Mayhem (28 page)

Again the girl asked if everything was all right. The incessant sound of scissors and sewing machines formed a background to their voices.

Still St-Cyr didn't turn from the window. ‘Yes … yes. For the moment. Sylviane, I have only one question for you, but it's very important. Did Mademoiselle Arcuri's maid, Yvette Noel, call to ask you to make her mistress another purse?'

Snatching up a pair of scissors and a remnant, the girl moved to the window and began to study the street with the eye of an expert. ‘Is someone after you?' she asked anxiously.

‘Sylviane, please answer my question – there are two of them. The one looking at the ladies' hats, the other pretending to tie a shoe.'

‘Me, I have already spotted them. Yes, the girl called and asked me to make another. She said the original had been stolen.'

‘Not lost?'

‘No, stolen, Monsieur Louis. Of this I am positive.'

‘Was she in great distress?'

The girl continued to watch the men. ‘In tears. Yes, she was in tears. It … it was not two days before she … she was murdered.'

‘Who took the purse over to her?'

‘Myself. Julian … You know how he is, Monsieur Louis. She was special, this Gabrielle. He … he had his eye on her, I think. Ever since the dress, you understand, the fittings. Julian, he is like the miser who always has a little something under the floorboards. Another prospect. A war widow. What could be better?'

Was Sylviane secretly in love with her boss? Was that why she was so upset? ‘A murderess, if he's not careful, Sylviane. Please tell him it's hands off until the case is settled, unless he wants to deal with me.'

‘You're angry with us?' she said, still looking down at the street. She had cut the remnant to pieces, was clutching the scissors.

‘You should have told me about that second purse,' said St-Cyr quietly. The girl was pale …

‘You did not ask, eh? How was Julian to know you suspected this … this chanteuse of … of murder? Of which murder?' she asked sharply.

Ah Mon Dieu, what was the matter with her? The girl's brother, or the two of them. Me, I'm not sure of anything yet. When you delivered the purse how did you find Yvette?'

The two men hadn't moved. ‘Agitated. She didn't say much, only thanked me for having brought it over so quickly. If you ask me, Monsieur Louis, I think her mistress didn't know of the loss and the girl was trying to cover up.'

‘What did you make of the Corsicans?'

It would start to rain soon – a freezing rain – but would that help him to get away? Would it? Ah Mon Dieu … ‘Rapists with their eyes. Like most men, they undressed me with their filthy minds. In a second!'

Her chest heaved defiantly at the thought, moving him to kindness. In profile she was very pretty, very engaging but upset – yes, definitely upset and trying desperately to keep control. A puzzle to be sure. ‘Don't be so hard on us men, my dear Sylviane. Life's small pleasures, eh? You're a very attractive young woman. Those two out there would be certain to look your way.'

The one with the troublesome shoe had moved along to the café. ‘Are they Gestapo?' she asked, hoping that he'd say it was so.

Shoelace had now found his paper and was fighting December's curse to read the want ads. ‘I lost them long ago, Sylviane. No, these two are something different.'

How wary he was. ‘The Resistance?' she asked, turning to let him see the tears that had flooded into her eyes.

‘Yes … Yes, I believe it is them, Sylviane, but it is all a terrible mistake.'

‘Then you've seen the photographs – they're everywhere, Monsieur Louis. Me, I have tried so hard to gather them up.'

The girl had eighteen of them in her tiny office which was just off the cutting room. Choking back the tears beneath a fatherly hand, she had broken down completely at the prospect of the Resistance executing him.

How well she had tried to hide it. Ah, Mon Dieu, the Nile, the Amazon …

In black and white, Kohler and he stood on opposite sides of the boy's body.

‘You are being
blamed
for his murder, Monsieur Louis! Blamed!' she blurted, banging the table with a fist.

St-Cyr tried to comfort her by a gentle massage of the shoulders. The seamstresses – older, married women – glanced fiercely their way. A plate glass divider. No privacy at all, well, so be it. ‘I see that I have my friends,' he said gently. ‘That is so good at a time like this, Sylviane. Me, I will never forget it.'

‘Julian's being a pig! He refused to see you. He … he has said I was to send you away, that he wanted nothing more to do with you.'

‘He's forgiven. It's only understandable he be cautious for… for all of your sakes.' The coward!

The girl flung herself into his arms and hugged him tightly. ‘Me, I will slash their tyres, Monsieur Louis!'

‘No … No, you will do no such thing. You will toss me out on to that street and scream at me never to come back, eh? Then you will throw that fistful of photographs at me.'

It was so brave of him, so considerate. Ah, Mon Dieu … to think of such a thing at a time like this!

Short and just as petite as Chantal Grenier, Sylviane Valcourt stood on tiptoe and pressed her fine young body against him. All of it. A kiss of such passion, he had to think of that other young girl, that student … Liline … the girl with the shoes and the swollen jaw.

A time for love, and a time for death. Danger! Always danger! Was it this that attracted the young girls to him?

Or the lack of suitable young men? The war and the forced labour had taken so many.

She brushed an uncertain hand over his face, let her fingers linger on his moustache – still kept herself pressed against him. The smile she gave was brave. ‘So, my Monsieur Louis, the great detective, me I will do exactly as you have asked but please do not take what I am about to say down there as the truth, eh?'

At his nod, they parted but still she lingered. Not looking at him now, shy – was she being shy? – she fingered the table top, hesitated a moment, then said, a whisper, ‘I've learned to cook. I'm a good housekeeper, Monsieur Louis. Me, I could still work here but I… I could be so useful.'

St-Cyr chucked her under the chin and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Come and help me now, eh? Come on, let's give them something to remember.'

The Galeries Lafayette was crowded but safe. Its magnificent cupola of wrought iron and glass rose through the layer cake of columned floors to tower above them.

Department stores were such suitable places for meetings. Jérome Noel had even used this one. July 7th to be precise. At 4.17 p.m., on the main floor. In full view of every passer-by.

Hermann was late and he wasn't himself.

‘Louis, I've got an idea we should get out of town for a few days. Question the monks – give them a thorough going-over. Pry away at the countess's armour. Try the Arcuri woman again. Her ice is bound to break for you. She'll be sure to climb into the sack.'

‘Three days?'

‘Yes, three should do it. Von Schaumburg and Boemelburg have okayed a week. The first is insisting; the second agreeing because Berlin has reluctantly said he must. If we wrap it up in fine style we might just get off with a lecture.'

‘And Ackermann? What does he have to say about things?' Was Hermann looking slightly green or was it simply the lighting?

Kohler took an agitated drag at his cigarette. ‘Oberg, over on the avenue Foch, wants to see us.'

The Butcher of Poland, the head of the Secret Service of the SS in France and Ackermann's new boss.

‘We're in the shit, Louis. I'm sorry. The best thing we can do is to take a little trip. Boemelburg isn't exactly in total agreement. He wants the diamonds in his safe. You've still got them, haven't you? You've not lost them? You can't have done that!'

He was positively shaking.

‘Pharand?' asked St-Cyr.

‘I wouldn't want to see him if I were you. The diamonds, Louis? Don't keep me in suspense.'

Sometimes prying things out of Hermann was difficult. Clearly Boemelburg didn't want them leaving town. ‘And Ackermann?' he demanded again. One had to be tough.

‘The bastard's challenged me to a duel. It's strictly against the law – German law, Louis. Gestapo law and SS law. Pistols at thirty paces. A match pair. God knows where he got them.'

A duel… ‘Perhaps the countess loaned them to him.'

‘Agreed?' asked Kohler of the trip. Boemelburg could stick the diamonds. ‘I've been by your place to pick up your things. I even spoke to your housekeeper. Everything's okay. The geraniums …'

‘The diamonds are still in the inside pocket of my jacket, so stop worrying so much.'

‘It's you who ought to be worried,' breathed Kohler, pinching out the fag.

‘Yes … yes, I know. Perhaps I should ask the Reverend Father to let me join the monks. But three days, Hermann? Is it that you've bartered for the release of my wife?'

Had word already got round?
Gott in Himmel …
‘Steiner's being sent to where his cock will be of only one use to him if he can get it out in the cold.'

The Russian Front at Stalingrad. ‘Then let us go to Vouvray. Marianne can choose what is best for her and hopefully she'll be there when we return.'

Did Louis have to be so naïve? With luck von Schaumburg would have got the films out of Brother Glotz's hands by then and had the blasted things destroyed!

With luck Boemelburg and his boys would have pulled in the girl with the broken shoes and found out who all her friends were.

Perhaps no one would decide to take a shot or two at them. Perhaps the Resistance from Melun would leave them alone until the case was settled and they could clean those bastards out in style,
sans
Louis of course.

Maybe Ackermann would forget about his duel. Maybe … maybe …

‘It's all right, Hermann. You watch my back and me, I'll be sure to watch yours, eh?'

‘Then rest a little easier, my French Frog friend. I went past Gestapo HQ on the fly and swiped us two Schmeissers and seven hundred rounds apiece for good measure.'

There were a dozen stick grenades lying loosely on the floor of the car.

St-Cyr planted his feet among them and hung on as they lost their Gestapo tails.

6

The morning was crisp and clear, the wind in off the Atlantic and up the valley of the Loire to threaten an early blizzard. The sound of church bells was resonant.

Kohler and St-Cyr stood in the midst of Vouvray's largest cemetery. A crowd had gathered in the distance round the entrance to the church – the curious, the uninvited. Murder always brought them. There'd be whispers, questions – rumours of incest perhaps.

The church's slate-roofed bell tower and spire rose to a substantial cross which had defied all weathers and all wars since the mid-sixteenth century. The horse-drawn hearses were parked well to the far side; the only cars – that of the countess and that of the local German Kommandant – were to the other.

St-Cyr brought his gaze back to the pair of open graves at their feet. One thing was certain. They buried deeply in these parts.

So, too, was another. ‘The
perruches
, Hermann. That silicious clay with its flint boulders. They don't just grow grapes in it.'

Kohler stubbed out his cigarette and thought about flicking the butt into one of the graves. Decently he pocketed it. ‘Why the two graves, Louis?'

‘My thought precisely, Hermann. You're improving. Why isn't Brother Jérome being buried at the monastery?'

‘Any ideas?'

‘Several. The countess may well have intervened on the family's behalf; the abbot might not have wanted to go against her wishes but then … and I stress this … perhaps, in his wisdom, he saw advantage in not claiming Brother Jérome's body. But then again, Hermann, has a feud developed between the parish priest and the abbot? Ah now, that is a distinct possibility. Perhaps the priest has insisted on a double-barrelled burial and the countess has sided with him. One thing is certain. Authority has been challenged and custom breached.'

‘You going inside?'

St-Cyr tapped out his pipe against a tombstone. ‘Cover the curious and the whole of this place. Have a look for Charles Maurice Thériault just in case he's had a twinge of conscience and come to pay his last respects. Me, I will step inside as you have suggested, to study the mourners as they view the bodies.'

‘Enjoy yourself. I'm taking a Schmeisser with me.'

‘No one's going to shoot up a funeral. Not in France. Even the Resistance will show some respect.'

‘Ask Yvette that when you blow her a kiss, or are you planning to lean over the girl and bring her back to life?'

Funerals brought out the worst in Hermann. ‘I'm not sure the caskets will be open, but in the countryside it's usually the case, no matter what the damage.'

Louis could always be counted on to add that pleasant touch. Kohler grinned hugely. ‘I ought to let you have the last word, my fine Frog friend, but I simply have to say, Don't do anything in there I wouldn't do.'

‘For a man who has been challenged to a duel, you're extremely light-hearted?'

‘Ackermann didn't come, chum!'

It was on the tip of St-Cyr's tongue to say, Let's wait and see, eh, but he left it.

One had to do things like that with Hermann. Having the last word was important to him.

The church was packed. The bells continued – did they ring them twice as long if there were two burials? Everyone but the priest, his two assistants and the altar boys was at their rosaries or sitting stiffly. All in black. Not a suit or a dress of brown. He'd stick out like a sore thumb but … ah, Mon Dieu, it couldn't be helped. Funerals were so useful. They brought so many together in one place.