Read Online Gypsy by J. Robert Janes - Free Book Online

Hauptsturmführer? The Ritz, then Cartier’s and now … why now … Ah! you did not know of it, did you?’
    The bastard …
    The pudgy hands came together as if squeezing the joy out of his little triumph. At fifty-eight years of age, Osias Pharand still had his friends in the upper echelons and hadn’t wasted them. Readily he had moved out of his plush office – had given it up to Gestapo Boemelburg and had willingly shifted his ass down the hall. Taken his lumps because he had known the French would run things anyway, and had cluttered the den with the trivia of his years in Indochina and other places.
    A stint as director of the Sûreté’s Deuxième bureau des nomades had been a big step to the top – you’d think he’d have come to appreciate the gypsies for having provided so many rungs in the ladder but no, he hated them as much as he hated the Jews. But for the Resistance, for the so-called ‘terrorists’, he reserved an unequalled passion.
    â€˜Bring St-Cyr in here now,’ he said.
    The air was full of trouble but Kohler couldn’t resist taunting him. ‘He’s probably with Boemelburg already. The IKPK, eh? Hey, the two of them worked together before the war. They’re old friends, or had you forgotten?’
    â€˜ Never ! Not for a moment. It’s the only thing that saves him but with this …’ Pharand toyed with the fish. ‘With this, I do not think even that will be enough. The matter demands special treatment – Sonderbehandlung , or had you forgotten?’
    â€˜Maître Pharand …’
    â€˜Ah! I’ve got your attention at last. Another robbery. A big one, eh? Now piss off. Go on. Get out. Leave this sort of work to those best suited for it. Let me live with my secrets until they become your partner’s demise. Perhaps then he will understand that it is to me that he owes his loyalty and his job. I could have helped you both.’
    Boemelburg was not happy. ‘The Gare Saint-Lazare. The ticket-agent’s office. That idiot of an agent-directeur didn’t bother to deposit last week’s receipts or those of the week before. Apparently he does it only once a month.’
    â€˜But … but there are always those on duty, Walter? A station so huge … Traffic never stops …’ insisted St-Cyr.
    A stumpy forefinger was raised. ‘Passenger traffic does stop, as you well know. Those arriving must wait until the curfew is over; those departing must purchase their tickets before it begins. The wickets are then closed, the receipts tallied and put away in the safe, and the office locked.’
    â€˜How much did he get?’ asked Kohler, dismayed by the speed with which the Gypsy was working.
    The rheum-filled Nordic eyes seemed saddened, as if in assessing them, Boemelburg was cognizant of certain truths. A flagrant patriotism in St-Cyr, questionable friends, a rebellious nature in Kohler, among other things. ‘682,000 francs in 100 and 500 franc notes. He left the rest.’
    It had to be asked. ‘What else, Walter? I’ve seen it before,’ said St-Cyr. ‘You always drop your eyes when you want to tell us something but are uncertain of how to put it.’
    A big man, with the blunt head and all-but-shaven, bristly iron grey hair of a Polizeikommissar of long experience, Boemelburg had seen nearly everything the criminal milieu could offer but he was also Head of SIPO-Section IV, the Gestapo in France.
    â€˜Three Lebels, the 1873 Modéle d’ordonnance , and one hundred and twenty rounds, the black-powder cartridges. Forgotten during the Defeat and subsequent ordinance to turn in all firearms. Overlooked in the hunt for delinquent guns. Left in their boxes and brand-new, Louis. Good Gott im Himmel , the imbeciles!’
    â€˜From 1873?’ managed the Sûreté. ‘But that is …’
    â€˜Yes, yes, only two years after the