Clandestine by J. Robert Janes Page A

been with that bank since July of 1940.’
    â€˜With lots of time to get to know and work with Bolduc. This investigation just gets deeper and deeper, doesn’t it?’
    Unfortunately, there was something else Louis had better hear. ‘When he assigned us to this investigation, Boemelburg thought to tell me that the SD had just recruited a Selbstschutz from among the PPF. I know I should have told you, but …’
    â€˜News like that would be too upsetting, a self-defence hit squad to do what the SD themselves don’t want to be associated with like taking care of outspoken detectives?’
    â€˜If I have to, I’ll use the Purdey.’
    The rue du Faubourg Saint-Antoine ran from place de la Bastille to place de la Nation. On either side, in the 11th and 12th arrondissements behind what must once have been elegant residences with wrought-iron balconies, shops and all the rest, were warrens of narrow passages and courtyards. Generations of cabinet and furniture makers still had their shops here and, in the past, had incorporated marquetry, gilding and bronze work and become known for it throughout Europe. ‘Yet it’s also an enclave of political troublemakers, Hermann. Repeatedly they have taken to the streets with their likes and dislikes.’
    There were also produce shops, and the long lines of the Occupation had already been forming since the lifting of the curfew at 0500 hours. Some had even brought a stool or fold-up chair. Kids with runny noses and untied shoelaces seemed everywhere, baby carriages too, and even grandmothers wearing carpet slippers, all with the inevitable shopping bag, flowers pinned to their hats and the hopes of getting something more than the likelihood of a few radishes and carrots with tops for the rabbits if lucky.
    The bank’s garage was just to the east of the intersection with the rue de Charonne. Four- and five-storey tenements, all grey with prewar soot, had balconies whose livestock awaited the sunlight. Merely a slot in the wall, the entrance was labeled GARAGE in grey-blue tin metal with flanking notices for CITROËN , HOTCHKISS , PEUGEOT and RENAULT repairs too, but who had cars other than the chosen few?
    Iron bars guarded the lower windows, and above and beyond those were curtains, some open, others perpetually drawn. The depot and repair bays were at the very back of the courtyard, the beams above them sagging. Ateliers of two and three storeys were to the left and right, while in the tenements above, the grey and flaking walls from which laundry hung definitely needed repairing.
    â€˜There’s an iron gate that closes all this off at night, Hermann.’
    â€˜And a hive of industry with hardly a sound. Is it that we’ve been expected?’
    Bicycles, well chained, were nearby. Rank on the damp air was the stench of the outdoor toilet, while from the cast-iron tap of another century, a constant stream dribbled as two Alsatians lapped at it, completely ignoring Hermann’s, ‘ Ach, meine Schatzen , you’re lovely.’ They barely tolerated his touch, but he was never one to give up easily and soon had these ‘treasures’ all over him.
    â€˜Guard dogs they may be, Louis, but a little scavenged smoked sausage does miracles.’
    Beyond the bay for greasing and minor repairs, and the one for flat tires, the sliding door opened into the service centre, a warehouse that seemed, by contrast, huge. Four of the bank’s eight vans were in a row, leaving three still out and probably soon on their way back to Paris, the mechanics and their assistants in bleues de travail and busy, though casting glances at them. But there were also a Vauxhall sedan, a Citroën coupé, a Ford Model C Ten and a forest-green, four-door Cadillac Series 60 limo that was absolutely beautiful. A 1938 or ’39.
    Daylight now entered the barred windows high above, while a gleaming black Renault Vivastella four-door, the 1939 and