were of benefit to all.
Special cards were tinted to denote les Bohémiens , though keeping track of their wanderings often proved exceedingly difficult. But in any case, the Gypsy was not one of the Rom, so his cards were like all others, if more numerous than most.
âJanwillem De Vries,â grumbled a disgruntled Herr Max who didnât like being told to co-operate with the present company. âFather, Hendrick, no known criminal activities but a socialist do-gooder when not pouring out historical pap to stuff the teat of it into the eager mouths of bored Dutch Hausfrauen . Mother, Marina, no suggestions of anything there either. Vivacious, quick-minded, deft with the brush but impulsive and given to wandering off for days on her bicycle, or to working in her studio night after night. A flirt â mein Gott , there is ample evidence of it, given that she often posed in the nude as a statue for her photographer friends. Orpheus and her lute, but that one was a boy, wasnât he? Died, unhappily, 18 June 1929 of a drowning accident on the Linge near Geldermalsen while trying to reach some lilies she wanted to paint, though to see her sketches is to see nothing but the confused and flighty mind of the avant-garde who should have been trussed up with her apron strings and taught a few lessons!â
Naked? wondered Kohler idly â was this what Herr Max had meant?
The visitor lit a cheroot, he looking as if heâd just got out of bed and hadnât quite had time to dress properly.
âApprehended 20 April 1938 â caught with his hands in the wall safe of one Magnus Erlendsson, a prominent shipping magnate who should have known better than to keep such things at home and to tell others how clever he was. The tax authorities were most interested and Herr Erlendsson quickly found himself going from one theft to another!â
Engelmann gave a throaty chuckle â work did have its compensations. âOostende,â he coughed. âCoffee ⦠is there a little, Sturmbannführer? A brandy also und a raw egg, I think.â
Tears moistened the hard little eyes behind their gold-rimmed specs. He took a breath, then remembered the cheroot.
âOostende â¦?â hazarded Kohler.
The visitor let his gaze linger on the Bavarian before clearing his throat of its blockage. âFirst, donât ask until youâre told to. Second, rely on me to lead this little discussion.â
The matter of the uniform the Gypsy had acquired in Tours was brought up. âHe didnât kill him, did he?â blurted Kohler only to feel Louis kick him under the table to shut him up.
âReprisals ⦠is this what you are worrying about, Kohler? Hostages to be shot. How many, I wonder?â asked Herr Max.
He gave it a moment. Boemelburgâs look was grim and it said, Kohler, how dare you worry about such things? You, too, St-Cyr.
âTo say nothing of his embarrassment and the reticence of his tongue,â went on Herr Max, allowing what appeared to be a smile, âour Hauptmann Dietrich Oberlammers is alive and well but he fell prey to the oldest of gypsy tricks, which leads us right back to that villa in the hills overlooking Oslo.â
âA woman,â breathed Louis, âbut was it the same one?â
âShe rubbed herself against the Hauptmann in the half-light of a corridor or room,â sighed Kohler. âShe offered everything she had but gave him nothing more than deep glimpses of bare flesh and sweet caresses, then let him strip off in some maison de passe before heisting his papers and uniform.â
âThe wallet of Herr Erlendsson also, and news of the Oslo safeâs location and contents,â added St-Cyr, his mind leaping back in time to the spring of 1938.
âThe combination also,â grunted Herr Max. âErlendsson was fool enough to have given it to her in a moment of drunken bravado while she was in his hotel room. Oostende and
Special cards were tinted to denote les Bohémiens , though keeping track of their wanderings often proved exceedingly difficult. But in any case, the Gypsy was not one of the Rom, so his cards were like all others, if more numerous than most.
âJanwillem De Vries,â grumbled a disgruntled Herr Max who didnât like being told to co-operate with the present company. âFather, Hendrick, no known criminal activities but a socialist do-gooder when not pouring out historical pap to stuff the teat of it into the eager mouths of bored Dutch Hausfrauen . Mother, Marina, no suggestions of anything there either. Vivacious, quick-minded, deft with the brush but impulsive and given to wandering off for days on her bicycle, or to working in her studio night after night. A flirt â mein Gott , there is ample evidence of it, given that she often posed in the nude as a statue for her photographer friends. Orpheus and her lute, but that one was a boy, wasnât he? Died, unhappily, 18 June 1929 of a drowning accident on the Linge near Geldermalsen while trying to reach some lilies she wanted to paint, though to see her sketches is to see nothing but the confused and flighty mind of the avant-garde who should have been trussed up with her apron strings and taught a few lessons!â
Naked? wondered Kohler idly â was this what Herr Max had meant?
The visitor lit a cheroot, he looking as if heâd just got out of bed and hadnât quite had time to dress properly.
âApprehended 20 April 1938 â caught with his hands in the wall safe of one Magnus Erlendsson, a prominent shipping magnate who should have known better than to keep such things at home and to tell others how clever he was. The tax authorities were most interested and Herr Erlendsson quickly found himself going from one theft to another!â
Engelmann gave a throaty chuckle â work did have its compensations. âOostende,â he coughed. âCoffee ⦠is there a little, Sturmbannführer? A brandy also und a raw egg, I think.â
Tears moistened the hard little eyes behind their gold-rimmed specs. He took a breath, then remembered the cheroot.
âOostende â¦?â hazarded Kohler.
The visitor let his gaze linger on the Bavarian before clearing his throat of its blockage. âFirst, donât ask until youâre told to. Second, rely on me to lead this little discussion.â
The matter of the uniform the Gypsy had acquired in Tours was brought up. âHe didnât kill him, did he?â blurted Kohler only to feel Louis kick him under the table to shut him up.
âReprisals ⦠is this what you are worrying about, Kohler? Hostages to be shot. How many, I wonder?â asked Herr Max.
He gave it a moment. Boemelburgâs look was grim and it said, Kohler, how dare you worry about such things? You, too, St-Cyr.
âTo say nothing of his embarrassment and the reticence of his tongue,â went on Herr Max, allowing what appeared to be a smile, âour Hauptmann Dietrich Oberlammers is alive and well but he fell prey to the oldest of gypsy tricks, which leads us right back to that villa in the hills overlooking Oslo.â
âA woman,â breathed Louis, âbut was it the same one?â
âShe rubbed herself against the Hauptmann in the half-light of a corridor or room,â sighed Kohler. âShe offered everything she had but gave him nothing more than deep glimpses of bare flesh and sweet caresses, then let him strip off in some maison de passe before heisting his papers and uniform.â
âThe wallet of Herr Erlendsson also, and news of the Oslo safeâs location and contents,â added St-Cyr, his mind leaping back in time to the spring of 1938.
âThe combination also,â grunted Herr Max. âErlendsson was fool enough to have given it to her in a moment of drunken bravado while she was in his hotel room. Oostende and
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