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 now 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 i
t 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 slip. 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 …’
‘Ja, ja, the other one! Louis, just how the hell did that girl with the bicycle come by this one’s work card? Was it through a relative, a lover, a friend, or was she paying visits to that house? And did she know of this, eh? Did she?’
There were always questions, seldom ready answers. ‘Patience, mon vieux. Patience, eh? It is the yeast that makes each investigation rise until the loaf, it is complete.’
‘Piss off! I’m scared. That bitch in the street, Louis. I missed her. Me, who is always so good at finding and tailing someone in the dark, missed her and that, my fine Frog friend, says one hell of a lot about our Salamander as does this … this convenient death right after the fire!’
‘When I talked to her, Madame Rachline had only just come in from the street, Hermann …’
‘Yes, yes, but was it the madam who was tailing us?’ he yelped. ‘That perfume, Louis?’
‘The perfume, ah yes. The last of it is on Mademoiselle Bertrand’s bureau.’
So it was. A 250 cc bottle all but dry. ‘Étranger, Louis. The Stranger,’ muttered Kohler uncomfortably, for the name suggested someone as yet unknown. Shit!
‘It’s expensive, Hermann. Not common and probably hasn’t been on the market for a good fifty years.’
‘From la belle époque? Bought at auction, then, Louis?’
‘And unless I am mistaken, shared with the others at the réveillon but worn by someone in that belfry at the Basilica and deliberately left for us to find.’
‘Claudine Bertrand couldn’t have been there, Louis. She’d have been dead by then.’
Hermann fell into such a silence St-Cyr had to ask him what was the matter. ‘The shoes in that belfry, Louis. I … I forgot to take a look at them.’
‘And so did I. Later, eh? Later. Hermann, Madame Rachline is fascinated by fire or very afraid of it. When I struck two matches, she tried to stop herself from looking at the flame and failed.’
‘Ah merde, is that their fetish? As sure as that God of yours made little green apples, Louis, Claudine Bertrand catered to some particular perversion and unless I’ve completely lost my touch, she went with women as well as men.’
‘The girl with the bicycle …’ began St-Cyr, only to let the thought trail off into silence.
‘Those paintings in that storeroom at the Basilica, Louis?’
‘Yes, yes, the paintings, Hermann, and a whorehouse full of things of exceptional quality and expense. Things not easily come by.’
‘Unless one has the ausweis to come and go, and the car also.’
At last they were getting some place. ‘Auction houses, Hermann. Estate sales.’
‘And classy whores whose madam runs from you to find someone in the other part of the house.’
‘Pardon?’ gasped the Sûreté, jerked from his bedside thoughts.
Kohler told him of the enclosed passage above the lane. ‘She wasn’t happy, Louis. Madame Rachline was damned scared and on the run.’
‘And has known this one for at least the last ten years but can tell us virtually nothing about her.’
‘A stranger, Louis. A Salamander and a visiting fire chief.’
‘A pattern, Hermann. Three fires in the Reich in 1938 and now Lyon.’
‘Why now? Why Lyon?’
‘Why not, if for some reason there is a connection with the visit of Herr Weidling?’
Kohler glanced at his wrist-watch and swore. ‘That bastard’s going to get bitchy, Louis. We’re late.’
‘Then perhaps you should go and have a little talk with him, Hermann. Perhaps our visiting fire marshal’s wife would be good enough to offer coffee and rolls?’
Instead of sausages and eggs courtesy of the concierge of this place. ‘You certain you’ll be okay?’
‘Positive. Please cancel my breakfast on the way out. I need
to concentrate and do not wish to be disturbed.’
Louis always liked to have his little tête-à-tête with the victim. In spite of knowing they were on the run, Kohler grinned. ‘Enjoy yourself, eh? Look for burns in those tenderest of places and ask her who caused them.’
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copyright © 1993 by J. Robert Janes
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