Salamander (14 page)

Like Hermann, he found himself staring across the street in the direction of La Belle Époque. He could not see its chimneys, though he knew there would be smoke issuing from them even when there was little or none from most of the others.

Holidays were always the worst of times for such arsonists. A crowded café, a railway station, another church perhaps—yes, another cinema … any of the many blocks of flats. They were so old, they were just asking for a fire. The streets were often so narrow.

Lübeck, Heidelberg and Köln were all very old cities. Had those two women paid them each a visit or had they absolutely nothing to do with any of the fires?

And what of Madame Rachline and her continued evasiveness? The woman had lied about being at midnight Mass and walking home. But had she come here to see Claudine only to stand, perhaps, in the street below, gazing up at this very window in doubt and fear?

Yes, he said to himself.
Yes
, that is what she must have done. Then she does not yet know Claudine is dead, but only suspects there is something very wrong and is herself in danger.

In the kitchen he found an open bottle of friar's balsam. It was simply the usual alcoholic solution of benzoin, the balsamic resin from tropical trees of the genus Styrax, especially those from Java and Sumatra.

A spoonful or two into the hot water to clear the sinuses and chest by breathing the steam. A sweetly aromatic, quite resinous odour that strangely lasted long after inhalation. A clinging odour.

The Gare de Perrache was frozen in the pearly-grey light. At twenty degrees of frost, the swastika that flew above the central railway station hung as if in fright and wanting to disappear.

People came and went, all bundled up and grim about it. Just across the Cours de Verdun, at Number 12, two SS guards stood sentinel outside Gestapo HQ, the Hotel Terminus, a flag above them.

Four black cars—two Daimlers, a Citroën and an Opel—sat with their engines running, a bad sign. Swastika pennants were mounted on the right front fenders of the leading Daimlers and Kohler had to ask himself, Visiting royalty for Christmas? and said, Another bad sign.

The Bristol, all five storeys of staid respectability, was at Number 28. Leiter Weidling was pacing back and forth in front of a row of straight-backed chairs on which sat six … or was it seven ashen people. The harangue was loud and fast, the fist with its napkin clutched, the interpreter frantically trying to catch up.

Having breakfasted on rolls, plum jam and black coffee, Weidling had chosen to interview the prime witnesses collectively. He was all push and bad manners and not likely to get a hell of a lot out of any of them, a puzzle since he was experienced and must have had to do this sort of thing lots of times.

Fabien Artel sat with his knees together and fedora in hand. The usherette who'd seen the two women leave the cinema in a hurry, was pale and badly shaken. A kid of seventeen without her lipstick or anything much—she'd simply been dragged from some attic room in Croix Rousse, and had had her overcoat thrown at her. No boots! No time to even put them on.

Her bare toes were shy and they tried to cling to each other as the visiting fire marshal's words flayed the hide off her. ‘Colour? Give me the
colour
of their eyes, you imbecile! The hair,
dummkopf
! Their clothing!'

He turned on the projectionist and shouted, ‘You say no one was with you in that booth? No one? Then why did you not sound the alarm?'

The mouse-brown eyes in that pinched and angular face watered with alarm and deceit. Torn out of bed in the dark of night, the poor bastard had managed a robe and felt slippers that might have been all right fifty years ago but now looked downright shoddy.

Weidling clutched the napkin more tightly. A second usherette waited tensely but he passed her over to nail what must be the concierge of the flats at the cinema. He dropped his voice and stared the man in the face. ‘You were responsible,
mein Herr
,' he said. ‘You let him in.'

‘Who?'

A tough one.

‘The Salamander,' said Weidling. Quickly this was translated, the concierge seeming to chew on the name before saying, ‘There are no such lizards in Lyon, monsieur. Please address the matter plainly.'

Ah
merde
, an arrogant imbecile! Kohler hissed in French, ‘He'll have your balls on toast, idiot! Salamander is the codename for the arsonist or arsonists.'

‘Ah!' The man raised his bushy black eyebrows in acknowledgement of Germanic French that was at least passable. ‘Then please tell this one, monsieur, that for me there can be no thought of such lizards. I let no one in but my tenants. There were no callers.'

This was all being rapidly translated. ‘None?' blurted Kohler. ‘What about the priest, Father Adrian Beaumont?'

‘None, monsieur. Not Father Beaumont. Not anyone else. Of this I am positive.'

The bishop had got to him. The man didn't even throw a sideways glance at Artel for approval, was simply smug and steadfast about it. ‘Loyal to the bitter end, eh?' snorted Kohler in French. ‘Then perhaps,
mon fin
, you ought to know one of your tenants was murdered and that if you should lie, you'll be implicated.'

‘Which tenant? Come, come, monsieur, you make accusations. Is it that you can supply the proof of this … this murder?'

They'd get nothing from him. Weidling turned on the girl who sold the tickets and the thing went round again. First the questions—‘Who did you sell tickets to? Surely you noticed something out of the ordinary? Lists … I must have a list of all who attended.'

Helpless, the kid burst into tears, and dragging up the heavy flannel night-gown between the open overcoat, began to wipe her eyes and blow her nose, disregarding entirely that she was quite visibly naked below the waist.

That put a momentary stop to things and a modicum of sense entered. Kohler sent the interpreter off for brandy and coffee, then suggested they use the bar as it would be more private and less formal. Weidling grunted approval. A last woman sat alone, having left an empty chair between herself and the girl that sold the tickets.

Her eyes were grey and she did not retreat from the puzzled frown Kohler gave her.

He took the gloved hand that was offered and knew at once that no matter what the boys in blue or black had shrieked at her, she had remained calm and had insisted on getting dressed.

‘Madame Élaine Gauthier,' she said. ‘Julien's mistress, Herr Kohler, and proud of it.'

Oh-oh. ‘Does Robichaud know you're here?'

‘I hope not but,' she gave a lovely shrug, ‘I am prepared even for that.'

Ah
nom de Dieu
, Louis should have been here! She was an absolutely fine-looking woman in her early forties with a wide, clear brow and high, strong cheekbones. Her hair was ash blonde, short and waved, the nose aristocratic but not arrogant and the lips perfect.

A scar of about two centimetres in length cut across her chin just below the lower lip. It was something from childhood days he thought, and admired her for not trying to hide it.

Kohler took her by the arm to walk with her to the bar. ‘This is not an arrest, so don't worry. Herr Weidling feels he has to prove to everyone he's on top of this thing and that he'll be the one who's responsible for solving it. Gestapo Mueller must have given him a blast.'

‘And yourself?' she asked.

‘My partner and I will just have to help him but we'll see what we can do for Robichaud.'

‘Julien is very worried the Salamander will strike again. The ice on the streets, Herr Kohler. There is no sand to be had and the pumper trucks are having trouble getting around. We were in that cinema together, holding hands and kissing—yes, it must seem odd for a grown woman to say this, but where else can a couple secretly meet for a few moments of intimacy? When the fire started, Julien made me pull my coat over my head. He ran with me through the flames. He would not leave me. Then he told me to hurry home and tell no one I had been there.'

She had stopped him in the lobby and had held him with those eyes, a very straightforward, honest woman. She had made up her mind about him and had taken a chance.

‘Herr Weidling is demanding that Julien be relieved of his duties and dismissed, Herr Kohler. In this he has the backing of the préfet and Obersturmführer Klaus Barbie. He will ruin a man France and this city have every right to be proud of.'

Kohler nodded grimly and took her into the bar. He felt there was more she could confide if convinced but this would have to await another time. He was glad she had trusted him. ‘Does Barbie suspect Robichaud of being involved with the Resistance?'

The scar on her chin quivered. ‘No. No, of course not. How could he think such a thing? What … What have they to do with that fire?'

Fear tightened all her features but she faced him bravely. ‘Nothing,' he said. ‘I'm only asking in case I have to have an answer ready.'

It was a warning—she knew this with an absoluteness that chilled. He had seen right through her. Had she been so transparent? ‘Your partner, he is not coming here?' she managed.

He shook his head. ‘Louis is busy elsewhere. One of the two women we believe left the cinema early is now dead.'

‘Ah, no …' She turned swiftly away. Kohler hated to do it to her but she had to know exactly where she stood.

‘Louis will sort it all out, madame. Louis is always good at such things. The best.'

‘How did she die?'

‘I don't know the cause yet. In her sleep and peacefully. She couldn't have felt a thing.'

The shards were conchoidal and of gilded glass and they had come from beneath the threadbare carpet beside Claudine Bertrand's bed. Gingerly St-Cyr turned each of them over. He could hardly contain his excitement. A Christmas-tree ornament had been dropped and crushed under foot, he was certain of it. But the rest of the pieces had been carefully gathered and disposed of elsewhere.

Lost in thought, he looked up. Vasseur, long into retirement, had been called back to work because of the fire. An excellent coroner in his day, the old man was diligently bent over the body, searching for needle marks.

He seldom spoke but often ground his teeth and swallowed as if constantly thirsty. A man of some eighty-four years dressed in a black serge suit, vest and tie. There'd be elastics at his elbows when the jacket was removed. And suspenders. Men like Vasseur knew only too well that comfort's enemy was a leather belt no matter how loose.

‘Monsieur the Chief Inspector,' said the coroner, straightening to ease his back. A legend of formality and correctness, he had been pleased to be called in. ‘This one has allowed her private parts to be burned from time to time and most recently.'

He had said it with sadness and was still shaking his head. ‘The labia, the vagina and the clitoris all bear the scars of cigarettes perhaps. The inner thighs also and no doubt the buttocks and the anus. Some are from a few days ago, others quite old. Some even from childhood perhaps. But there are no needle marks as yet.'

‘Childbirth, Monsieur the Chief Coroner Vasseur?'

It was like old times. ‘At least one difficult birth, perhaps two,' he indicated, tracing the marks with a forefinger. ‘What sort of men would burn a woman like that? What sort of woman would willingly submit to it?'

These questions were always asked no matter how accustomed one became to the depravities of human existence. Carefully St-Cyr folded the shards into a tiny packet and put them away. ‘A
special
woman,' he said—one had to speak clearly even when wishing to do so quietly. The hearing, it was not so good any more but the eyes and mind still inspired confidence. The former were aided by spectacles. ‘She was a prostitute, Monsieur the Chief Coroner Vasseur. I should have informed you of this but felt the préfet would have filled you in after my telephone call to him.'

‘Monsieur the Préfet Guillemette is a busy man these days,' grumbled Vasseur testily. Saying no more, he went back to searching. Painstakingly notes were made and for the first time, St-Cyr had a twinge of doubt, for the handwriting was not as steady as it should have been were someone else required to read the notes.

‘There was a powder, Monsieur the Chief Coroner Vasseur.'

The old man paused over a left breast whose nipple and aureole bore the scars of burns. ‘What sort of powder? Come, come, Monsieur the Chief Inspector St-Cyr, you have said nothing of this powder and now … now you tell me of it? Morphia?'

‘No. Ah, no, monsieur. I think it is something else. It will need a chemical analysis.'

The teeth were ground. ‘The little hairs of this aureole have recently been curled by the heat of a cigarette but the flesh nearest them, it has not been recently touched by fire. Did your woman do this to herself, Monsieur the Chief Inspector? Did she so enjoy the excitement, she willingly submitted herself to its threat?'

Vasseur was apologizing for the lecture about holding back on the powder. St-Cyr found its tiny packet and once more the coroner straightened up. Adjusting his glasses, he took hold of the proffered hand so firmly, St-Cyr was surprised and pleased by the strength.

The open packet was placed under the lamp. ‘Sugar. Refined sugar,' said the coroner distastefully since the black market was implied.

‘The granules are not cubic or nearly so, Chief Coroner. Their adamantine lustre is much less.'

Their eyes met. ‘There is enough for an analysis,' said St-Cyr.

‘You've divided it in half?'

‘For security? Yes. Yes, I have.'

‘Then let me have the other half, just in case. The préfet need not know until long after the fact, if that is your wish.'

A curt nod would suffice. ‘We'll need a …'

‘Yes, of course, the blood tests. It's not arsenic or cyanide. I will do the carbon monoxide test first since she bears every indication of having died that way. The rapid relaxation of the sphincters, the very pale pinkish cast to the skin—it would have been more noticeable at first. The collapsed state of the body. Vogel's test is still the most reliable for me.'