But now they paused. ‘Jacquot, is it the end of the world and they’re not able to piss anything but ashes? Jesus putain de bordel, what is going on up there? Don’t they know how difficult this is?’ swore the one with the hammer, the argot not of the Auvergne but of Paris, La Villette and the Marche aux Bestiaux, the stockyards. Well, what was left of them.
‘It’s nothing, Marcel. Only a little cremation. Merde, your eyes. Are they really that bad?’
‘Specs? Do you think I need specs at my age?’
‘Easy. Go easy, eh? I wasn’t insulting you.’
‘Then watch what you …’
The guns had been gathered, the torches too. Kohler put a finger to his lips, pointed up the shaft and whispered, ‘One word and it’s your last. Now climb out. You first,’ he indicated the older one with the scar, the squint and the three days of growth, a drinker. ‘Untidy,’ he said, ‘and you in uniform. Look, there’s grease on your jacket.’
Hit and hit hard with the butt of a Bergmann, scar-face’s eyes flew open, blood burst, teeth broke, but the salaud didn’t go down. Sacre, he’d pulled a slaughterhouse knife!
Again the Bergmann was swung, but now the barrel was grabbed, yanked, the feet slipping. Verdammt! Grease on the hand that clutched his overcoat. Grease on his own hand but none on the one that held the knife close in and as delicately as a feather.
Round and round they circled in the shattered light of both torches which had rolled or been kicked to the sides.
‘Marcel, take him. It’s Kohler.’
‘Do you think I don’t know who it is?’
Short, squat, bull-headed, the iron-grey hair cut so close it was a bootbrush, the ‘old’ man with the scar and the ‘weak’ eyes never gave him a chance. Always the lunge, always the feint, a drop down to the left or right, the hobnailed boots giving better purchase than wet, leather-soled Gestapo shoes and a left knee that shrieked pain every time it was moved!
Two fingers of a free hand came up to motion him in, the forefinger missing all but its second joint, the other only its first.
‘Jacquot, is it stuck?’ came a yell from above.
The hand with the knife went in and up, the arm went back and broke.
‘Now you,’ managed Kohler, his foot jammed down hard against the old one’s neck, his right shoulder shrieking, ‘or is it that I’m simply to shoot you?’
The lift hadn’t moved in some time. No longer was there the smell of smoke, the sight of Charles-Frederic Hebert or anyone else, no longer words that had echoed as they’d been called down to the cellars. Merde, what was he to do? wondered St-Cyr. Hermann would leave their torches in the car! Too impatient, too worried and distracted …
The cables would be old and frayed, but surely there’d be an iron ladder bolted to one side of the shaft in case of just such emergencies. Then what if Ferbrave and the others suddenly decided to lower the lift, what if the electricity was switched on?
It didn’t bear thinking about. These old lifts, so many competing designs … roof hoists, cellar hoists, counterbalances, trips and locks to catch a falling cage if all else should fail. ‘Mademoiselle,’ he whispered, ‘stay exactly where you are even if the lift should tilt a little. I’m going up to the floor above. A short climb, difficult perhaps, but possible, I think.’
‘And hope?’
‘Let’s not argue. Hermann must be in trouble and will expect this of me. The others have, I believe, taken him.’
‘And if they haven’t?’
‘You’ll be certain to hear us.’
There was no difficulty in locating the hatch above and climbing out through it. Once on the roof, the Inspector seized hold of the cables. He had planted his feet firmly, Ines knew. Chunks of broken plaster must have littered the little roof. Some of these could not help but be disturbed and when they fell, she listened hard for them to hit someone in the cellars, but they did not hit anyone.
‘There is no ladder,’ she heard him say under his breath. ‘My gloves,’ he muttered. Had he left them in the lift? she wondered. Crouching down on hands and knees, and setting her case and bag aside, she began to search the floor.
‘Mademoiselle, what are you doing?’ he whispered urgently.
‘The gloves,’ she said. ‘I can give you mine.’
‘It’s not necessary. I was only fussing about ruining them. Replacements are impossible.’
The sculptress moved back to her corner, the cage tilting that way a little, its guide rails worn.
‘Now stay there, please,’ he said. ‘Everything is fine.’
Ines tried to remember lifts she’d taken in Paris. Many had gone up through the wells of spiralling staircases. Between the ages of ten and twelve, Celine and she had been fascinated by them and had often played a game of racing each other, the one taking the lift, the other the stairs, until caught, sent down by the concierge and banished for a time to walk the streets arm in arm and window-shop. Then they’d dare each other to venture in, not only to gush over the most insignificant and appallingly tasteless items, but to ask their price and try to bargain. Then they would decide to leave and, in full view of the shopkeeper, give the money to the first beggar who came along.
Celine …
The little light above her came on. There was a loud, metallic click, a clunk, and the pulleys began to strain, to turn as she blinked.
Terrified, Ines groped for the buttons. Must stop the lift. I must! she cried out to herself and began to press and then hit them with the palm of her right hand. The lift went down and down, only to suddenly stop.
Timidly she put an exploratory hand through the gate to touch the cold wall of the shaft. Again she pressed a button. Now the lift started up, only to stop. Now she pushed the button hard, and again the lift started up, only to descend and quickly come to another abrupt stop.
She hesitated, waited — pushed another of the buttons.
Down and down the lift went until at last its cage door was opened and then closed.
‘Albert …’ she said, her voice not loud or shrill, but flat and toneless as she backed away until she could no longer move.
He did not answer. He drew in a breath as he studied her. Was he puzzled? Had he been pushing the buttons too? Surely he must want to know where St-Cyr had gone?
Another breath was taken, then he gave a little sigh and the smell of him came to her.
Kohler was moving fast. He had to draw the Garde off, had to help Louis out, couldn’t let them have the trumped-up, pseudo-medical file on Julienne Deschambeault either, would have to hide it and the other one some place, but where?
He had propelled the two from the lift-well partway up the main staircase and into the rest of the Garde, had run from these as they’d come thundering down into the cellars. He had gone to ground himself, but every time he entered a corridor, the lights would be thrown on and they would catch a sight of him.
Merde, if only he could find Olivier, if only Madame Ribot could have told him where that one was hiding. The old PTT? he wondered again, as he and Louis had … An ear constantly to the telephone lines not just from this hotel, but from the Hotel du Parc, the Majestic and all the others. Olivier and that bank of his had financed the building and the move to a bigger, modern exchange, but was there a corridor to it, a tunnel of some kind? Old cables … had those been what he’d seen running along the ceiling of this corridor?