Free Madrigal by J. Robert Janes Page B

Madame la patronne . ‘Be more careful. And don’t come in here unless you are prepared to pay your bill. Enough is enough!’
    Shock registered. Flashing dark eyes under finely arched jet black brows rapidly searched the faces of the clientele, the warning taken. ‘Forgive me, madame. I … I only wanted to ask if … if the others had been in.’
    A lie if ever there was one, thought St-Cyr. The charcoal corduroy overcoat was of the thirties and trim, the jet black cloche matched the protruding curls.
    Clutching a small parcel that was wrapped in newspaper and tied with old bits of string, she hesitantly approached the caisse . A girl of more than medium height and light on her feet. ‘ Enfant , I have told you,’ seethed Madame la patronne under her breath. ‘Don’t be an imbécilel ’! She jerked her head to one side to indicate the company from Paris.
    Outside on the place, the local detachment’s brass band began to sound the noon hour. As the belfry’s clock rang it out, strains of Preussens Gloria faltered in the mistral. The swastika above the entrance to the Hotel de ville and Kommandantur was nearly being ripped to shreds by the wind. None of the pedestrians took any notice. Why should they?
    The fullness of the girl’s gaze left him. ‘Just let me leave a message for them,’ she said demurely to the patronne .
    â€˜I’m not the PTT!’ shrilled Madame Emphoux.
    The package was placed on the counter. ‘A pencil, if you have one, and a scrap of paper,’ and when these were reluctantly slid under the scrollwork, the girl quickly wrote a few words, then, tossing her pretty head at the clientele, made her exit but deliberately held the door open so that all would hold their breath and she could then ease it shut without a sound.
    When confronted, Madame Emphoux knew there was little sense in arguing, for already the Sûreté was unwrapping the parcel. ‘That was Christiane Bissert, one of the singers,’ she said tartly.
    â€˜Age?’
    â€˜Twenty, I think.’
    â€˜Let’s not think about it. My partner and I already have too many questions and are being given no time to consider them.’
    â€˜Twenty, then.’
    The parcel contained four paperback detective novels from the thirties. On the cover of one, a cigarette wastefully smouldered its life away in an ashtray full of butts Hermann or anyone else would have given their eyeteeth for. On another, a semiautomatic Colt .45 lay next to a pool of blood and a purse which had been torn open and dumped in a mad search for whatever the killer had been after.
    An interrupted petite infidélité , no doubt, but had the killer been a woman wronged?
    Feeling foolish at being so easily sucked in by a jacket illustration, he said, ‘Does Mademoiselle Bissert understand English?’
    â€˜No. These have been offered in exchange for some of her debt.’
    â€˜How much?’
    Madame Emphoux teased the books away from him. ‘What, then, does this one say?’
    â€˜That’s The Maltese Falcon . It’s one of Dashiell Hammett’s very tough, no-nonsense pieces. Bang, bang.’
    â€˜And this one?’ she asked.
    She was being coy, thought St-Cyr, and said, ‘An Erle Stanley Gardner, a Perry Mason, The Case of the Caretaker’s Cat. ’
    â€˜Four hundred francs for the lot.’
    This sum was well below the trade in such things – detective novels were avidly sought, but in English would they not command less? he wondered.
    â€˜For the Kommandant,’ she confessed. ‘And … and others.’
    He’d have to let it be but wondered if the girl had deliberately left the parcel so as to distract him. ‘Where did she get these?’ In addition to British nationals who had sought refuge in 1940, there had been plenty of Americans in the Free Zone before 11 November of last year. Many had come to Provence