‘Plenty but we’ll leave it for now. Just see that he isn’t bothered again. He’s got enough on his plate without worrying about his back.’
‘And yourselves?’ asked the Prefet. Kohler … Kohler of the Kripo, the most ignored and insignificant of the Gestapo’s subsections. Common crime.
“Right now we could use a place to eat and spend what’s left of the night,’ said Kohler blithely.
Without another word the prefet walked away into the deepest shadows of the basilica.
‘It’s all right, Hermann. Really it is. I think I have exactly the place. The address on this card our girl with the bicycle dropped in the place Terreaux.’
‘What card?’
‘A little yellow card.’
‘You’re full of surprises. Gabi won’t like it but you can trust me, Louis. I won’t breathe a word of it.’
‘If you do, Giselle and Oona will be bound to hear of it. Me, I would not like to cause disruption in your little menage a trois, especially when you’re being sued for divorce!’
They shared the Calvados in crystal glasses Kohler had borrowed from the bishop’s study. They wished each other a Happy Christmas, then asked, How can it be?
‘The Salamander is out there, Hermann. Having given us the scare of our lives, he or she or they, for some reason, failed to strike the match.’
‘Perhaps I scared them off?’
‘Perhaps, but then … ah, I do not know, Hermann. The cross leads us to the bishop and what do we find but everything in place for another major fire, a priest who messed about with spinsters, and a storeroom full of valuable paintings. It is a puzzle when puzzles are not needed.’
Louis always liked to take his time. The bugger enjoyed nothing better than a damned good case, murder especially!
‘Three fires in the Reich, Louis. A pattern. Same method, same reason, eh?’
Good for Hermann. ‘Yes, yes, and now that same reason again-is that so? The trigger for madness, the willingness to sacrifice so many perhaps all because of only one person.’
‘Our priest?’
‘Did the Salamander know him, Hermann, or better still, know of him?’
‘Of that woman who was tied to her bed? The priest wouldn’t have worn that cross if he was only going to fuck about with Mademoiselle Aurelle, Louis.’
‘The priest received a telephone call of some urgency.’
‘And that, then, caused him to wear the cross.’
‘And attend the film.’
‘Then he knew the Salamander, Louis, and was aware of what might well happen.’
‘He had been warned but not by Mademoiselle Aurelle, by someone else.’
‘But could not stop the fire and chose to die instead.’
Silently they toasted each other. Kohler refilled their glasses, draining the bottle and then tossing it over the edge to smash and tinkle and make its music somewhere below them.
‘Our fire chie’s no collaborator, Louis. The prefet’s been having Robichaud tailed ever since friend Barbie came to town. Our Klaus suspects the pompiers of being in league with the cheminots, but Robichaud swears it isn’t true. Not yet anyway.’
‘Fireman and railwaymen, Communists and Resistants … That’s a bad combination for the Occupier, Hermann.’
Kohler quietly confessed to everything he had found in the toilets at the cinema. He felt he had to do that. Things had become too rough as it was. ‘I’ve got all the schedules and papers on me, Louis. I couldn’t bring myself to burn them, and want to hang on to them for a bit. Okay? There’s another thing. Klaus Barbie is a fanatic when it comes to hunting down Jews and terrorists. The bastard has a mistress, one of the locals, but visits the best houses as well. That’s where he must have been heading after dinner, otherwise he’d have been here with the prefet.’
St-Cyr fingered the card the girl had dropped. ‘Not at this house, Hermann. It’s not one that is reserved for officers of the Wehrmacht and now the SS. How things have changed, eh? The SS and the Army, who would have thought they would get together as they have? It’s not Chez Blanchette or Chez Francine.’
‘Since when was that ever a problem? All I’m saying is don’t knock down any doors just in case. He might not like it.’
3
The street was damp, freezing and damned unfriendly. Worse still, it stank of piss, mould, soot and dead fish. Not a streetlamp showed. Steps sounded behind. Steps stopped. Louis switched off his torch and they stood there listening.
At 3.35 a.m. Berlin time, the rue des Trois Maries sighed and creaked as its thin sheath of ice, made colder and harder by the depth of the night, tightened here and there to crack and split apart elsewhere.
The steps began again-again they hesitated. Two … were there two men following them?
‘The bastards are learning,’ breathed Kohler, exasperated that the prefet-it had to be him-was having them tailed. ‘Louis, are you certain we’ve got the right place? This medieval street of sewers, it seems too … too unfashionable for a whorehouse with a name like La Belle Epoque.’
St-Cyr kept silent. They were in one of the oldest parts of Vieux Lyon, right below Fourviere Hill, right next to the quai Romain Rolland, the Saone and the bridge Alphonse Juin.
‘Wait here, then. Let me handle this. Don’t argue,’ hissed Kohler.
‘Of course.’
One seldom heard Hermann when he didn’t want to be heard. His ability to tail or find a tail was uncanny.
Somewhere over in Perrache, perhaps, tyres squealed, an engine raced … Gestapo … Gestapo …
Otherwise the city was silent. Unearthly and eerie in the clutch of the Occupier.
Time didn’t want to pass. It was so still. Then the scent of stale cigarette smoke came to St-Cyr, that of sweat, warm wool, urine and garlic.
The man was not two metres from him. Somehow he had slipped past Hermann and was now searching the Gothic entrances with their narrow sills.
Even as he watched the silhouette, dark against the deeper darkness of the opposite wall, he saw the man being rushed against the wall-heard the soft, sickening crush of flesh and bone, a smothered cry.
Smelled blood, then heard nothing more. Knew Hermann had dealt with the fellow.
Kohler cursed himself. He had let things get to him and had probably put the bastard in hospital for six months when a light tap would have sufficed! Now the bastard wouldn’t talk because he couldn’t, and the prefet would be in a rage.
Though he searched-went right back down the cramped and narrow street to stand among the tall stone columns of the austere and forbidding Palais de Justice, he could not find the other man.
He listened to the night. He tried to sort out its myriad odours and hear the heartbeat he knew must be near. The Salamander? he asked himself. Was it possible Prefet Guillemette had only sent one man to tail them, and the other was …
Perfume … was that perfume he was smelling?
La Belle Epoque …? he wondered. Mademoiselle Claudine Bertrand, age thirty-two, born 18 November 1910. Occupation: prostitute. Hair: black and long-most wore it short these days. Eyes: dark brown. Face: oval. Nose: normal-i.e., not Jewish. Height: 173 centimetres.
A little taller than the usual Lyonnaise-but why had the one with the bicycle dropped this one’s card? Surely the two were not one and the same. A wig? he asked and answered, The one with the bike was too young and far too timid.
Then why had she had the card in her hand?
The house was at the other end of the street. From there, the rue de la Baleine ran the short distance to the quai Romain Rolland and the Saone. There was a bell-pull. There were no lights.
They spoke in muffled tones. ‘Louis, maybe we should come back another time.’
‘Did you kill the other one?’
‘No. No, I couldn’t find him. The bitch got away.’
‘The bitch …? But …’
Kohler yanked savagely on the bell-pull. Jarred out of his wits, St-Cyr leapt and only realized then how pissed off Hermann must be.