Carousel (40 page)

‘Probably, Hermann, but then … Ah, my new suit, my new coat! Son of a bitch!'

Another match was called for and then a bundle of them. Madame Minou was still wallowing at their feet. ‘He has the wire, messieurs. A coil of it to … to tie up the bedsprings. Me, I … I have forgotten about this until now.'

The deceitful old sow.

St-Cyr leaned down to help her up. ‘Your memory amazes me, madame. We'll be lucky to keep one jump ahead of it. The church, Hermann. We must go there now.'

‘I'll get Oona and Audit. They'll have heard the shots, Louis, and thought the worst.'

A gun battle. ‘Dupuis must have seen you taking them past his room, Hermann. He panicked and thought we'd come for him. Madame and I saw him hurrying down the stairs, but he was nimble, so nimble. He shot past me and made for the cellars.'

‘Wait for me. Let me find out what's happened upstairs.'

The room was empty. The iron bedstead had been removed and now that end of the mattress and springs rested on the floor.

‘Oona?' he cried out. ‘Louis … Louis …'
Gott im Himmel
!

Kohler began to run. There was a Turkish at the far end of the corridor, the handle a piece of porcelain slime. He put a foot up and yanked. Major Corbet, that shit Dupuis had been roundly castigating in the cellars, was squatting. ‘Where … where the hell did they go?' shouted Kohler.

‘Both to the street. The woman first and then, at least some ten minutes later, the giver of unwanted pâtés and liqueurs.' Was nothing private in this place? ‘Please do me the honour of closing the door.'

Kohler left him to it. Oona … Oona …
Bastard … Bastard.
The door slammed shut only to bounce back but by then he was going down the stairs two at a time.

‘Louis … Louis, they're gone! I can't believe it.'

St-Cyr squeezed the last of the water from a trouser leg and went calmly up the stairs.

Yes … yes, it was quite true. Audit had escaped custody. There was a small notebook in the hall. As he thumbed through it, the telephone number of the Bureau Otto came up and he, too, started to run.

The bedstead was jammed into a crack in the courtyard's outer wall. One loop of iron had been snapped off.

Audit was now a free agent. There was no sign of Oona Van der Lynn.

‘The Villa Audit, the Church of Saint Bernard, the
bal musette
on the corner?' offered Hermann.

Since there were no lights, St-Cyr said, ‘You to the
bal
and the villa. Me to the church.'

‘Take care.'

‘You too my old one.'

‘That God of yours won't care, Louis. He'll simply laugh at us.'

Which was true. God mocked. God was the High Court Jester on the carousel.

From the zinc to the cluttered tables, the sea of faces measured zero, and in the
bal musette
behind the café, the crowded couples clung to each other as much for warmth as love.

Kohler hunted the dance floor beneath the ball of slivered mirrors. The lights were low, the tobacco smoke thick and reeking of cheap perfume. Older men with young girls; middle-aged wives with husbands or lovers they could no longer trust. Couples turning, turning, going round and round. Where … where the hell was Oona?

The accordian wept, a disinterested drummer made eyes at the ceiling while the piano player forgot one hand to lift a glass to his lips. There wasn't a German uniform anywhere, not one Nazi or one of their sympathizers. Only himself.

People were beginning to take notice of him. The music was braying Resistance … Resistance … The place began to smell of it, to cry out
Hostages
… You bastards took thirty of them!

He headed for the toilets at a run. Couples were shoved aside, the gaps closing behind him, now opening in front … Oona … Oona …

The corridor was narrow, lit dimly and layered with smoke. Laughing, ox-eyed girls stopped laughing; one old tart in a tight turquoise suit gave up trying to fix a face that could never make it.

‘A girl … a tall woman … a blonde, for Christ's sake? About forty, with blue eyes –'

‘Gestapo?' she asked, giving him an uncertain quiver of wide, painted lips, eye shadow and plucked eyebrows beneath bleached curls that were fast going limp.

Kohler grabbed the woman by the arms and slammed her up against the wall. The compact's mirror shattered, the lipstick tumbled from that fleshy hand. ‘GESTAPO!' he roared. ‘Now out with it! A Dutch woman in a light-brown overcoat and scarf.'

‘With blue eyes?' managed the woman, feeling the urine run freely down her legs. Ah,
merde
! her bladder. The evening was ruined. Ruined! Lie then. Say anything. Say what he wants. ‘In the toilets,' she gasped.

He flung her aside and went through the chipped door into the stench. ‘Ah Jesus … Jesus.' Some shrieked, some stood as if struck dumb and unable to move. There were holes in the floor. Turkish again … girls squatting, girls fixing their garter belts, one caught rinsing rags and glad of it, only to lose all colour at the sight of him. ‘A blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman of forty wearing a light-brown overcoat and scarf,' he said.

It was all for nothing – hopeless. Now none of them moved. The girl with the rags discreetly let them fall as the colour flamed back into her cheeks.

‘Look, the woman's life is in danger. I … I only want to help her,' he said.

‘Then try the door to the courtyard. Perhaps she went through that one!' said someone acidly.

‘Yes … yes, she did. Me, I have seen such a one, but that was some time ago, monsieur.'

‘Was anyone following her? A man, for Christ's sake! Sixty years of age and French.'

The girl with the rags didn't know. The shrug was genuine. ‘About half an hour ago?' he asked and heard her say, ‘Three-quarters of an hour, I think.'

The courtyard was dark and he didn't like it. The city was too quiet. Louis … why the hell hadn't they stuck together?

He began to move silently along the narrow pavement. Oona had a little less than an hour before curfew. Would she try for the house overlooking the quai Jemmapes? Would she simply keep walking?

The courtyard door to the villa at Number 23 was off the latch. The street was dark. The shop awnings were folded in and there was nothing … nothing. Were they saving kerosene tonight? None of the blue pot-lights were in sight.

Distant on the horizon came the steady drone of RAF bombers bound for the Reich. It would all end some day, this carousel of Paris. If only Louis and he could see it through, if only he could find Oona and tell her that she really did matter to him.

If only he could find Antoine Audit.

St-Cyr ran his eyes over the pews whose emptiness spoke only of vacated penance, piety and sore knees.

The young priest, Father David, was not present. The old priest would stay on his knees in front of the altar all night if necessary, to ward off a confrontation. ‘Father, I must talk to you. Please, it's urgent. A Dutch woman's life hangs in the balance, as do those of the remaining hostages.'

Must he be reminded of it? Delacroix brought the rosary to his lips in a gesture so automatic one would have to read impatience into it. ‘What is it you want, my son?'

You tough old man, don't you play around with me! ‘Captain Dupuis, where is he?'

Shrugging would do no good. Lying … Could he lie in the face of God as he'd done so often of late? ‘He is in God's sanctuary, Inspector.'

‘Then convince him to give himself up.'

The Sûreté was a head taller than himself. ‘He's done nothing. You've no right to terrify him like this. He did
not
kill either of those two young girls.'

St-Cyr drew in an exasperated breath. ‘He shot at us.'

The stance toughened. ‘But not with intent to kill.'

‘There is no other kind of shooting when one is on the run, Father. Now, please, where is he?'

Would God forgive his indiscretions? Father David lying in sin with Marie Ouellette, the … ‘I … I have given him my word, Inspector. He is here in God's house and neither you nor that Gestapo friend of –'

‘Hermann is not my friend, Father. He is my partner. All of our lives are in danger.'

‘Friend … partner … it is all the same, is it not? My resolve is firm. I have nothing more to say. Now if you will excuse me, I will finish my prayers.'

A depth of sadness came that could not be shoved aside. ‘No, Father, your time for prayers is over. Since you force my hand, I must tell you that I believe one of the guns the Captain Dupuis illegally possesses killed the Corporal Schraum.'

‘Not the girls?'

‘Come, come, Father. You know very well they were both strangled and then raped.'

‘Not raped beforehand?'

Again the sadness intruded. ‘No, my friend, not raped beforehand.'

The old priest crossed himself. ‘He … he is with Father David and Madame Ouellette. He is not in God's house, because I could no longer let him enter it.'

Kohler stood in the courtyard of the Villa Audit looking up at the starless sky. The bombers were now directly over the city and the air-raid sirens were wailing eerily through the darkness. Though far too high to hit, some stupid sons of bitches manning an anti-aircraft battery over in Saint-Ouen opened up with all they had. That sparked others and soon the searchlights were coning the skies and the sound of gunfire was coming in from all directions.

As abruptly as it had started, the firing ceased. The sound of the planes soon began to dwindle. One by one the searchlights went out, though they wouldn't have mattered here.

He took two deep breaths and then another before pulling off his soaking shoes and socks.

Padding across the courtyard, he went up the low stone steps and along to the front door. The lock was off and he wasn't surprised, but damn Louis for suggesting they split up!

He eased the door open. No lights … The sitting-room was pitch-dark and musty. Stuff everywhere, a
chaise …
yes, yes, he had it now … cushions on the floor …

Michèle-Louise Prévost had been a woman who had known her own mind and who had ached for the freedom to express it. An artist, a forger, a copier of the works of others. But what was that? A scraping in the cellars …? Audit?

The hall was cluttered with things the woman had done. Tablets in clay … scenes of bison and deer from the caves of Périgord. The earthy sensuality of the young wife of a stuffy shoe salesman and of the successful younger brother, the hunter of truffles and manufacturer of pâtés and silks.

The cellars weren't deep and there was no water in them, only the dampness of stone flagging in winter. There were several storerooms, now mostly empty, rooms for coal that couldn't be purchased, though there were a half-dozen bags.

Antoine Audit, the handcuffs having been cut away, was working by candlelight. The stone was heavy and he'd almost got it out from the wall. His coat and jacket had been set aside. There was no sign of a gun or knife, no sign of Oona. Just a chisel and hammer.

The kitchen table in the horse bucher's flat above the shop was littered with dirty dishes and the leavings of three pale-green bottles of red wine. The baby had a cold.

St-Cyr watched grimly as Madame Ouellette tried to calm the infuriated child by nervously suckling it at yet another of the swollen breasts. The fourth go at that one, or was it the fifth? Her milk had turned and she hadn't liked having to bare her breasts in front of the Captain Dupuis. Ah yes.

Yet were it not for the two handguns pointed at him, one could almost have thought it a domestic scene of utter commonness. The two priests merely in attendance to discuss a coming baptism.

They were getting nowhere and Hermann … Hermann was out there some place without backup. ‘Please, I will ask you one more time, Captain. The guns, eh? Turn yourself in. It's of no use. I know what happened.'

‘
You don't
!' shrilled Dupuis, cocking the Lebel. Tears poured down his cheeks. ‘I
didn't
kill them! I would
never
have killed them. I
will
kill you! I WILL!'

St-Cyr cautiously reached for his cigarettes, which had been tossed on the table some time ago. ‘Look, I know you didn't kill either of those two young girls. I'm here about the Corporal Schraum.'

‘
You're lying
!' The Luger came up, the hammer was clawed back … No … no …

‘Alphonse,
don't.
The Inspector does know everything. Please, I beg it of you. Listen to your priest and friend.'

Doubt clouded the reddened eyes. Uncertain still, Dupuis bit the end of his tongue.

‘To me,' urged Father Eugène. ‘Just the Luger, Alphonse. Come, come. Allow me to do the correct thing, eh? It's a small enough request, since you will still have your revolver.'

The old priest's hand made its way through the clutter. One of the wine bottles teetered. Father David leapt to steady it. The Luger swung his way …

The bottle was righted. The child threw up. A choking fit followed. Ah, Mon Dieu, never had he been a party to a situation like this!

The gnarled hand of the old priest closed about the barrel of the Luger, which was still pointed at St-Cyr, still gripped by the Captain Dupuis.

Father Eugène looked steadily at the Captain, a test of wills. ‘Alphonse, you must trust me. I borrowed this gun from you – you know I did. We spoke of it in the confessional just after the Defeat. You told me you had broken the new laws and had kept your guns and I remembered this. You trusted me and I kept silent, but then I had need of one of them.'

‘I didn't kill them, Father. I swear I didn't! They were … She was … she was just lying on the floor not moving, not saying anything, Father. Naked! He'd … he'd …'

‘The gun, Alphonse. I must have the gun. The Inspector knows everything.'