Authors: J. Robert Janes
Salamander (53 page)
In any case, the Resistance now could well have learned of that shipment and robbed the bank out of necessity or to teach someone a lesson. Monsieur André-Philippe de Brisson perhaps.
Uncomfortable at the thought of the Resistance teaching people lessons, he took out his pipe but elected to ration himself after all.
âSomething's bothering me,' he said. âAh
merde,
why can't I put my finger on it?'
He felt the thing was so simple, it was staring him right in the face, yet when he looked at the walls all he saw was the wallpaper and then â¦
Faintly the outlines on the walls revealed where the owner had hung his paintings. In room by room they showed so clearly. Some had been larger than others, some of moderate size and some really quite smallâhad these last been photographs? he wondered and thought they must have been, but had the paintings been of value? Would Monsieur Vergès have left such things here, knowing the Germans, if they should discover the house without occupants, would requisition the premises and use it for their own?
Somehow Monsieur Vergès must have taken measures to see that the house remained unoccupied even by his German masters.
But had the paintings been of value and was this why the house had been emptied?
Then why scatter the photographs of those poor unfortunate girls? Why not simply take them away with everything else?
Again he was forced to admit that the finger of suspicion pointed at the drooler, at the son.
With a decisive thoroughness that pleased him, St-Cyr measured and recorded the size of each of the outlines, stopping only at the smaller of them.
Then he stood in what had been the grand salon, willing himself into Joanne's shoes.
She had lived in her imagination as a little girl. Oh
bien sûr
she had always been very interested in the goings-on around her, a most curious and analytical nature, but right in the middle of something, she would be a shop-girl taking orders over the counter of the local
pâtisserie,
a dancer suddenly or a sword-fighting pirate, a waiter. This last recollection was vivid.
Joanne had tilted her little head to one side while holding a small pad and pencil and, while she could not then read or write, had asked what they would like to order and had written it all down with quick, deft strokes and had made suggestions as to the more expensive items, particularly the wine. She could only have picked this up by watching some big pavement café from the wings The family had had no money to sit in such places and order such things.
âShe ought to have been an actress,' he said. âI had forgotten how well she could drop into any part she chose to play.'
She would have seen the paintingsâindeed everything else in this ⦠this lovely house. She would have marvelled at the furniture, have hesitated at first to touch a thing. It was all so far removed from the life she had known.
She would have been submissive, shy, hesitant alwaysâworried, oh my yes. Could she do it? Would they find her unsatisfactory?
He would have to force that little maid next door to tell him what she knew. He must question the neighbours on the other side of the houseâno one had been in when he had rung the bells. He would have to question the banker's daughter about the cat, ah yes.
Suddenly furious with himself for not making faster progress, St-Cyr dug out the smattering of photographs he had gleaned from the heap in the car and realized he ought to have had the complete sequence.
The clothes Joanne had modelled had been very good.
Très chic
for these times and quite classy but things ⦠ah what could he say about them? The styles � Skirts, blouses and sweaters, suits that were really very good but did not quite fit perfectly. Trousers, evening gowns, sequined sheaths, peignoirs and lingerie then ⦠why then, nothing.
Though he found it uncomfortable, he forced himself to study her naked body knowing that if ever they should meet again, he would have the utmost difficulty facing her.
She had lovely breasts, full and not too big or too small. Had she been proud of them? Of course, but she would seldom have seen them, for good girls, even ones who wanted to become mannequins, didn't spend long before the mirror. Christ and the Blessed Virgin, God and old Father Taverner, the parish priest, saw to that. And if not them, her mother and father, the crowding of an overcrowded house, and if not that, her grandmother.
Joanne had been left-handed so, while in photos of the other girls a single bracelet had been worn naturally on the left wrist, with her, she had instinctively chosen the right wrist.
She was lying on that
chaise-longue
staring up into the camera.
In another photo she lay on it but with her head and shoulders hanging just over the edge and her arms straining to stop herself from sliding on to the floor.
Mon
Dieu,
she was so beautiful it hurt to look at her knowing what had happened to the others.
The bracelet had been removed. She was totally naked, her legs taut and straining too, her eyes clamped shut in fear, a lower lip bitten, the cheeks tense.
Quickly he found the shot of her backed into that corner, having just been told what was to become of her. Somehow she had snatched up the bracelet and had put it back on the right wrist, yet when he examined similar photos of three of the other girls, they had not worn the bracelet.
Fishing in a pocket, he dragged out a small lens and was grateful that the photos had been enlarged. In raised relief, figures appeared on the bracelet. Though their outlines lacked resolution, he saw a naked young woman kneeling with her head uptilted and a hand grasping something so as to hold it in her mouth.
Was she sucking a cow's teat?
In another, a falcon-headed figure sat in judgment while a jackal-headed figure weighed something on a tall and quite simple beam balance.
The figures had been copied from the tombs of ancient Egypt. There would be hieroglyphicsâsnakes, scarabs, birds of various kinds and yes, the scales of truth, the weighing of the heart and the suckling so as the soul could enter the otherworld nourished and reborn â¦
He swallowed hard as he looked at that thing.
Joanne had worn the bracelet in hopes someone would see it. Though he couldn't prove this, he felt the photographer and his assistant had, perhaps, been too distracted to notice.
If so, that could only mean they had been afraid of discovery and in a hurry.
Cramming everything into his briefcase, he raced for the door, caught himself only at the last moment to leave a brief note for Hermann.
Then he headed for the rue Quatre Septembre with a vengeance, Dédé's words echoing in his head.
âBut ⦠but Joanne, she has had plenty of time? She might have â¦
'
Window-shopped so as to see the type of clothes she would have to model. Of course!
Hermann ⦠Hermann, have I found the answer?
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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 © 1994 by J. Robert Janes
Cover Design by Linda McCarthy
978-1-4532-5190-4
This edition published in 2012 by
MysteriousPress.com
/Open Road Integrated Media
180 Varick Street
New York, NY 10014
FROM MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
AND OPEN ROAD MEDIA
