralie realised from the way he inspected it, his lips slowly moving, that he must also have some command of English. Handing the card to Kleber, he said in German, ‘I want to know which horse she backed. One of them is marked.’

Without giving Kleber time to read the list of runners, Coralie said, ‘Mid-day Sun.’

‘Ridiculous choice,’ Dietrich said. ‘The odds were impossible.’

‘And yet he won,’ she said. ‘Graf von Elbing backed a horse called Le Ksar. Russian, isn’t it? Why don’t you accuse him of spying for the Soviets?’

‘Generalmajor, Oberleutnant, gnädige Damen,’ Reiniger was stiff with apology, ‘you have been subjected to filthy slurs. I beg you, accept my deep regret and return to your table. I wish to speak alone with Monsieur Martel.’

Back in Dietrich’s flat, they gravitated to the fireplace because the night had turned cold. Tepid ash told of a fire that had burned itself out hours ago. They stood in a circle, holding hands. Dietrich, Coralie and the Klebers. It was Fritzi Kleber who finally said, ‘That felt like showing a policeman a dead body and daring him to accuse you of murder.’

Dietrich agreed. ‘It was the only way, Fritzi. Martel had his moment and lost it.’

Kurt said thoughtfully, ‘He can never make the same accusation again and be believed.’

‘Poor, poor Julie,’ Coralie said. ‘What will happen to her?’

Fritzi sighed. ‘You are sorry for her, yet she would have seen you dragged off without a shrug.’

‘But Martel . . . I mean, not a word in her defence.’

They digested it, then Kurt said, ‘We need to know how Martel got his information. Who knows about Dachterrasse? Who knows of our plans?’

Plans? Understanding crept slowly towards Coralie and she told herself that she was mad or had misunderstood Kurt. She’d presumed they’d all been victims of a distasteful joke spawned from Martel’s warped mind. ‘Plans?’ she echoed belatedly. ‘Dietrich, Kurt, you mean you really want to kill Hitler?’

CHAPTER 27

‘Not yet.’ Dietrich broke the circle and picked kindling out of the fire basket. He clumped the sticks together, held them out. ‘One or two can be snapped, but a bundle is unbreakable. Only when we have an unbreakable circle can we act. We have learned hard lessons from previous failure, from poor planning. We call ourselves the Dachterrasse Circle, after the roof garden at the German pavilion, but now we work with others elsewhere, and to them, we are the Paris cell.’