Mayhem (24 page)

Her hair was dark brown like the brother's but coarser and thicker. She'd a centimetre-sized mole at the top of her left thigh, next the triangle between her legs. A thing for a young girl to worry about, a birthmark the brother didn't have. She'd clipped the hairs on it.

What else would Louis have looked for? He'd have talked to the corpse of course.

Her fingertips and nails showed seamstress signs: needle pricks, a roughness of the skin and rippling of the closely trimmed nails which had been freshly lacquered with polish. She'd got herself ready.

Was there perfume – the stuff Louis had called Mirage? Had she taken some from her mistress's dressing table at the club? Had she touched the backs of her ears, done the armpits and shoved a hand down under the briefs?

He had the idea that Yvette Noel wouldn't have drenched herself like so many Parisian women did but that she'd have touched herself all the same.

Yet who had she met? Who had killed her?

By a stroke of fate or luck the bullet hadn't scrambled her eyes. She seemed to be trying to tell him something.

‘A virgin,' snorted the man in white. ‘Her hymen was intact. Brandy – plum brandy – that's all she had in her stomach. Three shots of it at least and not long before she was killed.'

‘You're full of news,' said Kohler. ‘You ought to apply to the Sûreté. They could use a guy like you.'

‘The boy had eaten his supper but it was a mishmash due to the length of time. Rye bread with caraway seeds, boiled swedes and boiled potatoes. A little red wine and some green onions. Goat's cheese in lumps, as were the potatoes and the swedes so perhaps he'd eaten in a hurry.'

Then he'd been killed long before he'd ever got to Fontainebleau and he'd been killed at the monastery or near it.

‘Anything else?' asked Kohler, not bothering to glance at the autopsies.

‘Anal fissures – they could have been because of diet. Everyone around here knows what swedes do to the guts. The appendicectomies are now so prevalent even the corpses of the tramps have had the job done.'

The lack of potatoes in Paris was a curse, the smell of farts in the Métro something terrible. All the potatoes were still being shipped to the Reich except for those on the black market. The swedes were to take their place and the swedes were what caused the trouble. Never mind the fact that the boy had also eaten potatoes! But still … A sodomite?

‘Why the plum brandy in the girl's stomach?'

The man raised his eyebrows and affected the air of a detective. ‘Why indeed? Perhaps she liked it, or perhaps the guy who killed her made her drink it first.'

While sitting in a car, dressed in blue with argyle socks. ‘It seems an odd thing for them to have drunk,' offered Kohler. ‘Why not armagnac or cognac – coming from where she did?'

‘There were droplets on her sweater and on the collar of her blouse but not on the overcoat.'

‘She wasn't wearing the coat, not when she was killed,' said Kohler swiftly. Then where the hell was the coat?

‘On the ground, some distance from the body. At the turnaround. Talbotte, the Préfet, has said this, so the coat must have been thrown out of the car
after
the girl had been killed.'

The coat would have been yanked down behind her back to pin her arms before tying them.

Plum brandy … Slivovitz? Polish brandy? Had Ackermann acquired a taste for the stuff?

Did he drink to numb the pain? Vodka … why not vodka?

‘You sure you don't want to read these?' asked the man.

‘Not with a walking encyclopaedia to tell me what they say.'

The guy grinned. Without the blood-smeared lab coat and cap he might have been okay, a reasonable sort. This place must do things to them.

‘Is there anything else you can tell me?' asked Kohler, hauling out the bankroll.

‘The bodies are to be released this afternoon on orders straight from your friends on the avenue Foch.'

The General Oberg then and the Secret Service of the SS, the Sicherheitsdienst.

‘Talbotte was here with one of their men. A general with scars no one should have. The two examined the corpses. Scar-face read the autopsies and asked for copies and photographs of the bodies.'

Just what Himmler would do with the photographs was anyone's guess. Perhaps he'd have them framed.

Kohler peeled off a 1000-franc note and handed it over. ‘I'll see if I can fix you up with the Sûreté, eh? Your talents are only going to waste in a place like this.'

‘The bullet was from a Luger or a Mauser – a 9 millimetre Parabellum.'

He added another 1000-franc note.

‘Talbotte is convinced the gun was stolen by the Resistance from Melun and used by them against the girl. This he told the scar-faced one.'

‘And the boy?' asked Kohler, peeling off yet another thousand.

The brown eyes of the attendant were those of stone. ‘Killed by accidentally falling off his bicycle in Fontainebleau Woods.'

‘Talbotte's a better cop than that.'

‘Perhaps, but he's also smart enough to know when to mind his own business.'

In the grey light of the early morning the Club Mirage looked like a hole in the wall. Soot and pigeon droppings streaked the plate glass windows. The black-out curtains were shabby and faded. What paint there was suffered from some incurable disease and the light bulbs that had once flashed on and off to draw the moths in, had now all disappeared as if by an act of God.

When the courtyard door swung open at a touch, St-Cyr had the thought the Corsican brothers had fled. He leaned the bicycle against the only free space of wall, slipped off the trouser clips and fitted the sturdy pre-war kilogram of Sûreté brass through a ring in the wall and through the spokes of the back wheel.

Locking the courtyard door, he undid the buttons of his overcoat and jacket, then loosened the Lebel in its holster. All very meticulous, all a routine.

Satisfied, he started for the stage door. Hermann would, no doubt, be busy with von Schaumburg or be on his way to Kiev. Right now there was only time for questions. All other thoughts must be erased, though he'd have liked to say goodbye if it should come to that.

Goodbye to a German, a Nazi, but not a very good one, a member of their Gestapo … but then, Hermann was Hermann and in better times they might well have gone fishing together, so what was the sense of making excuses to himself? The war had tossed them together and that was all there was to it.

He was standing in the dimly lit corridor, had almost reached Gabrielle Arcuri's dressing-room, when one of the girls suddenly appeared in her housecoat. ‘Who the hell are you?' she shrilled hoarsely. ‘A copper?'

How easily one could tell if one had the experience.

‘St-Cyr of the Sûreté.'

‘Jesus, another one! Hey, Remi!
Remi!
I'm being robbed!… That'll bring him,' she said, the pale blue eyes grey with suspicion. ‘If I'd said raped, he'd not have bothered. So, what's it this time, eh? Hey, you're the one with the partner. You're the guys they told us about. You're off the case, Inspector. We're not supposed to talk to you. St-Cyr … yes … yes, that was it, and Crowler or Cowler …'

‘Kohler.'

‘Yes … yes, that was it. Kohler. You'll get nothing from us. We run a respectable club.'

The Corsican ‘brothers' squeezed into the corridor, each moving so swiftly they jostled one another and fought for space. Remi Rivard, the one with the face like a mountain, was the taller of the two. He lifted his wife out of the way with one hand. She didn't say a thing.

‘A few questions,' offered St-Cyr.

The fists were doubled, the dark eyes leapt at him. ‘Beat it, Inspector. Your fangs have been pulled. Talbotte himself has said he'll shut us down if we so much as fart your way.'

‘Then it's what Talbotte didn't tell you that you'd better listen to, my friend. A pastis, I think, and a little chat before the fire.'

‘Fire? What fire?' shrieked the Corsicans. They were both livid.

‘Yes, fire. You've been targeted by the Resistance. Talbotte won't have told you this but I, Jean-Louis St-Cyr of the Sûreté, offer it on the platter of my friendship.'

‘You're lying,' said the shorter of the two.

‘Then warm your hands at the blaze knowing I could have stopped it.'

He was unlocking the bicycle when the three of them came into the courtyard to brave the day. The woman looked dusty. Her slippers didn't match. The fake feather trim on the pink housecoat caught the ugly twisting of a frigid eddy.

She clutched the garment's throat and huddled between the giants.

‘So, okay, smart-ass, you can come in but it had better be good,' rumbled Remi. The barrel of his chest was clothed in plaid and the leather jerkin was open. Did the two of them never change their clothes?

The woman went first, and disappeared up a thin flight of stairs through a door one would have thought to be that of a water closet.

The Corsicans led him down the linoleum path and into the bar whose perpetual light gave the half-glow of the desolate. The bottles looked like so many rows of coloured water.

Leon Rivard was the one with the face of ground meat, the shorter of the two, but not by much. It was he who poured the pastis – one glass – and set a small pitcher of water beside it on the zinc. ‘So, my friend, this little business of the fire?'

St-Cyr knew he'd have to lie like Tarzan.

The water had a skin. He added some to the pastis anyway. He'd take his time.

The green became cloudy – Philippe had thought it magic. Philippe … He shut the boy out of his mind and took a sip. ‘So, what Talbotte would not have told you is that this thing is very much a matter of the Resistance and that they've got your number.'

‘We're waiting,' breathed the mountain.

The two of them were now behind the bar. ‘Yvette Noel was executed for her part in things. Now it is your turn, and that of Mademoiselle Arcuri. They're serious. Talbotte hasn't been able to make contact with them, and neither have the Gestapo or the SD, but I have.'

‘We're still waiting,' said Leon.

Would they now think to set their knives on the bar? So, okay, my friends, here goes. ‘Last night my partner chased a couple on a borrowed Wehrmacht motorcycle. During the chase one of the saddlebags fell off and guess what?'

‘You do the guessing,' grunted the mountain.

‘Incendiaries,' said St-Cyr, reaching for his glass. ‘Property of the Sicherheitsdienst over on the avenue Foch, though don't ask me how the Resistance got them. These incendiaries are of a new type – perhaps you've seen them, eh?' He gave the brothers a moment. ‘They have excellent timers – delays of up to four hours. You know how those people in the SD are. Always playing games. Murders, countersubversion, actions against the Jews and political people, et cetera, et cetera. Well, along with the incendiaries was the address of your club.'

‘We're still waiting,' offered Leon, but this time he reached for a bottle of marc and poured his brother and himself a shot.

St-Cyr raised his glass and said, ‘
Salut
!

‘We're still waiting,' said Remi.

No one could have guessed what the two of them were thinking. ‘So, okay. It's what was in the other saddlebag, eh? Six more of those little beauties – six, my friends! Our contact tells us that the lover of one of the Resistance people loaned the couple that bike and that the Resistance plan to use you as an example to others. You won't know who carries those nasty little things into the club and you won't know when they'll be set to explode because, my friends, one of them has a boyfriend in the German Army and this kid has got his heart set on deserting rather than face the prospect of the Russian Front. Or perhaps it's merely for love, who knows, eh? Sex is a funny thing. People do the craziest things because of it, isn't that so?'

St-Cyr took a sip and held the pastis on the back of his tongue. They'd either buy the story or forget it, but they couldn't afford not to give it some consideration.

The brothers ignored their drinks. It could be true. It was far more likely the puddle of a departing goose.

Remi Rivard fingered the rim of his glass. They could leave it but what was this flic really playing at? Elements of truth mixed in with fiction? ‘What do you want in exchange?'

A wise people, the Corsicans. ‘Another pastis and a few answers. Talbotte can screw himself as far as we're concerned. We'll pick the boy and his girlfriend up and throw a wrench into their little plans but only if you co-operate. Otherwise,' he shrugged, ‘we can always leave them for a few more days just to make sure we catch the lot of them.'

It was the shorter one, Leon, who made the decisions but there was no nod to his brother, nothing but the slightest movement of the eyes, or had it been the way he'd put his weight on the left foot?

St-Cyr dug deeply into a pocket and took out the pair of dice he'd had since joining the Sûreté. Much worn, the ivory dull and yellowed by innumerable nights spent tossing them while trying to squeeze answers, he held them a moment in his open palm then tossed them on the zinc.

‘A pair of threes,' he said as if in wonder. ‘Everything in life is such a gamble, eh? The Resistance gamble with their lives, you do it with money and perhaps your lives as well, eh? And I do it. Gabrielle Arcuri does and so did her maid, Yvette Noel. Fire's a gamble too, especially now with all those planes flying over and keeping the pumper trucks busy elsewhere.'

‘Some guy telephoned Yvette after you and that partner of yours had left the club.'

‘She smiled at me,' offered Remi. ‘Yvette, she has said, “I have to go out. Tell Mademoiselle Arcuri it's all going to be fixed.”'

‘Pardon?' asked St-Cyr, grabbing the dice.

‘Fixed – you know …' offered the mountain.