Kaleidoscope (41 page)

The bed frame was of iron, the coverlet and blankets soaked through and yellowed. Only a sodden curl of dark brown hair showed. Cursing his luck, he eased the covers back and saw at once that the woman was naked. Flat on her stomach, with her arms stretched out above her head and all but hidden beneath the pillows, ah
merde.

Her wrists were tied to the ironwork, her ankles too. Her hips, thighs and seat were chunky. A woman of forty-five or fifty, he thought and when he found her purse, found her name and asked, Why did he not free you?

There was a rag in her mouth, the jaws clamped so tightly they would have to be broken to free it. Breath held in outrage, St-Cyr began slowly to examine her back and buttocks for signs of a whipping.

Finding none, he asked, Did the fire interrupt things? And then, gently and aloud, ‘Who was he, Mademoiselle Aurelle? The one who jumped, or someone else? You were lonely, isn't that right—please, I'm only guessing, of course. But … but you invited him in for a yuletide glass of
marc
perhaps, and a cup of that lousy acorn water everyone hates but is forced to call coffee. You were thinking of a little romance, even sex perhaps, but had planned to tell him you would have to go to the late-evening Mass.'

Terrified, she would have lain there stiff with fear, begging him not to hurt her until, having heard enough, he had stuffed the rag into her mouth to shut her up. Then had come the cry of Fire, and he had left her.

Ah
nom de Dieu
, such were the ways of some, but was the murder—he would have to call it that—more directly related to the fire?

There was nothing of importance in the other flat. Downstairs, there were only two flats, one much larger than the other and therefore better furnished. The owner's? he asked himself, flicking a doubtful glance at the ceiling, still thinking of that woman. Asking again, Who was he, madame? Someone you had only just met by chance or someone you met on the stairs nearly every day?

A copper bathtub rested on a black-and-white tiled floor, the bidet and toilet in another room as usual. A Meissen clock, Louis XV armchairs with tapestry coverings … A settee in plush maroon velvet, a large canvas of a street scene now in shreds. Smoke and water damage everywhere. It was as if the
pompiers
had taken out their anger on the place, hammering everything in sight with the force of their hoses.

Again he thought of the woman upstairs, of how she must have tried to scream for help and strained at the ropes. She would have been only too aware of what was happening to the building.

The place Terreaux was now deep in darkness, with only the blue-washed glass of occasional streetlamps and pinpoint torches to guide the way. The black-out, of course. On November eleventh, the Wehrmacht had crossed the Demarcation Line thus ending the existence of the Unoccupied Zone and bringing with them the SS, the Gestapo and all the rest of it.

He wondered if the girl with the bicycle had come back. Suddenly the need to find her was overwhelming and he went down the stairs to the street, and quickly out across the square. Stood where she must have stood, asked, Why did you run away?

Though the crowd had thinned, there were still onlookers, their silhouettes dark and muffled in the darkness. He shone his light around. He gasped, ‘Mademoiselle …?' She threw up a forearm to shield her eyes. For perhaps two seconds panic gripped her, then she ran with the bicycle, hopped on, even as he yelled for her to stop and ran after her.

It was no use. The ice … the ice. Ah
merde
! He slipped and fell heavily. Even so, the memory of her face lingered, the fear in her eyes, the tightness of her lips, the dismay at being discovered.

She had dropped something and when he saw it clearly, he said, ‘Not you, mademoiselle. Ah no, not you.'

It was the yellow work card all prostitutes must carry.

They shared a cigarette, just the two of them, in the darkness of the square beyond the fountain. ‘Louis, this student of Weidling's, this Salamander of Gestapo Mueller—hey, where did Berlin get a code-name like that?'

It was a problem, Berlin's knowing things they ought rightly to have shared. ‘Salamanders are slippery, Hermann. Some can change the colour of their skins so as to blend in with their surroundings.'

Kohler handed him the cigarette. ‘Stop being so evasive. You found something.'

And so did you, said St-Cyr to himself. ‘A visitor, yes. I am almost certain a woman went up to the projectionist's booth.'

‘One of our two women?'

The cigarette was returned. ‘Perhaps, but then … Ah,' he shrugged, ‘nothing is definite, my old one. Nothing. There was another woman, but that is a separate matter and I think the two are unrelated.'

‘What about the girl with the bicycle? Did you find anything?'

‘Me? Ah no, nothing. A student perhaps, but a teacher, I think.' He would keep the yellow work card private for the moment. ‘And you, my friend? What did you find?'

Kohler knew he would have to say something but he need not reveal everything. ‘A Lebel. The old Model 1873. I dropped it into a sewer over there.'

‘
Merci
. I am most grateful, Hermann. The less fuss the better.'

‘Leiter Weidling wasn't telling us everything, Louis, and neither was Robichaud.'

The cigarette had now burned down to the fingernails and could be passed only with great difficulty. ‘Lübeck, Heidelberg and Köln,' said St-Cyr as if lost in thought and asking questions of himself. ‘The same technique, Hermann, yet I must ask why gasoline was not splashed so thoroughly on the staircases to the balcony? Was it that the arsonist, this Salamander perhaps, or one of those two women who came in late, wanted to save the other?'

‘Who was upstairs visiting the projectionist?'

‘Yes.'

‘A prostitute, Louis?'

‘Perhaps, but then perhaps not. At the moment nothing is clear except that the Resistance were here in force, Hermann. Me, I am certain of it, and that revolver you found says so.'

merde!
The bastard had the nose of a ferret. ‘There was a priest, Louis, and a cross.'

‘Yes, yes, a priest,' said the Sûreté, impatient with him for not revealing all. ‘And a girl on a bicycle, eh, Hermann?' he taunted.

‘What about the fire doors that were locked? What about the owner?'

‘What about him indeed? Let's find the owner and ask him.'

‘No sleep?'

‘Not tonight. Not yet anyway. Not while the Salamander, if he or she even exists, is out there, Hermann, waiting to see what we will do.'

Louis seldom had the last word but the prospect of being watched was uncomfortable and Kohler let him have it. There was also Gestapo Mueller's interest to consider. Shit!

In silence they returned to the cinema to find Robichaud and ask him where the owner might be found. It was not far.

2

T
HE
B
ISTRO
A
LBERT
B
RÛLÉ WAS ON THE QUAI DE
la Pêcherie, overlooking the Saône and Fourvière Hill, if one could see them through the darkness. There was only a tiny blue light above the entrance to signal anything out of the ordinary behind the black-out curtains, yet three
vélo-taxis
and two horse-drawn cabs were waiting in the freezing cold. The foyer held a bar and coatcheck. The restaurant was jammed, the talk earnest and everywhere. A businessman's place but several women were about, all well-dressed, gay and vivacious. Excited.

Mistresses? grinned Kohler, inwardly nodding as Louis hushed the head waiter and negotiated Sûreté business. The men would be showing the girls off to their competitors and associates. Not a whiff of tobacco smoke in the place—a real chef then. A fanatic in these hard times. If you want to smoke, go elsewhere. Don't
ruin
the taste of my cooking! And wasn't it marvellous what a person could do on the black market?

The clientele obeyed the no-smoking rule. Perhaps fifty customers were seated. There were two long rows of marble-topped tables placed end to end. Knees touched. A hand was on a woman's silk-stockinged knee. Ah yes, she was good for a little feel. Island tables elsewhere had electric lights turned down to give atmosphere, not to save on power as per the regulations. Panelled mahogany walls held oil paintings of nearly naked girls running through moonlight, and of others bathing in the buff while eating grapes and thinking of more tasty things, perhaps.

There wasn't a word of the recent catastrophe, not a mention of little girls in flames. Why spoil dinner?

‘Remember to let me make the overtures, eh?' cautioned the Sûreté, gruffly putting his badge away and removing his fedora. ‘There is absolutely no sense in throwing your weight around in here, Hermann. These people will all have well-placed friends in the SS, the Gestapo or the Wehrmacht. Indeed, several of those types are here tonight, so,
please
, do
not
make a disturbance! We've been in enough trouble and must get this over with.'

‘Just remember I'm older than you and still the boss.'

‘Then perhaps you would be good enough to tell me what it was you found so disturbing in the toilets of that cinema?'

‘Nothing. Absolutely nothing, Louis. You know how my stomach is. So many bodies, the smell of roasted fle—'

‘
Hermann!
' St-Cyr grabbed him by the arm. ‘A cognac,' he hissed at the barman. ‘Hurry, idiot! Before he vomits all over the place!'

Visions of braised human ribs came to Kohler, of a woman's shapely buttocks, the skin now crisp and brown, the juices running through the cracks. He smelled the sweetness of death, the putrefaction. He saw a set of white, white teeth, red lips parting in laughter and wanted to choke that laughter off!

The Prunier was downed in a gulp—aged thirty years! The ragged cheeks, with that terrible scar from the left eye to chin and memory of a rawhide whip, slowly began to lose their pallor. St-Cyr gripped his partner a moment more before releasing him. ‘Is the news that bad?' he asked. ‘Ah,
nom de Jésus-Christ! Résistants
, Hermann? Come, come,
mon ami
, out with it, eh? We've been condemned to work together. It's best I know everything.'

The Bavarian's eyes were smarting. He swallowed another brandy with difficulty. ‘Then you tell me what you didn't, and I'll tell you what I didn't.'

That was fair enough. Always there was this hedging on both sides of the partnership. ‘Later, then. Let's see what our Monsieur Artel has to say about his cinema.'

The woman who had laughed followed Kohler with her bright eyes, doubt growing in them. He knew she would swiftly lose spirit but had to tell her something.

Leaning closely, he whispered into the sweet shell of her scented ear, ‘I'm sorry if I frightened you, mademoiselle, or is it madame and your husband off somewhere else? A POW camp in the Reich, eh? Hey, more than a million and a half Frenchmen still languish behind barbed wire in spite of all the promises to let them go home. The poor buggers dream of girls like you but have to masturbate.'

Devastated, she dropped her fork and seized her napkin, so, good! ‘
Bon appétit
, madame,' he said and tossed the rest of the party a nonchalant wave.

The meal at Artel's far-corner table was being consumed by four Lyonnais businessmen in almost identical, nondescript blue serge suits and subdued ties. They talked of business, were solicitous towards their host while privately holding their own thoughts. They spooned with stolid indifference the
potage velouté aux truffes
, the boneless fish soup painstakingly made by pressing the steamed fish through a fine wire sieve and blending the result with long-simmered fish stock, a creamed sauce of beaten eggs and flour, and the truffles of course. Ah
mon Dieu
, it made the digestive juices run to watch them.

Now and then a double chin was hastily wiped with a large, white linen napkin, a glass of red Beaujolais nouveau was reached for or a crusty loaf from which a generous chunk would be ripped by pudgy fingers and perhaps dipped in the soup before being eaten. On one little finger there was a jade signet ring. All the left hands had gold wedding bands …

‘Louis, they haven't even noticed us.'

‘Don't feel so put out. You're not dressed properly. Observe, eh? Tell me which is the notary, which the banker, which the insurance agent?'

‘And which is our man, Monsieur Fabien Artel?'

The owner of the cinema.

‘Monsieur Artel? Monsieur Fabien Artel?' asked Louis quite pleasantly.

The man hesitated. ‘Yes. Yes, that is me.' He threw the head waiter a scathing glance. ‘What is it you want of me?'

St-Cyr took the table in, nodding to the others. ‘Messieurs. No, please, continue with the soup. It is very good, is it not?'

Artel tossed a dismissive hand. ‘You're from the police. This is neither the time nor the place. Please leave.'

Ah well, a stubborn one. ‘We'd rather not, monsieur. It's Christmas Eve and we'd like to get home.'

‘The préfet—'

‘Fabien, go easy. As your legal adviser—'

‘Don't interrupt me, Martin. Guillemette is right over there, dining with the Obersturmführer Klaus Barbie. I need only give a nod, and he will see to it.'

Ah
nom de Dieu
, Klaus Barbie! ‘Monsieur, do not try my patience,' breathed St-Cyr. ‘One hundred and eighty-three have died in your cinema. A few simple answers are in order if we are to stop the arsonist from committing another, and perhaps even more horrendous crime.' He let his gaze move to the insurance agent—one could tell them apart at a glance—but continued. ‘Surely it is to your advantage to co-operate?'

‘He's right, Fabien. Co-operate,' said the agent.

The banker nodded curtly at the wisdom of this and motioned to the head waiter. ‘Monsieur Jules, some chairs, please, for our guests. An apéritif, messieurs? A little of the Moulin-à-Vent? Yes, yes, that would be most suitable.' He turned to the sommelier. ‘Étienne, you may bring the Moulin now for Monsieur Artel.'