Kaleidoscope (40 page)

‘Hermann, wait here. I'll be back in a moment.'

‘She's already turning to leave, Louis. She's seen you looking her way,
dummkopf
.'

‘Damn!'

Lyon's fire marshal said nothing but he, too, had noticed the girl. Robichaud seemed a decent enough fellow. Tough and experienced and carrying a cross no fire chief would wish to bear. A man of middle age and grey, a veteran with the ribbon of the Legion of Honour to prove it. A father? wondered St-Cyr. A man who, like most these days, worried about his pension and had gone to work under the Nazis grudgingly, no doubt, but out of necessity and to ensure that pension. We French are realists, he said sadly to himself, especially the Lyonnais.

It was Kohler who, having gathered up the cups and the thermos, returned them to the pumper truck, then led the way back into the ruins. Only the neck of the cognac bottle protruded from his already bulging overcoat pocket.

The girl with the bicycle might have a relative among the victims. Perhaps a husband she didn't want or a former lover? he asked himself.

Crime … it brought out the worst in one. It made one see motive behind everything, even the most insignificant of things.

Yet the girl continued to haunt him as her presence would Louis. Why had she come for such a brief look? Why had she fled before their eyes?

No shred of film had escaped the fire. Funnelling flames through to its skylight, the projectionist's booth, never roomy at the best of times, had been turned into an inferno. Bent and twisted film canisters and other rubbish were now heaped in the far corners and against that wall by the pressure from the last hoses. Only the twin projectors, once magnificent pieces of complex engineering, stood sentinel but in ruins on their jackleg pedestals whose tripod feet were securely bolted to the floor.

A lover of the cinema and a cinematographer at heart, St-Cyr ran his eyes ruefully over the control panel. Eighteen Bakelite-handled switches had operated the lights, the screen, the curtains and the sound system. Subdued lighting at the sides, please, behind torch-bearing Venuses that were no more. Spotlights on the manager if some sort of an announcement were to be made—an air-raid warning perhaps. Starlight on the ceiling. Now the full or half-moon and the shooting star. The magic of the cinema.

At once, the whole thing was there before him, that sense of power and control the projectionist must feel, that sense of boredom too, for how many films—even a masterpiece like
La Bête humaine—
can be seen thirty or forty times?

Picking through the canisters, he uncovered the charred remains of the projectionist's stool and beneath it, a woman's shoe that had survived only in its spiked heel and shank. Had someone been in the booth alleviating the boredom? There were no bodies. Presumably the projectionist and his visitor had survived. Perhaps the shoe was from an earlier time and had no bearing on the case.

Searching, he found a warped cigarette case, not expensive. With difficulty, he pried it open but there was no name. A woman's, he said, pocketing it and the remains of the shoe.

A fountain pen was next. Had the woman come for payment? Had the projectionist been writing her a cheque? Had she forced him to do so?

All manner of possibilities came to mind, the cinematographer discarding most of them as soon as they flashed on the screen of his mind. Once the feature film had started, the projectionist would have rewound the newsreel on the other projector before placing it back in its canister. Since all newsreels these days were German and from the Propaganda Staffel, this had to be done carefully, but had the woman arrived by then? Was she sitting on the stool? No cigarette smoking would have been allowed up here but plenty broke the rule and some had suffered as a consequence. Photographic and motion picture film had a nitrate base that made it highly inflammable. Perhaps she had taken out her cigarettes and he had told her to put them away?

Those two women had come in late. The feature film had already been in progress … Had this woman been one of them? Was it too much to hope for?

A lipstick was uncovered, the thin tube still bearing traces of its fake gold plating. A cheap compact followed, its mirror gone, the thing open—dropped—had it been dropped in panic at the cry of Fire?

He thought it had, and saw her sitting on the stool, bundled in her overcoat, hat and scarf. No heat in this place—no heat anywhere these days but in the rooms of the Nazis and their collaborators. She was touching up her face, turning a cheek sideways. She was doing her lips, a corner … yes, yes. The projectionist had paused in coiling the newsreel's leader on to the spool. He was looking at her, grinning. He knew all about her little hopes and desires. He had seen her naked many times, had heard her saying … saying …

Only the sound-track of the film came to St-Cyr along with the whirring of the fans that sucked air past the lamp to cool it. But that could not be, not now.

The door would have been closed. Yes, it had a simple hook and eye. Would Lantier and his partner have discovered the hotbox that was to keep their beloved locomotive from returning to Le Havre, thus triggering the story? Had the film progressed much further? Had Séverine kissed the husband she would later beg Lantier to kill, having first had sex with the engineer in a railway shed among the boxes of bolts and piles of oily rags?

Had the engineer betrayed his true love, La Lison, the locomotive, for that of the innocent though shrewd and calculating Séverine?

In Zola's novel, Lantier had been born with an obsession to kill women—his cousin first. In the film, a passing train had stopped Lantier then, and later, when Séverine had asked him to kill for her to cover up the murder she and her husband had committed, the engineer had found he couldn't. She had told him their affair was over—
fini—
and he had snatched up a knife and had plunged it into her throat.

La Bête humaine
… the Human Beast. An obsession … three fires in 1938 in Germany, two women and now this. A Salamander … The cry of Fire.

The film had been set totally in the world of railwaymen, its scenes so vivid one could still thrill to the power of the locomotive beneath one's feet and lean out to see the track ahead racing inevitably towards the story's horrible conclusion.

Even the smell of hot engine oil was still with him, even that of coal dust and the stench of sulphur dioxide.

One hundred and eighty-three deaths—450 in the audience, all with separate stories of hope and desire, deceit and avarice or pain and struggle. Always there were these stories, only the more so in cases like this because the victims' last moments had to have meaning, the substance of individual lives. That woman and her daughter; the one who sat up here but could well have escaped unscathed; the one who had frantically remembered to replace her wedding ring only to lose it as she fell under the feet of others.

The man who had murdered in his fury to escape; the one who had climbed a dry fountain, hoping its stone goddess would offer succour.

One thing was certain. The cinema was not the usual for railwaymen, its location too expensive, its seats too posh, yet they had come
en masse.

Clearing away the ice from one of the portals, St-Cyr peered down into the cinema. There was no sign of Hermann, no sign of anyone but the dead, yet as sure as he was standing here, he felt there had been Resistance people in the audience. A meeting. Ah
merde
, was it a complication or in itself reason enough for the fire so as to kill the lot of them?

And if so, how did this business of the Salamander fit in? Mere coincidence, or was it that the arsonist or arsonists had known someone in the audience and had wanted to get rid of them no matter the cost?

A Salamander. A person or persons so elusive only a codename could be attached to them.

A directive from Berlin, and now a visiting fire chief who claimed to know all about it.
merde
!

Kohler nudged the door to the toilets open and shone the light over the ice-covered walls. Four men and two women had been trapped in here—locked in. Yes,
verdammt
! The key was still in the lock, the bolt sticking out. Out! The firemen had had to use an axe to get in.

The bodies were fully clothed. Overcoats, heavy sweaters, corduroy and twill trousers, beige paint on bare female legs instead of silk stockings, a wrist-watch that had stopped.

Two of the men had their faces crammed over the squat-holes in the floor, hoping against all odds that the sewer gas would contain enough oxygen to sustain life.

One of the women was bent double over the deep wash-basin at the far end, her head still under the faucet she clutched. Purse spilled open on the floor, pillbox hat and veil in ruins.

Another of the men had tried to cling to the tiny air vent high on the far wall but had finally had to let go and was now slumped against the corner.

The last woman and man had lain directly behind the door, trying to cover their faces with handkerchiefs.

Not liking what he'd found, Kohler fingered the lock and key in doubt. One toilet for both sexes, that was the norm, so nothing out of the ordinary there. A three-holer Turkish with trough urinal for the boys and a cracked mirror so they could comb their hair and try to watch the ladies at their peeing. But why lock the door on them? Why? Was the arsonist or arsonists so sick in the head, he or she or they could think to do a thing like that in addition to everything else?

The bodies had been untouched by the flames and lay exactly as they'd been found, except for the two behind the door. He stepped over them and nudged the door closed. He set the torch down on the floor and turned the man over, sucking in a breath as he did so.

There was a rolled-up sheaf of paper in the right hand, the grip so tight it was only with difficulty—a foot pressed down hard on the knuckles—that it was released.

Railway schedules, ah
merde.
Lyon to the internment camp at Besançon and on to the German border near Mulhouse. Lyon to Paris. Lyon to Tours, to Bordeaux, to Marseille and Toulon …

The locations of bridges, viaducts, tunnels and switching yards … the lines black and clear under the torch beam. A siding at Dijon had been circled with red ink; another at Mâcon. A water tower at Moulins, a coal depot at Nevers …

Switches … and more of them. The locations of flatbed cranes to lift track or wrecked locomotives and railway trucks out of the way.
Verdammt!
What had the bastards been planning? To blow up everything?

Were the papers to have been sent over to England?

Dragging the woman back against the door to hold it closed, he went to work. First the identity papers of every one of them, then the contents of the men's pockets and the women's purses.

None of the men were over the age of forty-five. The women were in their late thirties. Not young, not old, not beautiful but ordinary … Why did he have to look at them that way?

Madame Madeleine Roget of the passage Mermet in Croix Rousse, the hill between the rivers and home of the silkweavers …

Kohler yanked her head up from under the tap. ‘What the hell did you think you were doing, madame? Plotting terrorism? You were a courier. Come on, answer me! You were going to take those plans to someone else. Two women would split the risk, the one going north, the other south.'

He let her head fall. He tried to get a grip on himself. Louis …? he asked. Louis, what am I supposed to do? Tell Gestapo Lyon or keep silent about it?

Behind the projectionist's booth, and facing on to the place Terreaux, there were three flats. A corridor led across the width of the building to the now-open doorways and the narrow staircase to the street. St-Cyr hesitated. Ah
nom de Dieu
, there was no sense in risking life and limb, yet he had the feeling there was something he should see and asked angrily, ‘God, why must you do this to me, eh? A simple detective? Roasted children on the Eve of Christmas! Mothers straining to reach their daughters! How much more do You think a man can take?'

As was His custom, God did not answer. One of the occupants had leapt to his death. The others had either made it down the stairs or had been taken down the ladders.

Gingerly stepping on to a joist, St-Cyr began to pick his way along the corridor, turning first to the right and then to the left when things got shaky.

The middle flat had not been occupied by the man who had jumped. There was nothing, no furniture, a puzzle until he noticed the charred buckets that had once held paint or glue for wallpaper, the remains of the ladders and bags of patching plaster. Redecoration in these times of shortages? The black market for materials. He heaved an immense sigh of relief at the prospect of finding no more bodies.

When he came to the doorway on the other side of the building, he hesitated, then ran his eyes swiftly over everything, for here the fire had left a few things: toppled, high-backed armchairs that would have had lace antimacassars, the jade-green fabric scorched and then drenched by the hoses; a marble-topped table, now cracked in half, an alabaster vase and bust, both broken and on the floor. In spite of the stench, he imagined he could smell the place as it must once have been, the dust of ages, the closeness of faded linen mother or grandmother had left to an only daughter, the sharpness of camphor, wine, cheese in days past, and once-forbidden cigarette smoke. Dust filtering slowly through the sunlight that would, on those rare days, have streamed in through the windows.

Ornate, three-globed lamps on tall, thick standards of Napoleonic brass had been toppled over and smashed. Family portraits had been flung onto the floor and were now jammed into the corners behind all the rest of the debris.

The brass of a ruby-coloured chandelier had been blown right off its moorings by the pressure of the hoses.

Again that feeling of dread came to him, tightening the stomach muscles and telling him his instinct had been right. Smoke damage was everywhere. Hot … it must have been so hot.