Kaleidoscope (49 page)

Madame Bertrand had died in her sleep, of a heart attack perhaps. She was probably only seventy-five but looked eighty, was thin and frail under her bonnet, had fortunately removed her false teeth, which rested in a foggy glass of water on the night table.

She'd been reading Proust—Kohler knew Louis would nod agreement at the astuteness of choice but would measure it against the reduced economic state of the occupants, a puzzle. One didn't need to look at the Frog any more to tell what he was thinking. One simply opened the mind to it.

‘Anything out of place?' he asked, giving the grey-haired corpse the once-over. Getting old had always made him feel uncomfortable.

St-Cyr shook his head. ‘Let's let the coroner decide. Touch nothing.'

‘There's nothing to touch.'

‘Meaning Mademoiselle Bertrand did not bring too much of her earnings home?' asked St-Cyr. He didn't need to look at Hermann to see him nod agreement.

They went into the other room but did not move far from the door. They let the hall light enter with them, throwing their shadows on the worn carpet and chair, the clothes that were not of La Belle Époque of course, but had been removed and left to lie. A red woollen dress, calf-length perhaps. A wide black belt of some sort of glossy ersatz leather with a silver-plated buckle as big as a fist—had it been aluminium-plated? Was that possible? Beige silk stockings, all but unheard of these days, a cream-coloured blouse and knitted cardigan, all pre-war. An overcoat in charcoal grey, a scarf, cloche and one high-heeled red patent leather shoe. Only one. Pre-war as well. Cherished no doubt.

Her garter belt and underwear pants had not quite made it to the chair. The brassiere had been dropped near the armoire from which she had taken her night-gown and robe and another, heavier sweater. The armoire's mirrored door was still open and in its reflections they saw her lying propped up by pillows in bed as if asleep. Her long black hair spilling over a freshly laundered white pillow slip. Her head tilted a little to one side as if she'd only just dropped off, was calm in repose and content.

‘Louis …'

The sweet, resinous smell of friar's balsam was much stronger here. She'd been using a makeshift vaporizer, had had a towel over her head but had set these carefully aside on the night table before switching off the light.

‘Baudelaire … She was reading
Les Fleurs du Mal
, Hermann. The Flowers of Evil,' said St-Cyr, his voice a hush.

Mademoiselle Claudine Bertrand had been an attractive woman, though now her lower jaw drooped and rigor had brought its stiffness to her. Still, there were suggestions of the child she'd once been. Fresh and alive, vivacious perhaps, full of fun and mischief.

‘How can our lives go so wrong?' asked St-Cyr, carefully switching on the bedside lamp.

Louis always had to probe for that initial happening which had set life's train onto a track it should never have gone down. ‘Are you going to stick the thermometer up her ass or do I have to?' asked Kohler grumpily.

‘She's been dead since the fire, Hermann. One has only to look at her.'

‘Murdered, Louis? Dead from breathing that crap?'

The vaporizer was simply a glazed pottery mixing bowl. There were perhaps two centimetres of water in the bottom and a thin scum left by the balsam.

On the surface, then, there was nothing out of the ordinary. Just a mother and daughter, one of whom had had a bad chest cold and the other who had been senile.

Greatly troubled by what they had found, Kohler parted the curtains to look south-east towards the rue des Trois Maries and the house of La Belle Époque, both still in darkness. ‘Mueller's going to burn our asses, Louis, if we don't settle this thing fast. Boemelburg will make certain we suffer if there's another fire.' He tossed his head towards the bed. ‘Was she the one who went up to see the projectionist?'

‘Probably. There is only one red shoe, Hermann. Me, I cannot see …'

‘
Ja
,
ja
, the other one! Louis, just how the hell did that girl with the bicycle come by this one's work card? Was it through a relative, a lover, a friend, or was she paying visits to that house? And did she know of this, eh? Did she?'

There were always questions, seldom ready answers. ‘Patience,
mon vieux.
Patience, eh? It is the yeast that makes each investigation rise until the loaf, it is complete.'

‘Piss off! I'm scared. That bitch in the street, Louis. I missed her.
Me
, who is always so good at finding and tailing someone in the dark, missed her and
that
, my fine Frog friend, says one hell of a lot about our Salamander as does this … this convenient death right after the fire!'

‘When I talked to her, Madame Rachline had only just come in from the street, Hermann …'

‘Yes, yes, but was it the madam who was tailing us?' he yelped. ‘That perfume, Louis?'

‘The perfume, ah yes. The last of it is on Mademoiselle Bertrand's bureau.'

So it was. A 250 cc bottle all but dry. ‘
Étranger
, Louis. The Stranger,' muttered Kohler uncomfortably, for the name suggested someone as yet unknown. Shit!

‘It's expensive, Hermann. Not common and probably hasn't been on the market for a good fifty years.'

‘From
la belle époque
? Bought at auction, then, Louis?'

‘And unless I am mistaken, shared with the others at the
réveillon
but worn by someone in that belfry at the Basilica and deliberately left for us to find.'

‘Claudine Bertrand couldn't have been there, Louis. She'd have been dead by then.'

Hermann fell into such a silence St-Cyr had to ask him what was the matter. ‘The shoes in that belfry, Louis. I … I forgot to take a look at them.'

‘And so did I. Later, eh? Later. Hermann, Madame Rachline is fascinated by fire or very afraid of it. When I struck two matches, she tried to stop herself from looking at the flame and failed.'

‘Ah
merde
, is that their fetish? As sure as that God of yours made little green apples, Louis, Claudine Bertrand catered to some particular perversion and unless I've completely lost my touch, she went with women as well as men.'

‘The girl with the bicycle …' began St-Cyr, only to let the thought trail off into silence.

‘Those paintings in that storeroom at the Basilica, Louis?'

‘Yes, yes, the paintings, Hermann, and a whorehouse full of things of exceptional quality and expense. Things not easily come by.'

‘Unless one has the
ausweis
to come and go, and the car also.'

At last they were getting some place. ‘Auction houses, Hermann. Estate sales.'

‘And classy whores whose madam runs from you to find someone in the other part of the house.'

‘Pardon?' gasped the Sûreté, jerked from his bedside thoughts.

Kohler told him of the enclosed passage above the lane. ‘She wasn't happy, Louis. Madame Rachline was damned scared and on the run.'

‘And has known this one for at least the last ten years but can tell us virtually nothing about her.'

‘A stranger, Louis. A Salamander and a visiting fire chief.'

‘A pattern, Hermann. Three fires in the Reich in 1938 and now Lyon.'

‘Why now? Why Lyon?'

‘Why not, if for some reason there is a connection with the visit of Herr Weidling?'

Kohler glanced at his wrist-watch and swore. ‘That bastard's going to get bitchy, Louis. We're late.'

‘Then perhaps you should go and have a little talk with him, Hermann. Perhaps our visiting fire marshal's wife would be good enough to offer coffee and rolls?'

Instead of sausages and eggs courtesy of the concierge of this place. ‘You certain you'll be okay?'

‘Positive. Please cancel my breakfast on the way out. I need to concentrate and do not wish to be disturbed.'

Louis always liked to have his little tête-à-tête with the victim. In spite of knowing they were on the run, Kohler grinned. ‘Enjoy yourself, eh? Look for burns in those tenderest of places and ask her who caused them.'

Buy
Salamander
Now!

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

copyright © 1993 by J. Robert Janes

Cover Design by Linda McCarthy

978-1-4532-5196-6

This edition published in 2012 by
MysteriousPress.com
/Open Road Integrated Media

180 Varick Street

New York, NY 10014

www.openroadmedia.com

FROM MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

AND OPEN ROAD MEDIA