Salamander (37 page)

She toppled over, knocking the candle stub so that it rolled on to its side with the flame flickering in her hair. Now a touch, now a curling of the hairs as they were singed.

Awakened by the stench, Kohler picked up the candle. ‘Louis … Louis …?'

Pale blue and ethereal in a night of frost, a tram-car clanged from the far side of the place Bellecour. Like marionettes in a play of shadows, the dark silhouettes began to run, and St-Cyr knew he could not hope to keep track of Henri Charlebois in the rush.

Some slipped and threw out their arms as they fell. Some cried to God in despair, while others laughed insanely until the clanging became unbearable.

‘Ah no,
wait
! Please wait for me,' cried a girl, only to hit the ice with a fist and add dejectedly, The last car, messieurs. Positively the last! Have you no heart? The curfew! It's Christmas! Well, it is the day after but why should I have to spend the next months in Montluc among the convicts without a toothbrush?'

Punished by the frost, those who had missed the car stood sentinel or in little clusters, grumbling as such will do. Cursing openly or silently the miserable bastards of the Public Transport, the high wages such imbeciles were paid, the security of their precious pensions …

He had heard it all so many times before. Breathless, he let his gaze search everywhere. Charlebois was taller than most. Charlebois was thin. He had lost his hat, had fallen once. Perhaps he had sprained an ankle or wrist?

As St-Cyr hunted for him, he heard the girl who had fallen say, ‘
Merci
, monsieur. It is very kind of you to help me up.'

‘Are you all right? There is nothing broken, I trust?' asked the helper.

He was tall and his hands, they were without gloves, thought the girl, for she had had her mittens stolen only yesterday and had not been able to get others.

‘No. No, I'm fine,' she said. ‘It … it is just that … that I live so far away, monsieur. Over in Saint-Jean on the rue des Antonins.'

Almost at the foot of the montée des Chazeaux.

‘Well, that's good. I'm going that way myself. We'll walk together.'

He took her by the arm and she was not so sure she liked this. Ah, it was so hard to tell with some these days. The grip of the French Gestapo, monsieur? she wondered apprehensively. He had about him an urgency that made her feel uncomfortable, but perhaps it was just the nearness of the curfew and the need to be indoors.

They walked in silence, blending in with others so that perhaps she would feel more at ease with him, thought St-Cyr. ‘Were you at the cinema?' asked the man. ‘
La Grande Illusion.
Did you enjoy it as much as I did?'

To go alone to the cinema was to admit that one lived alone, she felt. To make up stories about a boyfriend who lived across the Rhône in Part Dieu or La Guillotière would do no good with this one. ‘Yes … yes, I have enjoyed the film very much, monsieur.'

‘Even though we have had such terrible fires?'

‘I … I have prayed that it would not happen to me, monsieur. Evidently others did the same, for the cinema was packed, was it not?'

The girl should not have said that, thought St-Cyr ruefully. Ah
merde
, was he to step in now in hopes she would not be killed?

Charlebois's chuckle was polite. As they crossed the rue de la Barre, he again used the girl as a shield and mingled quickly with others, chiding her gently. ‘Don't we both wish that had been the case, mademoiselle? There were so few brave souls in that cinema, it did not pay the owners to open the doors.'

Embarrassed to have been caught out so easily, the girl must have sweltered under the rebuke. But then, determined to be certain of him once and for all, she foolishly began to ask specifics. ‘Who played the part of the French officer, de Boeldieu, monsieur?'

Several people now separated St-Cyr from the couple. He dodged round them, only to be blocked by others. Ah damn … Must God do this to him? Must He mock a poor detective on the run? That film had been released in 1937. Hitler had banned it in the Reich and later the Nazis had banned it in Paris …

‘Erich von Stroheim was magnificent as the German von Rauffenstein, mademoiselle. Pierre Fresnay did an excellent job of de Boeldieu. Why not ask me about the British officers in that prisoner-of-war camp of theirs? Why not tell me how they dressed up for the variety night to amuse their French counterparts?'

‘As women,' she blurted. She would not be able to trip him up with anything. She knew this now, yet still was not certain of him. Ah, it was his grip on her arm. Yes, yes. It was as if he not only would not let her go, but could not. Had he a
need
of her, but why?

‘Your name, monsieur?' she asked sharply.

Momentarily St-Cyr lost sight of them again. ‘Christian Matras,' said the Salamander, a little test of his own.

They had stopped in the middle of the pavement. They were facing each other now but others were still passing them. ‘That … that is the name of the photographer who has made the film,' she said, trembling, for he had not released his grip on her arm.

‘Jean-Pierre Rouleau at your service, mademoiselle. Shopkeeper and widower, hence my presence at the film.'

‘Forgive me. It's just that … Ah, one never knows, does one?'

His grip relaxed. They hurried along. When they came to the river, Monsieur ‘Rouleau' felt it best to use the quais and the footbridge, as these would bring them more quickly to the Palais de Justice and her street.

Reluctantly she agreed. Ah
merde
, how easily women were taken in, thought St-Cyr. First they are afraid, then not afraid, then suddenly afraid again.

She asked what kind of shop he kept and for a time they were lost in a crowd that quickly vanished.
Maudit
, where had they gone? The infrequency of dim blue streetlamps gave futile guidance. Against the night sky, St-Cyr made out the stumpy branches of the trees that lined the quai des Célestins on the river side. There would be benches, places to hide—steps down to the water's edge where the ice had now gathered.

Lovers were caught in frozen embrace. Somewhere across the river, a car started up and he watched, as all others would, for the glow of the headlamps. And when it came along the quai Romain Rolland, he, too, saw that it was a German staff car.

But then it disappeared up the rue de la Bombarde and for a moment, anyway, the city dropped back into its silence and he heard the stirrings of the river as it flowed beneath the ice.

Another couple kissed, and at first he thought he'd found them, but then this girl whispered, ‘Albert, I love you. Albert, I
must
go home! Until tomorrow, then?'

The boy swore he'd see her at church and they parted, he to hurry one way and the girl another. Teenagers …

Left alone and to the river, St-Cyr searched the half-light and the deeper darkness. Night was seldom so dark things could not be seen. With ice and snow on the ground, it was much lighter still. Out over the river, threatening dark stretches of water lapped razor-thin ice near upwelling pools of sewage. Along the bank, the ice tended to thicken except right at the sewer outlets. In these places gaps were kept open and vapour rose thickly from them.

Had Charlebois already killed the girl? Had he left her body for him to find?

When a shrill scream came, he began to run. When she shrieked and fought and cried, ‘
No! No, please! I cannot swim!
' he saw her spinning drunkenly out across the ice, throwing her hands this way and that as she tried to stop herself. She went down hard. She went right through but did not cry for help. Ah
merde
!

He pitched down the frozen steps to the water's edge. As he raced out over the ice, he tried to fling off his overcoat.

A fleeting glimpse revealed Charlebois etched against the night sky, standing in the middle of the footbridge.

She bobbed up like a cork just beyond the edge of the ice, only to disappear suddenly. Where … where was she? ‘Mademoiselle,' shouted the Sûreté. ‘I'm a police officer. No, no, please do not give up. Here, I am coming to help you.'

‘
Louis
,
I'm right behind you
!'

‘
Hermann
? Ah
grâce à Dieu
, thank goodness you are here. The current is too fast for her.'

‘She's downstream against the ice. She's trying to smash her way in but will never make it.'

They ran. Louis slid himself flat on the ice and worked his way out to her. He grabbed and grabbed again and again, but each time she slipped away.

‘You or me?' shouted Kohler desperately.

‘I must be wetter than you,' said the Sûreté's little Frog. ‘Hang on to my ankles this time.'

The ice broke and it nearly took the two of them. When Louis grabbed the girl, she cried out and tried to fight him. Now both of them were yelling and spluttering. Kohler ran. Working his way downstream, he hunted for a place where he could get out to them and use his overcoat as a lifeline. Louis threw up a hand but missed it. ‘
Verdammt
! Must I jump in there too? Hang on. Don't let go of her!'

A sleeve was caught, then a wrist. ‘
Pull!
' shouted Kohler. He grabbed the girl by the scruff and hauled her out, was now soaking wet and freezing rapidly.

‘Louis …?
Louis, where the hell are you
?' Downstream … downstream.

His head was just above water. He was swimming in a pool some fifteen metres away.

Leaving the girl, Kohler crawled out on the ice. Thin … it was so thin. He felt it give, heard it crack and sigh and crack again. Ah
merde …

They touched hands, and he managed to get Louis out. With fifteen degrees of frost, they had but a few minutes and they knew it. Dragging the girl, they forced themselves to run. They made it across the footbridge and past the Palais de Justice, were slowed to a crawl in the rue des Trois Maries and could barely pound on the door of La Belle Époque.

In rosewood, ebony and gold, the green baize-covered armchairs and peacock-hued faience cockerels began to change their places, thought St-Cyr. And the maidenhair ferns flew languidly with the storks on their pots, while the water-lilies on the walls kept trying to go round and round.

Vaguely he was aware of many hands tearing at his clothes, of corseted and uncorseted bosoms, lace, perfume, much flesh, powder, eye shadow and rouge. Of black-meshed silk stockings, garters and urgent voices that demanded rum and blankets and hot water. ‘Blue … they are so blue, madame,' cried a girl with sunset hair that spilled over bare and gracefully moving shoulders. ‘She's more frozen than those two,' said another, rubbing the arms of the girl they had rescued. ‘The bath, madame. Upstairs. Quickly! Quickly!'

Four of them pushed and heaved him up the stairs. His legs, they wouldn't work. Ah
merde
, what was the matter with him?

Hands were everywhere, with sponges. Earnest faces drew close, only to dissolve as they receded.

Gradually warmth returned. The tub was huge and there were at least five of them in it. Hermann's eyes were closed. The girl they had rescued was being turned on to her stomach so that her seat and back could be sponged and rubbed. One of the others was holding the girl's head and shoulders just above the water.

A last glimpse revealed Madame Rachline with three glasses and a decanter of dark rum. Rum … rum … Mustn't touch it … mustn't touch it. He shut his eyes and, giving himself up to the ministrations of her girls, allowed himself a momentary lapse into sleep and warmth … much warmth …

‘Drink,' urged someone sternly. ‘Ah
nom de Dieu
, come on, Inspector. Open the mouth like a little bird in orgasm. Swallow!'

The rum burned his throat. Like liquid fire, it spread its warmth to his loins and he knew he was slipping off into oblivion, knew that he could no longer stop himself.

‘Don't drown them,' said someone harshly. ‘Put them to bed and keep an eye on them.'

Grey-white, and with a crust like Brie, the phosphorus shone in the brilliant glare of the torch but it had not yet burst instantly into flame. A forest of undressed, upright timbers no more than a metre high separated him from it. The posts were stubby, had splintered surfaces that were coated with coal dust and webbed by spiders. Absolutely bone dry and excellent fodder … fodder … And the space between the floor above and that below was crammed with the rubbish of a theatre. Stage props and steamer trunks on their sides, suitcases left in haste or arrears ten, twenty—fifty years ago. Was there no end to the space, no end to the distance between him and the phosphorus?

Frantically St-Cyr scrambled among the timbers, ducking under bracing cross-timbers, banging his head on the floor joists above. An arm was caught, an ankle … Savagely he yanked them free and cried out in pain, snarled at God. Said, Why can You
not
stop mocking Your little detective just this once, eh?

Probing anxiously in the pitch darkness, the torch beam picked out only more and more of the same. Then he saw it in a far corner. A bag of some sort hanging from one of the joists by a bit of string. It was dripping water … water … slowly, steadily. Would there be time to reach it before all the water was gone? Was he now too late … too late? He must try. He must!

The bag was plump and soft and smelled mildly of garlic, and where the water seeped out to gather into each droplet, there was a small protuberance, stiff and with an aureole of little bumps around it.

Gingerly he caught hold of the bag with both hands. He must not squeeze it. Somehow he must stop it from dripping. He must not let air reach the phosphorus. Air, he said. Air.

Awkwardly he ducked his head under and turned to face upwards. A pin-hole … yes, yes. A droplet hit him in the eye. Another fell on his forehead. A third on his cheek … Stop it. You must stop it from sweating, he shouted at himself and demanded, How …? How?