Bellringer

by J. Robert Janes

  Caroline, who had been pensive when facing Marguerite. . . who had played the imp before gazing deeply into the last of her crystal balls as only she could, the clear. . .

  Caroline, who had been so upset and had felt so betrayed.

  Kohler waited. He could hear someone softly, tensely breathing. When he nudged the door, whoever it was held her breath and he wondered, was she waiting with that armature wound up and ready to kill him?

  Ach, there was only one way to find out. Sacrificing the last seven matches in the box, he flung them one by one into the room.

  They fell like star shells over a battlefield, thought Jennifer, each arcing through the darkness only to finally go out and leave her biting back the tears.

  When he lifted her chin and took the armature away, Jennifer knew that Herr Kohler had found her, not Madame. Not yet.

  Louis wasn’t going to spare the girl, even after what she’d just been through. They couldn’t—Kohler knew this, yet it saddened him to see her so stressed and going to pieces in front of them.

  ‘My apartment,’ she blurted. ‘If I don’t get back to Paris, what’s to happen to all of those precious things I bought for my father’s clients? An oil on panel by Lucas Cranach the Elder, inspectors. It’s magnificent. I would sit for hours in front of it and never tire of feasting my eyes. There’s a sketch by Jan van Eyck for his St. Barbara. The folds of her gown cast such shadows they set off the whole piece—its mood, its purpose, its divine purity and poise—and I just know it was done in charcoal first and then in pen and brown ink, for the shadows tell me this as much as does the fine detail. She has an illuminated breviary in her lap but is not reading—she knows it all by heart and one can see this in her peace of mind as those beloved words come silently to her. There’s another sketch by Delacroix—Ah, mon Dieu, words fail me. It’s a preparatory for his Descent from the Cross, after Peter Paul Rubens. It, too, is in pen and brown ink on paper. I’m certain the ink was made from oak galls—that’s one of the first things we question when examining such works, for forgeries are everywhere in the art world. I acquired it for the Levy family in Boston.’

  She paused. It seemed to calm her to tell others of these things, thought Kohler. Even Louis was listening attentively and perhaps had begun to realize just why the poor kid was so concerned.

  ‘There’s a collection of snuffboxes that I had spent nearly a year building for Mrs. Anna Blumenfeld Senior. German gold and enamel, by Daniel Baudesson, circa 1765: a countess at her toilette with ladies in waiting. She’s just come from the bath and though it is in miniature, you can see how pink her skin is and feel how hot the scented water must have been. Another German box is of gold and bloodstone, with a stag on the run and being set upon by ferocious hounds. Why must men who hunt be so unforgivably cruel? The box is circa 1750, but though exquisite, is not a favourite of mine.’

  ‘You’ve exceptional taste,’ murmured Louis, somewhat mollified.

  She brightened. ‘I’ve Swiss boxes with enamelled silver birds that spread their wings and sing when the boxes are opened. Naturally they’re favourites, and I know I will feel a terrible sense of loss when they’ve finally been shipped home but’—she shrugged—‘one has to learn to bear such feelings if one is to be a dealer.’

  ‘And your favourite of favourites among the snuffboxes?’ asked Louis, as if they had all day and night.

  Those soft brown eyes took him in, strands of the fair hair being tidied, for they’d fallen over a still deeply furrowed brow. ‘A gold and semiprecious stone box by Johann Christian Neuber that is inset with 107 stones and is from Dresden, circa 1780. I paid 2,500 francs for it but know it’s worth at least thirty times as much.’

  Twenty-five American dollars on the black bourse becomes $750.00 at home. ‘A bargain,’ muttered Louis who had yet to even find that pipe and tobacco pouch of his.

  ‘Please don’t think me opportunistic, Chief Inspector. With that 2,500, the Meyerhof family of four made it to the zone libre. I know this because, in their gratitude, they sent me a postcard. They had “found employment.” There was “plenty of food.” These brief words filled in places among those the censors had blacked out and they told me that the family had reached Marseille as planned and were about to board a ship. To Tangier, I think.’

  ‘And the card, mademoiselle?’

  Was it proof he wanted? ‘It. . . it was unfortunately stolen—taken.’

  ‘Like others, Hermann,’ Louis said with a sigh as if totally absorbed in the tale or resting up to gather steam, especially as she hadn’t bothered to mention the card before.

  Again she found the will to uncertainly smile at him, thought Kohler, but then grew serious. ‘Each piece bears a certificate, Chief Inspector, with the letterhead of my father’s shop in Boston. Each gives details of the piece, the date purchased, the price negotiated, the name of the seller and to whom the item is to be delivered. My father, I know, would be very proud of me and would say to my mother and to my uncles who are partners of his, “Hasn’t our Jenny the eye?” Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve been among such things.’

  And Weber knew it—Kohler could see Louis thinking this but all that sûreté said was, ‘There’s a bench of sorts near the boiler, Hermann. Let’s sit a moment.’

  ‘Sometimes it’s still a little warm at this time of day,’ Jennifer managed.

  Madame had fled, and they were both worried about what that woman might now do, thought Jennifer, but the one from the Kripo, the criminal police, took out his cigarettes, the other a pipe and tobacco pouch and they shared a match, she accepting a cigarette though shaking still.

  ‘Merci,’ she said softly. They would push her now. They wouldn’t let up until they were satisfied she had told them everything.

  Was the vulnerability but a subterfuge? wondered St-Cyr. She wasn’t beautiful but perfectly capable of using the charm of her eyes and faintness of a smile to plead innocence and overcome whatever doubts Hermann might have.

  With him, he suspected, she knew that no such ploys would work. The tobacco did, however, calm her a little. ‘Mademoiselle, you were billeted with the British when you and the others first arrived at the camp. Things must have been chaotic.’

  Merde, he was even watching the way she smoked her cigarette! ‘Ah, mon Dieu, those first few weeks were so overcrowded we were constantly tripping over one another. One couldn’t have the briefest of washes in privacy or even share a bath without several looking in to say hello, ask for something, or tell a person to hurry up and make sure they didn’t leave a ring but scrubbed it out, nor was there much to eat.’

  ‘The British had to share their parcels with them, Louis.’

  ‘Fights broke out, animosities grew so deep they still fester.’

  She’d been grateful for Hermann’s interjection about the parcels, had seized on it, but would now have to face the truth. ‘Things went missing, did they?’ asked St-Cyr.

  ‘A bar of expensive soap, a tube of toothpaste, slippers, socks, and underwear—all such things unless kept well hidden or guarded. Shoes, even, but in October we were moved here. It. . . it was then that the theft of little things was first noticed.’

  ‘But they’d been going on while you were in the Grand?’ asked the sûreté, gesturing companionably with that pipe of his.

  ‘Oui, I think, but how were we to have known? The British now say they hadn’t lost a thing before we arrived but. . . but as to its being the work of a kleptomaniac, I. . . ’

  She shrugged, had mastered the art of that gesture perfectly, her gaze falling fully on Hermann, of course.

  Concern had best flood his eyes, thought Kohler. Warmth, too. ‘Photos, postcards, letters from home, Louis, and bits of ribbon.’

  She mustn’t flinch, thought Jennifer, though having had to sit in front of Herr Weber’s desk so many times, she knew well enough the ribbon to which he was referring. ‘Buttons, but only those that wouldn’t have easily been recognized had an attempt been made to use t
hem.’

  ‘With whom were you billeted?’ asked Herr Kohler.

  Cold now, was he to her? wondered Jennifer. ‘With Léa, Hortense, and Marguerite Lefèvre. Madame Chevreul said that it was the least she could do, given the circumstances. Everyone must double up, except for her, of course.’

  Herr Kohler flicked a glance at his partner, then said to her, ‘That spare room with the crystal balls and such. . . Was it emptied out and taken over?’

  He’d been in it, then. ‘They. . . they kept it locked but we all knew of it soon enough and that the British had been reading palms and the Ouija board and holding séances in there at ten and twenty francs per person—less perhaps, or the equivalent—and for some time.’

  And one hell of a lot cheaper than for the Americans! ‘But not in the Pavillon de Cérès?’

  First Herr Kohler would go at her and then the other. ‘The Pavillon. . . Not while we were billeted in the Grand. It was simply far too crowded. I slept on the floor beside Marguerite’s cot. There were so many things we had to learn—she helped me a lot, let me tell you, would lend me things, a towel, a pair of slacks. In turn, I shared my toothpaste, perfume, lipstick, and hand-soap with her, for they hadn’t had anything so good in ages.’

  ‘You got to know her well, then,’ said Herr Kohler.

  How well, was what he wanted, the sûreté simply sucking in on that pipe of his, the tobacco mixture sweet yet spicy, its aroma reminding her of Colonel Kessler but also of home, her father, and the shop. ‘Wouldn’t anyone who had slept beside you for weeks?’

  ‘Were you lovers?’ asked Herr Kohler.

  Again she would shrug. ‘Such things happen, especially in places like this. We were afraid, confused, lost, lonely. . . Ah, so many things, I. . . ’

  This time the shrug was defiant, thought St-Cyr.

  ‘Really, inspectors, my private life, such as it is in a place like this, has nothing to do with what has happened.’

  ‘Or everything,’ he said, watching her even more closely now.

  She would stub out her cigarette, but with infinite care so as not to waste a grain of unburned tobacco. ‘We saw each other daily even after I moved here.’

  ‘Until?’ he persisted.

  It would have to be said quite simply. ‘Until one day, early in December, Marguerite broke things off and wouldn’t even look at or speak to me, but I. . . I think Madame Chevreul had told her she had better break it off or else. I. . . ’ Ah, merde, she would have to tell them. ‘I was suspected of stealing things. My feelings were hurt, of course. Terribly, but. . . but Madame, she wouldn’t listen. I was to be banished. Marguerite was to. . . to find another but hasn’t. Not yet, not that I know of.’

  They were making her angry and she couldn’t have that, she mustn’t, felt Jennifer. Anger would only play right into their hands, but her cheeks were already warm and inadvertently she had clutched the cigarette butt she had been going to return to Herr Kohler for his little tin and it had crumbled to dust.

  ‘Caroline Lacy, mademoiselle,’ said the sûreté.

  ‘Caroline. . . Because I had roomed with Marguerite and the others, she. . . she wanted me to help her to become a sitter. At first Madame Chevreul refused, but Léa. . . Léa finally spoke on our behalf.’

  ‘Things were still being stolen,’ said St-Cyr.

  ‘Oui, but Caroline and me, we passed the severest of tests. Madame was satisfied.’

  ‘But then came the loss of her gris-gris, Louis.’

  ‘Only now have Hermann, Madame Chevreul, Léa Monnier, and everyone else, it seems, in the Hôtel Grand become convinced Caroline Lacy was the thief.’

  ‘But. . . but Caroline was to have become a sitter, inspectors?’

  ‘At a séance, mademoiselle, which for her just never happened.’

  ‘I didn’t kill her. I swear I didn’t! Caroline was convinced that Cérès would reveal Madame de Vernon had hit her husband with an empty champagne bottle, a Moët et Chandon. Not a full one, for otherwise it. . . it might have exploded and sent flying glass into her eyes and Madame, she. . . she would have known this could happen.’

  ‘And then set fire to the casino here?’ asked Herr Kohler.

  ‘Oui.’ Jennifer nodded. ‘We. . . we spoke of it often. It was all just supposition but. . . but the more she thought about it, the more my Caroline believed, and me, I. . . I joined in because it pleased her.’

  Were the tears real? wondered St-Cyr. ‘But you did have a falling out with her on the night Mary-Lynn died. Caroline was very upset and had a severe asthma attack as a result.’

  The eyes were wiped. ‘We. . . we patched things up, as I’ve told you.’

  ‘But you did tell Herr Weber that Caroline desperately wanted to arrange a meeting with someone so as to let the new Kommandant know what she’d seen, and prior to this, you did tell him the future Corporal Duclos had predicted for Mary-Lynn Allan.’

  Ashen now, Jennifer knew she couldn’t look at either of them and was in danger of stammering. ‘He told me that if I didn’t tell him things and find out everything he asked me to, he’d see that I never left Vittel. He doesn’t like me, inspectors. Indeed, he hates what I’ve become and ridicules me, while I. . . I have to sit in front of that desk of his and must not look anywhere else but straight at him. He. . . he enjoys humiliating people like me, but says he has to make allowances, as he does with Brother Étienne, until the Führer orders otherwise.’

  ‘Louis. . . ’

  ‘Hermann, we’ll deal with Herr Weber later. Mademoiselle, who arranged the meeting at the chalet?’

  ‘Becky, but she. . . she has already told you this. Jill. . . Jill didn’t get one of the guards to open that padlock. Caroline. . . ’

  She couldn’t face them now, thought Jennifer, but would have to say, ‘Ah, mon Dieu, inspectors, I know she must have found someone who had a key.’

  ‘Louis. . . ’

  ‘Not yet, Hermann. Had Caroline found out who the kleptomaniac was, Mademoiselle?’

  A nod was given. ‘She must have, but. . . but why didn’t she tell me, inspectors? I would have gone with her. Together we could have stopped whoever did that to her.’

  ‘A fanatical tidier, Louis.’

  ‘One who visits back and forth, Hermann, just like everyone else.’

  ‘But also goes for long, long walks in the Parc, in the freezing cold, inspectors, all by herself. Who else has the capability of hiding things every day in a place no one else would find or even think of? Caroline really did see something the night Mary-Lynn fell, but she wouldn’t tell me. She was afraid that if I knew, it would then put me in danger.’

  Already the Ouija boards, the cards, and such were out in the Vittel-Palace, and in nearly every room of this giant dormitory it was as if each occupant was secretly wondering if she would get through another night. So muted were the conversations, thought Kohler, he and Louis could hear a throat being cleared several doors away. Lots read in bed, all bundled up and knowing that one by one the stoves would go out and the temperature plunge. Some thought they could already see their breath and would look for it as a page was turned. Those who had gloves wore them. Others clutched mugs of hot water, and of course all the hot plates were fully on, and what lights there were already blinking.

  Nora Arnarson had still not returned to Room 3–38.

  ‘She’s probably gone to check on Angèle,’ said Jill Faber, somewhat subdued. ‘Nora’s very conscious of that mare and loves her almost as much as does Brother Étienne. He’ll be wanting to get away soon. Nora usually likes to say good-bye to him.’

  ‘As a young girl, she loved to ride the plow horses they used when hauling logs out of the bush,’ said the redhead, Marni Huntington, trying to smile at the thought. ‘Her brothers would dare her to ride bareback and even to stand on her hands.’

  ‘She has two brothers in the services, inspectors,’ said Becky. ‘One’s in the USAF, the other in the Navy. P-51 Mustangs and antisubmarine patrols on a destroyer, bu
t she hasn’t heard from either in well over three months and is afraid both have been killed as well.’

  ‘As whom, mademoiselle?’ asked Louis.

  ‘As her fiancé, Einar. He was in the Marines and was killed in action on Makin Island in the Gilberts, 17 August of last year.’

  ‘Hermann, I’ll find her.’

  ‘You’ll need my scarf.’

  And a flashlight. ‘Try to pry some answers out of Herr Weber. Let’s meet in the foyer here.’

  ‘What if he’s opened that. . . ’

  ‘Safe of his? Better the gamble now, Hermann, than later.’

  And wasn’t the office in the casino?

  ‘Find Nora, inspectors. Please find her,’ said Becky, unable now to look at either of them, simply twisting her hands in despair. ‘I don’t know what we would do without her. Madame de Vernon hasn’t come back either.’

  Jennifer Hamilton had wrung her laundry out by hand and had climbed the stairs with Louis and him but had gone on alone to her room. ‘Maybe we’d best stay together,’ said Hermann.

  It was almost 1800 hours Sunday, 21 February, 1943, and they had been here since the day before at 1522 hours. ‘Weber, mon vieux, and I out there.’

  ‘The curfew for us internees is at six in winter, inspectors,’ said Jill. ‘The entrance doors will be locked in a few minutes. Nora. . . ’

  She left the thought dangling, couldn’t bring herself to say it: a night outdoors in weather like this.

  The wind from the northwest was punishing, thought St-Cyr. Caught in the Valley of the Petit-Vair, with the Butte de Sion to the north, Vittel and its internment camp had the Haute-Saône and the Vosges Mountains to the south and the east, and not that far. Simply put, it was damned freezing and dangerous, for it blew in such unforgivable gusts, he was in fear of becoming lost.

  ‘Merde alors, mademoiselle, where the hell are you?’

  She wasn’t in the stables, but he did find the leftovers from some sprigs of beech. Each stem had been clean cut with a knife that was very sharp. ‘An Opinel,’ he muttered. ‘The peasant’s constant companion. Wooden-handled and cheap.’