Mayhem (11 page)

The man shrugged and turned to shout the length of the bar, ‘Hey, Remi, we've got a hot one here. Wants to know if we'll serve him some hashish. Is it the oil you wish, monsieur?' fluted the Corsican.

Kohler's fist closed about the second beer.

‘Brother' joined ‘brother'. ‘Look, all I want is the answer to one simple question.'

They waited. The kicks came to an end – more thunderous applause and all eyes turned towards the stage but three pairs of them.

‘Why do you boys call this place the Mirage?'

It was Remi Rivard who grunted, ‘Use your eyes, turd. Watch and see for yourself.'

They were both grinning.

Caught, transfixed, St-Cyr stood in the corridor beside the door to the kitchens. The woman who had come out of the second dressing-room was tall and willowy, just as he had imagined. But there all similarity ceased. From the back she had the most stunning figure of any woman he'd ever seen. The shimmering silk beneath the strands of tiny pearls was electric. The back was straight, the shoulders square and very fine, the waist slender, the hips … the seat … Ah, Mon Dieu, such a gift. Straight from the gods and only for them.

The legs were long and the fabric of the sheath clung to them. Her arms were bare except for bracelets of diamonds. There was a diamond choker round her neck. The soft blonde hair was piled up in waves and curls to reveal delicate lobes and dangling ear-rings of diamonds also.

For one split second their eyes had met and even from a distance of perhaps ten metres, he had known hers were not just blue but a superb shade of violet.

As he watched, she moved gracefully up on to the stage.

The house lights were dimmed. He shut her out of his mind for the moment – Hermann would report at length.

He went along to the dressing-room. The cheering died down. A hush took its place and then he heard her saying quite clearly in beautiful French, ‘My dear, dear friends, I have a song that is especially for you.'

St-Cyr opened the door and stepped inside the dressing-room. At once another female voice said, ‘Monsieur, what are you doing?'

It was the girl, the maid, the killer of that boy.

‘Are you from the police?' she asked, dismayed and badly frightened. Just sitting there on her mistress's chair before the dressing table. Hands poised in her lap, the mending clutched. Reflections of her in the mirror.

He shook his head and managed a fatherly smile. The police? Ah no, mademoiselle. My name is Roger Dumont, from the fire marshall's office. I am merely here to see if you have the proper number of extinguishers in this establishment.'

She tossed her head and returned to her mending. ‘I think it is in the corner, behind the screen.'

Had there been tears in the dark brown eyes? The girl was about twenty-two, of medium height and delicate build, but with strong touches of the peasant and brisk little movements. Quite petite – lashes that were long and almost black. Lips that were …

St-Cyr went behind the dressing screen. Clothes were scattered everywhere. A pair of white silk briefs, complete with lace, was draped carelessly over the top of the ancient fire extinguisher. ‘It should be out in plain view, mademoiselle,' he said severely. ‘Can you tell me, please, when it was last serviced? There is no tag.'

He had a momentary flash – a frame of the singer's figure in that sheath, buffed down, stripped completely and absolutely, before putting on the dress. Done in a hurry too. Had they been arguing? Surely she'd have had plenty of time?

She'd have raised her slender arms perhaps. Who knows? It was a thought.

He dropped the underpants as the maid came round the other end of the screen. ‘You must ask the Rivards, monsieur. Me, I know nothing of such things.'

She was really quite firm about it. ‘Would your mistress?'

The head was tossed, the short brown hair bounced. ‘No, of course not. Is there anything else, monsieur?'

Her wounded eyes took him in … Steady, he said silently. Steady, my pretty thing. ‘Has my visit upset you in some way, mademoiselle?'

The girl turned from him as if struck. The shoulders shook. St-Cyr picked his way through the clothing and came to stand behind her. ‘You poor thing,' he said gently. ‘Me, I have upset you.'

‘It's nothing,' she said, bowing her head and hiding her face in a hand. ‘Nothing, monsieur.'

The girl burst into tears. On the way out, she snatched up her coat, then fled along the corridor and out into the courtyard.

When he reached the street, St-Cyr found the Daimler gone and the girl standing destitute at the side of the road some thirty metres from him. She was staring down at the tiny blue flame that flickered from its kerosene pot. Was it safe to leave her like that? She'd break to pieces if he touched her. So fragile. Like glass. Like something de Maupassant might have written about.

The pull the girl exerted was almost magnetic. He could not leave her, yet he knew he must. In spite of the tears – in spite of everything – he had to ask himself if she had really killed the boy?

Tearing himself away from the courtyard door, St-Cyr went back to the dressing-room – was moving swiftly when he found the purse with its beads of silk.

What the hell … had Hermann …?

It was an exact duplicate of the one Kohler had found in the woods.

There was nothing in it. Nothing yet but tissue paper. Her ID and other papers, the keys to her flat, to a car, money, et cetera were in a dark blue alligator handbag behind the screen. The photograph didn't do her justice. The ID gave her name as Gabrielle Arcuri.

The address was Apartment 22, number 45, boulevard Émile Auger. It wasn't very far from the flat where Marianne was staying. In fact, it must be just around the corner.

A small brown purse yielded up the maid's name: Yvette Marie Noel, of the same address.

For a moment he stood there looking at the girl's photograph. The nose was aquiline, the eyes … ah, what could he say?

It's my night for young girls who are in trouble, he answered. There were some photographs, small snapshots – the turrets of a château, an osier field, farmhands at work, happier times perhaps. The boy – the photograph badly crumpled and blotched by tears. The Loire – he was certain of it. Flat-bottomed punts lay among distant reeds.

Reluctantly he stuffed the things back into her purse, then retraced his steps to the balcony only to catch sight of the stage and hear himself drawing in a breath. ‘The mirage,' he gasped. ‘Ah, Mon Dieu, it's magnificent!'

The pearls gave their lustre to the shimmering, sky-blue opalescent silk that was moulded so well to her body, every curve, every feature was at once exposed to view and yet not exposed.

She had the voice of a nightingale – strong and throaty, yet full of warmth and bell-like clarity. Wrapped in it, in the motions of her arms as she gripped the microphone or held them out, the audience was spellbound. Gabrielle Arcuri was at once every man's dream of a lover and the heart's dream of home.

And the song? he asked. Ah, but of course, ‘Lilli Marlene'.

3

‘Excuse me, Monsieur the Detective, but would you like my mother to take care of your house?'

It was Antoine Courbet from across the street. St-Cyr looked questioningly beyond the boy only to see the lace curtain fall into place.

The serious eyes continued to haunt him. ‘We thought, monsieur, since you were on a very difficult case and your wife and son have departed, you might be away. The geraniums in your windows, monsieur, they do not look well. The pipes, they might freeze …'

‘How much?' asked St-Cyr, resigning himself to the inevitable.

‘Fifty francs a day.'

‘Thirty-five, Antoine. Sadly, I cannot pay more.'

‘Don't detectives make a lot of money?'

‘Not this one.'

‘But you're a chief inspector …?' The Germans had docked his wages too, the poor man. So sad in the eyes and wounded in the heart. It was just as Maman had said to Madame Auger. He'd go to seed and take up with whores or the bottle.

St-Cyr heaved a sigh. The whole street would now know the exact state of his house and goods but what the hell.

‘The geraniums are worth saving, Antoine. Tell your mother I will leave a key for her under the mat.'

Kohler had dropped him off at around 3 a.m. He'd probably awakened the whole street with the hole that had mysteriously appeared in the Citroën's muffler. Another classic example of Gestapo care.

St-Cyr shut the door and went through to the kitchen. As he patted the pockets of his overcoat, he remembered the girl's shoes and drew them out.

One heel hung by a few bent nails.

She'd been a girl of medium height and slender frame, a student. Eager … impetuous perhaps – that would explain why she'd been out after curfew. That would be the reason for the sudden embrace.

The kiss, he said, touching his moustache. The dark plays such mysteries with us. She not knowing who he was; he not knowing her.

He'd fix the heel before returning the shoes – some rubber cement if he could find such a thing, and then a few new nails, or perhaps he could simply straighten the others?

A shoemaker, he answered positively. It's a wise man who recognizes his limitations. The girl was far too young. He wasn't getting into that mess again. So many of the young men of France were away in the prisoner-of-war camps, the older men were having a field day.

Not him, of course. Ah no.

Kohler would be by in a few minutes. Being on Berlin time meant that the clock had been shoved ahead and everyone got to work an hour earlier – never mind the late nights. Those were extra.

He couldn't blame Marianne for leaving him. It was no life for a woman to share. Alone and celibate, he could take up fishing again. Ah yes. And the euphonium – he'd played it in the police band before the first wife had objected to his practising an hour or two a week. He'd played it in the interval between her and Marianne, had worked like a fiend and had got his embouchure perfect, the fingering …

Of course he'd be rusty now, but a few licks and he'd be in shape.

He didn't say, I'll kill Steiner. He knew it would be senseless to even try.

Others would be shot – hostages – and as for himself, he still had no taste for the guillotine.

The diamonds lay beside the velvet pouch. 1,500,000 francs and he was worrying about thirty-five francs to pay a housekeeper!

The notebook was to one side – more entries still to go through. The monogrammed cigarette case didn't bear Gabrielle Arcuri's initials.

What, exactly, had happened and why was Berlin taking such an interest in things? Have we a scandal beyond all proportions? he asked himself, feeling sad for that little maid – sympathizing with her. She hadn't looked like a killer but then, ah Mon Dieu, so few of them ever did.

Records still had not come up with the name of the victim. He'd have received a call if they had.

Yet Yvette Noel had known the boy, had had a photograph of him in her purse. By just such things are criminals brought to justice, isn't that so? he reminded himself.

Had the next of kin been too afraid to claim the corpse?

Kohler leaned on the horn. St-Cyr scooped up the Arcuri woman's things and stuffed them into his pockets.

Out on the street, heads had appeared from several windows and doors. Hermann was in a foul mood and hit the gas while St-Cyr was only half in the car. In a cloud of exhaust they started off. ‘The key!' shouted St-Cyr. ‘I've forgotten to leave it.'

Kohler swore and ground the car into reverse. The key was waved and then dropped. The ring it gave as it hit the paving stones stayed with St-Cyr through the all-but-empty streets as they plunged downhill, heading straight for the Kommandantur.

‘Von Schaumburg wants a word,' growled the Bavarian, reaching for a fag and letting go of the wheel. ‘The shit must have got up on the wrong side of the bed!'

They'd start at the top of the chain of command. It would be the Army first, then the Gestapo, and finally Pharand of the SN.

And in between them, Hermann would pay Glotz a little visit.

Brooding darkly by one of the windows in his office, Old Shatter Hand swung to fix his gaze upon them. ‘You took no fingerprints. You asked no questions of the local residents. Why haven't you been able to identify the victim?'

Kohler drew himself up. ‘We have two suspects, General.'

‘Their names? Why weren't they in your report, Sergeant?' He'd get to the ‘report' later.

Blithely Kohler trod thin ice. ‘We feel discretion is best, General – to protect innocent lives and let us carry on the investigation without undue interference.'

Von Schaumburg tore the cigarette from its holder and crushed it into an ashtray. ‘You call yourselves detectives, Kohler. I want their names.
Undue
interference, how dare you suggest…'

Kohler even managed a smile. ‘General, the daily police reports, and those of this office, are circulated. We'd like to stake out the suspects' flat and see if anyone else is involved in the case.'

That was nice, thought St-Cyr, wondering how Hermann would handle Boemelburg.

Von Schaumburg fussed with the Iron Cross First-Class with Oak Leaves that was at his throat. ‘All right, one more day of your discretion, Sergeant. Then some answers.'

‘
Jawohl
, General.' Kohler crashed his heels together.

The Frenchman found the general looking at him. St-Cyr … not entirely reliable. Questions were being asked about his loyalty.

‘Dismiss, the two of you. St-Cyr, you're to see that the diamonds are handed over to this office.'

There was a moment of silence, an impasse. Then the Frenchman said, ‘Wouldn't it be best, General, if you told us what you know of the case?'

There was a brief smile – more like a grimace. ‘Inspector, you of all people should understand that when a general of the Reich gives an order to dismiss, he means it.'