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herself and the cat bolted off her lap and went to hide under the divan. Oh-oh.
    It wasn’t illegal to own a wireless set, ah no. It was simply illegal to listen to forbidden broadcasts.
    Smoke billowed from the dragon’s lips. The voice, when it came, was decisive. ‘The slut’s been listening to the BBC Free French broadcast from London, Inspector. That’s an offence under article seventeen. The nine o’clock time is okay but she had her ear screwed to the set. She’d have been so wrapped up in the Russian Front, God Himself could have farted and she’d not have heard Him.’
    Or seen him. ‘Hermann, must I ask again that you go easy, eh? Madame Minou is in a very difficult position. The killer – the rapist, madame, a specialist with the garroting wire, a sadist! – might well come back.’ He paused. ‘And yet, Hermann, if she does not open the purse of her lips, she will not have the protection of those she and her kind so despise.’
    The flics. Kohler’s grin was huge, and it drew beads of blood from between the sutures on his cheek.
    The woman rebelled at the sight of them. ‘Pigs!’ she boiled. ‘You call yourselves cops? Is that it, my fine sweet lemons? If you’d been doing your jobs instead of fighting whores, you’d have saved that one.’
    Ah yes. She tossed the frowzy grey mop of hair as she lifted her eyes to indicate the fourth floor and a certain room.
    The folds of her neck revealed their creases. The acid came. ‘You have not asked my permission, messieurs. That, ’ she simmered, ‘is against the law. The search warrant, please? Come, come – quickly now, mes amis , before I take offence.’
    Kohler let her have it. ‘It’s your job to watch and notify the cops of anything suspicious!’ he shouted, richly enjoying the exchange.
    The jaundiced eyes narrowed. ‘No prune could have an anus mouth like yours, monsieur. Kindly telephone the Préfet of Police.’
    The slut! ‘There is no telephone.’
    â€˜Of course there isn’t! Find one.’
    Stung by her, Kohler again nudged the Frog aside and pulled out his shield, which he flung up in front of the woman. ‘Gestapo,’ he whispered. ‘Now open that hairy twat of yours, my fine garlic loaf, and spill the lentils, eh?’
    The felt carpet slippers were shabby, the toes turned in. The half-stockings were of that heavy combination of beige cotton, wool and other things. One had lost its elastic.
    She saw the Frenchman’s gaze travel up her. Was he weeping for her or calculating the space she’d need in one of those boxcars nobody talked about?
    â€˜I have not seen the man who has done this thing, messieurs. I … Oh, Mon Dieu, may Jesus forgive me. Yes , I was listening to the forbidden. Me, Lisette Minou, whose husband could have been one of the Broken Mugs and proud of it! readily and gladly , messieurs, GLADLY admit it!’
    The hairy upper lip was licked in doubt.
    A confession. ‘Her heart’s glowing like a furnace, Louis. She wants to become a martyr.’
    One of the Broken Mugs, one of the badly disfigured from the last war, but she’d qualified this by saying ‘could have been’ … St-Cyr heaved an inward sigh.
    â€˜Such are the ways of simple folk, Hermann. The brave. Now look, madame. The girl – who was she? We know she did not live here but came only at certain times.’
    The woman filled her lungs. ‘Gestapo pig!’ she shouted. ‘Lackey! Bootlicker! Collaborator! How can you live with yourself, eh? No one else would!’
    He ignored the slurs, though struck to the quick. ‘What were those times, madame? Who was it came to visit her? Why was she killed? You will have a thought or two, perhaps something the girl has said, isn’t that so? Perhaps something her lover has said in passing – he could not have come and gone without