Carousel (21 page)

‘I won't! I won't even touch him!'

Again they were at an impasse. ‘This other murder …?' he hazarded.

‘In the courtyard of the house next to that wretched draper's shop on the Pas-Léon, not a stone's throw from the Church of Saint Bernard.'

‘It's not a “wretched” shop,' whispered Jeanne. ‘Anyway, it was closed and I only went there after my prayers to remember a little.'

‘Ladies,
please
! I want to help. It's my job.'

‘We're trying to tell you. She's
trying,
' said the younger one in a rare moment of defiance.

‘Perhaps it is yourself who should be telling me,' soothed St-Cyr, throwing up a cautionary hand to silence the older sister.

Jeanne Gagnon composed herself. ‘Very well, it is I who shall say it.'

The other one held her breath but gave him the sabre of dark-blue eyes that had lost none of their will to fight.

‘I went to church to pray for the deliverance of the city and of France in her hour of need. So few were there, monsieur. Empty – I have never known the streets or the church to be so empty.'

‘Everyone had fled the city,' said Rose-Eva. ‘I was ill in bed, a bad fall –'

‘You had
drunk
too much, Rose. The Inspector will know this. The Defeat, if nothing else, has cured you of your affliction because now it is rationed,
if
one can get it! So, where was I? Yes … yes … Father Eugène and Father David were both at the church – they'd been on call all the time. It's a priest's duty, isn't it?

‘They blessed me. Father Eugène heard my confession. He always has, that one, since the years of my original sin, my small sin, which was only to be of hope, you understand?

‘I left the church but did not want to, Inspector. I was afraid. I was alone.'

‘At about what time would that have been?'

‘At about eight o'clock in the evening.'

‘Still plenty of light. I remember the city well, mademoiselle.'

‘I started home. I crossed the rue Saint-Luc and came to the Pas-Léon, which joins the rue Polonceau at the foot of the street next to the square. I was tempted. I needed to see the shop again, Rose-Eva. I was so afraid the city would be completely destroyed.'

A moment was called for.

‘The courtyard door was open, Jeanne.'

‘Yes … yes, it was. I'd gone to see if Monsieur Paul's son had placed anything new in the windows but … but of course he and his wife and family had fled the city.'

A draper's shop. A lost love perhaps – the father, Monsieur Paul senior?

‘The girl was lying in the courtyard between two trash barrels, partly beneath a carpenter's workbench. Her clothes had …'

‘Inspector, must you?'

‘Please, it is necessary.'

‘Her clothes had been pulled down around her ankles and pushed up above … above her breasts. I could not see her face, only a portion of her hair.'

‘What colour?'

‘Blonde, not black. Ah yes, I have even thought of that, Inspector. Though the age was the same, the hair colouring was different.'

‘She'd been strangled with a silk stocking, Inspector, but it hadn't been one of her own.'

‘She'd become separated from her family – they'd all left the city without her. There was such confusion, such fear, such terror, no people to cry out to, no people to hear her screams for help, for mer –'

‘Jeanne, stop it! Stop it!'

‘Forgive me. Please forgive me.'

‘The Captain Alphonse Dupuis had not left the city in the exodus, Inspector. Indeed, he had not left the
quartier.
'

‘I had met him earlier on his way back to the Hotel of the Silent Life as I went to church. I did not know then what he'd just done. He was afraid to face me, Inspector, and when I came along the street, he turned away to hide his face by searching in a shop window. He was trembling. I spoke to him. I asked him how he felt about things and was there anything the matter, could I help him in any way? He gave no answer. There … there was …'

‘There was blood on the collar and one cuff of his shirt, Inspector.'

‘Blood!' exclaimed the younger one, bursting into tears.

‘After she had found the body, my sister hurried to tell Father Eugène, Inspector, but could not find him at first.'

‘He … he was in the sacristy talking to someone. I did not see who. I was too upset. Deranged!'

‘And the authorities, the police?'

‘They did not come until the next day. They didn't believe me. They said it must have been done by the Germans, by a drunken soldier. That soldiers rape and pillage in conquest, that no one is safe, no woman no matter how old or young, but of course, there were no German soldiers in the city at that time.'

Jeanne tucked her handkerchief up a sleeve and strained for breath. ‘The Captain swore I was mistaken and ever since then has hated me.'

‘How long have you lived in the
quartier?
'

It was a question of much kindness. ‘All our lives. Jeanne wanted so much to become an interior designer, to have a shop of her own. Madame Audit …'

‘Mademoiselle Prévost, Rose-Eva. Michèle-Louise.'

‘Yes, yes, I know, my dear one, but as I've told you many times …'

‘I'm
sick
of hearing it! Sick, do you hear? She was good to me. She was someone I could talk to who understood what I felt inside. She was my friend.'

‘An artist of the avant-garde, Inspector. A charlatan who copied the works of others. A much younger woman than Jeanne, one who thought the barriers of age should be broken and not allowed to segregate people.'

‘Michèle-Louise said I had promise, that if she could decorate her beautiful house with nothing, surely I could do wonders with very little.'

‘But then her husband went away, Inspector, and the woman left the house without even saying goodbye to my sister.'

‘She was expecting a child. It was his child. I know it was.'

‘He had a shop, Inspector. He sold shoes. The woman was never satisfied with this. For her, to spend one's life selling shoes was to spend it in the grave.'

‘Someone had to pay the bills. She did love him. I know she did! We were two souls crying out to be heard, Inspector,' said the younger sister but with such frankness in her sensitive eyes he thought he understood.

‘There was a brother?' he asked.

‘Monsieur Antoine Audit. Yes … yes, there was a brother. He lived in Périgord. An estate or a farm – an industrialist, though. Yes, yes, he was an industrialist.'

‘Did Monsieur Charles ever come back to the street?'

Rose-Eva shook her head. Jeanne stared emptily at the carpet. ‘The cuckold can't, Inspector. Me, I have never before this day spoken of it, but as God is my witness I say it to you now. She was unfaithful to him and that is why he went away.'

‘He was arrested, Jeanne. He tried to kill his brother and for this they sent him to where he could do no more harm.'

‘When?' asked the detective.

‘Why, in 1905, in the spring,' said the older sister.

‘May the third. It was a Thursday. We … we were going to do over some cushions using a metre or two of the blue silk she had received from Monsieur Antoine.'

‘Mesdemoiselles, my thanks. You have been most helpful.'

‘And the Captain? Monsieur Alphonse Dupuis?' asked the butterfly.

‘We will take him away for questioning as soon as my partner gets back with the car.' Hermann … where the hell was Hermann?

The house was nothing – five floors of flaking stucco under cluttered chimney-pots, broken slates and skylights that gave all-too-easy access to the rooftops.

Kohler was impressed. In just such little things were there answers, and Christ they needed them! The new operator of the carousel had looked to his future. If necessity had demanded escape, he had had it in plenty. A warren of forgotten streets, a trap for the unwary, and the rooftops up there.

The quai Jemmapes was silent in the mid-afternoon. The Canal Saint-Martin had the colour of used crankcase oil. Two old men, bundled in filthy blankets, fished for God alone knew what. A nun pushed a foundling's pram towards a priest whose flat, round hat miraculously refused to blow off.

So far so good. Everything ordinary. No one taking any notice.

He'd left the car well out of sight. He'd seen them watching the house.

Some of the shutters were crooked; others lacked all or a part of their louvres. The Café du Paradis, while it might once have provided a passable living, now looked cheated and angry.

A lone girl on a bicycle passed by. A coven of four housewives stopped to stare at her while a portly shopkéeper with nothing better to do clung to the walls behind them, using the impasse to slip along to the café.

The girl disappeared round the corner, up the avenue Richerand towards the
H
ô
pital
Saint-Louis. Kohler pulled his gaze back to the house. It'd be the room at the top to the far right, just below the dilapidated dovecote whose wire cages would most likely be empty. All eaten by now, but excellent cover for a first dodge across the roofs or a nice little watch of the street and the quays.

Again he drew in a breath. The Benzedrine … he couldn't afford to take any more. He'd become addicted if he did. He had to sleep, but how?

Hurriedly crossing the bridge, he went along the quay until he came abreast of the café. They'd have seen him now. They'd know he was going up to the room. They'd tell Lafont or Bonny and the rue Lauriston might or might not be happy.

The concierge was a surprise, a tall, winsome blonde with large blue eyes, her hair in a braid down over the left shoulder. ‘Monsieur …'

Dutch and an illegal immigrant.
Gott im Himmel
, well what do you know? About forty and still a fine-looking woman. Married too.

Again he was impressed. The choice of room had included a concierge who'd be certain not to question things and would also not know a hell of a lot about the French, or even the city for that matter. One hundred per cent.

‘Kohler of the Gestapo.'

The fair cheeks tightened. In fear or hesitation, she touched her slightly parted lips with the tip of her tongue. ‘Herr Kohler. Yes … yes, they did say you might come. I'll take you up to the room.'

‘Who said I'd come?'

‘Those … those who came and took my husband away.'

Ah,
merde
! Not the husband!

There were two sets of stairs and a lift that looked doubtful – three exits. More potential. Again he had to be impressed.

She opened the lift cage. He thought to object, but already she'd stepped into the thing.

As they went up, they were crowded face to face, her chest all but touching his, the clench of death, eh? Her choice; she could have faced the other way. Often women chose to do that. Back to front. Did the frankness of her gaze betray something other than fear? She was almost as tall as himself and knew he was studying her.

‘Where are you from?' he asked.

Right away she'd known he'd ask it. ‘Rotterdam. Our papers are in order. The Kommandantur …'

Kohler stuck out an arm and jammed his hand against the far side of the cage door, barring her escape when they reached the top floor. ‘Don't give me any of that shit. You left Rotterdam in a rush, right? and you got here just ahead of the Panzers.'

‘Was that a crime?' she asked, not altering her gaze.

‘Only if you're here illegally.'

‘We're not. Our papers are in order but … but they've taken my husband away. I want him back.'

Kohler nodded. The couple would have bought the papers, good ones too, probably, but they'd only be good for so long and she damned well knew it.

‘Let's go up to the roof first. I want to have a look at that dovecote.'

The eyes never wavered. They were so clear, so blue. ‘The elevator only goes to the fifth floor. From there we'll have to climb the stairs.'

Good again.
Mein Gott
the man was a marvel! Exits like he couldn't believe. Skylights and now even a staircase.

‘Tell me about him. Let me have the name he gave you, then his age, weight, et cetera, and everything else just so we can tell whose corpse it is.'

‘Was he killed?'

A cool one. Not even a quiver. ‘Not that we know of. Not yet.'

The Gestapo's swollen eye was badly bruised, the stitches inflamed. He had been in a fight, yes … yes, but would he really help her to free Martin?

Kohler saw her looking at him and grinned. ‘What's your name?'

‘Madame Oona Van der Lynn.' They were jostled. Always it was at the fourth floor that there was this catching of the cable. ‘It will pass,' she said. ‘It's nothing. Don't worry.'

He let go of her. She smelled nice, had that very Dutch smell about her. Clean as a whistle, not perfume, just soap she'd scrounged from some place.

Again he heard her telling him not to worry. ‘I wasn't,' he lied. ‘Why not give me his name, eh? The look of him.'

‘Réjean Turcel. He was about sixty-three or maybe sixty-six, so a little older than yourself but very tough. A hard man, a …'

‘I'm not that old.'

Again her gaze was steady, a momentary pause.

‘Turcel was short and stocky, swarthy, yes,' she fingered the braid in doubt. ‘With … how should I say it? Very quick, dark-brown eyes.'

Always watchful then. Again it fitted. ‘A business-like walk? Fast, very fast?'

‘Yes … yes, he did walk like that. He was always going or coming. A man with a purpose.'

‘A man with a carousel.'

‘Pardon?'

Kohler told her but all she did was shrug. ‘I never knew what he did for a living. He never said.'

Had she been a little lost by the question? he wondered. ‘What about his skin? Did he look as if he'd spent his life in the sun?'