Mayhem (33 page)

The last button was just above the slender waist and when it was undone, she slid her hands deftly under the shoulders and stepped out of the thing.

‘Mademoiselle Arcuri …'

‘Gabrielle, remember?'

‘Yes … yes … Ah, Mon Dieu, madame.'

‘It's not as if I was naked, Inspector. This slip is decent enough and if not it …' She dragged the thing off. ‘… then what is underneath.'

St-Cyr watched as she crumpled the slip into a ball and threw it at the bed. ‘A warm shirt, I think, and a sensible skirt – I mustn't taunt my mother-in-law too much by wearing trousers on a day like this even though she often wears them herself. Relax, Jean-Louis St-Cyr, I'm not about to seduce you.'

‘Mademoiselle Arcuri, a few questions … Please, we must…'

‘There you go again,' she said, tossing a hand as she went over to the armoire to open one of its doors. ‘Mademoiselle this and Mademoiselle that. My God, it's freezing in this lousy place! Always freezing or boiling or damp. God, it's damp when the rains come in the spring and in November. Water pissing on that roof, pissing, always pissing.'

A soft yellow hunting shirt, forest-green pullover and flecked beige skirt came out of the armoire, she handing them to him and then pausing to run her fingers through her hair before shaking it out. ‘Funerals, ugh! Why can't we just be allowed to go to sleep in peace? They're so undignified. No privacy whatsoever. One can't even be allowed to remember what a person once looked like.'

The shirt went on but she wouldn't button it just yet. Ah no, she'd let him have an eyeful of her breasts. She would grab the skirt and purposely bend forward as she stepped into it, then think better of the brassiere. ‘I hate these things,' she said. ‘Would you mind?'

‘What?' he managed.

Petrified now, the poor man. ‘Holding the shirt again.'

‘Mademoiselle Arcuri …' Ah, Mon Dieu, such magnificence! So round and firm and gently uptilted, the nipples rosy … the scent of perfume in his nostrils. No thoughts of Marianne … no thoughts … A mirage … a mirage … ‘Please cover yourself,' he winced. The bed … He felt hot, confused … What was she really up to? Death … was she defying death by forcing him into a corner?

‘I thought you were a man who understood the streets, a hunter of animals,' she said. He looked so ill at ease it was almost comic. Perhaps after all his wife had had good reasons to leave him? ‘You poor, poor man. They're good breasts, aren't they? Nice to look at, but I won't let you touch them,' she said harshly.

A girl of the streets.

‘The past must always be forgiven, madame. Circumstance is the measure of us all.'

And one must not be bitter, eh? She let go of her breasts and began to tuck the shirt into the skirt and to button up. ‘How did you find out?'

‘I went to the Lune Russe and had a talk with its proprietor. He didn't say you'd once worked the streets. He said you would never have done such a thing.'

‘All Russian men are the same. Full of sentiment in a world that has no place for it.'

Dressed, she brushed out her hair and tied it with a red velvet ribbon. ‘You haven't got a cigarette, have you?' she asked.

At the sight of the cigarette case she was momentarily lost in thought. ‘Victor's a good man, Inspector. The Lune Russe treated me like a real chanteuse, but since I've gone back to Paris to live I've not had the courage to face him.'

‘No artist would, but why work at the Club Mirage? Oh, for sure, you had a deal with the Corsicans. Ten per cent of the take and you knew with that voice of yours, you'd soon pack the place. That was very shrewd of you, and me, I admire such a quality in a woman.'

St-Cyr took two cigarettes from the case and lit them. ‘But there was something else,' he said, placing a cigarette between her lips. ‘Another reason, isn't that so?'

Was she a suspect after all? she wondered, indicating that they should sit at either end of the bed. His eyes were watering.

‘Madame, the Kommandant of Greater Paris okayed the necessary permit for your car and gave you an excellent gasolene allocation, am I not correct?'

The mirage tilted back her beautiful head and blew smoke towards the ceiling. ‘It's no more than I'd have got had I worked at any of the other clubs.'

‘Ah yes, but could it be they had singers in plenty?' He coughed.

‘Not of my class. Believe me, Inspector, I know where I stand in things. One has to.'

‘Spoken like a true artist, not the star performer of a third-rate club. No, madame, it's my belief you chose the Mirage after very careful consideration. As its only star you could pull in the troops, making quite a name for yourself and stifling any questions the German security forces might have asked about you.'

She tapped ash carefully into a palm and leaned back to gaze steadily at him. This one was good, so very good. ‘I didn't kill Yvette and I didn't kill Jérome.'

‘Jérome I have settled. It's Yvette's killer I need to pin down.'

St-Cyr took a drag of his cigarette and let the smoke rise before his eyes, fighting down the need to choke. ‘Jérome was blackmailing you, Mademoiselle Arcuri. He knew your husband was alive and in hiding here. Under the decree of this past spring, by aiding an escaped prisoner of war you, your son and the countess were liable to be sent to Germany, the two of you women into forced labour and an almost certain death, the boy to a reform school and probably death as well. The General Hans Ackermann was after you. He'd read the Sicherheitsdienst file on the wife of his cousin's son. The countess had said a few things perhaps, let a hint or two drop, or simply shown she didn't really care for you the way a mother-in-law should. Jérome threatened to sell you out to Ackermann, and you gave him these.'

He found the diamonds in a pocket and pitched the little velvet pouch on to the bedspread between them.

Deliberately it landed next to the cigarette case but she gave no sign of recognition until he took her hand in his and guided it to the pouch. ‘Open it,' he said.

‘I … I don't need to. My father asked me to carry those when we escaped from Leningrad. The children were often the last to be searched. I could run faster than my brothers and sisters. I … I ran. God forgive me, but I ran.'

St-Cyr drew in a breath and held it for the longest time. With a sigh he said, ‘And you've kept them ever since in spite of your needing money when you first arrived in Paris.'

‘Was it such a crime? I loved my father and my family. I hoped we'd see each other again – we'd need the money the diamonds would bring. I didn't hear the shots. I swear I didn't. Jérome was horrible. Poor Yvette, she knew he was being used by Hans. She tried to intervene.'

‘Many times, I think. That is why she kept the diary.'

‘A diary? Me, I don't know about such a thing. I never saw it.'

Ah, Mon Dieu, must she be so difficult? ‘But you remembered the exact spot where she'd be in Fontainebleau Woods?'

The woman flicked ash on to the floor, forgetting completely about being tidy. ‘All right, I knew of it. Jérome boasted to her of his liaisons with Hans, and Yvette wrote them down.'

St-Cyr searched his pockets for the diary until he had the thing. For a moment he looked at it, then this, too, he tossed on to the bed between them. ‘Just before she left the club Yvette changed her clothes, then went to tell one of the Corsicans – Remi, I think it was – that…'

‘There's no thinking about it, Inspector. You're certain it was Remi, so why try to hide such a little thing?'

‘Yes. Yes, of course. Forgive me. Old habits … it's the cop in me, eh? She said …'

‘I know what she said, Inspector. “Tell Mademoiselle Arcuri that it's all going to be fixed.”'

‘The voice on the telephone. It was not that of the General Hans Ackermann, madame, but that of your husband.'

The violet eyes were limpid pools that brimmed. ‘Madame, please listen very carefully. I am not, I repeat not against the Resistance and its objectives but my partner, Hermann, you understand, is of the Gestapo no matter what he would sometimes like me to believe. If your husband is alive and you are hiding him, then now is the time to tell me.'

‘And the SS General Hans Gerhardt Ackermann?' she asked harshly. Ah damn, what was she going to do?

‘The general is of the enemy of course,' said St-Cyr, feeling a sense of loss he had trouble explaining.

As he watched, she brushed away the few tears and stubbed out the cigarette on the iron standard of the bed.

‘All right, you win, Inspector. You'd better come and see for yourself.'

She stretched out a hand and stood there waiting as he snatched up the cigarette case and the diary.

Their fingers touched. She was so close – a stunning woman, a chanteuse in great trouble, a mirage even yet.

The pouch of diamonds was pressed into his hand. The smile she managed was soft and introspective but the moment passed so suddenly as she shrugged and said, ‘I'll be glad when this is over even though I'll be dead.'

7

The sun was almost gone, and back here, wandering in the maze, a quiet had come that was now broken only by the distant sounds of geese and guinea fowl.

Kohler didn't like it one bit. The cedars were too tall, too thick and pungent. Underfoot, the grass had been crushed by footsteps other than his own.

Again he listened intently. Louis had said there must be a secret door in the tower at the centre of the maze. Mademoiselle Arcuri's husband could then come and go as he pleased from the river and the mill. But of that tower there'd been no sight for some time. Continually he lost his sense of direction and was forced to double back. Ah
merde
! What the fuck was he to do?

In desperation, he lit a cigarette and left it on the ground. From the next aisle he could barely see it through the fronds. One step … two … he drew his pistol …

The toe of a jackboot gleamed. A fly alighted then thought better of it. Ackermann had sent his buddies. Christ!

He turned and ran – went along another and then another aisle, hit a dead end. Shit!

‘Klaus, the bastard's over here!'

But where?

Kohler yanked off his shoes and socks, and leaving them, backed away. The aisle was long and at its far end there were openings both to the right and left.

‘Helmut, I'm over here,' shouted the one called Klaus – close, too close! ‘Let's make the bastard sweat.'

‘Calls himself an SS man,' came the answer.

‘Gone too French. Been saying nasty things about our general.'

‘There's no cooked spinach in the SS!' shouted the one called Helmut as he began to run. Kohler saw him and turned – Jesus, was that the other one too?

He tore his way through the cedars and sprinted up the aisle, hit a turning and went left, then right – right!

The banter ceased. His heart hammered. ‘Louis … Louis,' he began, but knew he mustn't shout.

Moisture clung to the ancient stones of one of the château's towers. As St-Cyr and Mademoiselle Arcuri climbed to meet her husband, their steps rang hollowly. These old châteaux … Ah, Mon Dieu, the labour of their restoration. It must go on and on for centuries.

Embrasures gave increasing views of the grounds. At a point five storeys up, he could not help but see that Hermann was in trouble.

The maze with its little tower was directly below them. ‘
Hermann, can you hear me
?' he shouted.

Bewildered, Kohler threw up a hand before bolting round a corner and out of sight. ‘
Go left, idiot
!'

The Bavarian reappeared, doubling back. ‘
Now left again
.'

‘Klaus, he's getting away!'

‘Work to the left as he's been told, Helmut!'

The two men were now so close to Hermann, it was only a matter of seconds until they caught him.

Gabrielle Arcuri put her hands on the Sûreté's shoulders and stood on tiptoe to look out over him. ‘Right – your friend must first take the right aisle, Inspector, but not go into the tower. He'd never find its secret door. Then he must run to the left and back into the cedars.'

As Ackermann's men bolted into the central clearing around the little tower, Hermann did as he was told. Harried, winded – terrified and in a sweat.

‘Now another right,' she said, gripping the shoulders.

St-Cyr yelled it, and then … ah, Mon Dieu … ‘
Hermann, duck!
'

Kohler threw himself down. Shots ripped over him. He returned fire, just to let the bastards know he was carrying. He didn't want to hit them. Not the SS, not his buddies, his confrères. They'd garrotte him, that's what they'd do.

As he got up to run, Mademoiselle Arcuri said breathlessly, ‘Now a right, and another and another. He must not go left no matter how much he desires it.' One could feel the tension in her.

Kohler started to make his way towards the front entrance along an aisle that seemed to lead him there, but the left… the left… this place. Should he not go left?

St-Cyr shouted the orders and the Bavarian went right at the next doorway but Ackermann's men were swift. Firing as they ran, they came to the doorway and turned to the right. Ah damn!

‘Now a left, Jean-Louis. A left!'

St-Cyr yelled as never before. Still clinging to him, she said, ‘Now round the maze and into the woods. He must lead them away. He must give us time.'

Ah, what was this?

Kohler found his legs but so did the other two. No thoughts of shooting him now, only those of stopping him.

Zigzagging among the topiary in his bare feet, he headed for the stone wall at the back. Too many cigarettes … too many late nights … Ah,
Gott in Himmel
, was he to die like this?

The gargoyles frowned from atop the stone wall. Tearing his fingers on the rough stonework, tripping, falling flat and losing his gun, his precious gun, he dragged himself up and pitched through the opening.