HS02 - Days of Atonement

by Michael Gregorio

  As Egon Eis asked me for the second time where I wished to go exactly, sir, I came up with a solution so blindingly obvious that it had not occurred to me before: ‘Take me to the Old Hotel,’ I shouted up.

  I was thankful not to see the sour expression on my driver’s wrinkled face. Eis was anxious to be home before the curfew, and time was running short. Once the hour struck seven, it would be harder than ever to unearth Lavedrine. Surely, I thought, Mutiez would know where the criminologist could be found.

  Called the Hôtel de Ville since the Francophile days of Frederick the Great, the Old Hotel, or ‘Old Town—Hall’, was a three-storey building on the opposite side of the main square from my own office in Lotingen Court House. The Bonapartists had set up their General Quarters there, and the place was always full of French officers, whether they were on duty, or merely passing the time of day. Proving himself to be the sole exception to a universal rule, Mutiez was nowhere to be found.

  As I turned to leave, I almost bumped into Captain Laurent, the requisitioning officer for the town.

  ‘What are you doing here, Herr Stiffeniis?’ he exclaimed with surprise.

  ‘I am looking for Colonel Lavedrine.’

  ‘One moment,’ he said, and disappeared into the officers’ mess. ‘No sign of him in there,’ he reported when he returned.

  He called to a soldier, sitting at a desk.

  ‘Check the address of Lavedrine in the Bible. Make a note of it,’ he ordered. He turned to me with a smile. ‘That’s the name we give to the register where the lodgings of our officers are listed.’

  Within a few minutes the man came back with a slip of paper in his hand.

  ‘Chapter and verse, sir,’ he joked as he saluted.

  ‘I hear that you and he are investigating the massacre,’ Laurent commented, as he handed me Lavedrine’s address. ‘I wish you all success, and hope you catch the killer quickly, monsieur. Lotingen reminds me of my home town during the grande crainte. Blois-sur-Loire will never be the same. Nor Lotingen, I fear.’

  I knew what he was referring to. Towns and villages in rural France had been engulfed by a tide of hysterical fright as the Reign of Terror unfolded in Paris. People spoke of packs of wolves and covens of witches, blood-hungry thieves and murderers roaming the countryside by night, hideous monsters creeping out of the woods under cover of darkness in search of human prey.

  ‘Many people died as a result of the panic. It was fear that did it. Nothing more. They slaughtered their neighbours indiscriminately, thinking to protect themselves and their loved ones from danger.’

  ‘We must ensure that nothing of the sort happens here.’

  ‘If the local population were to turn on our men,’ he said, concern written openly on his sallow face, ‘who knows what would come of it?’

  Was that what the massacre of those children was intended to foment? I asked myself. The provocation of violence and lawlessness against the foreign invader? If that should prove to be the case, it would be necessary to turn the spotlight back on my fellow countrymen. A raging, angry crowd would be an immensely powerful weapon in the hands of unscrupulous nationalists. Could that be the link with Kamenetz? A scheme devised by General Katowice and his adepts to throw Prussia into a state of ungovernable chaos? It would make things more difficult for the French, and deflect attention away from the rebels.

  ‘I wish you a good night, Captain,’ I said, taking my leave, hoping that it really would be an uneventful night for all of us, French and Prussians alike.

  Outside, I examined the scrap of paper. Lavedrine had taken up residence within the city walls, I noted, though somewhat off the beaten track, far from the heart of the town.

  ‘Arbeitstrasse,’ I called up as I mounted the coach again.

  Egon Eis grunted unhappily and flicked his whip at the horses.

  I knew the street. A multitude of craftsmen lived and worked in the area. It was busy enough by day, but as we edged slowly through the narrow streets leading down to the wharves of the River Nogat, the area seemed darker, more deserted than the rest of the town. The only signs of life were armed French soldiers on street corners, and patrols of authorised vigilante watchmen bearing cudgels, carrying lanterns on sticks, making sure that everything had been safely locked up for the night. We were stopped and questioned twice by the French. On the second occasion, they pointed out the house that I was bound for, the corporal-in-command mentioning with a grin that one of his superiors had stayed there for a couple of days, then decided to take himself somewhere else.

  This wild goose chase was taking longer than I had bargained for. Church bells began to toll, and the nightwatch crier called out the hour of seven. Had it not been for my impeccable documents, Eis and I would have been destined for the cells.

  ‘Sergeant Kakou said the persons in the house were singulières,’ the corporal said, as he handed back my papers.

  ‘Bizarres,’ his companion added.

  Neither man attempted to clarify what their officer might have meant.

  The people living in the house were rag-and-bone merchants named Böll. So said a large wooden signboard hanging above a shop that shared its entrance with the house. ALL YOU NEED, AND MORE, the legend read. A painted profile of a fat man in a tricorn hat, standing in front of that very house, was handing an object to a woman. She, in turn, held out a gold coin in payment for it.

  Herr Böll answered my knock some moments later.

  He appeared not to have changed his coat or taken off his hat since the day the sign was painted. Glancing beyond his shoulder, I caught a glimpse of the entrance hall. The simplicity of the house surprised me. I had expected to find Lavedrine in exotic and luxurious apartments which would lend lustre to his status as an officer and scholar of renown.

  ‘I am looking for Colonel Lavedrine,’ I said, wondering what had induced the Frenchman to choose the place, taking note of the landlord standing before me. He was at least sixty years of age, and even more rotund than the man painted on the sign. His clothes also resembled those in his painted profile: black suit, black shirt, black neckerchief. His leather shoes were black as well, a silver buckle the only point of light in his outfit.

  ‘Herr Lavedrine is abroad this evening,’ Herr Böll replied in an unusually high-pitched voice, his eyes protruding like spotted billiard balls of veined yellow ivory.

  At his back a tiny woman dressed in white from head to toe, a veil covering her nose and mouth, emerged from behind a black curtain on the right. As she crossed the hallway, her dark eyes peered fearfully into mine. She stopped for an instant, sniffing the air like a wild hare, then, without a word, she lifted the matching curtain on the other side of the hall, and disappeared from view into another room.

  ‘Where has he gone?’ I asked. ‘It is imperative that I find him.’

  Herr Böll did not reply at once. His peculiar eyes rolled up into his head: only the whites were visible. For an instant I feared that he was about to lose his senses. But then his eyes fell back, one after the other, slotting into place like numbers on an abacus. He had been concentrating, I realised, and when he spoke, he was hesitant, perhaps embarrassed.

  ‘I’ve never been there myself, sir. Colonel Lavedrine seems to . . . well, he seems to go there quite a lot. At the far end of Roederstrasse. Hunger. I believe that is the name of the house.’

  ‘Is Colonel Lavedrine working there this evening?’ I asked.

  Herr Böll peered at me as if I were mad.

  ‘I hardly think so!’ he said.

  Roederstrasse is in the most run-down quarter of the town, with the exception of the Jewish ghetto, which it flanked on one side. But before I could enquire any further, Herr Böll bowed politely from the waist and shut the door in my face.

  I climbed up into the coach again and gave directions to Eis.

  ‘Are you sure, sir?’ he shot back. ‘At this time of night?’

  ‘You said you were a soldier, Eis,’ I snapped. ‘Consider yourself on duty a
gain, obeying orders that you don’t understand, but know to be useful.’

  The coachman saluted like an obedient trooper, and turned his coach in the direction of the lower reaches of town. Five minutes later, we rumbled slowly down Roederstrasse. The houses seemed to be shuffling up the hill to avoid slipping into the river. The roofs stretched out, almost touching one another, like fully grown trees that had unwisely been planted too close together when they were saplings. Barely wide enough for the coach to pass, a sewer ran down the middle which was blocked and overflowing. And yet, one aspect was striking. In contrast with the rest of town, the shutters were thrown back, and light blazed unhindered onto the dirt and refuse that cluttered the way.

  The carriage stopped outside a building that was taller than the others.

  ‘Here we are, sir,’ Eis announced, pointing to a painted tile on the wall.

  HUNGER

  The door knocker was gracefully moulded in the shape of a mermaid. No sooner had it dropped than the door swung open, and I found myself staring into a pair of bright green eyes.

  Hungry eyes, I remember thinking.

  ‘Um, ja!’ the girl exclaimed, as if a tasty dish had just been set on the table.

  From the glistening sheen on her round cheeks and the rapid rise and fall of the panting breasts beneath her low-cut blouse, I realised that I had disturbed this beautiful creature at her work. My immediate impression—that her work was something less than honest—was tempered by confusion. With shimmering blonde hair which fell loosely to her naked shoulders, she was a most attractive waif, her figure pressed as slender as an hourglass by a whalebone corset. She smiled broadly in welcome, waiting for me to speak, it seemed, and my confusion grew. As we stood on the step, the rich perfume of sweat and something sweeter came washing out of the house and over me like a tidal wave.

  ‘Colonel Lavedrine?’ I asked, uncertainly.

  The girl turned her head and said something in a breathless, throaty tone to a person inside the room whom I was unable to see. I did not understand a word, but thought I caught the name of Serge Lavedrine somewhere in the middle.

  ‘I must speak with him,’ I insisted.

  Again, she turned away and spoke. Scandinavian, I thought, though it was beyond my capabilities to recognise the precise language or dialect.

  ‘At once,’ I pressed, breaking in on what seemed to me to be an unnecessarily long and probably useless exchange of opinions.

  ‘Serge is busy,’ a voice called back from the interior. ‘Hilda, ask him if he wants fresh spice on his Putipù.’

  The girl before me burst out laughing, her breasts heaving and pumping with delight at the joke, then she went away to do as she had been told. A minute later, she was back, flashing a doll-like smile as she slipped her hand beneath my arm and pulled me over the threshold.

  I thought for an instant that I had stepped into a bakery. The smell of ovens was strong, the air hot and heavy. My nose twitched with the scent of yeast, but there was also a strong smell of spiced wine in the air. The room was large. At the far end, a fire blazed in the grate. Hanging from the ceiling was a huge chandelier. There were more candles scattered around the place than I could count. And more than one table. Many chairs with spindle backs. And on every wooden surface, a naked man or woman. More women than men, I corrected myself. I counted six, all busily engaged with paintbrushes, which they refreshed from a large cooking-pot in the centre of the room. Honey, I guessed from the colour, smell and consistency. As the door closed at my back, the tongues returned to work. I had broken in upon an orgy.

  ‘Room at the end,’ the girl lisped, letting go of my arm, and pointing away down a long corridor.

  I went the way the whore’s finger pointed.

  Before the fourth door, I knocked hesitantly.

  ‘Entrez, alors!’ came the lively, nasal reply.

  Opening the door, I saw the transformation of Lavedrine’s face, as debauched good humour gave way to surprise.

  ‘For the love of God, Stiffeniis! I was expecting hot spice, and what do I get? Your pale, starched face. Come in from the cold. Make yourself at home. My friend here will hate you for it, but there you are!’

  I stepped uncertainly into the room.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Don’t be shy, they don’t eat people in Naples as a rule.’

  I obeyed, and found myself face to face with a person.

  I can find no adequate word to describe the Frenchman’s table companion. Nor was I disposed to stare. Naked from the waist up, I would not have dared to imagine what was hidden beneath the table. Slender, with hardly any breasts at all. Olive-skinned, except for the radiant slash of painted lips and glistening nipples, like sliced cherries, the colour of carmine. Above penetrating black eyes, eyebrows arched like the wings of a hawk across a broad and graceful forehead. Those languishing orbs fixed themselves on me, and silently took me in, shining out of two deep, dusky caverns. A finely chiselled nose. Full, pouting lips. A dark-skinned Mediterranean beauty. But the mystery began below the mouth. The line of the jaw was square, the chin pronounced, the shadowy flesh too dark.

  ‘You look frightful, Stiffeniis. Have you just returned?’

  ‘An hour ago,’ I said, waking up from dazed embarrassment. ‘I had a word with Dittersdorf. Since then, I’ve been trying to track you down. I went to General Quarters, then to the lodging-house of Herr Böll, the ragman.’

  ‘And the good Böll told you where to find me,’ Lavedrine said, evidently amused as he sat back in his seat. ‘What did you make of him?’

  ‘I am not here to discuss my opinion of your landlord,’ I replied.

  ‘What a pity!’ he replied, clearly pleased with himself. ‘I take a professional interest in the man. I have never seen any person fall so easily into such a deep and lasting trance.’

  I remembered the stout man, the way his eyes had rolled up into his head, my fear that he might be about to faint in front of me.

  ‘Hypnosis is a favourite subject of mine,’ Lavedrine explained. ‘I was hoping to study this local phenomenon and make the most of my idle hours. It may be of use in my profession, I thought. But you’re not here to listen to my prattling tales,’ he said, running his hand through his hair, brushing the silvery curls back from his forehead. ‘Would you care for a fig preserved in honey?’

  He offered a platter from the table, taking one for himself when I refused. He held up another for his companion. Putipù leant forward, mouth open, tongue chasing after the slippery fruit, as Lavedrine pulled it playfully away. Her chestnut-coloured hair shifted lazily to one side, giving off a more tantalisingly sweet perfume than the delicacies on the plate.

  ‘Bien, to business! What did Gottewald have to say for himself?’ he asked. ‘How did he take the news of the massacre?’

  ‘Must we talk here?’ I asked, looking towards the silent creature who made up the third member of our party.

  Putipù held my gaze. She did not say a word. Only her mouth moved, as she chewed the fig, then swallowed it. She seemed content to sit there, showing off her partial nudity and total ambiguity, as if it was all that she asked of life.

  ‘Putipù will excuse my momentary disattention while we talk. The gentildonna comes from Naples, as I mentioned, though femminiello is the musical-sounding name they use down there for such entrancing ambiguity. She understands no other tongue,’ he said, turning to the object of our discussion with the warmest of smiles.

  The girl, if that is what she was, made an impatient grimace, flirting with her eyes in a manner that was almost too feminine to be believed, murmuring words to him in what I took to be an Italian dialect.

  Lavedrine blew a kiss to her, then turned to me.

  ‘You must be thoroughly exhausted after hunting Sybille Gottewald all this time.’ I said it mildly enough, but I could not suppress a note of accusation.

  The smile died on his lips. His large, irregular face, which was, as a rule, lively, animated—fascinating, I supposed, to judg
e from the greedy way his companion watched him—seemed to crumble and collapse into a mask of tired melancholy. Again, he ran his hand through his hair. Again, the silvery curls fell back as soon as he desisted. He had been drinking heavily, I realised.

  He snarled: ‘You suppose that I have been on my worst behaviour, while you’ve been slaving like a dog. Am I correct?’

  He threw out his forefinger, which quivered in the warm air.

  ‘I have not found Frau Gottewald. Dead, or alive. But not for want of trying. I’ve searched this town from end to end. It is harder to find a well-hidden corpse than a living, screaming woman, Herr Procurator.’

  He sat back, and a deep sigh escaped from his lips.

  ‘I hope you have been more fortunate,’ he said, stretching out his hand to take another sweet.

  I held my silence.

  ‘Well, damn you,’ he said, snatching up another fig, ‘aren’t you going to tell me what Gottewald had to say while you were travelling together?’

  I waited until he had chewed and swallowed.

  ‘Bruno Gottewald is dead,’ I announced.

  The expression of confusion that flashed across his face might have given me pleasure in other circumstances, but I had more important things on my mind.

  ‘We must hammer out a pact,’ I said with fierce determination. ‘Just you and I. No one else. The French and Prussian authorities must never know.’

  ‘Coming from a genuine Prussian,’ Lavedrine replied, ‘that sounds to me like a treasonable offence.’

  I nodded two or three times, savouring the words before I said them.

  ‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘Treason is what I am proposing. In the interests of truth.’

  19

  ‘I SHOULDN’T BE telling you any of this.’