The banker lay face down on the carpet and it was clear that the muzzle of the gun had been jammed against the back of his head. One shot.
Mademoiselle de Brisson must have somehow used that second to escape onto the balcony.
The hammering of the ice pellets swept back in on him and he heard them pinging off each other, the windows and the floor. Now a blast, now a lessening.
Le Blanc, he said. Le Blanc has gone after her. Should I follow? Isn’t this what they want? Le Blanc will have heard the shots.
St-Cyr went back to the head of the stairs to look down them and raise his gun. Kempf, he said to himself. Kempf will have to come up them.
Or will he? And if not Kempf, then Hermann who would do it so silently no one, not even his partner, would know he was there until he had reached the top and said so.
Withdrawing, he waited as Kempf had waited for them, never taking his eyes from the top of the stairs but thinking of Mademoiselle de Brisson who knew everything and could tell others what had happened.
The scattering of the photographs in an empty, empty house, the purchasing of forged papers for men who had known absolutely nothing of them.
The room was empty, the house was empty and they were going to kill her … kill her!
Clasping a hand tightly over her mouth to stop herself from crying out, Marie-Claire de Brisson huddled on the floor against the wall. They would grab her by the hair, they would throw her down and jam a gun against her head. She would try to get away, would plead with them. Michel would pin her legs. Franz would kneel on her back … her back … Bang!
She wept. She couldn’t stop herself from shaking. Her father—that bastard who had come up the stairs for her so many times—was now dead. Dead!
No more would he come for her.
A shape, a silhouette, appeared on the other side of the tall french doors that opened onto the balcony. Suddenly this shape threw out its hands to stop itself from slipping. Michel … was it Michel? He banged against the glass and fought to right himself.
She huddled. She got ready to run. He shook the door handle and tried to force it. She waited. She dropped the hand that had covered her mouth. ‘Michel … It is Michel,’ she said.
He broke the glass, showering it into the room. She screamed and ran, banged into a door frame, went down a corridor in darkness, darkness … tried to catch a breath, dragged it in … in. The stairs … she must find the stairs.
Le Blanc threw himself into the corridor. She grabbed the railing and raced down the stairs with him after her … after her … Fell … fell … shrieked, ‘No! No!’ dragged in a breath and hit the stairs, tumbling down them.
He fired once. Plaster dust flew into her face. ‘No! No!’ she shrieked again and rolled away until she hit another wall and could go no farther.
‘Michel …’ she managed, dragging herself up. ‘Michel … don’t do it, please.’
There was no answer. In all that house there were only the silent cries of girls who once had been so full of hope, her own ragged breathing, the ache in her chest and outside on the balcony, why, only the sound of the sleet as it hit the windows.
‘Michel …’ She swallowed hard. ‘Let me go. I won’t tell them anything. I promise.’
How contemptible of her to beg.
Still he didn’t answer and when, having hesitantly pulled herself up on to her feet, she stood with her back to the wall, the touch of the plaster was dry and rough beneath her hand, and the waiting was cruel.
Somehow she had reached one of the bedrooms on the second floor. There must be a short bit of corridor and then the staircase. She had pulled herself into a ball as she had rolled away but had no memory of having done so.
Windows overlooked the rue de Valois but these were not nearly so tall as those either upstairs or downstairs.
‘Michel … I … I haven’t told them anything. I … I have the travel papers and other documents I had made for you and Franz. They’re … they’re sewn into the lining of my coat. I couldn’t carry them in my purse, could I? The controls, the checkpoints, the Gestapo searches … Here … here, I can rip them free for you.’
Her fingers shook so much she couldn’t do it. A button flew off, another fell … Both hit the floor and rolled away, and she heard the sound of them against that of the sleet striking the windows.
Trembling, she tried to find the exact place where the papers were. The left side of the hem … Here … here, she said to herself and, pulling it up to grasp it in her teeth, yanked hard and …
He was standing in the doorway. She could barely make him out through the darkness. Had he raised the gun, was he about to kill her?
‘Mi … ch … el, please!’
He took a step, lurched into the room, ran at her.
Shrieking, she darted aside and felt him grab her by the coat. They fell, they both went down hard to roll madly about, she trying to get free of him, he trying to pin her down … down. Gun … gun … what has happened to his gun? she yelled at herself and sank her teeth into his ear.
He screamed and swung hard. Her head banged against the floor and she lay there panting with her eyes clamped tightly shut as the pain rushed through her.
‘Putain! Interfering slut!’ He caught breath. ‘Ah nom de Jésus-Christ! I’ve cracked my forehead.’
Through the webs of pain, she could hear his ragged breathing. He would kill her now, there was nothing she could do to stop it.
Bucking her middle fiercely up, she swung her fists hard, hitting him repeatedly in the face, then scratching at his eyes … his eyes and tearing at him as he hit her again and again and tried to grab her arms.
They fell back. She butted the top of her head against his chin and scrambled off him. Raced for the door … only to be caught, pulled back, dragged down …
Shrieking, she kicked hard and caught him in the face then scrambled away … away. The stairs … she had to reach the stairs.
When her hand came up against his gun on the floor, she dragged it up and threw herself over on to her back.
Against the sound of the ice pellets on the windows, le Blanc heard her breathing through her teeth. He would pull off his overcoat and throw it over her. He would kick her hard until the gun was empty or had fallen from her hands.
Kohler silently swore at himself. Kempf was good. Since leaving the bedrooms upstairs, the bastard had gone to ground so well there hadn’t been a hint of where he was. Only the feeling that he had not yet left the house by going up the back stairs or out the front door and onto the rue de Montpensier.
Off the downstairs corridor there were rooms—a library, a study, a billiard room, kitchen, pantry and those same back stairs …
When he stepped into what he felt must be the billiard room, Kohler knew instinctively he had made a mistake. There was nothing firmer to back this feeling up, now only the pitch darkness, the coolness of the draught from upstairs, the warmth of a radiator under his hand, the faint smell of chalk dust and green baize all billiard rooms had, that much stronger, far harsher smell of stale tobacco smoke, of cigars, cognac, pipes and cigarettes …
He waited for the bullets to come. Uncertain, his fingers trailed across the table. Finding a ball, he cautiously took it up. Where … where was Kempf? Standing over by the cue-rack? Behind a chair, beside a lamp, near the tallyboard …?
Cautiously he sent the ball rolling down the table. If one could play this game, so could two.
The ball didn’t go far. When it struck another faintly, that sound was all Kohler heard until a breath was released in a sigh and he realized it was his own. Gone … the son of a bitch was gone! Ah merde, Louis, watch out!
St-Cyr was torn by the waiting. Time collapsed, constricted—played tricks on the mind, expanding suddenly so as to make minutes seem hours not seconds. He knew he should have gone after Marie-Claire de Brisson, knew he must stay where he was, that Hermann would eventually flush Kempf up the stairs to the attic flat. Or would he?
It had
been too long a wait. Something must have happened. Perhaps Kempf had left by the front door and would now be entering the house of Monsieur Vergès from the rue de Valois to find Mademoiselle de Brisson and his friend—Was that how it was? She couldn’t hide for ever in that empty house, would be terrified.
Straightening, he eased his aching knees and back and lessened his grip on the revolver.
Again he waited, tormented by the need to follow the girl before it was too late, tormented by not knowing where the Sonderführer was. If he moved back to the head of the stairs and, at some noise, chanced a shot or two down them, he might kill Hermann. Only by staying here could he use the degrees of darkness to satisfy himself that it was the Sonderführer who came up the stairs or Hermann who was much taller, much bigger.
A board gave a little. He held himself ready, said silently, Come up the stairs.
There were no further sounds save those of the incessant sleet, and when, at last, a darker silhouette appeared against the lesser darkness but briefly, he was forced again to wait. ‘Louis … Louis, it’s me. He’s buggered off.’
‘The girl, Hermann.’
‘That house, Louis.’
Her breathing came easier now. As she lay on her back with le Blanc’s gun clutched in both hands, waiting for him to rush her, Marie-Claire de Brisson gingerly raised her knees a little more.
The last folds of her dress slid to gather about her middle, freeing her legs completely. Bracing the gun against her inner thighs, the backs of her hands were pressed into her garters and silk stockings and the cold skin above them, the smoothness of her naked flesh.
She heard someone on the staircase and, ripped right out of things, thought it was her father, said desperately, Never again will I let him touch me, and realized it couldn’t possibly be him.
Ah no. Franz .. was it Franz?
Craning her neck as far back as possible, she chanced a look directly behind her but the steps had stopped and there was nothing but darkness everywhere.
‘Michel, if you kill me, you will never find the money. I hid it elsewhere. I found it in the storeroom at the shop—I did. I moved it!’
There was no answer, there were no more steps behind her that she could discern. ‘Michel, I’m warning you!’
The gun leapt in her hands. There was a brilliant flash of fire, the instant image of her legs with knees up, then the acrid stench of smoke and a rush of sound, a loud bang, the sound of plaster falling and, finally, through the darkness and the smoke, the muffled shrieking of Madame Lemaire’s maid and the sound of the girl banging on her mistress’s wall.
Le Blanc waited. Holding his overcoat by the shoulders, he tried to bring himself to rush forward and throw it over Marie-Claire, to kick her hard and let her empty the revolver before it vas too late.
She’ll hit me, he kept on telling himself and asked, Where the hell is Franz? What has happened to him?
‘I’ll go to the police!’ came the muffled words from next door. ‘I’ll tell them everything, messieurs!’
He chanced a step and heard Marie-Claire suck in a breath, heard the hammer click as it descended on the cartridge, saw the flash of fire, the upraised knees, the stockings, the underwear, then heard the bang and felt the darkness closing in on him.
For perhaps ten seconds there was no further sound, then she gave a stifled cry, a sudden furious lurching up of her legs, a kicking, a thrashing. As the gun was grabbed from behind, it went off. Kempf forced her hands down between her legs. She had no strength, could not raise her arms, could not move her head for he was kneeling on her chest and tearing the gun from her. ‘Michel!’ he hissed. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes. The bitch nearly got me. What happened?’
‘They’re on the balcony. Hurry! We haven’t much time.’
They dragged her up and took her with them, plummeting down the stairs at breakneck speed. ‘No … No! I won’t tell you!’ she gasped frantically and, racing still, was pulled along and out on to the rue de Valois. ‘The shop,’ she heard Kempf breathlessly say. ‘She must have hidden the money there. She couldn’t have moved it.’
‘I did!’
They stopped. The freezing rain came down through the blue-washed light of the only street lamp, and the sound of the ice pellets was all around them, striking the frozen ground and each other, bouncing from the lamp above them.
‘I’ll never tell you. Never!’ she swore.
Grimly St-Cyr nudged the door to the shop open a little more. Gone were the slipping and sliding, the tumbles that had barked the shins, torn muscles, bruised a shoulder and hurt an already injured hand. Gone Were streets impassable to all but ice-skaters!
Hermann was no better off and was decidedly favouring the arm Péguy had put the knife into long ago, it seemed, and forgotten until now.
The smells of the place came to him as the Bavarian softly closed the door behind them and eased the lock on with a finality that troubled, since there could now be no easy escape for anyone, themselves included. There were the smells of perfume and bath salts, of oils and soaps that only the privileged could buy and the black market provide. Smells of new silk, old silk, warm wool, cold linen, glass display cases, scarves and leather gloves, shop-girls who had gone home hours ago, pencils, cash drawers and bills of sale.
At a nudge from Hermann, he moved to the left, his partner working to the right. Now the front of the shop was behind them and he wondered if he shouldn’t check the floor for Marie-Claire de Brisson. Had they killed her, had they left her here? Blood … there was the faint smell of blood, but from where was it coming?
Silently St-Cyr moved among the displays— dresses, suits, skirts and overcoats … the feel of each telegraphing its identity to him, no sign yet of Mademoiselle de Brisson. She’d been wearing a mohair dress …
He touched a plaster bust and felt the lace of a brassière. Delicate … so delicate. A spill of silk briefs suggested someone must have thrown out a hand.
Crouching, he searched the floor, gathering undergarments, finding nothing else and wondering if Kempf and le Blanc were in the office at the back? Had they killed Mademoiselle de Brisson, had they silenced her for ever, or would they try to use her as a hostage?
When he found her overcoat on the floor, St-Cyr felt its lining and knew it had been ripped apart.
Kohler ran his left hand over the surface of one of the glass display cases, touching lipstick cartridges, compacts and boxes of face powder, rouge and other things The stillness told him Kempf and le Blanc were waiting, but where? Ah Gott im Himmel, was it blood he had just smelled?
It was.
The smell of women and girls came to him as, silently, he moved aside the curtain of one of the changing cubicles and felt inside it.
Nothing. Verdammt! Where were they? Behind the shop there’d be the office and a storeroom, a lavatory and powder room—a place for the shop-girls to hang their coats and hats. Kempf … what the hell would Kempf do?
Louis … where was Louis?
St-Cyr reached the far corner of the shop. Racks of evening dresses were to his left—he felt them, felt silk and satin, lace and chiffon—sequins hard and cold, rhinestone beads and tiny seed pearls in seductive patterns. Merde, what had Kempf and le Blanc done with the banker’s daughter?
Behind the shop there was a corridor, a dark alleyway to what? he wondered and told himself, The office …
But other things too. More changing cubicles. He moved a curtain aside and hesitated. He let it fall back into place.
There were three cubicles and he checked each of them thoroughly. The office door was directly across the corridor.
Gingerly he felt around it but, yes, it was tightly closed.
Kohler came to join him and, crouching at his feet, the Bavarian ran fingers delicately along the bottom of the door. A rug, he tapped out the letters, letting them fall uneasily on Louis’s ankle.
Gently tugging at the rug, he moved it just a little and a faint sliver of pale blue li
ght intruded into the corridor at their feet. Louis, he said to himself as he tucked the carpet back in place. Louis, they’ve …
Urgently he tapped out another message in Morse that had been learned by all above the rank of sergeant or Unterfeldwebel in that other war. Me … corridor … storeroom … time. Kick door open, stand back.
There must be another door to the office, connecting it to the storeroom behind. As St-Cyr waited, the cinematographer within him could not help but see Marie-Claire de Brisson hanging above that lamp in there, stretched out, spread-eagled over it as all those other girls must have been in that house, naked, their hair chopped off, their breasts …
He hit the door. It flew open—crashed against a chair, the wall … The desk lamp was on the floor below her … below her … shrouded with a dark blue silk scarf … Ah no …
He shuddered at what they had done to her and tried to think—Think! he cried to himself. Hermann … Hermann, they have …
Now the blue lamplight flooded out into the corridor to touch the curtains of the changing cubicles, and the girl’s shadow was cast upon the ceiling.
Deep in the storeroom, Kohler took a step and then another. Racks of clothing stood on either side of him. All down the narrow space between them, there was only darkness and then … then a faint blue wash of light from beneath the back door of the office, the door through which Louis and he were to have come …
He chanced a look towards the corridor where a deeper blue light now shone. He wished he had Louis’s sense of smell. Louis could sort things out and tell not only when stale tobacco smoke was coming from a man’s jacket but how close it was.
Silently parting the clothes on the rack to the right of him, Kohler eased his gun-hand through … Gently … gently, he warned himself. You’ll never get him with these between you. He’ll only bolt and run and fire.
His little finger briefly touched a coarser fabric than that of the dresses. Immediately it backed away and the dresses on the rack closed silently as he withdrew his hand.
Mannequin Page 25
