Kaleidoscope (42 page)

Kohler was impressed. Louis was doing all right for himself. The banker got up to formally introduce himself. ‘Jacques-Yves Durant, messieurs. Crédit Lyonnais. This is Armand Clouteau of Montagnier-Suisse, one of our principal insurance companies, and this is Martin Lavigné, one of Lyon's foremost notaries. Gentlemen,' he indicated the chairs. He sampled the Moulin-à-Vent and, declaring it near-perfect with the upraised forefinger of slight doubt, said, ‘The 1933, eh, Fabien? You do us proud.'

It was by just such little slights that the establishment maintained their positions among themselves. St-Cyr indicated that they should finish their soup but already, at a glance from Artel, the waiter was clearing the plates. A pity.

‘So? Proceed,' said Artel. ‘My cinema is in ruins and you do not wish such a thing to happen again?'

Implying how could this be possible, eh? ‘It's a directive from Gestapo Mueller in Berlin,' said Kohler, leaning forward a little. ‘He doesn't like Christmas to be spoiled.'

‘Hermann, please. Monsieur Artel knows only too well that if he should invite the préfet and his distinguished guest to join us, others would be certain to hear of it.'

Touché
, eh? thought Artel. So,
mes amis
, a pair of gumshoes from Paris. One from the Gestapo, the other from Belleville perhaps, and what's it to be? The squeeze in public or the softening up for later? ‘Arson? It's not possible. What are you people saying?' He gestured, looked at them both, then hunkered down for the fight. ‘It was a surge in the lines, messieurs. Excess electrical power causes the wiring to heat up and puff! my cinema is in flames and Robichaud cannot get his
pompiers
there fast enough. Oh
bien sûr
, it's the factories these days, their demands for electricity. Those old buildings around the place Terreaux … Lovely, but of course … Ah, what can one say?'

‘That's interesting,' breathed Kohler. ‘An accident? Is that what you're saying?'

‘Yes. Yes, of course it was an accident. Arson …'

‘Can take years to settle. Louis, I think he's going to be sick.'

‘Monsieur, your fire doors were padlocked.'

‘Padlocked? But … but this is impossible!
Impossible!
Why should my fire doors have been padlocked when the theatre was full to capacity?'

St-Cyr tried the Moulin and found it perfect. Would the next course bring the
quenelles de brochet
, the dumplings made with a forcemeat of river pike served
au gratin
in kidney fat and eggs perhaps and a sauce of mushrooms and cream? ‘The doors were pad-locked, monsieur. Perhaps you could explain why this was so.'

Ah
merde
, the Sûreté! They were always after dirt, always interfering and most of them crooks anyway. ‘I gave explicit instructions to Monsieur Thibault, my manager, that the fire doors were to be unlocked during every—
every—
performance at my cinema.'

St-Cyr nodded solicitously and sought succour by examining the lifeline of his right hand. Gabrielle had been upset that he had broken his promise to keep Christmas with her and her son at the château on the Loire. A chanteuse, a patriot, much taller and much younger than himself, she had the body of a goddess but would share it only with one man. It was yet to be shared, alas. ‘Your manager has told the fire marshal that you expressly forebade him to do so, monsieur. Were some of the patrons likely to cheat and let their friends in? Messieurs,' he looked gravely around the table, ‘those doors, they are a problem.'

Artel was swift. ‘Then ask the Préfet and Obersturmführer Barbie to join us, Inspector. Communists, yes? Potential terrorists and saboteurs? I think you will find little sympathy at that table.'

The Sûreté heaved a sigh. The lifeline was not good. Gabi might hold it against him, his being away at such a time. ‘It is not that table which concerns me,' he said sadly. ‘It is all those lives, monsieur, and perhaps those of others yet to come.'

‘
Then find him!
' hissed Artel. ‘Find the man who did it, eh? Come, come, my fine messieurs from Paris. Get on with your work!'

The
quenelles
were waiting. The
côte de boeuf garnie à la lyonnaise
would be overdone. Braised beef ribs and stuffed onions in a white sauce with quail-egg-sized potatoes that had been sautéed in butter.
Butter!

‘Present yourself at the Hotel Bristol at eight o'clock tomorrow morning, Monsieur Artel. My advice is that you come prepared to answer fully all questions pertaining to the fire, including …' St-Cyr fingered his wine glass delicately. Ah, he would have liked another taste. Perhaps Hermann could acquire for him a couple of bottles, a little present for Gabi, not that she would let the offer sway her. ‘Including, monsieur, that of murder.'

‘Louis …?'

‘Hermann, it is time for us to leave.'

Outside in the freezing cold and darkness along the quai, the memory of those four men came clearly. ‘Four Burgundian trenchermen, Hermann, with merchant hearts of stone. They would as soon cut each others' throats if advantageous yet are solicitous of our friend. Now each of the others will begin to think it best to leave our fly alone on the wall and he, in turn, will tell us everything or try to run.'

‘A murder?' asked Kohler, his breath billowing.

Yes. One of the tenants. We shall want to know exactly where Monsieur Artel was at the time of the fire and perhaps for the hour or two prior to it. Also, of course, the whereabouts of his insurance policy.'

‘There was a priest, Louis.'

‘Yes, yes, I saw you take a cross. Valuable, was it?'

‘Quite.'

‘Then find us a taxi, Hermann, and we will pay the Bishop of Lyon a little visit. Use your Gestapo shield if necessary but do not tempt fate.'

‘Not Barbie's then?'

‘Ah no, that would be most unwise. One of the
vélos
perhaps, if its driver has legs strong enough for Fourvière Hill. We must attend the late-evening Mass.'

‘You really do want to have the last word. Hey, me I'm going to let you have it!'

‘Good!'

‘Then tell me how you knew beforehand who each of those bastards was at that table?'

The Sûreté's sigh betrayed impatience. One had to do that now and then with Hermann. ‘It was more in their posture than in anything else. The banker carries himself well and has his corset and breeding to thank for this. When he sits, his back is stiff and his food taken with precise movements. He is more vain than the others. A man who knows women and manipulates them. Shrewd, calculating, determined and believing success is his right due to birth. His nursemaid introduced him to sex and ever since then he has favoured the employer-employee relationship. Were I a woman, I should not wish to work for him. Were I his wife, I would employ a straight razor!'

‘And the notary?' snorted Kohler. It was good for Louis to get it out of his system. The Frog needed that every once in a while.

‘Secretive—oh they all are—but this one the more so. He's used to property deeds, to wills, to marriage contracts in which each packet of linen or towels or cutlery, no matter how old or worn, is recorded in the most meticulous detail. His is a safe of secrets, Hermann, and he could well know things about the others they themselves do not know or have forgotten. He strained his soup through his teeth in case of a misplaced fish-bone. His wife is miserable. They rarely if ever refresh their marriage vows because he is too tired. She dreams of taking a lover but knows he will discover the expense, no matter how trifling.'

Kohler longed for a cigarette. ‘You're cruel. You're enjoying this.'

‘But of course! And why not, since you have asked? The insurance agent was nervous but tried well to hide this, though the others were all aware of it. Several million francs are riding on this policy he was fool enough to have written for his friend. How could he have listened to such a one? The director will be certain to rake him over the coals. A demotion at the least, Hermann, an outright dismissal if he is not fortunate. He alone does not have a mistress—that would be far too risky. Instead, he contents himself with infrequent visits to one or two of the city's most discreet houses. He insists only on the cleanest girls and slips the doctor who visits them a little something for the inside information. He also has a slight catch between his upper eyetooth and his first premolar. This traps food and he has become so accustomed to sucking at it, he does so even when there is no need.'

Kohler shattered the air with expletives. ‘Come on! You couldn't have seen all that! How'd you really know which was which?'

‘Experience. When you have had to examine people as much as I have, Hermann, you learn. Have patience. That banker sat and ate like a banker; the insurance agent like one of his kind; so, too, the notary.'

‘And the owner?'

‘Ah yes, Monsieur Fabien Artel. The fleshy lips and closely shaven cheeks blue with shadow. The dimpled chin, eh? and the puffy eyelids whose eyes were hooded beneath arched, dark brows that were not thick. The rapidly receding hairline, the touches of grey that have been patiently hidden. The arrogance of that nose, the corpulence—the wedding ring that should most certainly have been cut off and expanded to prevent loss of circulation were he not so parsimonious and busy. Whereas the banker's eyes might hold a momentary trace of sympathy for a needy client, untrue of course, this one's could never hold any. He views the world as a notecase and asks only how much is in it for him?'

‘Suffers from a crisis of the liver, does he?'

‘And the misused prostate!'

Good G
ott im Himmel!
‘Don't hate him, Louis. Don't let all those bodies get to you. It's best not to.'

‘Then ask the mother who tried to reach her child, Hermann. Ask the woman who was tied to a bed she had probably slept in every night of her life. Ask your priest who it was that lit the fire. Ask him why he was in the cinema and not about his duties at such a busy time.'

‘Ask the Bishop, Louis. Ask the one who employed him.'

‘That is exactly what I intend to do when he gives me the wafer, Hermann. You're learning, eh? A few more months with me and I will consider you polished enough to go home.'

Normally Hermann would have risen to such bait and loudly proclaimed the Thousand Year Reich was in France for ever. Instead, he walked away into the night and when he commandeered a carnage, he asked first if it was waiting for the Préfet of Police and the Obersturmführer Klaus Barbie. ‘Then we have need of it, my friend,' he said. ‘Gestapo Central, Paris. Don't argue or you will face the wrong end of my pistol.'

The carriage was only of limited use and that was probably just as well. Dropped at the foot of the montée des Chazeaux, St-Cyr made excuses—the terrain, the height and steepness of Fourvière Hill, the narrow, medieval streets of Vieux Lyon, the impassibility to carriages beyond certain points, the Roman origins of Lugdunum and prior need to defend the city from them by fortifying the heights. ‘Ah, so many reasons, Hermann. Please, it is but a little climb up to the Basilica.'

‘
Little
? I see nothing but a steady stream of penitents bundled in black on a pitch-black night and mumbling over their beads with regret.'

‘The funicular is closed. A power failure of Germanic origins—
i.e.
, punishment for some slight. Probably graffiti splashed on some wall in stolen white paint that ran
Vive le Général de Gaulle
,
Vive la France libre
, or some such thing.'

‘If you French had guts you would have levelled this hill! I can't understand why the Romans didn't. Christ, it's cold!'

They started up the 242 steps of the montée, no sand on the pavement as a special treat in these frozen times. Shuffling old ladies, old men grinding their false teeth and carefully budgeting their cigarettes, coughing, spitting, hawking up their guts, boys, girls, babes in arms, single mothers, grass widows, war widows and older men with younger wives, one of whom was painfully pregnant and could no longer button her overcoat. Triplets? wondered Kohler anxiously. The rope around her belly was frayed. She'd worn three aprons beneath it to help keep the cold at bay. Piety shone in her eyes and the
flic
on duty hadn't the heart to warn her to extinguish her candle.

‘
Gott im Himmel
, you French are stupid!' seethed Kohler. ‘If it isn't ten thousand steps up to some rathole of a fucking flat in Montmartre or Saint-Denis, it's an elevator with a two-strand cable that ought to have been replaced ten thousand years ago!'

‘We are going up to the Basilica, Hermann. Correct me if I am wrong, but I do not think they had elevators then, though I am
positive
they came into use about 1850.'

‘Another lecture, eh? Then let me tell you, you French have been using the same goddamned elevators ever since!'

Hermann hated using the elevators in Paris or anywhere else. He had been caught once, left hanging by a hair, and the memory of that near-catastrophe was always fresh. Always! Now he would use the stairs but, as he
hated
them too, there was no solution short of parachuting him in. And he hated heights more than anything.

As if ashamed of his behaviour, Kohler mumbled, ‘Madame, permit me, please, to offer you and your husband a little assistance. The steps are steep and I gather there are far too many of them.'

In alarm she dropped her candle, let out a shriek, gasped, ‘
Georges!
' and fainted. Christ!

It took fifteen minutes to bring her round and get her back on her feet. In all this time the shuffling stream never stopped, but only pinched down as it passed them, then opened up again. Shoulders rubbing shoulders. Coughs chasing coughs. Step after step. Christmas Eve, 1942.

‘Your face, Hermann. She saw your face. The mark of that whip, eh? The scar, it is still too fresh. The frost must have made it glisten.'