‘One of our two women?’
The cigarette was returned. ‘Perhaps, but then … Ah,’ he shrugged, ‘nothing is definite, my old one. Nothing. There was another woman, but that is a separate matter and I think the two are unrelated.’
‘What about the girl with the bicycle? Did you find anything?’
‘Me? Ah no, nothing. A student perhaps, but a teacher, I think.’ He would keep the yellow work card private for the moment. ‘And you, my friend? What did you find?’
Kohler knew he would have to say something but he need not reveal everything. ‘A Lebel. The old Model 1873. I dropped it into a sewer over there.’
‘Merci. I am most grateful, Hermann. The less fuss the better.’
‘Leiter Weidling wasn’t telling us everything, Louis, and neither was Robichaud.’
The cigarette had now burned down to the fingernails and could be passed only with great difficulty. ‘Lübeck, Heidelberg and Köln,’ said St-Cyr as if lost in thought and asking questions of himself. ‘The same technique, Hermann, yet I must ask why gasoline was not splashed so thoroughly on the staircases to the balcony? Was it that the arsonist, this Salamander perhaps, or one of those two women who came in late, wanted to save the other?’
‘Who was upstairs visiting the projectionist?’
‘Yes.’
‘A prostitute, Louis?’
‘Perhaps, but then perhaps not. At the moment nothing is clear except that the Resistance were here in force, Hermann. Me, I am certain of it, and that revolver you found says so.’
merde! The bastard had the nose of a ferret. ‘There was a priest, Louis, and a cross.’
‘Yes, yes, a priest,’ said the Sûreté, impatient with him for not revealing all. ‘And a girl on a bicycle, eh, Hermann?’ he taunted.
‘What about the fire doors that were locked? What about the owner?’
‘What about him indeed? Let’s find the owner and ask him.’
‘No sleep?’
‘Not tonight. Not yet anyway. Not while the Salamander, if he or she even exists, is out there, Hermann, waiting to see what we will do.’
Louis seldom had the last word but the prospect of being watched was uncomfortable and Kohler let him have it. There was also Gestapo Mueller’s interest to consider. Shit!
In silence they returned to the cinema to find Robichaud and ask him where the owner might be found. It was not far.
2
THE BISTRO ALBERT BRÛLÉ WAS ON THE QUAI DE la Pêcherie, overlooking the Saône and Fourvière Hill, if one could see them through the darkness. There was only a tiny blue light above the entrance to signal anything out of the ordinary behind the black-out curtains, yet three vélo-taxis and two horse-drawn cabs were waiting in the freezing cold. The foyer held a bar and coatcheck. The restaurant was jammed, the talk earnest and everywhere. A businessman’s place but several women were about, all well-dressed, gay and vivacious. Excited.
Mistresses? grinned Kohler, inwardly nodding as Louis hushed the head waiter and negotiated Sûreté business. The men would be showing the girls off to their competitors and associates. Not a whiff of tobacco smoke in the place—a real chef then. A fanatic in these hard times. If you want to smoke, go elsewhere. Don’t ruin the taste of my cooking! And wasn’t it marvellous what a person could do on the black market?
The clientele obeyed the no-smoking rule. Perhaps fifty customers were seated. There were two long rows of marble-topped tables placed end to end. Knees touched. A hand was on a woman’s silk-stockinged knee. Ah yes, she was good for a little feel. Island tables elsewhere had electric lights turned down to give atmosphere, not to save on power as per the regulations. Panelled mahogany walls held oil paintings of nearly naked girls running through moonlight, and of others bathing in the buff while eating grapes and thinking of more tasty things, perhaps.
There wasn’t a word of the recent catastrophe, not a mention of little girls in flames. Why spoil dinner?
‘Remember to let me make the overtures, eh?’ cautioned the Sûreté, gruffly putting his badge away and removing his fedora. ‘There is absolutely no sense in throwing your weight around in here, Hermann. These people will all have well-placed friends in the SS, the Gestapo or the Wehrmacht. Indeed, several of those types are here tonight, so, please, do not make a disturbance! We’ve been in enough trouble and must get this over with.’
‘Just remember I’m older than you and still the boss.’
‘Then perhaps you would be good enough to tell me what it was you found so disturbing in the toilets of that cinema?’
‘Nothing. Absolutely nothing, Louis. You know how my stomach is. So many bodies, the smell of roasted fle—’
‘Hermann!’ St-Cyr grabbed him by the arm. ‘A cognac,’ he hissed at the barman. ‘Hurry, idiot! Before he vomits all over the place!’
Visions of braised human ribs came to Kohler, of a woman’s shapely buttocks, the skin now crisp and brown, the juices running through the cracks. He smelled the sweetness of death, the putrefaction. He saw a set of white, white teeth, red lips parting in laughter and wanted to choke that laughter off!
The Prunier was downed in a gulp—aged thirty years! The ragged cheeks, with that terrible scar from the left eye to chin and memory of a rawhide whip, slowly began to lose their pallor. St-Cyr gripped his partner a moment more before releasing him. ‘Is the news that bad?’ he asked. ‘Ah, nom de Jésus-Christ! Résistants, Hermann? Come, come, mon ami, out with it, eh? We’ve been condemned to work together. It’s best I know everything.’
The Bavarian’s eyes were smarting. He swallowed another brandy with difficulty. ‘Then you tell me what you didn’t, and I’ll tell you what I didn’t.’
That was fair enough. Always there was this hedging on both sides of the partnership. ‘Later, then. Let’s see what our Monsieur Artel has to say about his cinema.’
The woman who had laughed followed Kohler with her bright eyes, doubt growing in them. He knew she would swiftly lose spirit but had to tell her something.
Leaning closely, he whispered into the sweet shell of her scented ear, ‘I’m sorry if I frightened you, mademoiselle, or is it madame and your husband off somewhere else? A POW camp in the Reich, eh? Hey, more than a million and a half Frenchmen still languish behind barbed wire in spite of all the promises to let them go home. The poor buggers dream of girls like you but have to masturbate.’
Devastated, she dropped her fork and seized her napkin, so, good! ‘Bon appétit, madame,’ he said and tossed the rest of the party a nonchalant wave.
The meal at Artel’s far-corner table was being consumed by four Lyonnais businessmen in almost identical, nondescript blue serge suits and subdued ties. They talked of business, were solicitous towards their host while privately holding their own thoughts. They spooned with stolid indifference the potage velouté aux truffes, the boneless fish soup painstakingly made by pressing the steamed fish through a fine wire sieve and blending the result with long-simmered fish stock, a creamed sauce of beaten eggs and flour, and the truffles of course. Ah mon Dieu, it made the digestive juices run to watch them.
Now and then a double chin was hastily wiped with a large, white linen napkin, a glass of red Beaujolais nouveau was reached for or a crusty loaf from which a generous chunk would be ripped by pudgy fingers and perhaps dipped in the soup before being eaten. On one little finger there was a jade signet ring. All the left hands had gold wedding bands …
‘Louis, they haven’t even noticed us.’
‘Don’t feel so put out. You’re not dressed properly. Observe, eh? Tell me which is the notary, which the banker, which the insurance agent?’
‘And which is our man, Monsieur Fabien Artel?’
The owner of the cinema.
‘Monsieur Artel? Monsieur Fabien Artel?’ asked Louis quite pleasantly.
The man hesitated. ‘Yes. Yes, that is me.’ He threw the head waiter a scathing glance. ‘What is it you want of me?’
St-Cyr took the table
in, nodding to the others. ‘Messieurs. No, please, continue with the soup. It is very good, is it not?’
Artel tossed a dismissive hand. ‘You’re from the police. This is neither the time nor the place. Please leave.’
Ah well, a stubborn one. ‘We’d rather not, monsieur. It’s Christmas Eve and we’d like to get home.’
‘The préfet—’
‘Fabien, go easy. As your legal adviser—’
‘Don’t interrupt me, Martin. Guillemette is right over there, dining with the Obersturmführer Klaus Barbie. I need only give a nod, and he will see to it.’
Ah nom de Dieu, Klaus Barbie! ‘Monsieur, do not try my patience,’ breathed St-Cyr. ‘One hundred and eighty-three have died in your cinema. A few simple answers are in order if we are to stop the arsonist from committing another, and perhaps even more horrendous crime.’ He let his gaze move to the insurance agent—one could tell them apart at a glance—but continued. ‘Surely it is to your advantage to co-operate?’
‘He’s right, Fabien. Co-operate,’ said the agent.
The banker nodded curtly at the wisdom of this and motioned to the head waiter. ‘Monsieur Jules, some chairs, please, for our guests. An apéritif, messieurs? A little of the Moulin-à-Vent? Yes, yes, that would be most suitable.’ He turned to the sommelier. ‘Étienne, you may bring the Moulin now for Monsieur Artel.’
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 wo
uld 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?’
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