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champêtre of yours cooks his own little goose and fails to show himself at such a time.’
    Orders were orders. Taking up his position, Rocheleau stood guard with bayoneted rifle behind the van. If the rain didn’t return, he would be all right, but these old boots … The wife would insist that he wear them to remind that salaud St-Cyr of the battle, but of course a person like that would make no mention of his having been saved by anyone, let alone a corporal he had apprehended. Indeed, getting a medic to attend to him had not been easy, nor without extreme danger. ‘He would have died had I not done what I did, yet still he fails to thank me. Well we shall see, won’t we, Monsieur l’Inspecteur principal de la Sûreté Nationale ? When the end is near and all you collabos get what’s coming to you in the purge, me I will rejoice! The blindfold, eh? The priest perhaps, but I don’t think the Résistance in Reims or Laon or even in a little place like Corbeny will ever allow one. Rather it will be that the soul, it goes straight to hell.’
    St-Cyr and that Gestapo partner of his were now standing in the mud beside the car that had arrived, but … Ah merde , Herr Kohler hadn’t returned the Heil Hitler salute that the one in the back with the officer’s cap had given.
    There were no medals on the colonel. There didn’t need to be, felt Kohler, for this one was a behind the scenes man, a non-entity, a shadow unless he, or his superior officers in Berlin, wanted it otherwise.
    He was also, of course, one of Heinrich Himmler’s ‘Teutonic Knights.’ And as for the ruffled dumpling in the nondescript fedora and years-old grey topcoat who was now sucking on a fresh fag, that one had the look of Hamburg and the age and experience of a pending retirement that simply wasn’t going to happen, not with the war in rapid retreat.
    The adjutant, knowing his place, sat down behind the wheel and said nothing, neither did the Gestapo. Mud had, however, splashed the right sleeve of the colonel’s coat. Livid, that one’s gaze leapt.
    â€˜Kohler, who did this, where are they, and why have you not apprehended them?’
    Louis would be taking in everything while smiling at his partner’s discomfort, but Berlin couldn’t possibly have any interest in what had happened here. ‘ Ach , Colonel, those are excellent questions, but might we have your name and those of the others, just for the record? And while you’re at it, could you tell us who found the bodies and when? We’ll assume they then reported the crime.’
    â€˜ Lieber Christus im Himmel, verdammter Schweinebulle , are you to remain defiant of authority even when I am in charge?’
    Pig-fuzz, was it?
    â€˜You fail to return my salute, Kohler? You give me no answers? Living with a Dutch widow whose husband was a Jew? Living also with a French whore who is young enough to have been your daughter? Well, we shall see. Now answer me, damn you.’
    Louis would have urged caution, but an answer had been demanded. ‘Definitely, Colonel, but let me clear the air. The widow lost her two children during the Blitzkrieg’s exodus and still hasn’t found them, and the husband was later rounded up and killed, she then needing help. The “whore,” as you’re calling her, is now lead model at a very fashionable shop on the place Vendôme—it’s right near the Ritz and sells female undergarments, perfume, soap and other rare and very expensive unmentionables to generals and visiting dignitaries from the Reich. As to your questions, when my partner and I have the answers, we will be only too prepared to give them to you after first checking everything out with Gestapo Boemelburg, my superior, and Major Osias Pharand, my partner’s. Now liebe Zeit , back off and tell us who found the bodies and when, and while you’re at it, if you know something we