Close … far too close for comfort.
‘Well, Jean-Louis, we have the pleasure of your company again,’ said Prefet Guillemette ‘yet in spite of the urgency you do not call at my office? You do not exchange greetings or ask for assistance? A car, the ration tickets, some little thing? Ah no, not you. Well then listen, my friend. Listen, eh? Things have changed here. Be careful.’
The tramp of hobnailed boots came up to them from a Wehrmacht patrol somewhere on the side of the hill. ‘Prefet, let us bury the hatchet and not be so territorial. This case demands our every co-operation no matter on which side of the fence we sit.’
St-Cyr would never change. Never! ‘Fences? You talk of fences? Is it so wrong of me to invite the Obersturmfuhrer Barbie to dine with me, eh? Especially, my friend, as he is in charge of countersubversion and I must work with him and show good faith in public.’
‘Don’t try to make excuses, Gerard. I know all about your kind. Fence sitters, ah no. You and the others have always been in bed with them.’
‘Batard! And Kohler, eh? What of him? Isn’t he Gestapo? Won’t the Resistance still be aware of your association with him? Pah! I’ll do as I please and tip them off if necessary.’
‘Don’t threaten me, Prefer. Please don’t.’
‘Then don’t be a fool. Try to understand how it is. No mouse can fart for fear the lion will step on him.’
‘But you’re no mouse; you’re one of the lions? What did Herr Barbie want, Prefer? Your thoughts on the cinema fire, on this Salamander and Gestapo Mueller’s interest, or more Jews for you to herd on to railway trucks to Nowhere? Was the round-up of last August twenty-sixth insufficient? One thousand, I heard. Was it one thousand you contributed to the forty-odd that have so far been taken? You sent them to Venisseaux, to buildings that had long been abandoned, and then they were deported.’
Ah nom de Jesus-Christ! St-Cyr would never listen. ‘Shot or deported, it’s all the same with them. Like Robichaud, Louis, your tears are admirable but out of place.’
‘Then please do not light that cigarette, there is gasoline on my sleeve.’
Suddenly furious with him, Guillemette angrily stuffed the lighter and cigarette away. Much taller and bigger, a flic all his adult life and proud of it, he leaned on the railing, blocking St-Cyr’s faint view of the Croix Rousse. ‘Herr Barbie could not help but notice that little exchange you chose to have at the restaurant with Monsieur Artel and his associates, Louis, but that one, he did not ask me about it, you understand. The Obersturmfuhrer acted as though completely unaware of the furore.’
‘He didn’t want to spoil his dinner.’
‘Cochon! Did you not think when Herr Kohler borrowed his fiacre?’
His carriage. ‘Don’t call me a pig, Gerard. Please, let us try to work together, eh? The city demands it.’
‘My city, Louis. Mine!’
Ah nom de Dieu, was there no common ground? At sixty-two years of age, Guillemette had been Prefet of Lyon for the past twelve years. A hard-fought post. One had had to oil the way there but he was shrewd and clever, a force to be reckoned. An enemy that was definitely not needed. ‘Robichaud has had a hard time of it.’
Guillemette faced him bluntly. ‘Then start by asking the right questions. How is it he escaped to send in the alarm? Surely he should have stayed to direct people out of that building?’
When no answer came, the prefet clenched a ham-hard fist and raised it defiantly. ‘He panicked, Louis. He ran to save himself. That is why the tears, my friend. That is why he is so upset.’
Guillemette blew out his cheeks in exasperation. ‘Robichaud’s every action is being called into question, Louis. There are several who are saying he should be dismissed.’
‘Herr Weidling?’
‘Yes. Most certainly.’
It would be best to get it over with. ‘Where was Robichaud sitting, who was he with in that cinema …?’
The prefet snorted lustily. It was always refreshing to get the better of Paris! ‘One of my crows tells me he was in the back row, off the left aisle with his mistress, Madame Elaine Gauthier.’
The crows … the informers. Without them the police could not survive for long or advance up the ladder of command. Clearly Guillemette had been having the fire marshal followed. ‘I should like to meet this crow. Did he stay for the flames?’
‘You listen, Louis. Listen hard! Now I apply the gristle before the muscle. Robichaud does not remember with whom he was sitting or where, exactly. He claims the shock was too much and this has caused a loss of memory. Let us hope that it is temporary, eh? It would be a great calamity to us if we had to confine our fire marshal to the mental hospital at Bron!’
‘And this Madame Gauthier?’
Good! ‘Sizzled to bacon, my friend. Bacon! Pah! He was with his little bit of cunt and has abandoned her because he does not-I repeat not-want his wife to know about the affair!’
Ah nom de Dieu, Lyon and its politics! The couple would have met inside the cinema. ‘Are you certain she was killed in the fire?’
‘Positive! I make it my business to find out such things. There is another matter. Letters are starting to pour in. Anonymous, it’s true. Always we get them now. One says that Madame Robichaud must have set the fire to get even-hey, it’s been done before, eh? A lover lost. How many women go crazy after such a thing? But me, I’m not holding that one up like the gospel, though it’s an interesting idea, is it not?’
One would have to keep the voice calm. ‘Were there any other letters of interest?’
‘Two. One points the finger directly at Monsieur Artel-that is only to be expected. A girl, I think. One who perhaps was interfered with and wishes to get even.’
‘And the other?’ It was coming now. Everything had been building up to this moment. merde!
‘Don’t pretend to be so disinterested, Louis. This one claims Father Beaumont was breaking his vows with Mademoiselle Aurelle in that flat above the cinema and that God became angry with him. As a measure of my good will, you may keep the letters for study but must return them when this is over, so that we will have a record of them in case they are needed.’
First the threats and now the warning, but the damaging evidence too! Clearly Guillemette expected him to inform the bishop of the allegations. This could only mean that they were true. ‘And what about Herr Weidling?’ asked St-Cyr cautiously. Talking with the prefet was like walking on broken glass in bare feet!
‘What about his wife, Louis? Herr Weidling, like most men with young and very beautiful wives, must constantly keep up appearances and advance himself in her eyes so as to secure his position between her legs.’
‘Ah merde, a young wife, an old fire chief and a need to always impress her,’ muttered Louis. ‘And Robichaud had a mistress who was lost in the fire!’ It was a plea to that God of his for help.
Kohler grinned hugely as he joined them bearing the bishop’s bottle of Calvados. Tapping the prefet solidly on the chest, he snorted and said, ‘Madame Gauthier escaped the fire, mon fin. One of your crows has just died. Might I suggest you pick the buckshot out and attempt to sell the carcass on the black market? Try seven francs. That’s the going rate in Paris. At least it was, the last time I was there.’
With barely controlled fury, Guillemette said, ‘In Lyon we eat much better, mein Kamerad. What else did he confide in his alcoholic stupor?’