Bellringer

by J. Robert Janes

  At a glance, Kohler could see that Louis had broken Becky Torrence but Weber, having heard of what had been going on behind his back, had drawn his pistol and had had Bamba Duclos brought to the office by two strongarms. That one, his future having flashed before him, had politely dropped his gaze to summon what courage he could. ‘Mam’selle,’ he said, ‘I didn’t tell him you had come to me to read your fortune. Someone else must have.’

  ‘SILENCE!’ shrieked Weber in Deutsch.

  Leaping to his feet, he smashed Duclos in the mouth with that pistol. Gott sei Dank, a shot hadn’t gone off.

  ‘YOUR PAPERS, FRÄULEIN. PAPERS!’

  Everything was going crazy. Terrified, Becky tore at pullover, blouse, and undershirt, but the uncovered waist-pouch just wouldn’t open.

  ‘HURRY, WHORE!’

  ‘THERE’S NOTHING WRONG WITH MY PAPERS. NOTHING!’ she cried in French.

  Pouch ripped open, papers and passport were flung onto the desk. Backhanded, knocked all but senseless, she reeled and held her left cheek in shock. ‘You. . . you. . . ’ she began.

  ‘Schiesse, Untersturmführer, leave it.’

  ‘What was that you said to me, Kohler?’

  ‘Knocking her senseless isn’t going to help.’

  ‘HELP, IS IT?’

  The papers were snatched up. Turning swiftly away, Weber crouched to spin the dial of the safe that sat on the floor behind and to the left of that desk of his, and below the board on which hung the keys to every other lock in the camp: two for each, by the look, and labelled underneath, and if one were missing, would its absence be noticed?

  Abruptly the most valuable things anyone could own these days were pitched into the safe, the door slammed and dial spun.

  ‘There, now we shall see,’ said Weber, noting that St-Cyr had stepped in front of the slut. ‘Very well, mein Lieber. Very well.’

  Upending the hessian sack that had been brought with the black, tins spilled across the desk. ‘Cans of Klim and Borden’s Sweetened Condensed Milk, Kohler? Others of Maple Leaf Creamery Butter?’

  ‘Bovril, too. Ach, I can see that, Untersturmführer.’

  ‘Zigaretten? Camels, Chesterfields, Players, Woodbines?’

  ‘Those tins of Kam are probably similar to the American ones of SPAM. Ground ham and pork.’ ***

  ‘And half-kilo bars of Neilson’s Chocolate, with those of Hershey’s, Kohler?’

  ‘Atlas and Del Bey raisins, too, Hermann,’ said Louis, still perched on the balls of his feet and ready to deal with this obnoxious little desk tyrant who was damned dangerous since he still had backup Schmeissers standing guard over Bamba Duclos.

  These Schweinebullen, these two from Paris, thought Weber. They were known to cause trouble. The American was fingering her cheek and lower jaw. Gingerly the Schlampe explored her lips for possible splits, the hatred in her gaze all too clear. Naked, what would she do if she had six of the blacks at her? Scream? Go crazy? Fight certainly.

  Two cans of Libby’s pork and beans were selected by him and set aside, two packets of Lucky Strikes, one packet of Oxo cubes, one of raisins, two bars of chocolate, and some chewing gum. ‘You paid this one, Fräulein. Now you will tell me why.’

  ‘I. . . I have nothing more to say to you.’

  ‘Don’t!’ said Louis in Deutsch, grabbing Weber by the wrist as the gun was swung at her. ‘Listen instead, Untersturmführer, and I’ll tell you why this young woman, a prisoner in your care and therefore under the rules of the Geneva Convention, met with this one.’

  ‘Louis. . . ’

  ‘Hermann, if I have to break his arm, I will!’

  ‘VERFLUCHTER FRANZOSE HAU AB!’

  Cursed Frenchman, fuck off. Louis had yet to notice the memorial to Weber’s dead sister on that desk, the swastika-bedecked photo a constant reminder.

  The arm was released, the gun came up, but so did a sûreté’s forefinger.

  ‘Orders are orders, Untersturmführer. We are here on those of the Kommandant von Gross-Paris and those of Gestapo Bömelburg, Head of Section IV.’

  The Gestapo in France and two old acquaintances, but how deep was this thing going to go? wondered Kohler.

  ‘Sit down and let’s talk,’ said Louis. ‘For myself, I’m sorry I didn’t first ask your permission to withdraw the Fräulein from your lineup but things were moving too quickly and the need to settle matters had become paramount.’

  ‘I have letters that prove everything,’ seethed Weber. ‘Letters, Fräulein.’

  Again the safe was opened: three turns to the right to land between the 52 and the 58, thought Kohler, two to the left and between the 27 and the 35, and then back around to the 11 or thereabouts. ‘The First American Army again, Louis. Another leftover.’

  One by one the anonymous letters were thrown down, the door to the safe left open.

  ‘Do you deny what they say?’ demanded Weber. He’d show these two who ran things here. He’d not have them going over his head.

  Becky knew he was going to send her to a concentration camp. There was now no longer any hope. ‘My name is Becky Torrence, Herr Untersturmführer, not Frau Rebecca Tarance or Torance, and the room number is 3–38 not 2–38 or 3–28.’

  Would he hit her again or shoot her? she wondered. ‘I think if you look closely, Herr Untersturmführer, you will see that those which use my correct name have largely been written by Madame de Vernon, a few of the others by girls in the Vittel-Palace, yes. One gets blamed all the time for things they never did in that hotel you people keep us locked up in, and one has to defend oneself against unwanted advances, too, so hatred is born. But the other letters. . . especially those who have called me Rebecca and not spelled my last name correctly, have been written by girls and women in the Hôtel Grand. Again perhaps because I fiercely rejected their advances. Was Léa Monnier, who insists on looking at me the way she does, among your letter writers? She’s been here a lot. I’ve had to line up next to her time and again and suffer her closeness, and you know this!’

  ‘And you, Fräulein? You? Kohler, this is the lover of a Jew. She helped the boy to escape to the free zone that no longer exists. Antoine Rochon, mademoiselle? I have the proof.’

  And Becky, her enemies, sighed Kohler inwardly. Again Weber went to that safe of his. An unopened tin of fifty Will’s Gold Flake cigarettes rolled out, another of Woodbines and then one of. . . Ah, merde, fine-cut pipe tobacco.

  The telex on the regional office-to-office paper contained but a single line of heavy type and the name of none other than the Obersturmführer Klaus Barbie, Head of Section IV Lyon, and another old acquaintance they would rather not have met.

  Kohler, having seen the name, thought Weber, had given that partner of his a warning glance.

  SUBJECT ANTOINE ROCHON ARRESTED LYON EINSATZKOMMANDO 22 NOVEMBER 1942, DEPORTED MAUTHAUSEN KZ. HEIL HITLER.

  Becky was going to go all to pieces on them. Louis had extended a steadying hand. Obviously she had got Jill Faber to teach her a little Deutsch, yet still, one had best try to be gentle. ‘He’s in Austria, Becky. Working in a factory.’

  ‘Not a stone quarry and a concentration camp? Isn’t KZ the short form for Konzentrationslager?’ she asked, letting the tears fall freely.

  ‘Look, don’t do anything crazy, eh?’

  ‘Like throwing myself down an elevator shaft?’

  Schiesse, what the hell was this?

  ‘Maybe Mary-Lynn didn’t want to live, Inspector. Maybe she felt having a child here was just too much. Maybe Nora had convinced her that trying to reach her father was simply stupid.’

  ‘And Caroline Lacy?’ asked Louis.

  ‘Caroline. . . ?’ she asked, startled and turning to face him.

  ‘Did she know about Antoine, mademoiselle?’

  Ah, no . . . ‘Jill did, Nora did, and Marni, too.’

  ‘But not Caroline?’

  ‘Not unless Madame de Vernon had somehow found out.’

  ‘The bodies, Untersturmführer,’ said
Louis firmly. ‘Have Corporal Duclos bring a stretcher to the Chalet des nes first, and one other to assist him. This young woman will identify each victim, as is necessary, you to be a witness.’

  The snow was everywhere and through the trees the Chalet des nes looked as if it could never have been the site of a murder. To the northeast, Becky could see right across the Parc Thermal to the boundary fence beyond the soccer field the British insisted on calling the football field as if all Americans were simply ignorant of such fine distinctions.

  To the west and northwest, and much nearer, were the casino from which they’d just come, then the Grand and the Vittel-Palace. The Établissement Thermal, whose round pavilions at either end marked the fountains that gave forth the waters of La Grande Source and La Source Salée, was but a short walk from the Vittel-Palace. These pavilions were joined by the covered promenade that was always popular. There were lots of internees about now, some even peering in through the spa’s windows in hopes of catching a glimpse of something to alleviate the boredom even though the Fermé sign was clear enough and they must have looked in there countless times. Surely the Germans could have opened that up, giving the girls such pleasure and employment too, but no, and as for Jill getting the swimming pool filled this coming summer, they’d best forget it. With Herr Weber advising him, the new Kommandant would never agree.

  ‘Inspector, do I really have to do this?’

  ‘A glimpse, that’s all,’ said Kohler. ‘I’ll be right with you.’

  Had he thought she would bolt and run, a Gentile who had had a Jewish fiancé, a girl who had inadvertently kept the Star of David she had removed from his coat? ‘Caroline would have felt the chalet offered no threat, Inspector. Corporal Duclos was to have met her. On Friday afternoon I. . . I only followed her from the room to see that he did.’

  ‘And then?’ he asked.

  He was watching her closely now because those brief moments when Brother Étienne had left Caroline and walked the petrolette over to Duclos and Sergeant Senghor for repairs were critical. ‘I was satisfied they had seen her. I. . . I turned away and went back to our hotel.’

  ‘Meeting Nora on the way?’

  He’d be sure to ask Nora. ‘I. . . I didn’t see her then. I. . . I don’t know where she went. She must have been cold, had been out a long, long time, walking the perimeter fence. Always she gets as far away from everyone and everything as she can, but. . . but I didn’t meet up with her.’

  And maybe did. ‘Went back to the room, did you?’

  He wasn’t going to leave it. ‘I went into the shops on the Terrace of the Grand.’

  ‘Weren’t they closing?’

  In time for the curfew for visitors and shopkeepers. ‘We had about an hour.’ There was nothing in his eyes now, absolutely nothing.

  ‘“We”? Who was we?’

  Ah, merde! ‘I meant me. Collectively the others. British and. . . and Americans, and some from the Hôtel de la Providence. They’re now allowed only the last hour once a week, on Fridays. Colonel Kessler used to let them go there just like the rest of us but Herr Weber, he. . . he made the times for them far more restricted.’

  ‘Can you name any of them who could vouch for you?’

  ‘Me? For obvious reasons I tried always to keep my distance. I had to, didn’t I?’

  ‘But not on that Friday, not when Caroline was killed. Stopped about here, did you, before turning back to those shops?’

  Would he miss nothing? wondered Becky. They were still among the trees, had yet to reach the circular clearing the donkeys would have trod. ‘Here, I think. Yes, here. A bit of the bark had been torn off this beech tree. Look, someone’s been at it again.’

  ‘Fire starter?’ he asked.

  Nora had been the one to tell them that the inner bark could be eaten, but she would just nod and say, ‘We’re always in need of it.’

  ‘Nervous was she, this most recent bark puller?’

  ‘All right, it was me.’

  Duclos, Senghor, Weber, and Louis were now at the chalet, the two guards opening its doors, the stretcher being carried in. A last glance from Louis said, Don’t be long but don’t spare her even though she’s young and vulnerable.

  ‘Who opened that padlock? You must have arranged for that as well.’

  ‘I didn’t know! All I was asked to do was to get someone to meet her in that. . . that place, that Caroline had something she absolutely had to tell the new Kommandant, and that. . . ’

  ‘Something, mademoiselle? Wasn’t it that she was certain Mary-Lynn had been pushed?’

  ‘Yes, oh yes!’

  ‘And the padlock?’

  ‘I. . . I think Jill must have arranged it with one of the guards. He was to unlock it, but leave it hooked through the hasp as if still locked. Duclos would then duck in and wait for Caroline who didn’t at first know whom she would be meeting. French or German, until I told her Corporal Duclos had agreed.’

  ‘So at the last moment she did know whom she would be meeting?’

  ‘Yes, but. . . but she must have seen Sergeant Senghor and the corporal walk away with the bike towards the wood compound.’

  ‘And Brother Étienne?’

  ‘Did he duck into the chalet?’

  ‘Or did you follow her in and deal with her? You had every reason, mademoiselle. More, no doubt, than anyone else.’

  ‘Even the killer of Mary-Lynn?’

  ‘Especially that one, if both are the same.’

  They started out again and only then did Herr Kohler say, ‘Before Louis and I got here from Paris yesterday, you must have gone to have another look. After all, Caroline hadn’t returned to the room on Friday evening, had she? Madame de Vernon would have been beside herself with worry.’

  A little of the hard, crystalline snow blew from the chalet’s roof. Underfoot, it had been trampled. ‘At first Madame thought that Caroline was with Jennifer, but when Jen was found, that. . . that wasn’t so.’

  ‘Out with it, please. Better here than in there with Weber.’

  She nodded but could no longer face him. ‘I. . . I went out early Saturday morning, as soon as we could leave the hotel. The doors to the chalet were closed, the padlock hooked through the eye of the hasp, but open and probably just as it had been left. I waited. I picked at the bark of that tree. I dreaded what I would have to do. No one was about, not even Nora.’

  ‘And then? Come, come, mademoiselle.’

  ‘I ducked inside, but. . . but it was too dark to see anything. I whispered her name and. . . and when my foot touched hers, I stumbled.’

  ‘And?’

  He wasn’t going to believe her, but she would have to try. ‘I ran. I got back to the Vittel-Palace and went down into the cellars, then up into the laundry, where I’d left the things I had told the others I was going to wash. I didn’t tell anyone about Caroline. I couldn’t. I. . . I hid that because I knew I would be blamed if I didn’t.’

  But would she, as the killer, have returned at all? wondered Kohler. Louis would have said it’s possible, but then. . . Yet that Star of David had been crammed into Caroline’s pocket as though in anger. The hurried use of the only weapon available had been there, the impulse of it, the fierce determination of that moment—didn’t all of these seem to say she had done it?

  ‘Nora didn’t know I’d arranged for Caroline to meet Bamba, Inspector, nor did Marni or even Jill. Earlier Caroline had asked me to find someone and knew that I would because before Bamba told me my fortune that last time, she had caught me taking things from our pantry to pay him for it.’

  Weber having then singled out those very items, which had to mean that he either had been told of them by Duclos after the fact, or by someone else, yet the others in Room 3–38 had genuinely expressed surprise when Becky had said she’d gone back for a third reading all by herself. Jennifer Hamilton, then—she must have told Weber, Caroline having let her know.

  ‘Somehow I would have explained to the others that I’d taken those thin
gs, Inspector, that they’d not been stolen as they’d thought. Somehow I’d have paid them back, but Caroline, she. . . she didn’t blackmail me into asking Bamba to meet with her. She didn’t even know who would until just before it happened.’

  But if Weber had known beforehand of the meeting, what would he have done?

  Louis was waiting for them, the corpse laid out as before. Weber, the collar of his greatcoat up, stood in the aisle in front of that middle stall, having impatiently lighted a cigarette.

  Duclos and Senghor kept their distance as much as possible but obviously didn’t like being there. Neither of them dared to look toward the victim, nor did they look directly at Becky or anyone else.

  Nudging the girl forward, Kohler laid a steadying hand on her right arm.

  To gasp in shock and turn away was normal, to want to be sick too, thought Becky. There were livid blotches on the lower parts of Caroline’s face and neck. Blood had run from a corner of the lips but had since been frozen.

  ‘Mademoiselle,’ said Chief Inspector St-Cyr.

  There was a tearful nod, a faintly blurted, ‘Yes, it’s Caroline.’

  ‘She spent time getting herself ready for the meeting,’ said Louis, not sparing her. ‘You must have watched.’

  A moment had to be given.

  ‘Caroline. . . Caroline had wanted to look her best in case she’d be taken straight to the new Kommandant. Yes, I watched her, as did Madame, who kept asking her why she had to go outside at such an hour. “A cold . . . you are coming down with another,” she said. “That chest of yours is far too weak and you know it!”

  ‘Caroline answered, “It’s not what you think. You’ll find out soon enough.”’

  ‘She was raped, wasn’t she?’ seethed Weber, flinging his cigarette down at the foot of Senghor and Duclos. ‘You and those others from Room 3–38 set it all up. This one held her, while this one went at her, then they took turns.’

  As implied earlier by Madame de Vernon, thought Kohler, but lieber Gott, he was serious! For all his life since the age of ten, Weber must have dreamt of just such a moment.