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giving Hermann a knowing leer and tossing her round milkmaid’s eyes towards the windows. Blonde braids and all. ‘She’s nice, my little liebling. Very nice and anxious.’
    â€˜Tell her to go away then. Louis and I have to talk. We’re for it if we don’t.’
    â€˜Then let her wait.’ Helga trailed teasing fingers over the collar of his coat, then, wetting her ruby lips, touched the wound across his cheek. ‘I like it, Hermann. When it heals it will look exactly like a duelling scar. You’ll be able to lie about it.’
    Her ample bosom rose. Everyone would know exactly how Hermann had received the gash.
    She departed with a saucy flick of her chunky hips, the pale-blue workdress hugging her behind. One did have to get a man, a husband! And what better place than Paris? So many of the German women came.
    â€˜They certainly know you here,’ sighed the Frog.
    â€˜And you too.’
    A pair of sheer, dark-blue briefs with lace was dragged out of an overcoat pocket. A corner of the midnight négligé could not help but show itself.
    At last Hermann found what he was looking for. Hunching forward, he lowered his voice in earnestness. ‘Louis, listen to me. As God is my witness, I’m going to tell you everything this time. Everything! I took these from the girl’s room. I was going to show them to you anyway.’
    A pair of gold and emerald earrings – were they really emeralds?
    â€˜And these,’ confessed the Gestapo. ‘A choker of pearls and a single strand of the same. That kid would have looked good in them, Louis. Not a stitch on but the pearls and those.’
    The earrings.
    The Bavarian nodded towards the windows. ‘Giselle, she’s perfect for me, Louis. Just what I’ve been looking for.’
    â€˜Our girl wasn’t dark-haired, Hermann. She was a blonde.’
    â€˜But …?’
    â€˜Never mind. For now let’s just chalk it up to experience, eh? Why did you keep these from me?’
    â€˜Why else?’ Kohler nodded towards the windows again. The girl had noticed the two of them, of course, but had turned quickly away when she saw them looking at her.
    Wounded perhaps. Hurt in any case. ‘Go and talk to her, Hermann. It’s all right. I, who now have only three murders to contemplate and who could be as old as that one’s grandfather, forgive you. It’s the times. Fighting with death brings out the worst in us.’
    He gave the shrug of a priest in difficulty. ‘Oh by the way, my friend, did the other one have a purse too?’
    The murdered girl. Kohler shook his head. ‘It must be some place, Louis. Probably with her papers.’
    St-Cyr heard him say to Helga, ‘Hold the eggs on horseback. Give me five.’
    â€˜Rudi won’t like it. You know they’re a specialty of the house.’
    The house … Ah Mon Dieu, the arrogance of the Germans …
    â€˜Then tell him to toss them out and start again. He’ll understand. I want to watch my partner enjoying them.’
    The pain of the rafle in the rue Polonceau began to ease. It would, of course, never go away – how could such a thing vanish?
    Nor would the humiliation of being referred to as wet, limp asparagus by that Munich Brown Shirt.
    Duty called to take him away from all such thoughts and he welcomed this with a sip of beer. The earrings were quite old. In his haste to pocket them, Hermann had failed to notice that they were far more than simply antique. Tiny gold platelets had been linked to each other to flash and dangle to single emeralds of perhaps three or four carats in weight and of a stunning depth of green. The cut was a tabled square, the ancient facets sharp if simplistic.
    The gold platelets had been hammered. They were not precisely round, giving further evidence of great age.
    Gold never quite lost its lustre. Inca? he wondered. Had the girl’s ears been pierced? Ah now, that was