He was gone for ever and when he came back, he moved so silently it was only by the smell of the stale pipe smoke that had clung to him in the courtyard that she realized he was there.
The girl had used her head and had stood directly behind one of the statues that looked down on the Medicis Fountain, wrapped in its cocoon of winter.
Quietly and calmly he said, ‘They’re gone. I’ve lost them, but there is still one other.’
He took her by the hand, and when she stepped down, she stood so close to him she could feel his breath on her face. ‘Who are you?’ she asked. He was a little taller than she.
‘It doesn’t matter. Let’s just say, a fellow creature of the night.’
Her hand wrapped itself more firmly around his. Walking among the frozen flowerbeds – shivering, it was true – she felt a strange elation. Fear, yes – there was still some distance to go, but with this ‘creature of the night’ she knew she’d get home safely.
As to his ‘other one’, there were no steps that she or he could hear, and standing together, searching the darkness over the Garden, nothing but the silhouette of the Palais, the line of the roof tops, and the night sky above.
No bombers tonight. No air-raid sirens. The city was so quiet.
At the entrance to number 23, the girl asked if he’d come up, and he heard himself saying, ‘I can’t. I’ve something that has to be done.’
Again he was so close. She let a breath escape and quickly slid her arms about his neck. ‘Hey … Hey,’ began St-Cyr. Ah, Mon Dieu …
Her lips found his. His moustache tickled. Clinging to him, she pressed her eager young body to his and when they parted, he felt her breath against his chin and heard her softly saying, ‘Thanks … Thanks for seeing me home.’
The third man stood alone by a darkened lamppost and when St-Cyr came along the street, Kohler stepped out to join him. ‘You should have gone upstairs with her, Louis. That little piece of ass had the hots for you.’
‘Me, I don’t even know her name.’
‘Since when did names have anything to do with it, eh?’
‘Since when did you start working for Glotz?’
‘I’m not. Boemelburg gave me the order.’
‘Where’s Glotz’s third man then?’
‘Lying in a gutter, kissing the pavement. If he asks, I’ll say it was you.’
More trouble! ‘Well, come along, my friend. Me, I’m too tired to argue.’
Kohler let out a snort. ‘Admit it, Louis, I had you nailed.’
‘If I’d known it was you, Hermann, I’d have lost you first and then the others.’
‘Where to?’ asked Kohler blithely.
‘The Mirage, on the rue Delambre. I think I’ve found our woman.’
‘Let’s hope she spreads her legs. That little girl of yours has given me the humps.’
‘She’s not my girl but I’ve still got her shoes.’
Trust Louis! Kohler let out a burst of laughter. ‘You don’t just take a girl’s shoes off, Louis. You take off all her clothes!’
The Club Mirage had done just that to seven beauties and this shut Hermann up.
Mesmerized, and grinning hugely, the Bavarian barged into the crowd until forced by its sheer numbers to stop.
The stage was still a kilometre away across a sea of tables and the postage stamp of a dance floor. There were some ostrich plumes for show perhaps, or to catch the draught of high-stepping legs and jostled breasts whose nipples appeared unnaturally red beneath the lipstick and the toothy smiles. The eyes were heavily made up, the hair dusted with sequins and decorated with plumes. The band played loudly first, and jazz second. The lead sax player, on a brief respite, read his newspaper while the piano player, caught between bars, refilled a glass from the shaky bottle above the keys.
‘It’s a nice place, Louis,’ said Kohler appreciatively. ‘Don’t get a hard-on,’ he added, jabbing him in the ribs. ‘I’ll talk to the one in the middle. She looks okay, doesn’t she?’
A buxom blonde with spreading hips and gams like stumps. ‘That isn’t her,’ said St-Cyr. It can’t be!
‘I didn’t say it was. Will her tits sag in later life from all that bouncing?’
‘Probably. Most Frenchwomen have sagging breasts anyway, Hermann. That’s why your Army’s here to hold them up.’
‘Okay … Okay, let’s circulate, eh?’ Enough was enough.
‘I’ll take the balcony. Perhaps I can find us a table up there.’
‘Round the side, on the right at the front, by that general.’ Kohler stretched out an arm, the quintessence of discretion.
The general sat alone with a bottle of Krüg. Grey against the grey of the tobacco smoke that filled the air, he appeared solitary and aloof in that sea of ogling men.
He was smoking a cigarette. One black-gloved hand held the ivory holder.
The girls came to the end of their number and raised their arms high above their heads before bowing to tumultuous applause, whistles and calls of ‘How about a lay?’ ‘Over here, liebchen.’ ‘Right on the table!’
A gap in the throng on the lower stairs opened, and St-Cyr shot into it.
Before the war, clubs like the Mirage operated from 9 p.m. until dawn and people came and went. Now, because of the curfew at 12 p.m., they might lose a few customers but most simply stayed the night.
Locked in, but for the chosen few who could leave at any time, the clientele were subjected to the constant hustling of drinks, the endless talk, lots and lots of dancing and, interspersed with the sets, the increasingly risqué performances.
There were women in the crowd – French girls with their German boyfriends and lovers, occasionally a pimp and one or two of his girls, a few black market hoods and their molls, the usual riff-raff and lots of uniforms.
As he reached the balcony, the dancing began again. Couples filled the floor, crowded so closely they could hardly move. In defiance of the Reich and of anyone else who cared to object, the band played their version of ‘Begin the Beguine’.
Cheek to cheek, fingertips of the men’s left hands pressed hard against those of their partners’ right hands, the couples rocked and turned. St-Cyr was caught, trapped momentarily by two non-coms who were heading for the washroom.
Forced to face the crowd, he saw the faces of the times transfixed in memory, frame by frame. The distant look of a woman whose German lover might be leaving soon; that of the German soldier who had really come to like and love his girl. Laughter here, whispered little confidences there. Blank stares up at him or at others on the balcony, from a thin man with big ears and very short, slicked-down, wavy light brown hair.
A girl who sat alone, waiting for her escort. Two men who were about to ask her to dance.
What did their faces say? Forget … forget … Live only for the moment.
Remember … remember later when you’re old and this war is finished.
The women were not all young – far from it – but most of the men, being of the military, were under the age of fifty and over half of them would have been in their twenties. Even those with the older women who so often looked a little lost.
Their husbands in prisoner-of-war camps in Germany no doubt.
Marianne had liked to go dancing. Involuntarily St-Cyr searched the crowd for her until, finally lifting his eyes, he sought out the empty table Kohler had spotted only to find it taken and the general gone.
When he found a set of stairs behind a curtain, they led down to the kitchens at the back, and to the dressing-rooms. At once there was the din from the kitchens, the shouts, the smells and, behind him, the racket from the band and the crowd.
Quickly he ran his eyes over the doors: four of them and then a lavatory, or was it merely a closet? The place reeked of cheap perfume, toilet water, garlic, onions and sour red wine among other things.
The girls burst from one of the rooms to form a conga line against one wall of the corridor, their bare seats to each other. Mocking laughter in their ey
es when they saw him standing there. One even swung her chest his way.
‘A singer?’ he asked. ‘Hasn’t this place got its chanteuse?’
Her eyes were big, brown, hard and glistening with mischief. Close up she looked to be over forty. ‘I’ll sing anything you want, my pretty, just so long as the price is right.’
Talcum powder had been spilled on her knees and all down the front of her.
‘A girl in a fabulous dress made of this.’ St-Cyr dragged out the remnant.
One by one the girls looked at him. The one with the big eyes and the big chest said, ‘Hey, what’s she done?’
He managed the self-conscious grin of a Peeping Tom caught in the act. ‘Nothing. Me, I just had to see her again.’
‘Then see and listen hard, my little bird. She’ll be on in ten minutes.’
They crowded along the corridor. Apparently they were to run on to the stage or something.
He walked past the kitchens and found the door to the courtyard at the back. From there, between close walls that shot up to shuttered windows in the darkness, it was perhaps a hundred metres to the street.
There was a Daimler parked outside the courtyard door. The general from the balcony was sitting in the back. A lighter flicked, a gloved hand came into view and then the ivory holder and the cigarette. Smoke curled up from the flame. St-Cyr waited, unable to move from the crack in the courtyard door.
Frame by frame his camera turned.
Then the lighter went out and the car returned to darkness.
What was it about the stiffness of that hand? The shattering of a grenade? The concussion of a bomb?
Lost in thought, he eased the door shut and retraced his steps.
Kohler forced his way up to the bar and ordered two doubles from the Corsican with the face of ground meat and the hands to go with it.
‘Pastis and beer – German if you have it,’ he shouted, elbowing more space and turning to grin at the squirt who’d thought to object.
The swift dark eyes of the Corsican barman saw cop – this was apparent and deliberately so.
‘The beer’s from Alsace. You can take it or leave it.’
Kohler lit a cigarette. ‘Make it three of them then,’ he grinned, not batting an eye.
The fist gave the zinc a whisper wipe with the dirty cloth. ‘You on business or pleasure, eh?’
Gott in Himmel, the racket was really something! ‘Pleasure. I’m interested in the big one.’ He tossed his head towards the stage and the thunder of kicks. ‘Does she go with the boys, eh?’
‘With you?’ grinned the Corsican.
The fist with its rag had stopped. Kohler resisted the impulse to grab the bastard and yank him across the bar. ‘With me,’ he breathed.
‘Then ask Rivard. He’s her husband.’
Again there was that grin.
Kohler flicked a glance the length of the bar, then said, ‘Let’s have the drinks and I’ll ask him later.’
‘Rivard’ looked like something out of a zoo. The red plaid workshirt and open leather jerkin revealed the gut of an iron barrel. He had the face of a mountain. All crags and clefts and paralysing cliffs. The wavy, jet black hair of a first-class hood.
It was he who watched the trade, never ceasing to let his eyes sift over the crowd.
‘It’s a nice place you’ve got,’ acknowledged Kohler, hoisting the first of the beers and returning his gaze to the barman.
The Corsican watched him down it. Would the Gestapo now drink the pastis – without water?
‘Those are for my buddy,’ said Kohler, not bothering to add that he found the taste of anise and liquorice insipid. ‘So now, my friend, while I’ve got your ear, you’ll answer a few things, eh?’
‘Fuck off.’
A hand shot across the bar but stopped to pat the chest. ‘Just a few little questions. This is too nice a place for us to shut down, so … some answers. One: who owns it?’
‘We do – my brother and I.’ It was nothing secret.
‘Rivard?’ asked Kohler, not believing a word of it.
‘Yes, my brother.’ The man turned away to serve more drinks. He never really stopped – all grace and fluid motion. Lovely with the knife, no doubt.
‘Drugs?’ asked Kohler, smelling them.
‘Don’t be stupid, my friend. Where would we get them these lays?’
‘The same place you got the beer and the pastis.’
‘No drugs. Search if you like.’
Kohler drew out his whistle and laid it on the bar. ‘Are you serious?’ he asked, toying with it.
He opened his jacket – still had his overcoat on. He let the Corsican see the Walther P-38 in its shoulder holster.
The man shrugged and turned to shout the length of the bar, ‘Hey, Remi, we’ve got a hot one here. Wants to know if we’ll serve him some hashish. Is it the oil you wish, monsieur?’ fluted the Corsican.
Kohler’s fist closed about the second beer.
‘Brother’ joined ‘brother’. ‘Look, all I want is the answer to one simple question.’
They waited. The kicks came to an end – more thunderous applause and all eyes turned towards the stage but three pairs of them.
‘Why do you boys call this place the Mirage?’
It was Remi Rivard who grunted, ‘Use your eyes, turd. Watch and see for yourself.’
They were both grinning.
Caught, transfixed, St-Cyr stood in the corridor beside the door to the kitchens. The woman who had come out of the second dressing-room was tall and willowy, just as he had imagined. But there all similarity ceased. From the back she had the most stunning figure of any woman he’d ever seen. The shimmering silk beneath the strands of tiny pearls was electric. The back was straight, the shoulders square and very fine, the waist slender, the hips … the seat … Ah, Mon Dieu, such a gift. Straight from the gods and only for them.
The legs were long and the fabric of the sheath clung to them. Her arms were bare except for bracelets of diamonds. There was a diamond choker round her neck. The soft blonde hair was piled up in waves and curls to reveal delicate lobes and dangling ear-rings of diamonds also.
For one split second their eyes had met and even from a distance of perhaps ten metres, he had known hers were not just blue but a superb shade of violet.
As he watched, she moved gracefully up on to the stage.
The house lights were dimmed. He shut her out of his mind for the moment – Hermann would report at length.
He went along to the dressing-room. The cheering died down. A hush took its place and then he heard her saying quite clearly in beautiful French, ‘My dear, dear friends, I have a song that is especially for you.’
St-Cyr opened the door and stepped inside the dressing-room. At once another female voice said, ‘Monsieur, what are you doing?’
It was the girl, the maid, the killer of that boy.
‘Are you from the police?’ she asked, dismayed and badly frightened. Just sitting there on her mistress’s chair before the dressing table. Hands poised in her lap, the mending clutched. Reflections of her in the mirror.
He shook his head and managed a fatherly smile. The police? Ah no, mademoiselle. My name is Roger Dumont, from the fire marshall’s office. I am merely here to see if you have the proper number of extinguishers in this establishment.’
She tossed her head and returned to her mending. ‘I think it is in the corner, behind the screen.’
Had there been tears in the dark brown eyes? The girl was about twenty-two, of medium height and delicate build, but with strong touches of the peasant and brisk little movements. Quite petite – lashes that were long and almost black. Lips that were …
St-Cyr went behind the dressing screen. Clothes were scattered everywhere. A pair of white silk briefs, complete with lace, was draped carelessly over the top of the ancient fire extinguisher. ‘It should be out in plain view, mademoiselle,’ he said severely. ‘Can you tell me, please, when it was last serviced? There is no tag.
’
He had a momentary flash – a frame of the singer’s figure in that sheath, buffed down, stripped completely and absolutely, before putting on the dress. Done in a hurry too. Had they been arguing? Surely she’d have had plenty of time?
She’d have raised her slender arms perhaps. Who knows? It was a thought.
He dropped the underpants as the maid came round the other end of the screen. ‘You must ask the Rivards, monsieur. Me, I know nothing of such things.’
She was really quite firm about it. ‘Would your mistress?’
The head was tossed, the short brown hair bounced. ‘No, of course not. Is there anything else, monsieur?’
Her wounded eyes took him in … Steady, he said silently. Steady, my pretty thing. ‘Has my visit upset you in some way, mademoiselle?’
The girl turned from him as if struck. The shoulders shook. St-Cyr picked his way through the clothing and came to stand behind her. ‘You poor thing,’ he said gently. ‘Me, I have upset you.’
‘It’s nothing,’ she said, bowing her head and hiding her face in a hand. ‘Nothing, monsieur.’
The girl burst into tears. On the way out, she snatched up her coat, then fled along the corridor and out into the courtyard.
When he reached the street, St-Cyr found the Daimler gone and the girl standing destitute at the side of the road some thirty metres from him. She was staring down at the tiny blue flame that flickered from its kerosene pot. Was it safe to leave her like that? She’d break to pieces if he touched her. So fragile. Like glass. Like something de Maupassant might have written about.
The pull the girl exerted was almost magnetic. He could not leave her, yet he knew he must. In spite of the tears – in spite of everything – he had to ask himself if she had really killed the boy?
Tearing himself away from the courtyard door, St-Cyr went back to the dressing-room – was moving swiftly when he found the purse with its beads of silk.
What the hell … had Hermann …?
It was an exact duplicate of the one Kohler had found in the woods.
There was nothing in it. Nothing yet but tissue paper. Her ID and other papers, the keys to her flat, to a car, money, et cetera were in a dark blue alligator handbag behind the screen. The photograph didn’t do her justice. The ID gave her name as Gabrielle Arcuri.
Mayhem Page 8
