Bellringer (3 page)

A lisle-stockinged, tight-skirted leg was lifted as a black brogue was stamped and the regulation salute and Heil Hitler given. Even a smile wouldn’t work, though he’d try.

Ach,
thought Dorett Lühr, no return salute had been received from this one, and the faded blue eyes that might at times be full of mirth seemed only to be mocking her. Shrapnel scars from that other war were there, but so too was that of a more recent slash from the left eye to chin. A duelling scar? she wondered, trembling at the thought, for he was still handsome, if in a rough and incredibly virile way. ‘
Bitte,
Herr Detektivinspektor, you are to follow me.’

‘Actually, Herr Hauptmann
und
Detektiv Aufsichtsbeamter would be better if you want to use my rank from that war we lost, or simply Herr Detektivinspektor der Kriminalpolizei—i.e., der Kripo,
ja?
Der Geheime Staatspolizei.’

The Gestapo. . . That did it. She shuddered nicely, thought Kohler, and would no longer give trouble. There wasn’t a sign of a roulette wheel, baccarat table, or any other such temptation. So puritan was the casino, the Salle des Fêtes, of gymnasium size, was barren of everything but a huge swastika,
ein Hakenkreuz,
that was draped above the regulation portrait of the Führer.

Here the internees on arrival would have had to line up in front of the one suitcase each had been allowed to bring, this being laid open and the contents spread out for inspection under all eyes, especially those of their fellow inmates. And wasn’t it a marvel how utterly thoughtless the Wehrmacht could be?

Right behind the Salle des Fêtes, there was the Grand Hall, and here Red Cross parcels were being counted, ticked off, and piled to the ceiling: American to the left, British to the right. At desks nearby, NCOs busied themselves lest they experience life on the Russian Front. BDMs hustled files or typed as though their lives depended on it. Always it was papers, papers with Berlin, and always he had to ask himself: With a war on, who the hell had the time to read them?

A corridor, totally barren but for its hurrying BDMs, led first to the censor’s offices—letters and postcards being pored over in there and blacked out, of course—and then to one of the former smoking rooms where leather club chairs would once have offered solid comfort, brandy, and cigars but now held the Spartan desk and armless chairs of the local Himmler, the camp’s acting Kommandant, Col. Löthar Jundt of Mannheim, Baden-Württemburg.

Not a moment was lost in pleasantries.

‘Kohler, it’s about time! They are terrified another of them will be killed.
Ach,
they don’t express it in so many words, but one can sense it. They duck back into their rooms in the Vittel-Palace, exchange rapidly downcast glances when passing one another in the corridors or on the staircases, and when I encounter a babbling group in one of their rooms, they all shut up well before I am even seen.
Verdammte Amerikanische Kaninchen, die Schlampen
have lookouts posted. I’m certain of it!’

Damned American rabbits, the sluts. And trust the Wehrmacht brass to overlook the simple fact that the sound of jackboots on marble floors might have been overheard. ‘And when they’re all together, Colonel?’

A fist was clenched. ‘They’re never all together. They refuse to eat in their dining room. “It’s too cold. It’s pathetic,” they yell at me. I ask you, Kohler, what is the matter with those people? Declaring war on us, their friends? I’ve a second cousin in New Jersey, an aunt in Dayton, Ohio, who is married to a banker, a sister to an
officer
in that
Navy
of theirs? Have the Jews got at them and destroyed a once fine nation?’

Uh-oh. ‘And the British internees, Colonel?’

‘A world of difference. They come out of their rooms to speak to me in a language I cannot understand, of course, but one can tell.’

The side of a nose that must be accustomed to it was tapped with a stiffened forefinger that was now being wagged for emphasis.

‘They gather in their dining room for meals, and the noise, it is unbelievable. Such joy, such laughter.’

‘Until you enter that room?’

Kohler. . . What was it he had been told about him? Insubordination? A former member of a
Himmelfahrtskommando
that had dealt with unexploded bombs and shells in that other war, one of the trip-to-heaven boys, the assignment earned through having absented himself from duty. A girl. . . An affair of the heart. Over just such a thing had he disobeyed his orders, young though he must have been at the time. A swollen testicle, was it, the girl playing nursemaid to him, a fever as well and fear of Army surgeons? But there had been other infractions since, far too many of them, especially that ‘duelling’ scar an SS rawhide whip had given him for he and that partner of his having pointed the finger of truth.

‘The British, Colonel?’ came the reminder.

‘Naturally they, too, are worried, but so far the deaths haven’t been one of theirs. I want this matter settled. Berlin. . . Need I say more?’

A cigarette had been left to waste its life in the ashtray. ‘Colonel, your predecessor mentioned a bell ringer. . . ’

The head was tossed.

‘A nothing monk, a stroller about town in cloth. He comes and goes, and my predecessor let him, since he apparently has a calming effect on them. They love him, those women, if I can use that word with such as him. They are happiest in his presence, and he, I must say, adores them.
Lieber Gott,
he’s like a fat little dog! His is but to serve and lick, and theirs but to receive. I’m sure he knows them all by name. Both the Americans, who seem to favour him most with presents, and the British who worship him.’

This was getting deeper and deeper. ‘An herbalist?’

Kohler had yet to sit down, so
gut, ja gut
. Kept on his feet would be best.

‘You might call him that. If not making the order’s Host then it’s the soap those people sell on the
schwarzer Markt
—I know they do!’

The
marché noir,
the black market. . .

‘And if not those, his herbs, potions, and honey. The hands, the feet, the face, the skin. Frankly, I have no use for him or for the French. They still encourage such people. When the Führer has time, I am certain even that matter will be settled.’

And uh-oh again. ‘A warm brother, Colonel?’

‘That is putting it politely.
Ein Arschficker,
Kohler. I’m certain of it.’

The thought to ask, ‘How certain?’ was there but had best be left. ‘And he comes and goes?’

This time a hand was tossed. ‘His kind are apparently harmless, though we shall see.’

‘But are there others who come and go?’

The eyes were lowered to the cigarette, then took their time in lifting. ‘This latest death was not of an outside origin, Kohler. Women, cooped up together month by month and year by year, can be every bit as aggressive as men, if not more violent. My predecessor, if you can believe it,
allowed
them to discipline themselves and look where it has led. They are accustomed to being locked into their hotels each night, but are free to stay up and move about for as long as they wish, though only if the blackout drapes are tightly drawn.’

So as not to send a signal to the RAF, who might be passing overhead on their way to a bombing run in the Reich. ‘Those stovepipes, Colonel. . . ’

‘Certainly they have had their little fires, or so I have been told, but someone always smells the smoke or sees the flames.’

‘And are they allowed to visit from hotel to hotel?’

Had Kohler come upon something already? ‘Only during the day unless permission has been granted, as on last Christmas night, when the British entertained the Americans.’

‘And no nighttime sleepovers?’

‘
Liebe Zeit!
If they should choose to stay to pursue such filthy practices, that is currently their concern, though we shall soon be putting a stop to it and they have little time to spare for such activities during the day.’

‘Chores keep them busy?’

‘There is no daily
Appell
as yet, though that is going to change.’

No lining up at dawn and counting of heads.

‘They have to queue up for bread, soup, their parcels and mail, Kohler. Hauling water or firewood, doing their laundry—all such things keep them occupied, but the question you must ask and answer quickly for me, is will there be another murder or suicide?’

And uh-oh yet again. ‘Not if my partner and I can help it.’

The cigarette’s little life was abruptly ended.

‘Not if
you
can help it,
mein Lieber
. I’ve arranged for you to stay in the hospital. Four of the doctors there are French, as are the nursing sisters, but the one who is in charge of those is English, and there is another doctor—a Scotsman best left alone. I can’t make apologies for their presence. That is how I found things. The patients go to them, in any case. Dr. Schlieffen oversees and looks after us, but has his surgery and rooms in one of the other villas.’

‘We’d prefer to live in town, Colonel. A bed-sitter.’

And defiance already? ‘That is not possible. Transport simply isn’t available. You are on call at all times and will take your meals with us in the canteen, and you will not discuss the war with the internees or with those damned doctors and nurses. To all such enquiries—and there will be many—you will simply say,
Verboten
. For them, they are here to enjoy the safety and goodwill the Führer provides and that is all there is to it.’

Day to day, hour by hour, and with no news of when their little stay might end.

‘As soon as you have settled the two who have died, they will be buried side by side but not in this park, am I understood?’

‘Definitely.’ And wasn’t this one just their luck? A real
Mitläufer,
a fellow traveller of the Nazis, if not a dyed-in-the-wool
Eingefleischter,
the hypnotized. ‘My partner and I will do what we can, Colonel.’

‘Correction.
You
will do as you’ve been ordered. Now, I really must get on with things. Supper is at 1830 hours—no later, no earlier—and it will not be dragged out as the French invariably do with their meals.’

Louis definitely wasn’t going to like that, either. ‘And the first victim, Colonel? Where might we find her?’

‘At the bottom of one of the elevator shafts in that hotel of theirs. Don’t ask me how she got there or why that
verdammte
gate was open. That is for you to find out.’

It fluttered down, and as they looked up from the foyer of the Hôtel Vittel-Palace, the brassiere, the tiniest thing possible, floated lazily in some up-draught, only to trail one strap as it finally took the plunge.

The railing, three storeys above, was now completely clear of laundry, as were the staircase railings on either side of it. Trapped, the makeshift garment lay on the Art-Deco mosaic of the marble floor at their feet, where Neptune, in all his glory, was being enticed by golden-haired mermaids to take the waters.

‘Hermann, allow me.’

Two lace-trimmed handkerchiefs had been refashioned. Repeated gentle washing, with water of stewed ivy leaves and then that of pine needles, had given it a scent both halfway between and all its own. The straps, however, were of cotton scavenged from a shirt-blouse. Instead of the usual clasp, a safety pin would have been used but such a valuable item had absented itself either through need or safekeeping.

There wasn’t a sound, and how was it that nine hundred and whatever people could make themselves so scarce that not a one of them could be seen or heard? Had they climbed to attic garrets, gone into the cellars, or both? And if so, who had such a power over them that one’s orders were completely obeyed?

Carefully folding the garment in half, Louis started out, their overboots left just inside the door as a sign of trust, perhaps, and a gamble at that.

Room 3–38 was no different from the others they had been able to glance into as they’d passed by open doors. It, too, was devoid of occupants but otherwise crowded.

‘Hermann, a moment.’

Ach,
the cinematographer!

‘You start from the left, I from the right,” said St-Cyr. ‘Give the room the careful once-over.’

Commit the ‘film’ of it to memory, then make the traverse in reverse. Photos, cutouts, maps, and such covered whatever wall space had been free. There was a lacrosse stick, two tennis rackets, an American football, quite worn and obviously used by male hands and boots, but. . . ‘
Mein Gott,
the room’s tidy. What more do we need?’

That, too, could not be allowed to pass. ‘What did the years in Munich and Berlin teach you? To concentrate only on the obvious and ignore the significant?’

‘Temper, temper. Don’t let all those missing girls unsettle you.’

‘
Ah, mon Dieu,
is it not evident I want us to use the opportunity they have unwittingly provided? It’s curious, isn’t it, that only one of the occupants was sitting on her bed just prior to their leaving?’

The beds were ex–French Army portable iron cots with straw mattresses, and there was a dent in the one Louis had noted. A game of solitaire had been in progress there, the cards laid out with a precision that defied reason.

‘An evident reason, Hermann, for this one couldn’t have been watching at any of the windows in use, could she?’

Since the windows here wouldn’t overlook those sections of the park they’d had to cross. ‘These ones face north and northeast.’

‘
Ah, bon,
Inspector. You’ve already learned something significant.’

‘And since she once played lacrosse, no one, and I mean no one, has dared to cut away any of that stick’s leather webbing no matter the need, or to borrow the hard rubber ball that is nestled in its crotch.’

Two of the beds, one on either side of the door, were against that innermost wall. End to end, sets of two others occupied opposing walls, the area immediately in front of the floor-to-ceiling French windows being left as a sort of common space, replete with three fold-up, portable wooden-slatted café chairs and an upturned half-barrel as a table and reminder of what they’d once been allowed to partake of with pleasure.