The girl was sleepy-eyed, in plain white muslin that rose right up under her chin and was tied round the wrists, all but hiding her completely. About seventeen, he thought, with deep brown eyes, pale lips and thick brown hair that protruded in wisps and curls from beneath the night-cap. ‘Good evening, monsieur,’ she said, a shy whisper, the girl ducking briefly as if genuflecting.
The game began, Madame Rachline talking to him from behind the screen as the girl hung Madame’s clothes over the top of it.
‘La Belle Époque is a well-established house, Inspector, with an excellent clientele who pay in advance of each visit, in addition to a yearly membership. This ensures that they try to get the most out of each visit.’
‘Is the préfet a client?’ he asked, realizing she’d done this deliberately to avoid scrutiny.
A white cotton petticoat followed the dress. ‘Am I forced to answer?’
‘It would help.’ Would she tell the préfet everything, or would she feel it best to say nothing of the visit?
Another shift or petticoat followed. More flounce to the skirts. ‘La Belle can have no connection with that terrible fire, monsieur. How could it have?’
So much for the préfet being a member and having filled her in. ‘Of course,’ he said drily, ‘but the fact is madame, this work card was dropped in the place Terreaux.’
‘By whom?’
Again there was that coldness, that remoteness of tone. Utter blandness could mask so much. Would honesty be best? ‘That we do not know as yet.’
There was a pause—perhaps she breathed a sigh of relief, perhaps it was only that a lace had been done up too tightly.
The girl gave a sharp cry. ‘Ah, madame, I have broken a nail!’
‘Then you must trim it, isn’t that so?’
As he watched, Michèle-Louise came out from behind the screen and went over to the dressing table to find the clippers but, as the nail was on the right hand, she had difficulty with it. Swore under her breath. Did a bad job and decided to bite off the rest.
Was caught momentarily knowing the inspector was looking at her. Felt those eyes of his. Asked herself anxiously, Is he going to question me, too, about this place? and answered, Ah merde, I think he is!
Another petticoat was flung over the screen, silk this time. Again Madame Rachline spoke. She must have gestured impatiently—a first sign of emotion perhaps—for the screen rocked a little. ‘That card is a forgery, Inspector. Someone’s trying to implicate the house. It’s …’ She must have shrugged near-naked shoulders. ‘It’s the times, the hatred, the popularity of using anonymous letters that are sent to the police and now to the Gestapo at the Hotel Terminus.’
‘Yes, yes, the times,’ he said blandly. Quite obviously the letters had unsettled her and quite obviously the préfet, though he had told her of them, had failed to inform her of the contents.
‘Is Monsieur Artel one of your clients? Please, I must insist on an answer, madame.’
‘Is he under suspicion of burning his own cinema to the ground?’
Was it so impossible? He’d take out his pipe and tobacco pouch. He’d make her wait for a bit.
Angered at the lack of reply, she said, ‘Yes, Monsieur Artel is a member in good standing but that one, he does not choose Claudine, monsieur, since he prefers the youngest of my girls and pays extra for them.’
‘Michèle-Louise, eh, madame? Does he covet your little maid and is that why she shrinks under scrutiny?’ he all but shouted.
‘Michèle, undo my laces this instant!’
Grateful for the outburst and her refusal to answer for it said so much about Artel, he decided against the pipe but did not put it away. ‘And his associates, madame, what of them?’
Insurance, banking and the law. ‘They are all members, Inspector,’ she said tightly, ‘but why must you ask? None of them could have had anything to do with that fire.’
‘But with Mademoiselle Claudine?’ he demanded. ‘Come, come, madame, let us not play at this any longer.’
She must have clenched her fists and stamped a foot, for the girl said, ‘Madame, hold still, please!’
‘Claudine, she is … Ah, how should I say it, Inspector? In this world of such varied taste, Claudine is different. Very special.’
‘In what way?’ he hazarded. Ah nom de Dieu, what was it with her? The coldness of a face cream, the detachment of a douche—this room, that girl, that child of a maid. The perfume … the scent of it now. Had the girl, unused to such luxury, drenched herself? A gift … had it been a little gift to open at the réveillon or had she been drenched on purpose?
Again he said, ‘In what way, madame?’ He waited. Perhaps she smiled wanly in triumph, perhaps not at all.
‘For that I think it best to let her tell you herself, Inspector. I’m sure there is a very adequate reason for her work card disappearing in some restaurant or café. Perhaps Claudine simply took her gloves from a pocket and inadvertently the card slipped out.’
‘And someone else picked it up only to drop it in the place Terreaux?’ he demanded sharply.
‘Yes. Yes, of course. That is how it must have been.’
A corset-bodice came free at last and was flung over the top of the screen to hang there as if shot dead and rotted bare like some strange sort of archaeopteryx skeleton. Then came a plain white cotton shift, black silk stockings and white, knee-length drawers.
It was warm in the house—too warm. In a land where coal had become so scarce one received only enough to heat one small room once a month for a few miserable hours, this place had plenty for the furnace and boiler.
She was bathing behind the screen, and they spoke quietly those two. Eventually the girl came demurely out to find Madame a suitable night-gown and took from an armoire, a grey-blue silk robe.
The game was almost over and clearly Madame Rachline had been the winner, for he still could not tell what she was thinking and he desperately needed to know this.
She sat at her dressing table while the girl unpinned the up-swept hair and then began to comb it out before brushing it. Only then did she realize that he had positioned himself so as to meet her eyes in the mirrors.
He struck a match—struck another. ‘These lousy matches our government makes,’ he said. And taking two, struck both together.
The flame burst. It was so sudden, so bright—flared up. Was sucked down into the bowl of his pipe, he gazing steadily at her through the smoke … the smoke, watching her … She mustn’t look at the flame. She mustn’t! she told herself. But had she for an instant? Had she? she wondered in despair.
St-Cyr nodded curtly at her reflection and said he’d show himself out.
Ah damn, he saw me looking at it, she said silently, and hesitantly touched a cheek.
It was only after he had left the room that she discovered he had taken the vial of perfume.
Downstairs, a heavy door closed. Slippered steps hurried along a parquet hall, their sound vanishing on the carpeted stairs. One flight, then two, then three … yes, yes, Madame Rachline, come to Hermann Kohler. It had to be her. He’d seen Louis come out of that same room.
The woman didn’t pause but went straight to the end of the hall and had trouble unlocking its oak door. Was frantic. Dropped the key, threw a glance over a shoulder, tugged the sleeve of her robe up to get it out of the way.
The lock finally yielded and she closed the door behind herself. He waited. He followed and, nudging the door open a little, listened for her.
She was at the far end of the passage, trying to unlock yet another door. It was too dark for her. The key would not fit—was it the same key or a different one, he wondered? In her panic, had she confused them?
Again he drew in that scent, thought, Étranger, madame? and had very nearly reached her when she slipped away.
He heard her lock the door behind her, said, Verdammt, what have you been up to?
A light came on—he could see it clearly from one of the windows in the passage. She was n
ow on the floor below him, but all too soon she had drawn the black-out curtains.
Snuffed out, the wall now appeared dark. Kohler held his breath. Once again every part of him was alert and tingling.
Slowly he picked out the degrees of darkness, distinguishing one from another.
The house, once the home of a wealthy Renaissance merchant perhaps, had been built in two quite distinct parts. Below this interconnecting passage there was a courtyard that had once been used for carriages. Stables, long since made over into rooms, would have given on to it. There could be spiral sets of outside stairs on either side leading to the floors above.
Two houses then, the one for La Belle Époque and the other perhaps a residence of some sort.
Louis was waiting in the foyer. Madame Morel, the sous-maîtresse, gave them the once-over as she let them out on to the street before bolting the door behind them as if for ever.
‘Now what?’ asked Kohler.
‘The rue du Boeuf, Number Six,’ said St-Cyr grimly. ‘Let us hurry, mon ami. Madame Rachline was at the midnight Mass and says she walked home.’
‘She couldn’t have! She was at the réveillon.’
‘Then she went outside just before we got here.’
‘To see a prostitute, eh, Louis? To see Claudine Bertrand?’
Ah merde, were they too late?
At 5.00 a.m. the city had awakened to end the curfew. At 5.47 those who had to get to work were on the street, Christmas Day or not. Some pushed bicycles over the hard-frozen slush; others trod warily. There were few glimmers of light, no curses, little coughing and no talking. It was as if a throng of zombies had suddenly chosen to get up without their breakfast.
Lyon, like Paris and the rest of France, still could not get used to living on Berlin time. Two hours back in summer; one in winter, 5.47 becoming 4.47! There were no croissants, no butter! There was no real coffee except on the black market.
The rue du Boeuf was only two streets away and past the place de la Baleine. There were a few cafés, some of those little hole-in-the-wall places Lyon had been so famous for in pre-war days. Three or four tables at most. No lights showing. Hot muddy water and cold grey bread. A line-up at one place, a few stragglers at another. Tobacco smoke scenting the twenty degrees of frost but also those rude accents of the burning rubbish people tried to smoke these days. Corn silk, camomile and oak leaves or kitchen herbs! Sometimes a little peppermint would be added; sometimes they’d try dried lettuce, sometimes beet leaves. A nation of experimenters!
One woman was urinating in the gutter—caught short and no doubt uncaring since it was still pitch dark, or perhaps that did not matter to her. Only a sliver of light from a delinquent bicycle lamp caught her out. A tram-car clanged.
The concierge of Number Six sent one of his daughters to open the door, then came himself since the pounding was incessant.
The man’s grizzled moon-face tightened. The flat is on the third floor, messieurs. The old woman … Mademoiselle Bertrand’s mother,’ he managed, glancing anxiously at Hermann’s Gestapo shield. ‘We have not heard that one’s constant complaining or moaning in the night. Not since this past day and night.’
He’d been worried. ‘And before that?’ asked Kohler, leaning on the half-opened door.
The man looked up and drew in a breath, said to himself, Ah such a slash on the face, the wound on the forehead … ‘The coughing of Mademoiselle Bertrand. The cold in the chest.’ He patted his own flannel-shirted chest.
‘But not since Wednesday evening when she returned?’ asked St-Cyr, flicking the torch down a little more so as not to blind him.
‘No. Not since then. Monsieur, has anything …’
Kohler took the ring of keys from him. ‘Hey, we’ll let you know, eh? In the mean time don’t leave the house. We may need you. Put the coffee on. Sausages and eggs, bread and jam will do.’ He tapped the concierge solidly on the barrel chest. ‘You look well fed, eh? So let us see a little of it and we won’t say a thing.’
Everyone knew the concierges of each city and town or village acted as black-market go-betweens. Soap from one, prunes from another—cakes for special occasions and sugar too.
‘Come on, Louis. I think he has to shit himself. You look after your papa, eh?’ he said to the girl of twelve. ‘Make sure the sausage is well done. We wouldn’t want to make a Gestapo sick.’
‘What about him?’ asked the child, nodding towards the Sûreté who had crowded into the foyer behind the giant with the slash.
‘Oh, him,’ retorted Kohler. ‘He gets to taste everything first. If it’s poisoned, we lay a murder charge.’
‘Hermann, come on!’ seethed St-Cyr. ‘Ah nom de Dieu, don’t be so hard on them. What would you do if you had six mouths to feed and—’
‘Eight, monsieur. Actually it is eight,’ said the concierge.
‘And my two cousins,’ murmured the child. ‘They are both pregnant, but have gone to the early Mass.’
‘Lying, Hermann! Do you not see what you Germans have done to us? Created a nation of untruthful citizens whose children lie with equanimity!’
Somehow they got to the flat, gesticulating and shouting at one another about the demerits or merits of the Occupation—hiding from themselves what they most feared.
The flat was indeed too silent; freezing too. A small sitting-room whose faded furniture was of thirty years ago, with a threadbare carpet, no cat, canary or finch, and curtains that were crooked.
A pantry-kitchen held a small, cold, cast-iron stove for heating the flat and a two-burner gas ring. The kettle looked as if it had been warmed to fill a hot-water bottle or a mug and then set aside.
The smell of friar’s balsam was faint, the doors to both bed-rooms closed.
‘You or me?’ asked Kohler, knowing it was his turn.
St-Cyr waited. In a whisper he said, ‘The handkerchief, Hermann. How many times must I tell you? A clean one, please. The one you used in Saint-Denis put snot all over the fingerprints.’
That had been months ago. Months!
Madame Bertrand had died in her sleep, of a heart attack perhaps. She was probably only seventy-five but looked eighty, was thin and frail under her bonnet, had fortunately removed her false teeth, which rested in a foggy glass of water on the night table.
She’d been reading Proust—Kohler knew Louis would nod agreement at the astuteness of choice but would measure it against the reduced economic state of the occupants, a puzzle. One didn’t need to look at the Frog any more to tell what he was thinking. One simply opened the mind to it.
‘Anything out of place?’ he asked, giving the grey-haired corpse the once-over. Getting old had always made him feel uncomfortable.
St-Cyr shook his head. ‘Let’s let the coroner decide. Touch nothing.’
‘There’s nothing to touch.’
‘Meaning Mademoiselle Bertrand did not bring too much of her earnings home?’ asked St-Cyr. He didn’t need to look at Hermann to see him nod agreement.
They went into the other room but did not move far from the door. They let the hall light enter with them, throwing their shadows on the worn carpet and chair, the clothes that were not of La Belle Époque of course, but had been removed and left to lie. A red woollen dress, calf-length perhaps. A wide black belt of some sort of glossy ersatz leather with a silver-plated buckle as big as a fist—had it been aluminium-plated? Was that possible? Beige silk stockings, all but unheard of these days, a cream-coloured blouse and knitted cardigan, all pre-war. An overcoat in charcoal grey, a scarf, cloche and one high-heeled red patent leather shoe. Only one. Pre-war as well. Cherished no doubt.
Her garter belt and underwear pants had not quite made it to the chair. The brassiere had been dropped near the armoire from which she had taken her night-gown and robe and another, heavier sweater. The armoire’s mirrored door was still open and in its reflections they saw her lying propped up by pillows in bed as if asleep. Her long black hair spilling over a freshly laundered white pillow sli
p. Her head tilted a little to one side as if she’d only just dropped off, was calm in repose and content.
‘Louis …’
The sweet, resinous smell of friar’s balsam was much stronger here. She’d been using a makeshift vaporizer, had had a towel over her head but had set these carefully aside on the night table before switching off the light.
‘Baudelaire … She was reading Les Fleurs du Mal, Hermann. The Flowers of Evil,’ said St-Cyr, his voice a hush.
Mademoiselle Claudine Bertrand had been an attractive woman, though now her lower jaw drooped and rigor had brought its stiffness to her. Still, there were suggestions of the child she’d once been. Fresh and alive, vivacious perhaps, full of fun and mischief.
‘How can our lives go so wrong?’ asked St-Cyr, carefully switching on the bedside lamp.
Louis always had to probe for that initial happening which had set life’s train onto a track it should never have gone down. ‘Are you going to stick the thermometer up her ass or do I have to?’ asked Kohler grumpily.
‘She’s been dead since the fire, Hermann. One has only to look at her.’
‘Murdered, Louis? Dead from breathing that crap?’
The vaporizer was simply a glazed pottery mixing bowl. There were perhaps two centimetres of water in the bottom and a thin scum left by the balsam.
On the surface, then, there was nothing out of the ordinary. Just a mother and daughter, one of whom had had a bad chest cold and the other who had been senile.
Greatly troubled by what they had found, Kohler parted the curtains to look south-east towards the rue des Trois Maries and the house of La Belle Époque, both still in darkness. ‘Mueller’s going to burn our asses, Louis, if we don’t settle this thing fast. Boemelburg will make certain we suffer if there’s another fire.’ He tossed his head towards the bed. ‘Was she the one who went up to see the projectionist?’
‘Probably. There is only one red shoe, Hermann. Me, I cannot see …’
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