‘Ah yes, Monsieur Fabien Artel. The fleshy lips and closely shaven cheeks blue with shadow. The dimpled chin, eh? and the puffy eyelids whose eyes were hooded beneath arched, dark brows that were not thick. The rapidly receding hairline, the touches of grey that have been patiently hidden. The arrogance of that nose, the corpulence—the wedding ring that should most certainly have been cut off and expanded to prevent loss of circulation were he not so parsimonious and busy. Whereas the banker’s eyes might hold a momentary trace of sympathy for a needy client, untrue of course, this one’s could never hold any. He views the world as a notecase and asks only how much is in it for him?’
‘Suffers from a crisis of the liver, does he?’
‘And the misused prostate!’
Good Gott im Himmel! ‘Don’t hate him, Louis. Don’t let all those bodies get to you. It’s best not to.’
‘Then ask the mother who tried to reach her child, Hermann. Ask the woman who was tied to a bed she had probably slept in every night of her life. Ask your priest who it was that lit the fire. Ask him why he was in the cinema and not about his duties at such a busy time.’
‘Ask the Bishop, Louis. Ask the one who employed him.’
‘That is exactly what I intend to do when he gives me the wafer, Hermann. You’re learning, eh? A few more months with me and I will consider you polished enough to go home.’
Normally Hermann would have risen to such bait and loudly proclaimed the Thousand Year Reich was in France for ever. Instead, he walked away into the night and when he commandeered a carnage, he asked first if it was waiting for the Préfet of Police and the Obersturmführer Klaus Barbie. ‘Then we have need of it, my friend,’ he said. ‘Gestapo Central, Paris. Don’t argue or you will face the wrong end of my pistol.’
The carriage was only of limited use and that was probably just as well. Dropped at the foot of the montée des Chazeaux, St-Cyr made excuses—the terrain, the height and steepness of Fourvière Hill, the narrow, medieval streets of Vieux Lyon, the impassibility to carriages beyond certain points, the Roman origins of Lugdunum and prior need to defend the city from them by fortifying the heights. ‘Ah, so many reasons, Hermann. Please, it is but a little climb up to the Basilica.’
‘Little? I see nothing but a steady stream of penitents bundled in black on a pitch-black night and mumbling over their beads with regret.’
‘The funicular is closed. A power failure of Germanic origins—i.e., punishment for some slight. Probably graffiti splashed on some wall in stolen white paint that ran Vive le Général de Gaulle, Vive la France libre, or some such thing.’
‘If you French had guts you would have levelled this hill! I can’t understand why the Romans didn’t. Christ, it’s cold!’
They started up the 242 steps of the montée, no sand on the pavement as a special treat in these frozen times. Shuffling old ladies, old men grinding their false teeth and carefully budgeting their cigarettes, coughing, spitting, hawking up their guts, boys, girls, babes in arms, single mothers, grass widows, war widows and older men with younger wives, one of whom was painfully pregnant and could no longer button her overcoat. Triplets? wondered Kohler anxiously. The rope around her belly was frayed. She’d worn three aprons beneath it to help keep the cold at bay. Piety shone in her eyes and the flic on duty hadn’t the heart to warn her to extinguish her candle.
‘Gott im Himmel, you French are stupid!’ seethed Kohler. ‘If it isn’t ten thousand steps up to some rathole of a fucking flat in Montmartre or Saint-Denis, it’s an elevator with a two-strand cable that ought to have been replaced ten thousand years ago!’
‘We are going up to the Basilica, Hermann. Correct me if I am wrong, but I do not think they had elevators then, though I am positive they came into use about 1850.’
‘Another lecture, eh? Then let me tell you, you French have been using the same goddamned elevators ever since!’
Hermann hated using the elevators in Paris or anywhere else. He had been caught once, left hanging by a hair, and the memory of that near-catastrophe was always fresh. Always! Now he would use the stairs but, as he hated them too, there was no solution short of parachuting him in. And he hated heights more than anything.
As if ashamed of his behaviour, Kohler mumbled, ‘Madame, permit me, please, to offer you and your husband a little assistance. The steps are steep and I gather there are far too many of them.’
In alarm she dropped her candle, let out a shriek, gasped, ‘Georges!’ and fainted. Christ!
It took fifteen minutes to bring her round and get her back on her feet. In all this time the shuffling stream never stopped, but only pinched down as it passed them, then opened up again. Shoulders rubbing shoulders. Coughs chasing coughs. Step after step. Christmas Eve, 1942.
‘Your face, Hermann. She saw your face. The mark of that whip, eh? The scar, it is still too fresh. The frost must have made it glisten.’
‘She knew I was Gestapo, Louis. She was so damned scared, she practically dropped her babies right there. Could we have delivered them?’
‘Of course. Under the Third Reich all things are possible.’
‘I did once. Did you know that? She’d been knifed and was dying, Louis, and I held her little boy up for her even as she closed her eyes and smiled. Berlin, 13 June 1939, right after one of the rallies. Always there were the rallies. Thinking he’d be safe in the crowd, some son of a bitch had to let her have it for no other reason than that she looked a trifle Jewish, I guess. We never knew the reason and we never caught him.’
‘Remind me to buy you a drink and a bit of supper, eh?’
‘Those ration tickets Marianne left for you are now at least a good four weeks out of date, idiot! I’ll find us a place. I’m not hungry anyway.’
‘That priest just knelt and let it happen, Hermann. He didn’t try to save himself like all the others.’
‘Did he tie the woman to her bed? Is that what you’re wondering?’
‘Or did he know the Salamander would strike and is that why he was in the cinema?’
There were so many questions, so little time in which to get things done. At the top of the montée they began yet another steep climb, the switchbacks of the Sacré Coeur snaking through scant woods where the nubby branches of the trees reminded Kohler of battlefields long passed and of sanctuary woods after weeks of constant shelling.
The French always pruned their trees too much. They liked them wounded into stumps and fingerless fists.
‘That priest was going to sodomize the woman, Louis. Guilt stopped him and he went downstairs into the cinema only to find the flames of hell had descended upon him.’
‘We’ll ask the bishop. We’ll tell him the Church’s secret is safe with us.’
For some time now the litany of the Mass had had a lulling effect. There was far less coughing and clearing of the throat or blowing of the nose. More rhythm to the responses, more unity of intonation and automatic signing of the Cross.
Prayers were offered for the victims of the fire, pleas for the arsonist or arsonists to give up and come forth to receive God’s forgiveness. Prayers for those who had been badly burned and disfigured—somehow they must find it in their hearts to forgive. So, too, all those who had lost their loved ones.
Yet had it been wise to hold the Mass? If ever an opportunity for disaster presented itself, it was in this packed congregation. Each person’s shoulders touched at least one other’s. It was now so hot and stuffy in the unheated church, overcoats had been unbuttoned, mittens, gloves and scarves removed to cushion bended knees. A simple cry of Fire would cause untold panic and the Salamander, if he or she or they were bent on another disaster, would know this.
St-Cyr sat nearest the right aisle, about a quarter of the way from the altar and beside one of the blue-grey marble columns that rose to the vaulted ceiling high above where gorgeous frescos were sumptuously gilded. Consecrated in 1896, the Basilica exemplified the very soul of the merchants and bankers who had built it. Gold was eve
rywhere, so, too, polished semiprecious stones. Its altar was immense and resplendent with silk and silver and gold. There were paintings and mosaics, beautiful stained-glass windows. Everywhere there was candlelight or the warm glow of scented oil lamps.
Clearly the Bishop of Lyon had spared nothing on this eve of eves. In defiance of the black-out, the Basilica must glow like a beacon. Not content, he had insisted on holding the Mass at midnight as had been the Church’s custom for centuries.
With the curfew at midnight, and all tram-cars and autobuses stopped at 11 p.m., he had forced each and every person before him to break the law, which would drive the German authorities half crazy trying to arrest them all should they so choose.
Resplendent in his finery, Bishop Frédéric Dufour was a man to be reckoned with. His wrists were strong and bony, the hands big, shoulders wide and square, the feet always braced as if God were up there some place on the mountain and he but a humble shepherd. The short, wavy hair was iron-grey, his brow and face wide as if cut from granite, but he was still a man who could enjoy a good time among simple people, a man much accustomed to circulating in the world of salons but one who always remembered his roots. No fool, he must have gauged the metal of the Nazi High Command and gambled they’d say nothing beyond a mild rebuke to himself.
But, again, one had to wonder if it had been wise to hold the Mass? All eyes would be closed in prayer or on the hymnal or the Bishop and his assistants, the altar boys, the swinging censers, the choir that sat among stupendous columns of rose-red marble, the Cross above the altar, the Virgin to one side.
All but Hermann’s. Hermann would be busy in the wings looking for possible arson or scanning the crowd for a chance sight of that girl they had seen on the bicycle.
Two women … Had she been one of them and why, please, had she dropped the yellow work card of a prostitute?
A priest, but no ordinary cleric. Were the two connected? Could that be possible?
And were they to have another fire so soon? Ah merde, Hermann. Be careful.
The smell of gasoline was strongest here, high above the altar in one of the four octagonal towers that formed the corners of the Basilica and rose to belfries more Gothic than Byzantine. Stealthily Kohler crouched in the pitch darkness and ran anxious fingertips over the cold marble floor. Gingerly he brought them to his nose, each microsecond frozen in time, his mind and body functioning too slowly—he knew this now. The floor was awash.
Stairs … there would be stairs to the belfry but surely they would not have started pouring the gasoline from up there? Surely those two women would be below him among the congregation, waiting … waiting for the right moment?
When he came across a jerry can lying flat at the top of the stone steps, he ran a hesitant finger around inside its open neck, felt the threaded metal, each groove sharp and precise. Saw at once the four towers in flames; saw the panic inside the church, the trampled; heard the terrified screams.
Verdammt! He shut his eyes and tried to calm himself. He thought to ring the bells—knew that this would only warn the arsonist or arsonists.
A door would be opened into the tower, a lighted candle would be dropped on the way out.
When he came to a narrow gallery, he stood in shadow looking down the length of the crowded nave. He searched, he asked, Where are you? He wanted to shout, Rans! Raus! Get out! before it was too late.
Prayers came up to him and he hesitated. Satisfied that all heads would be bowed and he wouldn’t be seen, he stepped quickly through to the railing to look down at the seats nearest the door to the tower. Two women … What would they be wearing? Would they sit side by side? Had they even had anything to do with the cinema fire? Had they really?
It all looked so ordinary. Where …? Where the hell are you? he wanted to shout.
Four belfries … four of them.
Slowly he retraced his steps. Again he looked uncertainly up through the darkness to the belfry, again he felt the gasoline on the floor. Had it only just been dumped? Had they heard him in the tower? Were they still waiting in the darkness at the top of those stairs?
He began to climb, and when he reached the top, eight tall and narrow arches gave out on to the night, the darkness there a little less. Freezing, a breeze came softly. It did not stir the heavy bronze bells. He must go around the bells. He must make no sound, give no sign of himself. They mustn’t know he’d come back. She mustn’t know. She? he asked.
Two women … a strong smell of perfume close, so close and layered over that of the gasoline because of the breeze. He waited. Silently he asked, Well, what’s it to be, eh?
She’d have the matches ready. She wouldn’t care if she or they died in the fire. Perhaps that’s what she wanted. He crouched and ran his fingers lightly over the floor.
When he touched a woman’s high-heeled shoe, he leapt inwardly but found himself asking, How could she wear such things on a night like this?
She didn’t move. She did not even know he was here.
The fucking shoes were empty! She’d left them side by side and had splashed perfume on the stone sill to fool him!
Ah Gott im Himmel, Louis … Louis, where the hell are you when needed most? Down on your knees praying to that God of yours? Asking why He has to mock his little detective, eh?
Waiting … waiting just like everyone else.
* * *
The Mass was taking forever. Why had they simply not sent a messenger to the bishop with a note, wondered St-Cyr? Urgent consultations. A cross … an exquisite masterpiece of mid-to-late Renaissance art. Four square, blood-red rubies at its ends, four magnificent square-tabled sapphires at the crossroads and well-faceted, round Jager diamonds, each of at least three carats, the stones all set in raised collets on chased quatrefoils whose four-leafed petals were filigreed in dark blue and gold enamel.
The rope of gold was with rubies and enamelled cushions between the links. The bishop could well have refused to see Hermann and himself. Made excuses, sought to divert the inquiry … ah, so many things might well have happened. There was also Dufour’s reaction to the shock of being confronted so unexpectedly. Ah yes.
At a nudge, St-Cyr awoke from the turmoil of his thoughts to join the shuffling line in the aisle. The bread, the wine, the blessings and genuflections came as each parishioner received the Blessed Sacrament, none now asking why that fire had had to happen, none worrying that it could just as suddenly happen here. Hermann … where was Hermann?
‘My son, that cross …?’
Doubt and fear, then realization and sadness swiftly entered the dark grey eyes of the shepherd whose cheeks were rugged. ‘Jean-Louis St-Cyr of the Sûreté Nationale, Bishop. Please forgive the inconvenience, but it is imperative that we talk.’
‘Here? Now? But … but …” Ah damn! ‘Yes, yes of course. One of the confessionals.’ Dufour indicated the ornately carved boxes on the far side of the church and said, ‘Follow, please.’
There was no time. Clearly that was evident; so, too, that the bishop wanted the least possible notice taken of them.
No sooner were they inside and seated, when he hissed, ‘Why have you come here like this with that in your hands? Have you no sense of decency? Father Adrian had nothing to do with that fire. Nothing! How could he have?’
‘Then why was he in that cinema, Bishop? Why was he on his knees facing the worst of the flames?’
‘Facing the flames?’
‘Yes. The others had blocked the only exits. Some had tried to run into the foyer but had collapsed in their panic or from the smoke and flames. The others then fell on top of them.’
‘He must have known he could not escape.’
‘But to exhibit such calmness and strength of will is quite remarkable, is it not? Why was he a martyr?’
Dufour considered this. When he asked to see the cross, St-Cyr handed it to him, and for a moment their fingers touched. He felt the trembling in the bishop and knew Dufour was either frightened of the outcome or deeply gri
eving over the loss of his priest.
They could not see each other’s expressions. Had he suggested the confessional for this very reason? Had he?
Indeed, the confessional had always seemed to single out the confessor, using that same remoteness to pigeon-hole the sinner’s soul. Uncomfortable … it had always made St-Cyr feel uncomfortable, the mind flitting back to boyhood days and things like cakes and pies best left unstolen.
When the bishop spoke again it was as if to God, humbly begging His forgiveness. ‘This cross was far too ostentatious, Inspector. For quite obvious reasons I forbade Father Beaumont to wear it except on very special occasions. Adrian … Adrian was my personal secretary. We’d been together for years. When that happens, the right hand usually knows what the left hand is about, isn’t that so? He understood he was not to wear this outside the Basilica. I could not have him causing envy among my other priests or with the cardinals and other bishops, could I? Father Beaumont agreed—he was that kind of man. Honest, diligent, absolutely trustworthy, and my humble servant at all times, be it night or day. I kept the cross in the safe in my office, and I know for a fact that he has left it to me in his will.’
Ah nom de Dieu, a will … ‘Why was he there, Bishop? By rights he ought to have been busy. The sick, the wounded, the old, the poor …’
Something would have to be said. Dufour sighed heavily. ‘Our housekeeper will tell you Father Beaumont received an urgent telephone call, Inspector. Mademoiselle Madeleine Aurelle. Yes, yes, I had already anticipated a visit from such as yourself. The Préfet … Ah, of course he has telephoned to warn me of you. News gets around quickly, does it not? So many people, so many deaths … My housekeeper, Mademoiselle Beatrice told me the details of the telephone call. Mademoiselle Aurelle is in her middle years, you understand. Father Beaumont was her confessor—that is to say, Inspector, that one was fond of him. As the men of my village used to say, she had hoarded her little capital for far too long and had not bought any gold with it.’
Her virginity … Her ‘little capital …’ and this from a bishop!
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