Read Online Paris Noir: Capital Crime Fiction by Dominique Sylvain, Michael Moorcock, Jerome Charyn, Jason Starr, Cara Black, John Williams, Barry Gifford, John Harvey, Scott Phillips, Stella Duffy, Maxim Jakubowski, Jean-Hugues Oppel, Dominique Manotti, Sparkle Hayter, Jake Lamar, Jim Nisbet, Romain Slocombe - Free Book Online
Authors: Dominique Sylvain, Michael Moorcock, Jerome Charyn, Jason Starr, Cara Black, John Williams, Barry Gifford, John Harvey, Scott Phillips, Stella Duffy, Maxim Jakubowski, Jean-Hugues Oppel, Dominique Manotti, Sparkle Hayter, Jake Lamar, Jim Nisbet, Romain Slocombe
Tags: Fiction / Crime
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his white hair with his fingers, then gestured to her. ‘Mina and I do what we can. We’re the old-timers and have been doing this work for years. Call and we’ll arrange it.’
Lucien showed the teacher out, opened
Le Parisien
and sat down. Outside the window, bicycles sped along the cobbled Canal Saint Martin
quai;
an arched metal bridge spanned the dark green strip of water framed by the blue-washed sky.
‘Tant pis!’
Lucien’s age-sported finger stabbed at an article on the newspaper’s second page. ‘The redhead’s publishing her “Resistance memoirs”.’
‘Her lies, you mean,’ said Mina, shaking her grey-haired head. ‘As if she’d admit being a Jew who slept with a German soldier!’
‘According to this,’ Lucien said, ‘she implies we killed him.’
Mina dropped the volunteer labels on the desk.
‘But how can…?’ The words caught in Mina’s throat as she remembered that rainy July night in 1943. The Wehrmacht’s marching jackboots echoing on the street, below in the damp, dripping cellar, bricking the soldier’s body in the wall by sputtering candlelight. The image of his pink cheeks, the blond hair flashed in front of her.
‘Eh? I don’t believe it, Lucien.’ Mina pulled the sweater tighter around her thin frame.
Jews hid in the
quartier
to avoid deportation; in coal bins, in attics, in cellars. And in this one cellar, bad luck had it, Lucien’s mother, then the concierge, had hidden their Hebrew school teacher. But La Rouquine, their comrade who lived upstairs, hadn’t known. She’d arranged a rendezvous in the cellar with her lover. Her jackbooted soldier in Feldgrau, the green-grey hue that still sickened Mina.
‘Read that, Mina.’
Mina adjusted her glasses and read ‘nicknamed La Rouquine for her red hair, the author, widow of the former Interior Minister, reveals her exploits with the Resistance on Canal Saint Martin and new theories about her father’s wartime disappearance connected to the suspected murder of a Wehrmacht sergeant…’
Mina stifled the fear welling inside her. ‘Our names aren’t there, Lucien. Relax. That happened in wartime, more than sixty years ago. He was the enemy. What does a dead Nazi matter now?’
‘Keep reading.’
‘La Rouquine insists on setting the record straight concerning a Wehrmacht sergeant who, she claims, allowed Jews to escape and was murdered by Resistants ignorant of his true sympathies.’ Mina’s voice wavered. ‘La Rouquine will show the press Resistance hideouts in a network of cellars including the murder site, in her words, of “a noble” German, following her book launch on Friday.’
Mina crumpled the newspaper.
‘As if he were a Resistance sympathiser!’ she snorted. ‘He was her lover. It’s a publicity stunt, this web of lies. She can’t accuse us… mon Dieu, Lucien, she slept with him!’
‘Her word against ours. And she’s respected, reputed to receive the Légion d’Honneur. No one will believe us.’ He shook his gnarled fist. ‘The Association will be ruined, a scandal… prison, your grandchildren will know…’
‘Prison? We’re old. It was wartime. You make no sense.’
‘La Rouquine suspects we killed him. She’s made him out to be a hero, she’ll accuse us.’
‘He was her lover,’ Mina said. ‘And why after all this time? She knew where to find us, to confront us.’
‘Don’t you see? She’s planned this for years. Strikes out on the offensive, as usual, to bolster the grand illusion she’s a Resistance heroine,’ Lucien said. ‘Her politician husband died, no one’s left to protect her or her lies. She figures we’d never dare accuse her since…’
Mina stared at him. ‘
Tiens!
A German soldier bricked up in a basement wall during wartime poses no threat to us. Let him keep mouldering.’
‘But you killed him, Mina,’ Lucien said.
Mina trembled. Why did he bring that up?
‘Or have you forgotten murdering the soldier like everything else that happened
Lucien showed the teacher out, opened
Le Parisien
and sat down. Outside the window, bicycles sped along the cobbled Canal Saint Martin
quai;
an arched metal bridge spanned the dark green strip of water framed by the blue-washed sky.
‘Tant pis!’
Lucien’s age-sported finger stabbed at an article on the newspaper’s second page. ‘The redhead’s publishing her “Resistance memoirs”.’
‘Her lies, you mean,’ said Mina, shaking her grey-haired head. ‘As if she’d admit being a Jew who slept with a German soldier!’
‘According to this,’ Lucien said, ‘she implies we killed him.’
Mina dropped the volunteer labels on the desk.
‘But how can…?’ The words caught in Mina’s throat as she remembered that rainy July night in 1943. The Wehrmacht’s marching jackboots echoing on the street, below in the damp, dripping cellar, bricking the soldier’s body in the wall by sputtering candlelight. The image of his pink cheeks, the blond hair flashed in front of her.
‘Eh? I don’t believe it, Lucien.’ Mina pulled the sweater tighter around her thin frame.
Jews hid in the
quartier
to avoid deportation; in coal bins, in attics, in cellars. And in this one cellar, bad luck had it, Lucien’s mother, then the concierge, had hidden their Hebrew school teacher. But La Rouquine, their comrade who lived upstairs, hadn’t known. She’d arranged a rendezvous in the cellar with her lover. Her jackbooted soldier in Feldgrau, the green-grey hue that still sickened Mina.
‘Read that, Mina.’
Mina adjusted her glasses and read ‘nicknamed La Rouquine for her red hair, the author, widow of the former Interior Minister, reveals her exploits with the Resistance on Canal Saint Martin and new theories about her father’s wartime disappearance connected to the suspected murder of a Wehrmacht sergeant…’
Mina stifled the fear welling inside her. ‘Our names aren’t there, Lucien. Relax. That happened in wartime, more than sixty years ago. He was the enemy. What does a dead Nazi matter now?’
‘Keep reading.’
‘La Rouquine insists on setting the record straight concerning a Wehrmacht sergeant who, she claims, allowed Jews to escape and was murdered by Resistants ignorant of his true sympathies.’ Mina’s voice wavered. ‘La Rouquine will show the press Resistance hideouts in a network of cellars including the murder site, in her words, of “a noble” German, following her book launch on Friday.’
Mina crumpled the newspaper.
‘As if he were a Resistance sympathiser!’ she snorted. ‘He was her lover. It’s a publicity stunt, this web of lies. She can’t accuse us… mon Dieu, Lucien, she slept with him!’
‘Her word against ours. And she’s respected, reputed to receive the Légion d’Honneur. No one will believe us.’ He shook his gnarled fist. ‘The Association will be ruined, a scandal… prison, your grandchildren will know…’
‘Prison? We’re old. It was wartime. You make no sense.’
‘La Rouquine suspects we killed him. She’s made him out to be a hero, she’ll accuse us.’
‘He was her lover,’ Mina said. ‘And why after all this time? She knew where to find us, to confront us.’
‘Don’t you see? She’s planned this for years. Strikes out on the offensive, as usual, to bolster the grand illusion she’s a Resistance heroine,’ Lucien said. ‘Her politician husband died, no one’s left to protect her or her lies. She figures we’d never dare accuse her since…’
Mina stared at him. ‘
Tiens!
A German soldier bricked up in a basement wall during wartime poses no threat to us. Let him keep mouldering.’
‘But you killed him, Mina,’ Lucien said.
Mina trembled. Why did he bring that up?
‘Or have you forgotten murdering the soldier like everything else that happened
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