Bellringer (17 page)

Another dreamer, felt Kohler. Well, two of them. ‘Let her keep the ink pad and the stamp when she gets them back. We’ve trouble enough.’

‘You lot,’ he called out in English, ‘return them now.’

A frizzy-haired ginger head was tossed. ‘Or else you’ll think it’s one of us who’s been stealing little things?’

‘Things like a small, oval seashell with teeth, Inspector?’ asked another.

Or a yellow cloth star? Did they know of it as well, and if so, how the hell had they found out?

‘It’s one of those American bitches,’ said yet another, dangling a tinned sardine by its tail. ‘They’ve murdered their own, haven’t they? Girls with girls, eh? Oh
là, là,
Inspector, that Vittel-Palace is a hothouse.’

‘
Lécheuses des chattes,
’ roared another, to much laughter.

Cunt lickers. ‘A lovers’ tiff, was it, this latest killing?’ shouted yet another. ‘Both of those girls were upstairs here in the Grand time and again.’

‘Both had plenty of chances to steal things, let me tell you,’ said another with tinned custard on her chin.

‘We don’t do things like that. We’d never steal from her or anyone else,’ said another, wiping a runny nose.

‘But she stole from Madame Chevreul, is that it?’ he tried.

‘Warned. . . The first was warned to be careful but failed to watch out, the other. . . Well, what was she doing in the
Chalet des Ânes
? Isn’t it
verboten
?’

‘
Ja, ist verboten,
’ said another, nodding furiously.

‘And then there’s Madame de Vernon,’ said her neighbour. ‘Possessive. Keeping that little piece of goods all to herself? Billing the parents in America a fortune for a career that never happened?’

‘Our Léa had to fix a time and date but first Madame Chevreul had to interview the ballet student and her lover seven times, Inspector.
Seven!
’

‘Kohler, I really must insist,’ said Weber.

‘
Ach, du lieber Gott,
not now, Untersturmführer.’

Again the singing started up with ‘Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition.’ Again Weber had to shriek, and then. . . then from a far corner, a lone woman standing, came a voice and ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful.’

The entire dining room listened. They all stopped eating, some of them even cried, and only when the hymn had ended and the one with the golden voice had sat down did the ones nearby Kohler start up again.

‘That Nora Arnarson, Inspector, she’s going to have to watch herself. Speaking out like that against Madame Chevreul when so many of us believe and welcome what that amazing woman is capable of. Cérès is very angry, and when Cérès gets angry. . . Well, you’re dealing with the gods.’

‘She’s a dark one, that Nora,’ said a neighbour. ‘Turns up in most unexpected places. Having a look about our hotel, asking a lot of questions like where that little ballet dancer and her lover have been.’

‘Watching our Kensington’s
Ten Golden Blonde Girls
while they practice their routines so as not to forget them. Caroline Lacy loved to do that too, and then talk for hours if she could get one of the girls to listen to her.’

‘And what about Madame de Vernon, eh?’ asked another. ‘Insists on seeing Madame Chevreul five times herself.
Five,
I’m telling you, Inspector. Argues with Madame and our Léa. Doesn’t want her ward to hear what Cérès has to say.’

‘About what?’

Blimey, but that had got him going! ‘Urgent business. I’m sure if you ask, our Léa will be only too glad to tell you for a price.’

Cold Kam was thumbed from a tin bearing that name, the meat pink and laced with fat. ‘They didn’t exactly get on, Inspector,’ she said, wolfing the morsel.

‘
Monsieur le Ministre,
’ came the urgent but now distant cry in French. ‘I have my date stamp and ink pad. I have!’

Distracted, Weber turned away.

‘Wallpaper?’ hissed Kohler at one. ‘Why did your Léa ask the Senegalese to get her some and where the hell did they get it, if not from the Hôtel de l’Ermitage?’

Instantly heads were bowed, soup earnestly taken, crumbs sought, a sardine fished from its tin as oil dribbled down pudgy fingers that then had to be licked to avoid the waste.

‘All right, damn it. What was stolen from Madame Chevreul?’ he asked, leaning over the table to pluck the tin away as objecting fingers lunged for it in panic only to be hastily withdrawn.

The bulging throat rippled, the watery blue eyes found his at last.

‘Her talisman.’

‘
Ah, bon, merci
. Now, enjoy the rest of your breakfast.’

There was no sign of Léa Monnier who had obviously ordered up ‘God Save the King’ and done a bunk. Out in the foyer, some carried handbags that had never left them since they’d been taken into custody in December of 1940; others had sewn purses and tied these around their waists as in the Middle Ages. Most wore the signs of underfeeding, the lack of minerals and vitamins, the skin dried and cracked, the joints sore. All were cold and often yawning or coughing up their lungs, and halitosis, with or without their fags, depending entirely on fortune.

That seashell, that yellow star, that date stamp. . . Kohler knew he couldn’t leave it. ‘Has anyone escaped?’ he asked.

Weber was taken aback. ‘From here? Where would they go?’

‘I’m just asking.’

Had Kohler found out something he shouldn’t? ‘No one has escaped. I would be the first to know and put my pistol to the back of her neck. Those hills and forests are frozen. Without adequate clothing, she’d be but food for the elements or the wolves. Ask any of the Senegalese. They’ll tell you. We often seem to lose one or two from the wood-gathering details.’

‘I thought so. I just felt I’d best ask since that partner of mine will. He’s a damned nuisance at times. Always the obscure, the less than obvious, but he’s French so one has to make allowances.’

Ach,
and speeches now? ‘Kohler, when you find Frau Monnier and are done with her, send her to me.’

‘But what about the rest of the camp? Aren’t we going to see it?’

‘The Hôtel de la Providence—is this what you’re after? Those people don’t matter. They’ll all be gone as soon as the
Sonderkommando
comes from Berlin to check their passports and papers more thoroughly than they’d like. Colonel Kessler overlooked far too much, but now it’s all to be taken care of.’

Don’t interfere. A special commando from the SS, the boys who ran the concentration camps and were the worst of the worst.

Blacked-out, the Vittel-Palace waited in the early morning with a hush so deep St-Cyr knew he couldn’t help but feel its collective anticipation. In spite of the lack of daylight, every window facing the Parc Thermal had been crowded at the first cry from one of the lookouts who had heard the distant sound of sleigh bells. Gathered in the freezing cold, they also stood out on the balconies, but would Brother Étienne be allowed in? they whispered. Would the change in Kommandant not stop forever the visits they desperately needed even though it was a Sunday and he’d only just been here on Friday and really wasn’t due back again until next Wednesday?

‘He’ll know how worried and afraid we are,’ said one. ‘He’ll reach out to us and pull us to him. Oh, I’m so glad he told us he’d come back today. I do hope he’s brought the poultice for my knee. Every night’s been an agony. I don’t sleep. I can’t. The pain is terrible.’

‘He’ll dry my tears and pat me on the back. He’ll tell me everything is going to be all right, that now with two detectives from Paris here, we needn’t be so terrified. He’ll see to my hands. More cracks have opened. This morning they were bleeding but he’ll have an answer. I know he will.’

‘My gums. . . ’

‘My period. . . ’

‘You should have listened to me, Yvonne.’

‘I didn’t do anything like that! Brother Étienne said I should wait, that it’s probably just the lack of food, of vitamins and minerals, and that he would be bringing me one of his tonics.’

Ah, merde,
this crowd, thought St-Cyr, the sleigh bells sounding, a collective sigh rising as it would also from the Hôtel Grand. ‘
Mesdames et mesdemoiselles,
permit me to see Brother Étienne.’

‘Let the Inspector through, girls. Let him see the one who gives us hope and belief in ourselves.’

Perfume, sweat, soup, farts, canned fish, lavender, orris root, and woodsmoke—all such smells assailed St-Cyr as he pushed through to the railing.

‘Don’t touch the iron, Inspector,’ warned someone. ‘Your skin is warm and will stick to it.’

There were no lights on the cutter whose bells now jangled with increasing loudness, the softly falling snow making visibility clear enough, but one could have heard a pin drop when those little bells ceased their ringing. Snow-covered, a heavy fur rug was thrown back and a hooded head bared. ‘
Mes chères,
’ came the basso profundo from below, the arms thrown wide, the sadness and concern immediately evident. ‘Another violent death, I’m told. Our precious little ballet dancer. Who would have done such a thing? Had her suffering not been enough? You will all be brokenhearted. When I left our cloister this morning, and the brother abbot informed me of this latest tragedy, I told myself that somehow I must find a way to ease your pain. Angèle did that for me, wise as she is. She stopped on the road as we came down from the hills and there. . . there in the distance was a doe and her fawn. A sign, I tell you,
mes chères amies
. A sign. Spring is coming. The little one was at the teat and could hardly stand, and the mother had to wait as your Étienne walked gently towards her until, finally, the teat was left and the two delicately picked their way into the forest, and do you know what? Angèle, she came towards me without my whistling. Two miracles in as many moments. May the great blessings of the Father who watches over all be with you.’

Two of what appeared to be bulging burlap sacks were offloaded to be later carried toward the hotel.

‘He comes here first this time, Inspector,’ whispered someone. ‘The British camp will be jealous, but on his next visit he’ll go there before he comes here. Oh, he sends shivers right through me. He’s the gentlest of beings. Intently he listens to every word that is said and intuitively knows and understands exactly what is needed.’

‘A massage. My ankles. My feet. Some of his cream,’ said another.

‘His very touch is like a balm, Inspector. Pure magic.’

‘Pure love, if you ask me. He cares. He really does.’

‘And always there is that smile of his, now warm, now gentle, now bright.’

‘He has the most sensitive eyes, Inspector. They never look through you, only with you. Empathy is what he has. Concern.’

‘A selflessness unknown to most, especially at a time like this, when everyone’s killing everyone.’

And a warm brother?
Hermann had asked the new Kommandant who had answered, “That is putting it politely.”

Having been a prisoner of war, Kohler was impressed. Madame Chevreul didn’t live in just one room but in a third-storey suite that, beyond the floor-to-ceiling drapes, must overlook the Parc Thermal from the Hôtel Grand’s western corner. Léa Monnier guarded the entrance, but so too did the cook and the maid who also occupied that first room, Madame the third and most spacious, and with a reception room between and another beyond, this last door being closed. And locked? he had to wonder, ignoring her and going over to try it. Locked tight, all right, but probably only because she had the present company.

Under blankets and a coverlet most would have sold their souls for, she was propped up with feather pillows in a four-poster that must have cost a fortune. The powder-blue dressing gown had been newly laundered, pressed, and thoroughly dried, a miracle in itself. The fair, shoulder-length hair had been brushed to a sheen by the maid. Pensively the dark-blue eyes took him in with a mixture of disdain and indignation.

‘Really, Herr Kohler, I must object. Such impertinence at such an unmentionable hour does not become you, nor the cause you pursue. I never rise before ten. To do so would be uncivilized.’

‘Detectives have to get up earlier.’

Was the belligerence deliberate? she wondered. He had had to wait a good twenty minutes and now stood impatiently on the carpet before her and not a centimetre closer to the foot of the bed than the two metres Léa had insisted on.

‘To what do I owe this visit? A few small questions, is it? Nothing difficult, or have you a better line of balderdash than that partner of yours?’

‘Louis hasn’t been here, has he?’

Ah, mon Dieu,
she had caught him out. ‘Moves quickly, does he, your partner? Oh, please don’t look so unsettled, you foolish, foolish man. He hasn’t. News simply travels, but I do expect a visit from him, though at a more civilized hour. It would be unseemly of either of you to ignore me. Rumour is rife enough as it is. Will you take tea?

‘Léa. . . Léa, dearest, would you oblige?

‘Sugar, Inspector? Milk, is it?’

‘Black is fine.’

And still impatient. ‘Sit over there in my chaise longue where I can see you. Were there daylight, a little sun, though fledgling at this time of year, might have warmed you further than the fires in my stoves. I’ve three of those. Smoke if you wish. You’ll find cigarettes in my case on the dressing table. I don’t indulge until noon. It’s best to build up one’s ability to resist temptation, I think.’

He ignored the put-down and immediately found her cigarette case. Anxiously lighting one, he let her see him in the table’s mirrors, but didn’t turn to face her. Instead, he ran that gaze of his over everything, knowing that his looking so closely was bound to unsettle her.

‘They’ve said things, haven’t they, some of those in the dining room?’ she asked, a modest quaver betraying her feelings.

Still he didn’t answer, and neither did he turn to face her. ‘Art Deco silver frames, you ask of the photos, Inspector? Childhood friends—sisters, even? An estate in Kent, perhaps? A millpond where three young women, each with all the joys and sorrows of their tender lives still ahead of them, are in a rowboat, me at the tiller, age twenty-three, if you must know. Rebecca Thompson is in the bow and dangles fingers into the water looking as if she wants to strip off all the finery society insists on and take the plunge. Judith Merrill is at the oars and about to do just that. Guests. . . were they guests of mine, you wonder, or was I the guest? How deep is a past you cannot yet know nor ever fathom?’