Gypsy by J. Robert Janes Read Free Book Online Page B

is it not?’
    â€˜Five millions,’ grunted Louis.
    â€˜Perhaps a little more,’ conceded Laviolette. ‘When we have the final figure we will, of course, be quite willing to divulge it.’
    How good of him. ‘Ten at least, Louis.’
    â€˜The insurance, Hermann.’
    They turned to leave the office. ‘Messieurs …’ bleated the sales clerk. ‘The cigarette case … It … it has only had the deposit.’
    â€˜Tack it on to the rest, eh? Lose it if you have to.’ Kohler slid the thing deeply into the left pocket of the greatcoat that, had he worn a helmet instead of a broad-brimmed grey fedora, would have made his appearance all the more formidable.
    Touching a forefinger lightly to his lips and shaking his head, he whispered, ‘Don’t even mention it to the detective out front. It would only upset him.’
    The vault was indeed inviolable. Even tunnelling under it would have been of no use. ‘He had to have known the staff had become complacent, Hermann, and that things were being carelessly left overnight in the safes upstairs.’
    â€˜Someone has to have looked the place over for him. A woman, no doubt. One who could have made several visits. This piece, that piece …’
    â€˜See if there’s a record of the clientele. Try for a singer, for Mademoiselle Thélème. The shop is on her way to the Ritz.’
    â€˜Done, but why did the son of a bitch leave the cigarette case behind? He must have known they’d have it ready? He’d have had access to the office and to the sous-directeur’s desk during the robbery.’
    â€˜Perhaps our Gypsy was too busy. Perhaps it was only a means to his looking the place over and to hot-wiring the burglar alarm.’
    â€˜Perhaps he simply forgot it in the rush,’ said Kohler, lost to it.
    â€˜Then why have it inscribed in such a manner?’
    â€˜That’s what I’m asking myself, Louis. Why did he deliberately go out of his way to identify himself with the Rom while wearing the uniform of those who must at least officially hate them?’
    The house at 3 rue Laurence-Savart was in Belleville, on a street so narrow, the canyon of it threw up the sound of the retreating Citroën.
    As Hermann reached the corner of the rue des Pyrénées, the tyres screeched and that splendid traction avant grabbed icy paving stones. Then the car shot deeply into the city St-Cyr loved, and he heard it approach the Seine – yes, yes, there it was – after which it reached place Saint-André-des-Arts and coasted quietly up to the house on the rue Suger. Five minutes flat, from here to there. No traffic. There seldom was at any time of day or night, and in ten minutes one could cross the city from suburb to suburb. The cars all gone. 350,000 of them reduced to 4500 or less; 60,000 cubic metres of gasoline a month reduced to an allocation of less than 600.
    As one of the Occupier, control of the Citroën had passed instantly into Hermann’s hands. They were capable, of course, and occasionally Hermann did let him drive his own car just so that he wouldn’t forget how to. And yes, they had become friends in spite of it and of everything else. Two lost souls from opposite sides of the war, thrown together by the never-ending battle against common crime.
    â€˜War does things like that,’ he said aloud and to no one but the darkness of the street. ‘We’re like a horseshoe magnet whose opposing poles agree to sweep up the iron filings. All of them.’
    The city proper held about 2,300,000; the suburbs perhaps another 500,000 and yet, even with 300,000 or so of the Occupier, on any night at this hour or just after curfew it was so quiet it was uncomfortable. And at 4.47 Berlin Time, it was all but ready for the first sounds of those departing for work. Not a light showed, and the time in winter was one ungodly hour earlier than the old time; in