She dropped her eyes and whispered, ‘Yes.’
‘So the washroom was locked and Mademoiselle Claudine went upstairs to get the key from Monsieur Martin?’
The girl nodded. Kohler gave her a moment. ‘Did Mademoiselle Bertrand ask you for that key or did she know who would have it?’
‘She … she has asked me for it, Monsieur the Inspector, and I … I have told her where it was.’
‘And then?’ he asked so gently she felt he might not blame her too much for what had happened.
‘And then Mademoiselle Bertrand, she has come downstairs from the booth and has gone to open the door to the toilets.’
Kohler waited. Now it was as if there were only the two of them. ‘She did not stay long, Inspector. Some others went into the toilets—three, four … I don’t know how many. Men … women …’
The kid was desperate. ‘Who locked them in, Suzie? Was it yourself?’
‘Me? Ah no! No! I could not have done such a thing, monsieur. Their screams …’
He gave her another moment. ‘Look, just tell me the way you remember it.’
Her eyes pleaded with him for understanding. ‘They went into the toilets. The key was in the lock. I went back to my station just inside the curtains across the aisle but when those patrons, they did not return, I went to see if … if everything was all right.’
‘And the key was still in the lock?’
She knew he’d ask it of her. ‘Yes. It’s … it’s not my job to stop such things. Sex in the toilets. I … I know I should have tried the door and … and checked for mischief, monsieur. Mischief! I know I should have taken the key and made certain the door remained unlocked, may God forgive me.’
The poor kid was still blaming herself for everything. ‘What about the woman who came in with Mademoiselle Bertrand? The one who carried the bag woven out of rushes?’
‘She … she was absent from her seat. Me, I have thought she must be in the toilets also, but … but I did not look, monsieur. I did not think to open that door and they … they …’
Kohler laid a hand on her forearm. ‘Was the bag on the seat or still on the floor, or did she take it with her?’
‘It … it was on the seat, so I … I knew she must be coming back. Don’t you see, I knew, Inspector? I could so easily have taken that bag out into the foyer to look for her. An excuse … anything. But I … I did not do so.’
‘Inspector …,’ began Madame Gauthier only to see him hold up a silencing hand. Comforting the girl would have to come later.
‘Two women, Suzie. Did this other one lock the door to the toilets?’
‘Yes. Yes, I think she must have.’
‘Then tell me what she looked like. Try to remember. I know it’s painful. I know you hate yourself for not stopping them and for not unlocking that door, but … hey, you weren’t to blame.’
His voice was so gentle and kind. She sniffed in and wiped her nose with the back of a hand. ‘I only saw her boots and stockings, Inspector. When I show people to their seats, I do not shine my light into their faces. The film was in progress and it was dark up at the back. Too dark. There is the balcony above or … or there was. There was!’
‘Her boots and stockings then?’ he asked, comforting her.
‘Expensive. Black patent leather with full laces up the front and pointed toes. Perhaps well-fitted but perhaps a little too tight. ‘Yes. Yes, this I think. Also, monsieur, that perhaps the boots, their style it is not worn so much any more. Except, of course, these days people will wear anything, isn’t that so?’
La Belle Époque? he wondered. Madame Ange-Marie Rachline perhaps, in the shoes of the 1890s. ‘And the stockings?’ he asked gently. The kid was doing fine.
‘Black silk and very expensive—lovely and with a very delicate pattern like antique lace. They … they made me envious, monsieur. Me, I have never had the money for such things.’
‘Yes, yes, I quite understand. The woman?’
‘Fairly tall, monsieur. A woman with very nice legs, I think, and a good figure. Not old. Ah no, not that one, but … but perhaps a little older than this … this Mademoiselle Bertrand that … that Monsieur Martin has …’
The girl blushed crimson and wiped her eyes. So much for French girls being forward, thought Kohler. Gruffly he told the projectionist to quit fidgeting and asked him, ‘Did this other woman come up to see you?’
The man shook his head. ‘I gave the key to Mademoiselle Bertrand. When she came back upstairs, she said she had given it to one of the usherettes. I thought no more of it, Inspector Kohler.’
‘Too busy doing up your flies, were you?’
The smile was harshly triumphant. ‘Too busy with the film, Inspector. A break had occurred and I had to repair it at once.’
The bastard! Left alone, he’d had long enough to think up an answer! His look said, Prove this was not so.
‘Karl Johann …?’ Kohler swung round at the sound of another voice.
Verdammt! Leiter Weidling’s young wife was stunning: tall, slim and leggy. One of the Master Race but with rich, dark auburn hair and dark grey-blue eyes that left nothing to chance.
She set the fur coat over the back of a chair and dropped her purse on to the seat as if fed up at the delay and expecting her husband to do something about it. Kohler let his eyes drift up over her: dark blue silk stockings, a dark blue skirt, smooth and tidy, nice calves, nice knees probably, and a wrap-around jacket in light beige with no collar and a V-neck that plunged to frame the throat above as if to say, You cannot look further.
‘Karl Johann, have you forgotten we are to dine with Obersturmführer Barbie?’
‘My dear …’ stammered Weidling. ‘This business … You must forgive me. Yes, of course, of course. Lunch.’
Gott im Himmel, she didn’t even bat an eye! The clod had yet to catch on to the difference between dine and lunch!
Her brow was high and smooth, her face more narrow than full, the nose so fine and sharp and of the aristocracy he had to wonder which family she’d come from.
There were no rings, not even a wedding band, just bangles of gold and ebony, quite old, he thought. Ear-rings to match—delicate things, very finely carved and wrought. Nice, nice lips that pouted haughtily in his millisecond of undressing, then gave the quick, bland smile of, Well, Inspector, do you always look at women this way?
Through his interpreter, Weidling told everyone to wait for him. ‘I am not finished with you. Perhaps your manager will turn up, Herr Artel, but until he does, please do not leave this place.’
Thérèse Moncontre, who sold the tickets, hadn’t moved a hair but now the softness of her throat rippled tightly, and suddenly, in confusion and wanting to disappear, she dropped her deep brown eyes and kept them on the carpet at her feet.
Alarmed, Kohler glanced at Frau Weidling but she seemed not to have noticed. He gave it a moment, could hardly believe their luck. Clearly the girl had sold Frau Weidling a ticket! Ah merde. He could not ask her just yet. She’d deny it out of fear, and Frau Weidling would ask Barbie to get rid of her. He’d have to let the girl think her little secret was safe.
Madame Gauthier had, however, noticed the girl’s reaction to Leiter Weidling’s wife. Kohler met her eyes and he had to ask himself, Were you and Robichaud really holding hands in that back row, or had you come to the cinema for something quite different? A meeting with the Resistance?
Klaus Barbie was afraid the firemen would join forces with the railwaymen. Was Lyon, with its warren of old streets and passageways and its rail connections to everywhere, about to become the centre of active resistance?
He remembered the revolver he’d found among the frozen ashes. He remembered the railway schedules and the maps that had pinpointed the locations of switches and tunnels and flatbed cranes that would be so necessary to clear the tracks of wreckage …
He picked up the grey fox-fur coat that should have been sent to the Russian Front but had somehow missed Frau Weidling’s patriotic
duty. Without a word of thanks or acknowledgement, she turned her shapely back on him and let him drape it over her shoulders.
‘That perfume …,’ he began, foolishly caught off guard. She paid no mind, picked up her gloves and purse and departed with her husband chasing after her. Nice ankles … yes, yes … dark blue high heels.
Étranger …
Kohler turned on the others and snapped, ‘Wait here. If any of you leave, I’ll have you dragged before a firing squad without a priest!’
Ah mon Dieu, Louis, what the hell have we got ourselves into this time? he asked himself. A wife who’ll stop at nothing to build her husband’s reputation? But why would a woman like that marry a pair of ancient rubber boots when she could have had something far, far better?
He told himself he’d have to ask the usherette Suzie Boudreau if either of those two women had worn that perfume. He would have to ask Frau Weidling how she had come by it and if she had enjoyed the little she could have seen of that film.
He’d have to ask her about those other fires. Lübeck, Heidelberg and Köln, and just exactly how long she and that husband of hers had been in Lyon to have some fun. Two weeks … had it been two weeks?
A Salamander.
The concierge at Number Six rue du Boeuf was wary. Trapped in his cage, he fussed with a newspaper that was ten days old and shooed the cat out into the corridor. ‘Mademoiselle Bertrand said she had to drop into the pharmacy, Inspector St-Cyr. A cold in her chest, the phlegm like molten tar …’
‘Yes, yes, spare me the medical details, eh? I’ve been with her now for far too long and do not want your words to cause me to catch whatever it was she had.’
‘Then what would you have me say, Inspector?’
Ah merde, why must he be so difficult? ‘She was dressed for an evening out, isn’t that right, eh? Come, come, Monsieur Aubin, surely a woman like that does not wear red high heels on ice in fifteen degrees of frost just to find herself a little friar’s balsam?’
‘Was she murdered in my building? Is that what you’re implying? Come, come yourself, Monsieur the Chief Inspector, let us have the truth of that!’
‘Nom de Jésus-Christ, don’t try my patience!’
The Sûreté … everybody knew what shits they were. And corrupt! ‘She was a prostitute, a public woman. Maybe she went to visit a client, maybe not, Inspector, but she would not have informed me of this. Ah no, monsieur,’ he wagged a reproving finger. ‘Not a family man such as myself whose daughters are generally visiting with their papa when he is not busy at his duties, or are likely to drop in on him at any time.’
St-Cyr took a deep breath and held it. Exhaling slowly, and more than exasperated, he said harshly, ‘What did you pay her in exchange?’ but did not wait for the answer. ‘You agreed to look in on Madame Bertrand each evening, or one of your children did, or your wife perhaps. In exchange for this little service, Mademoiselle Bertrand was “friendly” towards you, eh? So, all right, there’s no harm in that little arrangement if you can live with it and your wife is not infected. Now tell me when she left the building and when she came back?’
The concierge tried to roll a cigarette from the collected tobacco of several cigarette butts. It was no use. Papers and tobacco showered on to the carpet.
His grizzled moon-face lifted. ‘She left at about seven in the evening—when she usually does. They came back at about nine thirty. Here, it is in the book.’ He got up suddenly to push past and snatch up the ledger. ‘Seven ten and nine fifty-seven. Mademoiselle Bertrand and Madame Rachline.’
‘The two of them at both times?’ blurted the Sûreté.
The man shook his head. ‘Only when returning. You see, I have put the little tick beside Madame Rachline’s name.’
There was a nod, but only just. ‘And you’re absolutely certain it was Madame Rachline?’
Théodore Aubin grunted, ‘But of course, monsieur, I have seen her many times. The tall figure, the little cloche with the bit of veiling. The black overcoat also.’
‘But did you see her face?’
Ah nom de Jésus-Christ, what was the cause of this suspicion?
‘Well?’ demanded the detective harshly. ‘Yes or no?’
The fleshy throat was touched in uncertainty, the lower jaw gripped as if in cautious thought. ‘Then no, Inspector. I did not see that one’s face. Madame Rachline, she has walked past my cage, you understand, to tap the toes of her shoes or boots on the floor to warm the blood a little after coming in from such cold.’
‘When did she leave the building?’
Be careful what you say, eh? Was that it? ‘Me, I do not know, Monsieur the Inspector. One of the other tenants complained of a broken tap in the lavatory that is outside this building in the courtyard. I … I went with him to discover the trouble. A pipe had frozen.’
Had it been a chance bit of luck? wondered St-Cyr. Chance so often played havoc when something needed to be pinned down.
‘Those pipes are always freezing in this weather, Monsieur the Inspector. Madame Rachline could not have stayed more than an hour at the most. During this time, I returned to get my tools and another light, since there is no electric light in the toilet. The tenants, they are always stealing the bulbs these days. I’ve left repeated warnings. What else could I do but remove all bulbs until the affair, it was over?’
‘Did she come here often?’ asked St-Cyr, ignoring the outburst.
Aubin shook his head. ‘Once or twice a month, just to inquire as to how Mademoiselle Bertrand was if that one had been ill, which she often was—the chest, you understand. Sometimes to bring the mother a little soup or stew. That old woman didn’t eat much, Inspector. I’m not surprised she died and only wonder which of them went first.’
‘Oh? Why is that?’ asked the detective.
The concierge displayed a humble nature. ‘The mother, if she knew her daughter had died, would follow her, Inspector. That is often the way of those who are totally dependent on another.’
St-Cyr dragged out a broken package of cigarettes and offered one. ‘And if the mother had died first?’ he asked.
‘Then Mademoiselle Bertrand, she … she would have been relieved of a burden she has been forced to carry for far too long.’
The Sûreté struck a match and held it out. ‘Did Madame Rachline know her friend was a prostitute?’
‘That one? Ah no … no, Inspector. How could she? Madame Rachline is a mother with two children and no husband to support them. She takes in mending, is a seamstress, a fixer of dresses. A make-over artist to whom my wife and others go when the need is dire. A wedding, a funeral … ah, excuse me. A funeral, yes, yes of course. Another visit will be necessary, no doubt.’
Aubin looked up and shrugged at the added cost. Of course they would have to attend the funeral since who else would?
St-Cyr began to pack his pipe. ‘Then this Madame Rachline lives nearby?’ he asked non-committally.
The cigarette was budgeted with a sigh. ‘She rents that part of the house behind La Belle Époque, on the rue des Trois Maries, Inspector. I think, but cannot be certain, you understand, that Mademoiselle Bertrand used to work in that place. Perhaps that is how they came to know one another? The dresses, the sheets, the seamstressing. Perhaps it is that Madame Rachline does a little work for the house. In any case, she is a lady who protects her children from all such things, of this you can be certain.’
‘And her husband?’ asked St-Cyr.
‘Gone as I have said. Where, I do not know since she never speaks of him, nor do either of her children. A son of ten and a daughter of twelve.’
He put the tobacco pouch away. ‘Did Mademoiselle Bertrand limp when she returned at nine fifty-seven?’
‘Limp? But …? Why … why, yes. Yes, she had lost a shoe.’
‘Good!’ St-Cyr crammed the pipe-stem between his teeth and lit up. Blowing smoke, he waved the match out and nodded sagely. ‘Don’t touch the rooms. Let the police do their work. They will remove the bodies
and dust for fingerprints and then they will seal everything until further notice.’
5
GRIMLY ST-CYR DREW ON THE PIPE HE LONGED to enjoy. It was Christmas Day, and for one brief glimpse, the grey above cleared as church bells pealed.
He reached the centre of the pont Alphonse Juin and leaned on its carved stone parapet, gazing downriver at the Saône. Sheet-ice had formed in places. Vapour rose above pools where brown scums of sewage froth overflowed to stain that pristine glacial sheath.
Two women, the one now dead, the other a ‘seamstress’, the mother of two children, the madam of a very high-class bordello.
Childhood friends, one of whom had been ‘special’.
A convoy of Wehrmacht lorries began to cross the bridge, startling him and scattering the vélo-taxis, vibrating the ancient footings which seemed to cry out, For shame! How can you let this happen to us?
The convoy was travelling at a march-past to impress the populace and not suffer the indignity of skidding on the treacherous surface that had already spilled too many. Three motor cycles were ahead of an open touring car. Klaus Barbie and some woman …
The grey fox-fur coat rippled in the breeze. She laughed, wore no hat and must be freezing but would not let on. Flashing grey-blue eyes and dark auburn hair, not French, ah no, definitely not. Frau Weidling … was it Frau Weidling?
The lorries threw their shadows over him and when the last of them had passed, he heard the rudeness of a flatulent trombone and saw that it came from a concert band.
The convoy reached the far side and turned downstream along the quai des Célestins. The sewage bubbled up from the bottom of the river. The stains followed the lorries, flooding over the ice as if unstoppable.
Two women, three fires in 1938 in the Reich and now another and far worse fire in Lyon and an attempt that could so easily have ended in disaster.
The shards of a gilded glass tree-ornament, an antique taken, no doubt, from La Belle Époque so as to have a bit of decoration, a little something to love and remind one of Christmases past and childhood friends, the beach at Concarneau. Ah yes.
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