The Cyclist Read Online Free PDF Page B

in the street, the black car waited.
     
     

3
    They took over the Mairie within weeks of entering the town. They called it “requisitioning”. The sad, old, building stood on a small square facing the cathedral. The cobbled surfaces between the buildings glittered wet and grey as Auguste stepped from the black Mercedes. He looked up at the double wooden doors, framed in their decorative archway. He felt like a man entering church having forgotten his clothes. They would all see him, point and laugh as he realised his mistake. He crossed the square to the doorway, thinking how he had been there many times before under happier circumstances. The invasion of the Mairie forced the Civic Council to shift all civil functions and procedures to an office block two streets way. The SD converted the eighteenth century building, with its lofty ceilings, its panelled walls and decorative ceiling plaster, for their purposes. Auguste saw it as an abuse of the building’s former grandeur.
    He had seen the cells in the basement, the new furniture and the busy secretaries, recording, typing and scurrying along the airy corridors. The once proud building became a hive of German activity and he often wondered what they did, these busy workers. He questioned too what there could make them so busy. Begerac was a quiet, friendly place; no one here caused trouble.
     He had walked past shelf upon shelf of files, records of people, ways of tracking Jews, criminals, homosexuals. He had felt as if his own criminal records office had shrunk. Compared to the SD information system, he had nothing to compare. He often joked with Claude that the SD recorded every fart in Bergerac. He wondered now if perhaps he was right. The SD had no powers of arrest in official terms but depended upon Auguste to make the arrests for them. They still sent SS men to arrest and investigate anyone they wished, so Auguste had never understood why they needed French police officers to help.
    Climbing the stone steps, he waited outside the frosted-glass door while Linz went in. Auguste could hear the clack of leather heels and the Reich salute. In moments, Linz opened the door and gestured for him to enter.
    Major Brunner sat behind his desk; he did not get up when Auguste entered. The Major smiled. He was a man in his fifties, his hair a yellow-grey swept back from a round, white, balding forehead. Auguste reflected Brunner must have once been a good-looking young man, for traces of his handsomeness remained. Time however leeched it away and what remained of it was a ghost, vague and insubstantial. He had a furrowed forehead and bushy grey eyebrows. The nose was long, almost aquiline and pink, plump lips framed his wide mouth above a square chin.
    Auguste was determined to control his inner feelings and work with this man. He smiled back, hiding his feelings and said, ‘Helmut, enchanted to see you again.’
    Auguste held out his hand and Brunner took it with a damp limp grip. The informality seemed clear to Linz who wrinkled his nose in distaste and left the room.
    ‘I’m so pleased you could make it,’ Brunner said.
    ‘No uniform today Helmut? I thought SD Majors wore uniform all the time at work.’
    ‘My rank as Standartenfürer is only equivalent to yours, you know, but it means I do not need to wear uniform except on formal occasions, like the last time we met, at the Mayor’s party. Sit please’
    Auguste sat in the seat opposite the desk.
    ‘No, not there. Here, please.’
    Brunner gestured to a chair at the side of the desk and Auguste was obliged to move closer. There was something distasteful in the correction, which made Auguste realise his position in the order of things. He wondered if it was some psychological technique to rob him of his confidence. To put him at his ease and then create tension and ensure he never relaxed. Brunner did not know him if he thought such techniques would be effective. Auguste was as experienced in interrogation as any