Free Sandman by J. Robert Janes Page A

your husband?’
    â€˜Antoine …? With Liline …? Oh mon Dieu , you’re serious. He’s like a father to her. No, it’s impossible. He’s far too astute. I would have got wind of it. The girl would have been out on her ear.’
    â€˜Then tell me why she laid out that dress and dropped a curtain ring on it.’
    â€˜What dress?’ She arched, quivering.
    Moving swiftly across the room, she came to the foot of the bed. She felt the wool. She dropped it and grated, ‘Antoine, you bastard. I didn’t know. I didn’t! ’
    â€˜He was fucking her, wasn’t he?’ said Kohler harshly. ‘That husband of yours had made her pregnant. A houseguest, eh? A visitor and companion to your niece? A girl in his care.’
    She tore her hair and slapped herself in anguish, could not turn to face him but held her mouth to stop herself from vomiting and said, ‘Sweet Jesus, what am I to do?’
    It was now nearly 4.30 a.m. and St-Cyr was anxious. Painstakingly the burly Feldwebel with the Schmeisser shone his torch over the permit, billowing fifteen degrees of frost while his men, armed with Mauser rifles, inspected the black-out tape on the headlamps or stood about and coughed.
    A pug-nosed, wart-faced Pomeranian dockworker with sad, boozer’s eyes that looked so lifeless in the fringe of the torchlight, the sergeant grunted dispassionately, ‘You are out when you shouldn’t be.’
    Ah merde , he couldn’t read French! ‘Mein Herr …’ began St-Cyr, only to feel the touch of Vernet’s hand on his shoulder.
    â€˜Herr Hauptmann, I realize it is late and you and your men have had a long and miserable night. We are on a little business for the Kommandant von Gross-Paris, yes? The matter is discreet, you understand. My permit, you will see, is stamped and signed by the General von Schaumburg himself, a personal friend. We will only be a few minutes and then we will be gone, so you need not make a note of the visit.’
    Vernet’s Deutsch hadn’t just been flawless, he had used Low German so as not to distance himself too much.
    â€˜It is highly irregular, mein Herr ,’ grunted the Feldwebel.
    â€˜Yes, yes, I know, but these things, they can be so delicate. Honoré, my good man, is there not a little something we could offer the captain for his trouble?’
    As if on cue, Deloitte found a bottle of brandy in the map pocket of the door next to himself.
    â€˜Warm yourselves,’ enthused Vernet. ‘Yours is not an easy but a most essential task.’ Perhaps five thousand francs were handed over. ‘Coffee and croissants for the boys and a little something for yourself.’
    Perhaps another ten thousand francs changed hands, the torch going out so swiftly the men on patrol knew they would get only a taste of the bottle. But that was something more than they usually got, and the night was indeed cold.
    They moved off, the sound of their jackboots and hobnails squeaking painfully in the snow.
    â€˜There, that’s done,’ sighed Vernet. ‘Now let us find the flat.’
    Only then did St-Cyr realize Vernet and his driver had known exactly where to intercept the patrol at 4.30 a.m. At a snail’s pace Deloitte followed the patrol until, at last, he was able to turn on to the rue d’Assas unencumbered.
    Awakened, the concierge, a portly, pasty-faced man of sixty in shawl, blanket and nightshirt over his everyday clothes, deferentially ducked his head and sleepily mumbled, ‘Monsieur,’ before retreating to his cage. Again largesse was spread, Vernet taking another five thousand francs from his wallet to set them on the counter.
    As if by magic, the bills vanished and the slot was silently closed to leave them alone in the corridor under a forty-watt electric light bulb that would soon be switched off out of frugality.
    A frequent visitor, ah yes, and well known to the