‘What about his wife, Louis? Herr Weidling, like most men with young and very beautiful wives, must constantly keep up appearances and advance himself in her eyes so as to secure his position between her legs.’
‘Ah merde, a young wife, an old fire chief and a need to always impress her,’ muttered Louis. ‘And Robichaud had a mistress who was lost in the fire!’ It was a plea to that God of his for help.
Kohler grinned hugely as he joined them bearing the bishop’s bottle of Calvados. Tapping the préfet solidly on the chest, he snorted and said, ‘Madame Gauthier escaped the fire, mon fin. One of your crows has just died. Might I suggest you pick the buckshot out and attempt to sell the carcass on the black market? Try seven francs. That’s the going rate in Paris. At least it was, the last time I was there.’
With barely controlled fury, Guillemette said, ‘In Lyon we eat much better, mein Kamerad. What else did he confide in his alcoholic stupor?’
‘Plenty but we’ll leave it for now. Just see that he isn’t bothered again. He’s got enough on his plate without worrying about his back.’
‘And yourselves?’ asked the Préfet. Kohler … Kohler of the Kripo, the most ignored and insignificant of the Gestapo’s subsections. Common crime.
“Right now we could use a place to eat and spend what’s left of the night,’ said Kohler blithely.
Without another word the préfet walked away into the deepest shadows of the basilica.
‘It’s all right, Hermann. Really it is. I think I have exactly the place. The address on this card our girl with the bicycle dropped in the place Terreaux.’
‘What card?’
‘A little yellow card.’
‘You’re full of surprises. Gabi won’t like it but you can trust me, Louis. I won’t breathe a word of it.’
‘If you do, Giselle and Oona will be bound to hear of it. Me, I would not like to cause disruption in your little ménage à trois, especially when you’re being sued for divorce!’
They shared the Calvados in crystal glasses Kohler had borrowed from the bishop’s study. They wished each other a Happy Christmas, then asked, How can it be?
‘The Salamander is out there, Hermann. Having given us the scare of our lives, he or she or they, for some reason, failed to strike the match.’
‘Perhaps I scared them off?’
‘Perhaps, but then … ah, I do not know, Hermann. The cross leads us to the bishop and what do we find but everything in place for another major fire, a priest who messed about with spinsters, and a storeroom full of valuable paintings. It is a puzzle when puzzles are not needed.’
Louis always liked to take his time. The bugger enjoyed nothing better than a damned good case, murder especially!
‘Three fires in the Reich, Louis. A pattern. Same method, same reason, eh?’
Good for Hermann. ‘Yes, yes, and now that same reason again—is that so? The trigger for madness, the willingness to sacrifice so many perhaps all because of only one person.’
‘Our priest?’
‘Did the Salamander know him, Hermann, or better still, know of him?’
‘Of that woman who was tied to her bed? The priest wouldn’t have worn that cross if he was only going to fuck about with Mademoiselle Aurelle, Louis.’
‘The priest received a telephone call of some urgency.’
‘And that, then, caused him to wear the cross.’
‘And attend the film.’
‘Then he knew the Salamander, Louis, and was aware of what might well happen.’
‘He had been warned but not by Mademoiselle Aurelle, by someone else.’
‘But could not stop the fire and chose to die instead.’
Silently they toasted each other. Kohler refilled their glasses, draining the bottle and then tossing it over the edge to smash and tinkle and make its music somewhere below them.
‘Our fire chie’s no collaborator, Louis. The préfet’s been having Robichaud tailed ever since friend Barbie came to town. Our Klaus suspects the pompiers of being in league with the cheminots, but Robichaud swears it isn’t true. Not yet anyway.’
‘Fireman and railwaymen, Communists and Resistants … That’s a bad combination for the Occupier, Hermann.’
Kohler quietly confessed to everything he had found in the toilets at the cinema. He felt he had to do that. Things had become too rough as it was. ‘I’ve got all the schedules and papers on me, Louis. I couldn’t bring myself to burn them, and want to hang on to them for a bit. Okay? There’s another thing. Klaus Barbie is a fanatic when it comes to hunting down Jews and terrorists. The bastard has a mistress, one of the locals, but visits the best houses as well. That’s where he must have been heading after dinner, otherwise he’d have been here with the préfet.’
St-Cyr fingered the card the girl had dropped. ‘Not at this house, Hermann. It’s not one that is reserved for officers of the Wehrmacht and now the SS. How things have changed, eh? The SS and the Army, who would have thought they would get together as they have? It’s not Chez Blanchette or Chez Francine.’
‘Since when was that ever a problem? All I’m saying is don’t knock down any doors just in case. He might not like it.’
3
THE STREET WAS DAMP, FREEZING AND DAMNED unfriendly. Worse still, it stank of piss, mould, soot and dead fish. Not a streetlamp showed. Steps sounded behind. Steps stopped. Louis switched off his torch and they stood there listening.
At 3.35 a.m. Berlin time, the rue des Trois Maries sighed and creaked as its thin sheath of ice, made colder and harder by the depth of the night, tightened here and there to crack and split apart elsewhere.
The steps began again—again they hesitated. Two … were there two men following them?
‘The bastards are learning,’ breathed Kohler, exasperated that the préfet—it had to be him—was having them tailed. ‘Louis, are you certain we’ve got the right place? This medieval street of sewers, it seems too … too unfashionable for a whorehouse with a name like La Belle Époque.’
St-Cyr kept silent. They were in one of the oldest parts of Vieux Lyon, right below Fourvière Hill, right next to the quai Romain Rolland, the Saône and the bridge Alphonse Juin.
‘Wait here, then. Let me handle this. Don’t argue,’ hissed Kohler.
‘Of course.’
One seldom heard Hermann when he didn’t want to be heard. His ability to tail or find a tail was uncanny.
Somewhere over in Perrache, perhaps, tyres squealed, an engine raced … Gestapo … Gestapo …
Otherwise the city was silent. Unearthly and eerie in the clutch of the Occupier.
Time didn’t want to pass. It was so still. Then the scent of stale cigarette smoke came to St-Cyr, that of sweat, warm wool, urine and garlic.
The man was not two metres from him. Somehow he had slipped past Hermann and was now searching the Gothic entrances with their narrow sills.
Even as he watched the silhouette, dark against the deeper darkness of the opposite wall, he saw the man being rushed against the wall—heard the soft, sickening crush of flesh and bone, a smothered cry.
Smelled blood, then heard nothing more. Knew Hermann had dealt with the fellow.
Kohler cursed himself. He had let things get to him and had probably put the bastard in hospital for six months when a light tap would have sufficed! Now the bastard wouldn’t talk because he couldn’t, and the préfet would be in a rage.
Though he searched—went right back down the cramped and narrow street to stand among the tall stone columns of the austere and forbidding Palais de Justice, he could not find the other man.
He listened to the night. He tried to sort out its myriad odours and hear the heartbeat he knew must be near. The Salamander? he asked himself. Was it possible Préfet Guillemette had only sent one man to tail them, and the other was …
Perfume … was that perfume he was smelling?
La Belle Époque …? he wondered. Mademoiselle Claudine Bertrand, age thirty-two, born 18 November 1910
. Occupation: prostitute. Hair: black and long—most wore it short these days. Eyes: dark brown. Face: oval. Nose: normal—i.e., not Jewish. Height: 173 centimetres.
A little taller than the usual Lyonnaise—but why had the one with the bicycle dropped this one’s card? Surely the two were not one and the same. A wig? he asked and answered, The one with the bike was too young and far too timid.
Then why had she had the card in her hand?
The house was at the other end of the street. From there, the rue de la Baleine ran the short distance to the quai Romain Rolland and the Saône. There was a bell-pull. There were no lights.
They spoke in muffled tones. ‘Louis, maybe we should come back another time.’
‘Did you kill the other one?’
‘No. No, I couldn’t find him. The bitch got away.’
‘The bitch …? But …’
Kohler yanked savagely on the bell-pull. Jarred out of his wits, St-Cyr leapt and only realized then how pissed off Hermann must be.
Still no light showed. He switched on his torch. Instinctively ducking her face away, the woman who had answered the door tried to shield her eyes, then her flesh—her corset had slipped, the flimsy night-gown was open. It was freezing. Her long dark hair was everywhere. About fifty-five, if a day, and flushed … still flushed!
‘Messieurs, the house … Please, I must insist. The curfew. It is forbidden to …’
‘That does not matter,’ said Louis grimly. ‘We’re detectives.’
‘Detectives?’ she shrilled. ‘And have you brought the magistrate? Ah, you could not do so, could you, my fine messieurs, because that one, he is already here!’
‘We knew he was,’ snorted Kohler, impatiently pushing past her scented plumpness and into the foyer, into the warmth and the lively smells of wine, food and perfume, ah yes. Lots of it.
She closed the door and slid a bolt home. Louis switched off his light and crowded her.
‘Please, messieurs, I beg you not to disturb the clients. We have had the révellion, yes? The Christmas Eve feast. Ah it was such a meal but now they … why they are at the moments of their hearts’ desires. Please, I am Madame Berthe Morel, the sous-maîtresse of this place. What is it you want?’
‘Some coffee and a marc. A cigar,’ breathed Kohler. ‘And a little information.’
A Nazi, then. A fresh duelling scar, a bullet graze on the forehead … ‘Please come this way. Come into the grand salon. Yes, yes, that would be best. It is a little untidy, you understand, but it will do. Madame will perhaps receive you there.’ She gestured impatiently and spoke her thoughts aloud and only to herself as she turned away. ‘It’s her affair. She’s the one who pays the sharks that come to feed in spite of the préfet’s blessing. How could I have stopped such as these? Les Allemands …’
‘I’m French,’ hissed St-Cyr, not failing to notice her comment about the préfet.
She tossed her head and didn’t look back over her shoulder. ‘Well, that’s not bad, your being French, but it’s not good either. Courage, my little one. Courage. Each saint has his candle.’
Ah merde, a tough one! ‘And to a good cat a good rat, eh, madame?’ he snarled. ‘Tit for tat, eh? Come, come, you insult an officer of the Sûreté, a chief inspector of detectives!’
‘Very well, it’s all right. It’s just as you please, monsieur.’
Her corset slipped but she would not bother to pull it up or close the négligé. She would face them coldly with her two pistols and her hairy snatch! ‘Wait here,’ she said. ‘Please do not move about the house until Madame has spoken to you.’
She was plump and round and curved in all places, and her splayed feet with their bunions were as bare as the rest of her beneath the corset and the frilly, see-through thing she wore. The peignoir blew about like cheesecloth in a storm as she strode away, soon disappearing behind the little jungles of palm and fern and rubber plant, leaving them utterly alone in this jade-green and gold paradise.
‘Don’t let her bother you, Louis. Hey, me, I know you’re a patriot.’
‘Then perhaps you’d best tell me what happened in the street?’
‘A woman, Louis. Perfume. Too damned good, that’s all. I couldn’t find her.’
St-Cyr nodded grimly and swept his eyes around the room. Ah mon Dieu, it lived and breathed la belle époque. Against a backdrop of gold and gold-tasselled drapes that fell from ceiling to floor, an immense chandelier glowed with lozenges of clear crystal and fountains of gold that rose and arched or twisted to white candles that could no longer be lit because they would drop wax on the carpet.
‘It’s magnificent, Hermann. Rosewood and ebony. Mahogany in the style of the Second Empire but updated a little. Yes, yes. Refined. Squared off—fluted and trimmed with gilding. Green baize-covered armchairs that are so wide and comfortable one could spend a whole day reading and never move. Wine-red morocco on the sofas and settees with throw-cushions of paisley in rich, dark blues, red and saffron.’
Two faience cockerels in their glory of peacock-hued glaze and gold crowed lustily from either side of the room. There were maidenhair ferns in porcelain pots on which storks flew. The walls were a wash of pastel water-lilies with naked nymphs lurking in the depths or riding frogs or lying asleep on beds of reeds or frolicking with male dragonflies.
Corsets and stockings—a garter that would have encircled a shapely leg just below a shapely knee …
A woman’s ivory fan, a singularly tall dracaena with spiked leaves that were slender and jade-green, a bamboo palm with long and elegant fronds. Jungles of plants everywhere. Oil paintings between the murals. Cigar butts in manly ashtrays beside deeply sunken armchairs. Empire table lamps in malachite and gold with parasol-shaped shades of pleated cream silk.
Everything was of that period from about 1890 until just prior to the Great War.
‘I like it, Louis, but are we supposed to think one of those two women came from a place like this? The one I tried to follow in the street out there?’
‘Was the girl with the bike leading us, eh?’
‘Perhaps, but …’ began Kohler like a parrot only to shut up.
The sous-maîtresse had come back. In defiance, her corset had not been yanked into place or used to draw in the fleshy waist and make it the stem of the hour-glass figure the fashionable women and demi-mondes of that era had so desired.
‘Messieurs, if you will come this way, I will take you to Madame.’
‘Louis, you handle it. I’ll wait here.’
Madame Morel knew enough not to argue but even so the plump cheeks tightened and the dark eyes narrowed in warning. ‘All our doors are locked, monsieur. Absolute discretion is our policy. To each in his own taste, the extended hour of privacy since all have paid for the night.’
There were butterfly palms and rhododendrons, fiddleleaf figs with deep green, papery leaves—did they wear them sometimes? thought Kohler as he waited. There were orange and lemon trees in fruit—none of the Occupation’s horrible ‘approximate’ jam or marmalade for this place. Ah no. They grew their own fruit and would have plenty of sugar.
Two ornately carved, high-backed ebony armchairs with Gobelin tapestry coverings flanked the open doorway to which Louis and the woman headed. Beyond this doorway, beneath the raindrop cascades of another chandelier, a huge, dark green and flowered jar stood on bent golden legs holding the establishment’s Christmas tree: a gorgeous kentia palm that had been simply and tastefully decorated with but a few small handfuls of golden pear-shaped ornaments.
‘Wait here, please,’ the woman said. Louis reached out to touch one of the pears. They were so light, so exquisite. Gilded Venetian glass and worth a small fortune because they were so old.
Ivy trailed over the lip of the pot. The carpet was an Aubusson. Crimson and mauve. Ah mon Dieu, the money in this place. The need, perhaps, to constantly replace things, thought St-Cyr.
‘Monsieur, please state your business.’
The madam of the house was dark-ey
ed and dark-haired but here the similarity to the sous-maîtresse abruptly ended. The long, tight-bodiced dress of black silk that positively glowed was matched by swept-up hair, diamond pins and dangling ear-rings that glittered. Black silk gloves extended to her elbows. There was a choker of black velvet around her slender neck. Her skin was perfect and of a satiny lustre, the cheeks not rouged but red as if from frost. Had she only just come in from outside? Her perfume … it was so fresh. She was taller than himself—almost as tall as Gabrielle and slim, would have the figure of a goddess too, just like her.
‘Madame,’ he began. ‘Please forgive the intrusion. One of your girls …’
The dark eyes in that finely boned, aristocratic face remained impassive.
‘Mademoiselle Bertrand,’ he said.
‘Yes?’
‘We would like a few words with her. Please, it is urgent.’
‘She’s not here, Inspector. She has a bad chest, a little crisis of the lungs—it’s nothing. A cold, that’s all. I told her not to come in until she was over it.’
Merde, why could God not have given them a break? ‘Tell me about her, please.’
‘There’s nothing to tell. Claudine has been with me now for the past ten years. There has never been any trouble, Inspector. There never is with any of my girls.’
‘Your name, madame?’
‘Ange-Marie Céleste Rachline.’
Was he talking to a block of wood? Her lips were naturally red and beautiful but also cold, he thought. Yes, cold. Were they always that way, or is it because she really has only just come in from being outside? ‘Age?’ he asked sharply, not liking things one bit.
‘Thirty-four. Inspector, what is it? Please, the house … these times. You do understand?’
‘Husband?’ he demanded.
‘Am I under suspicion?’
‘No. Not at present.’
‘Then let us keep my husband out of this. We don’t see each other, Inspector. He goes his way and I go mine as we have now for the past ten years.’
Salamander Page 7
