‘But maybe it was because Alain had a new lady friend. He never mentioned a woman but maybe that was because she came from a different world.’
Koch scratched his chin, confused, while Charlie glared at Violet. ‘Ask him what he means by his criminal friend. How does he know he’s a criminal?’ she added.
When Koch answered, he waved his hands about again, stepping a little further from behind the door to reveal he was wearing a faded work singlet, braces and patched flannel pants.
‘Oh,’ said Violet as she heard the answer. ‘His nephew knows the friend Hans is a criminal because Alain met him in Saarbrücken Prison. Alain was there for almost two years.’
Bingo. ‘What two years?’
‘May 1936 to January 1938,’ Violet translated.
‘Does Hans have a last name?’
The old man laughed.
Violet repeated, ‘Of course. But Koch doesn’t know it.’
Charlie gritted her teeth. ‘Does he have any recent photos of Alain? Tell him I’d like to take them around the neighbourhood.’
Charlie wanted to see if he looked any different recently, since his release from prison. Could he be the man Maisy met at the Ritz? Koch left the door open, shuffled inside and returned with a photo of a tall, dark-haired man with a moustache in his thirties. He was still thin, but not as hollow as he was in the photo Allard had shown her. A man with shoulders strong enough to carry men several hundred metres into the woods.
A man, also, that matched the description of the tall Swiss person Maisy Bell went with to visit the villa in Saint-Cloud.
‘Ask him if he has a copy of this photo I can keep.’
Violet translated. The man studied Charlie, taking in her shoes, skirt and blouse before opening up the back of the photo frame and handing the picture to Charlie.
Violet shook her head vigorously and put her hands up to reassure the man.
‘What just happened?’ Charlie asked.
Violet dipped her head and said in a voice tinged with guilt, ‘He says you must really love his troublesome nephew. He also asked if you were’—she coughed—‘in the family way. If you were here for money. Don’t worry, I’ve assured him you were neither, that you just hadn’t heard from him for some weeks and were worried. He said you were right to be worried—the kid is constantly sucked into the wrong crowd. Constantly short of cash.’
Charlie let that sink in. Spells in prison alongside serious criminals could turn petty criminals into more hardened, informed ones when they got out; she had reported countless stories back in Sydney of repeat offenders, each crime and sentence more severe than the last. Attempts by prison wardens to rehabilitate prisoners were noble, but rarely effective.
Charlie weighed up the facts.
Jouet was murdered, his limousine taken and 2500 francs stolen. Who knows what Mael Albu was carrying, but Auclair had also had 5000 francs stolen.
If Alain Schmidt was constantly short of cash and mixed with prison types, he certainly had motive. Money. Paltry amounts, but if he was a seasoned criminal, hardened by prison life and mixing with unsavoury associates, perhaps a life for a few thousand francs was neither here nor there. Easy marks, dump and run. Poor Mael may have just been in the wrong place at the wrong time and Schmidt had wanted to get rid of anyone who could identify him.
Koch stared at Charlie as he handed her the photograph of Alain, shaking his head in disbelief before saying something in German.
‘Herr Koch has no idea why someone as put together as you—I take credit for that, by the way—would associate with his wayward nephew. Though Alain was handsome enough … so maybe that’s what a fine lady like you would be doing with him?’
Charlie shuffled her feet and tried to look circumspect as she felt her cheeks redden at the white lie. She pointed to the photograph in her hand and said a simple, ‘Danke,’ then addressed her friend. ‘Can you ask Herr Koch what Alain was in prison for? What has his crime? Tell him he never told me that he was in Saarbrücken Prison.’
The man gave Charlie a hurt look and shook his head as he responded. ‘Alain was arrested for organising anti-Nazi protests in Germany.’
‘Oh,’ said Charlie, feeling a relief she couldn’t quite explain. Alain was an idealist. A political prisoner. She reported on German politics and economics and didn’t need to be told that open political protest was nigh impossible. A simple protest sent you to prison for years.
‘Please just ask Herr Koch one more question, then we will leave him alone. Can you please ask if he has an address for Alain? I’d love to see him … again.’
As Violet translated the question, Koch shook his head sadly and spoke gently.
‘He thinks a woman like you is better off without his nephew. Alain’s reckless and transient. Can never hold down a steady job and hangs around with criminals.’
Charlie tried to ignore the ‘woman like her’ comment—she was sick of men thinking they got to decide who and what she should be. ‘The address, Violet,’ she hissed.