Carousel (22 page)

They had reached the fifth floor. His arm still barred the way.

‘Yes … Yes, he was like that.'

‘A Corsican?' It wasn't so much a question as a statement of fact, and she knew then that his thoughts were racing ahead to other things. ‘Dots – did he have three of them on either of his hands? The backs of the middle fingers?' he asked.

He looked quite ill at the thought, but perhaps it had only been the ride up in the lift that had made his stomach turn. When she went to open the lift door, her left shoulder and hip would have to brush against him, but would it help her? Would it really? ‘Yes, Turcel had three faded dots on the backs of the middle fingers of his left hand, the first joint; five in the web of skin between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand.'

Squeezing round to face him again, she showed him her hands and he felt her middle as it came against his own and he wondered exactly what kind of pressure the rue Lauriston had put on her.

Her finger kept tapping the web of skin. She'd a nice thumb. ‘The tobacco pouch,' he said, a whisper. ‘One of the hard ones, a Corsican.' A friend of Carbone, an associate, a member of that gang? The rue de Villejust? Lafont's arch-enemy? The hit men.

Oona Van der Lynn flashed him an uncertain smile. ‘These things have hardly any room,' she said not moving her middle.

Kohler … his name was Hermann Kohler of the Gestapo.

They went along the corridor to the far end of the house until they stood outside Number 5-13. The stairs to the roof were as close as spit, the tradesmen's set a fraction closer. The woman hesitated. When her eyes dropped to the floor, she touched the top button of the grey-blue cardigan she wore. Her braid had fallen forward a little, and he wondered again what the hell she was really on about and he felt the blood pounding in his veins. ‘You first. There's no danger. It's better this way.'

‘For what?' she asked, knowing all about it.

There was hardly light enough to see her and when she stopped once in the middle of the staircase, he was reminded again that she smelled nice. ‘My husband. They … they took him away.'

‘Where to?'

‘The Vél d'Hiv. They said …' She began to climb the stairs again. ‘It … it doesn't matter.'

‘The Vél's not being used any more, is it?' She had reached the door to the roof. No key was needed; he was impressed again. Réjean Turcel or Réjean whatever had chosen well.

The Gestapo was standing on the step below her. She could feel him against her. It was dark. He'd … ‘The door, it always sticks a little, monsieur. Could you …?'

Kohler felt the fit of her. It was nice, really nice. His chin brushed against the back of her head. Her skin was cool but then, it was winter.

He gave the door a shove and miracle of miracles, it opened at a touch.

The dovecote was made of weathered boards that had been salvaged from some dump. The cages were arranged in tiers. There were about thirty of them and all were empty. ‘Who lived up here?'

There were blankets on the floor, several books, the stub of a candle and a washtub to hide the light.

‘My husband.'

‘A Jew?'

The blue eyes sought him out. They didn't waver, they didn't beg.

He'd not help her. He couldn't! She saw this come into his eyes, saw him silently curse and then clench a fist. ‘The Véld'Hiv, eh?' he said. ‘But first the rue Lauriston. What did your husband know that you didn't?'

‘Martin never said, but I think he may have talked to Monsieur Turcel, for that one often came up here.'

‘At night?'

‘Yes. To …'

‘To avoid going out the front door? What'd he do, madame? Threaten the two of you, eh? Did he buy your silence by not asking us Germans for the hundred marks reward turning in your husband would have brought?'

She didn't flinch. ‘He “bought” more than that, much more.'

‘How long has he had the room?'

‘For nearly a year now. Yes, yes, it's been that long, though it didn't start between us until … until last Spring.'

The shit! Kohler swept his eyes over her, a damn fine-looking woman. How had she and her husband stood it?

‘My husband wanted to kill him. I … I said that was not possible, that these days, one had to …' She gave a shrug, a small smile, one of loss perhaps. ‘One had to go along with such things.'

‘You're not Jewish. You can't be.'

‘Not all Jews have black hair and dark eyes, monsieur, but no, I'm not. I loved Martin dearly and still do. We … we lost the children on our way here. I …' There was another shrug. ‘I tried to find them – it was my fault. I went to get some water. They were so thirsty, there were so many people milling around the well, fighting to get a drop, screaming at the farmer who controlled the pump and demanded payment. The Messerschmitts and Stukas came. They- Look, I know my children must be dead and now it doesn't seem such a bad thing any more. Half-Jews are just the same as whole ones, and if not, they soon will be.'

‘The Vél d'Hiv …' Kohler took out his cigarettes and offered one, which she readily took. Louis and he had been in the Free Zone when the
rafle
of last July had seen five of the Paris
arrondissements
sealed off by 9,000 French police – Talbotte, yes, and Pharand. Belleville had been one of those districts, the poor Frog's precious Belleville.

Over 12,000 Jews, many of them women and children, had been arrested. The sports stadium of the Vél d'Hiv had become a filthy hell-hole during their eight-day stay without water, food or toilets that worked.

Louis had gone all to pieces at the news. They'd argued, they'd fought and then they'd got drunk and ever since then neither of them had mentioned the thing again.

But now Lafont and Bonny had taken this woman's husband and locked him up in that stadium. After questioning.

‘Come on, let's take a look at the bastard's room.'

‘There's nothing. They've already searched it. There was a woman with them, a young one, a dress designer's mannequin.'

Nicole de Rainvelle.

‘She laughed about it. She … she said they'd come back for me if they didn't find out what they needed. My husband couldn't have told them anything, Inspector. Turcel would have been too careful.'

Kohler held the door of the dovecote open for her. Madame Van der Lynn went ahead of him across the short span of roof that lay between the dovecote and the door to the stairs. Even up here Turcel had kept his options open. A Jew in hiding – he'd have flung the poor bastard down the stairs as they rushed to get him. He'd have gone any of six different ways across the roofs and he'd have had them all mapped out long ago.

‘He had a knife, this I do know,' she said, pausing at the door to Number 5-13, her forehead touching it. ‘A switch-blade. It was never far from his hand. He used to keep it under his pillow. That's … that's how I found out about it.'

They went into the room: two good-sized windows overlooking the canal and the quays, the curtains offering discreet cover to the not so passive observer. A chair, a table, an armoire and bureau, a washstand – a repeat almost of Christabelle Audit's room in the Hotel of the Silent Life, except that the stuff was a shade better.

Oona Van der Lynn went over to the bed. Kohler saw her begin to unbutton her cardigan. His voice level, he said, ‘Don't. Please don't. They …'

‘They have got someone else?' she asked, still touching a button.

He clenched a fist. ‘That I don't know. I wish I did.'

Giselle … Her name had been Giselle.

He began to search the room, was very patient for a man so in doubt and afraid.

‘How did you manage to find this place?' he asked.

Would he arrest her after all? ‘So many had left the city, the owner was in a panic. Looters, arson, so many things were on his mind. He found us quite by chance, or we found him. Even now I can't decide. His concierge had gone to Provence to stay with her brother. He asked few questions. Then he too left the city.'

Kohler opened the armoire to run his eyes over its emptiness. ‘And you haven't seen him since?'

‘I do the rents, pay the bills – everything. I send him the balance.'

He moved the armoire out from the wall a little to look behind it. ‘Give me a hand, will you, while I tilt it? Look for anything other than dust.'

She got down on her hands and knees at his feet. ‘Nothing … there is nothing. Monsieur Turcel had very little. A suitcase, one jacket, a coat, a few jerseys, a dark-blue turtle-neck sweater and soft-soled tennis shoes. He said they helped his feet.'

‘I'll bet they did.' Kohler set the thing back down. She stood up but didn't move away.

Stepping round her, he parted the curtains a little. Lafont and Bonny's men were now standing out for all the world to see. Hands in their coat pockets, the snap brims new. They were waiting to see what he'd do.

The woman went over to the bed again but now sat on its edge. There was nothing in the washstand, under or beneath it, nothing in the bureau either.

The cardigan was almost undone. ‘He came back. I'm certain he did,' she said.

‘When?'

‘On Wednesday night, at twelve-fifteen, maybe twelve-thirty. I'd gone up to see my husband after the curfew had started. We had to talk. Lately it had become so hard for us to even speak to each other. The house was locked. I … I thought I saw someone cross the roofs. I went downstairs but didn't go into the room. Instead, I waited in the hall, at the other end. It was him. I know it was. He'd come back to see if he'd left anything.'

So much for visiting his ‘dying' mother. More likely he'd slit the throat of a certain mackerel.

‘Did you tell the rue Lauriston this when they came to take your husband away?'

‘I … I forgot. Look, I really did. I was terrified. We both were. Besides, I was afraid that if I did, they'd kill us.'

‘Would your husband have known he'd come back?'

‘No, no I don't think he would have. Turcel would not have let himself be seen. I was just lucky. A chance, that's all. A glimpse.'

There was a burnt match in one of the geranium pots, a last cigarette before the killing could begin, or one taken afterwards? He'd have stood in the darkness carefully going over things, trying to figure out where whatever it was he'd left in the room had been misplaced.

She'd have stood out there in the corridor listening for him.

Oona felt her cardigan fall open. Now she could start on the blouse. They'd said this one had an appetite for it and that maybe if she let him do it to her, he'd help free her husband.

Kohler knelt on the bed to search behind the headboard. There was something lying in the fluff – yes, yes there was. A tool of some sort.

As he clambered off the bed, she stood up and he caught a glimpse of unbuttoned things and of moving fingers that were long and slender. ‘Don't. Please don't. Hey look, I'm on your side. It isn't necessary.'

‘They … they said …'

‘
Ja
, I know what they said. They think I'm a son of a bitch and they're out to prove it, so
don't.
'

He pulled himself under the bed and strained to reach the thing. Ah
merde!
This thing, this case … A man who was good with the knife, a Corsican –
Gott im Himmel
!

It was a small, handmade tool with a flattened wire loop at one end that was not circular but bent out for a couple of centimetres. A blunt point, with a sharper, more circular curve to the right.

The wire was bound to the short wooden shaft by tightly wound string that had first been soaked in salt-water to make it shrink on drying. Then grease of some sort – tallow perhaps – had been applied. It had the look of long usage, was something kept as a memento perhaps, but of what?

Lying there on his back, with the sagging springs just above him, he tried to think. Réjean Turcel … One of the hard ones. Three killings – had they been in sequence and had they all been done by him? The Ré and the Tu would fit the real name. The rest would be make-believe, but why rape the girl? An act of vengeance, violation to pay someone back? Antoine Audit, or Charles, his brother?

Thirty fake gold coins and the promise of far more. Find the forger, find the new owner of the carousel, the previous one too, find out what went on. Never mind the killings. Killing was an everyday affair these days.

Oona Van der Lynn's skirt hit the floor, then the slip cascaded about her ankles, lastly her underpants. She'd nice ankles, nice calves. A very stubborn woman.

‘Look, I told you not to do that. Put your things back on, and that's an order, eh? You're far too nice and I'm not like those bastards think I am.'

‘They will kill me if I do not let you have the use of my body.'

‘Then I'll tell them it was great, madame, and so will you.'

Getting down on her hands and knees, and then on her elbows, she peered uncertainly in at him. It was cold and she gave a little shiver as he stared back at her.

‘Can you think of anything else about Turcel?' he asked. She had such clear blue eyes. They were so large.

Doubt clouded the eyes and he wondered then if she would still try to force herself upon him. But no, she was honestly searching her memory just as a Dutch maiden would. Perplexed and earnest and wanting to help.

‘Once he laughed about the crows. He said that now that the city was starving, there was so little food they would have to go back to their old ways of raiding the farms, only they didn't know how to any more. Generations of sponging had spoiled them. He'd seen three dead ones that day. All had been too ravaged by hunger to have survived. Not even good enough to stuff.'

‘To stuff?'

‘To stuff, yes. To mount, I think.'