Duke Elric - Michael Moorcock [102]
Commissioner Lapointe leaned forward so that his voice could only be heard by the other three men at the table. “You have no doubt already reached the conclusion, my friends, that this business concerns the ongoing problems we have in Germany. While the insurgency is generally under control, Hitler's terrorists continue to trouble the German government, and our friends in the Reichstag have asked us for help. In the main we have done our best to remain uninvolved with internal German politics. After defeating Hitler and driving him out of Poland, we were quickly able to support a new democratic government and withdraw our troops to this side of the Rhine. However—” Lapointe shrugged, slowly stirring his coffee.
“Rohm and his Freikorps?” murmured Begg.
“Precisely. They are relatively few, of course. But Rohm's insurgents continue to do considerable damage. They have attacked Wehrmacht barracks, civilian institutions and even targets outside the country. They have set off bombs in public places and continue to violate synagogues and Jewish cemeteries. While Hitler remains at large, insurgent morale remains high and their plans ambitious. Disaffected petites-bourgeoisie for the most part, who had hoped to succeed in war where they had failed in peace. Well, gentlemen, we have reason to believe they are planning an ambitious attack outside Germany's borders. This attack, we think, is aimed at creating à large number of civilian casualties, probably Jewish. And we are fairly certain that it will occur in France, probably in Paris.”
“And how can we be of assistance?” asked Begg, clearly puzzled by being asked to engage in what, on the surface, appeared to be primarily an internal matter for the French government.
“In two words, my old friend—” Lapointe glanced around before dropping his voice even lower—“Monsieur Zenith …”
Now the British investigator understood. He sat back in his chair, his face suddenly grave. From his pocket he took his ancient briar and a tobacco pouch. He began to fill the pipe with dark shag. Taffy Sinclair, too, was frowning. A profound silence surrounded the four men. At last Inspector LeBec spoke. “He is known to be in Paris. Indeed, he has been here for some time. A familiar figure in the Opera Arcades. Since his pardon, he has exposed himself quite openly, yet, whenever our people attempted to speak to him, pouf. He is gone like smoke.”
“Eventually, it became clear to us that we would be better engaged in keeping watch on him,” continued Lapointe. “For some months he has continued the same habits. Every morning between eleven and one he appears in the Passage D'lappe wearing perfect morning dress. He takes his coffee at L'Albertine. He reads his newspaper: Le Figaro, usually, but sometimes the New York Herald Tribune. He strolls. He makes a small purchase or two. He enters a bookshop and inspects a few volumes. He has even been known to visit Larnier's Waxworks. Occasionally, he buys a book, usually a classic of some kind. Then at lunchtime he either strolls towards the Quartier Latin, taking the Pont St-Michel, where he eats lunch at Lipp's or he enters one of the more shadowy branches of the arcades and—vanishes! Sometimes he can be seen again in the afternoon making his way to the Louvre, where he inspects a different exhibit each day, though he seems to favour Da Vinci's Portrait of a Young Jew in Female Dress. Then he returns to the arcades and, yes, he disappears again.”
“He speaks to no-one?”
“Oh, he passes the time of day with any number of persons. He is politeness itself, especially where à lady is concerned. He has conversed with more than one of our own people, usually realizing immediately who they are. He is the