Carousel (19 page)

Though it was useless to ask, St-Cyr had to try. ‘Did you see anything, hear anything? It happened Thursday night, at between nine and nine-thirty.'

Thursday … Thursday … They'd been waiting for the shells. Paul Tremblay, the one with the hollow eyes and the look of death, had said, ‘It's my turn. Today I'm going to get it.'

‘Pardon?' asked the cop.

The Major tossed a tired hand. ‘I heard nothing of that affair, monsieur, nor did I see anything untoward.'

He sucked on his cigarette as one accustomed to the trenches. ‘Dead,' he said, tossing his head in acknowledgement. ‘All of them, Colonel. I am the only one left. Why did God spare me and yet take them?'

To his dying day he'd ask the question all survivors of such things must ask.

St-Cyr patted him on the shoulder. The elevation in rank to colonel from a mere sergeant in the Signals Corp had said it all. ‘Take care, my old one. I'll drop in again.'

Out in the hall it was the thigh wound that gave the first twitch of sympathy to strip away the years, then the one in the shoulder that had knocked him off his feet and made him ask that same question himself.

Always it was like this, old wounds, old battles, old memories he'd sooner forget.

His left side had always been the vulnerable one, ever since he'd broken that leg as a boy while scaling his Aunt Jessie's barn near Beaune. It had been one of those rare incidents when his mother had lost her temper and had slapped him across the face, the left side, always the left, ah yes, for disobedience.

Never mind that his leg had been hurting like hell!

‘The girl next door … Yes, yes, I remember her well, monsieur. Always in a hurry, that one, and not wishing to come in even for a moment. I have even left the door ajar so as to watch for her and call out, but', the man gave a shrug, ‘she has ignored me. Not out of unkindness, I assure you, Inspector. Out of haste, always haste. She did not wish me to know she met another in there.'

Alphonse Dupuis had been a captain, a sapper who'd lost his right leg but who otherwise appeared quite debonair in spite of his reduced state of being. A man of some fifty-eight years perhaps. Not too thin. Still with a little paunch.

He readily accepted a cigarette but flicked his own lighter, the one he kept for special occasions when he wanted to impress. ‘Don't believe a word of what Corbet has told you, Inspector. That one's so touched he still doesn't think it possible there were men below the rank of major.'

The little joke went well, the one from the Sûreté had understanding in his eyes, instant rapport. So, good! Yes. Now the interview could begin.

‘She was quite pretty?' he hazarded. ‘Dead, I understand, from garrotting with the wire? Violated as she lay beneath her assailant, eh? My poor little bird.'

‘Did you ever talk to her?'

‘Me? Ah no. She was, as I've only just said, far too embarrassed. She'd have seen the truth of her life in my eyes – they're like a father's, is that not so, Inspector? It would have been too much for her.'

The paunch rose to press against the buttons of the green silk vest Dupuis had had for years. His hair was thin, the head nearly bald over the crown, the eyes of a deep and intense brown but constantly on the move.

‘What about the one who visited her?'

Had the Sûreté seen the truth? Did he know that the dreams of the little one had hurt almost as much as the nightmares? ‘That one has a moustache much wider and fuller than your own, Inspector. Brown and greying. The well-pressed suit, the corpulent, well-fed bastard's son of a shopkeeper's whore.'

‘His age?'

‘Madame Minou will have already told you. Me, I haven't time for trifles, Inspector. I'm busy writing my memoirs. The publishers, the bloodsuckers, they're always pressing me for deadlines yet still refusing to pay their advances.'

‘About fifty-six or fifty-eight?'
Nom de Dieu
, don't get bitchy on me!

‘Yes, yes, all right! Of almost your age, but with more vitality for a man with two legs, more zip to his step.'

‘I'm only fifty-two.'

‘You look eighty but never mind. I suppose it's all that sitting you people do.'

‘Just tell me about him, eh?'

A ten-franc note was parsimoniously fingered in a black leather pocketbook that would have shamed a priest.

The note was placed on the desk. A cloud of exasperated smoke enveloped the Sûreté's gumshoe. Good! ‘Another, Inspector. There is much that I can tell you.'

‘Withholding information is a criminal offence.'

‘Arrest me then. Jail would be preferable to this hole.'

Twenty more fell and then a further twenty to bring it up to fifty.

‘He was from the provinces, from the south-west. A bourgeois up to Paris to see his mistress. He brought her things, little favours. Chocolates, several jars of pâté at different times – I'm certain of it. Once two bottles of liqueur, once four bottles, usually only one.'

‘How can you be so certain?'

‘Because she left them outside my door when she went away.'

St-Cyr laid another fifty on the desk. ‘Antoine Audit and Sons of Périgord?' he asked. ‘A
pâté
de foie gras aux truffes?
'

Dupuis grunted. ‘It was exceptional. I looked for more.'

‘She spoiled you, monsieur. Any ideas what went on in that room?'

This from the Sûreté! ‘Of course. She took off her clothes while that one watched, then they did it, not once but several times, after which he always left the room first and went down by the tradesmen's stairs.'

‘How long did he stay?'

‘The half hour, the hour, as long as it took.'

‘And the girl?'

‘She always washed herself afterwards. Me, I've seen her many times carrying the basin to the lavatory. There is a tap in that place. It drips constantly. We all have to get our own water for such things.'

‘He came once or twice a week, always at the same time?'

‘Between eight and nine in the evening, yes.'

‘Except for last Tuesday.'

‘Yes, he came then at four, and he did not bring her anything that time.'

‘How was she when she left the room on Tuesday?'

‘Upset. She touched her hair at the back, like this, like a young girl in distress. I think she must have informed him of her pregnancy, and that one told her to get lost. So much for the pâtés, eh? and the strawberry liqueurs!'

Things no one in their right mind would give away these days unless they had a damned good reason for not wanting to be seen with them. ‘Do you think she loved this Monsieur Antoine?'

‘She was not a prostitute, not that one, Inspector. Kept – of course he gave her money for the use of her body – but love? Who's to say what that is? She enjoyed it, this much I do know, though it grieves me to have to mention it. On several occasions her step was very light and quick as she left the room, and twice when I called out to her, she smiled at me and I saw the happiness in her lovely eyes.'

‘Did you ever leave money out for her in hopes she'd come in?'

‘Money? There's hardly enough of it to get by.'

The cop said nothing. He was too perceptive, too difficult and not so easy as some others had been. ‘Of course I did not leave her money. That would have insulted her. Besides, Madame Minou's son is not to be trusted.'

St-Cyr thanked the boyhood that had taught him to question so as to elicit those answers that were vital to an investigation.

‘Madame Minou's son?' he said blandly, reaching for his hat.

‘She never knows when he'll come back. He still has a key to this place, though she will deny it to God on her day of judgement.'

‘Such is the love of a mother for her son, eh?'

Long after the detective had taken himself away, Dupuis sat in his chair going over things. He'd said everything as it should have been said, even to that bit about the old shrew's son, Roland, and to that bit about the girl's M Antoine leaving by the tradesmen's stairs. The Sûreté would go out that way to see for himself. He'd notice that the door opened only from the inside, that there was a bellpush to wake the old slut in her cage. He'd realize that the door could be left open a little with a stick or a pencil if one wished to come back in again unnoticed.

So, it had gone well enough and now he would sleep a little. Later he'd go out for a drink to celebrate. Yes … yes, he'd do that, but he must hide the money from prying eyes so that Madame Minou would not get wind of it and demand it all in payment of the rent.

Kohler pushed a dozen of the coins across the inlaid fruit-wood of the coffee-table. There wasn't any sense in beating about the bush. A visit to the Abwehr's headquarters in the Hotel Lutétia had turned up nothing but the stone wall of interservice rivalry. He'd had to leap it.

‘The girl did a deal and the deal went sour.'

Hermann ‘Otto' Brandl smiled as he rubbed his hands together. The slightly scented cocoa butter had been good for them. It had a nice smell and wasn't too greasy when worked into the skin.

‘All things are of interest to the Bureau Otto, Hermann, but why show me these?'

‘I thought you might like to help me find the real ones.'

Brandl affected delicacy as he smoothed his silver locks. ‘Since when does the Gestapo seek to help the Abwehr?'

‘Louis and I are being given the run-around by Lafont and Bonny. Rumour has it Carbone's involved.'

The puffy eyelids lifted. At the age of forty-six, Brandl, a captain in the Abwehr, headed up the Reich's huge and complex purchasing office in France. Supreme power, supreme graft and everything else that went with it. A real producer.

Supplies from all over the country poured through his fingers – iron, copper, coal, manganese, potatoes, leather, chemicals – whatever the war effort and the Reich needed, and in plenty. Silk from Antoine Audit, of course, ah yes. Gold and diamonds, stocks and bonds, fine wines and paintings – enough for him to have syphoned off ten or twelve personal fortunes.

The coins were good imitations but not good enough. ‘What does Boemelburg have to say about your coming to me?'

‘The Sturmbannführer's a busy man. He doesn't like to know the fine details, just the big things.'

Again the puffy eyelids questioned. In spite of the immaculately tailored naval uniform and the polished mannerisms of the best salons, Brandl remained a toad in oil. A Bavarian schmuck who might, at best, have run a steel mill had his mother slapped his wrists.

‘Schraum worked for me.'

‘I rather thought he might have.' This would have been the order of the day, in any case.

The pale-blue eyes in that round and pasty face narrowed. ‘Did Carbone kill him?'

‘We don't know that.'

‘What about the mackerel, Victor Morande?'

‘We don't know that either.'

‘You don't know much then, do you, Hermann?'

‘Enough to ask for help where it can count. Look, we know the girl was flogging bits of jewellery in the fleas.'

‘Lots do that. It's nothing new.'

‘Lafont had her followed. Bonny had her tagged as a big one. You used to have Lafont working for you. You know he's got a nose for stuff.'

‘And you want my help.'

The rubbing had finally ceased. Now the backs of his fingers were being smelled again. ‘Von Schaumburg's behind us. Anything we want we get. The full weight of the Kommandant of Greater Paris. He's a stickler for law and order, Otto, and he's out to strip your gears. Schraum was one of his men who had been assigned to carry coal and other things for the Bureau, not filch whatever sidelines he could. A corporal no less. No discipline, chasing after the wives of others, dabbling in a little gold.'

How could Kohler dare to say such things? ‘Your boss won't like this, Hermann, and neither will Osias Pharand.'

‘Our superiors needn't know unless you tell them.'

‘Okay, so I'm listening.' Brandl snapped his fingers, motioning to one of the club's stewards. ‘Two whiskies on ice, none of that lousy
gazeuse
you bastards think is soda water. Put it on my chit and don't cheat me.'

‘Make mine a double, will you? I've not had any breakfast or any sleep. I have to take my pills. Doctor's orders.'

The Traveller's Club was on the Champs-Élysées. Brandl had a particular affection for it and for doing business in such places. The busty, life-sized girls on the richly carved chimney-piece were aimed over their heads. Far above them in the centre of the ceiling more painted nudes cavorted or lay about with bare-assed cherubs scrambling over walls to duck the arrow of some strong-armed hunk of virility.

‘Nice … this is really nice, Otto. I like it.'

‘Oh do you? This “partner” of yours, Herr Kohler. We of the Abwehr don't like him. The SS don't and neither should the Gestapo.'

‘Louis is useful. He'll lead you to the loot if you let him.'

The toad rubbed the oil in his palm with a thumb. ‘Rumour has it he's dead meat.'

Poor Louis … ‘The coin that was left in the centre of the girl's forehead?' asked Kohler. Lafont, ah Christ!

It would be best to affect a rather bored air. ‘We could help you a little, perhaps. I'd have to see about it.'

‘Did Victor Morande get the coal to run that carousel from Schraum?'

‘Of course. Who else?' Brandl thought about lifting his glass and taking a small sip. Perhaps it would be construed as a toast to their mutual business, perhaps not, and Kohler would have to worry about it. Yes, that would be good.

The single malt whisky was excellent, and the Gestapo took to it as the desert rodent to the oasis.

‘Careful, my Hermann. Careful. If you're going to work for the Bureau, we shall have to insist on a modicum of … what shall I say? Not total abstinence. Nothing so harsh. Merely prudence.'