Theodore Aubin grunted, ‘But of course, monsieur, I have seen her many times. The tall figure, the little cloche with the bit of veiling. The black overcoat also.’
‘But did you see her face?’
Ah nom de Jesus-Christ, what was the cause of this suspicion?
‘Well?’ demanded the detective harshly. ‘Yes or no?’
The fleshy throat was touched in uncertainty, the lower jaw gripped as if in cautious thought. ‘Then no, Inspector. I did not see that one’s face. Madame Rachline, she has walked past my cage, you understand, to tap the toes of her shoes or boots on the floor to warm the blood a little after coming in from such cold.’
‘When did she leave the building?’
Be careful what you say, eh? Was that it? ‘Me, I do not know, Monsieur the Inspector. One of the other tenants complained of a broken tap in the lavatory that is outside this building in the courtyard. I … I went with him to discover the trouble. A pipe had frozen.’
Had it been a chance bit of luck? wondered St-Cyr. Chance so often played havoc when something needed to be pinned down.
‘Those pipes are always freezing in this weather, Monsieur the Inspector. Madame Rachline could not have stayed more than an hour at the most. During this time, I returned to get my tools and another light, since there is no electric light in the toilet. The tenants, they are always stealing the bulbs these days. I’ve left repeated warnings. What else could I do but remove all bulbs until the affair, it was over?’
‘Did she come here often?’ asked St-Cyr, ignoring the outburst.
Aubin shook his head. ‘Once or twice a month, just to inquire as to how Mademoiselle Bertrand was if that one had been ill, which she often was-the chest, you understand. Sometimes to bring the mother a little soup or stew. That old woman didn’t eat much, Inspector. I’m not surprised she died and only wonder which of them went first.’
‘Oh? Why is that?’ asked the detective.
The concierge displayed a humble nature. ‘The mother, if she knew her daughter had died, would follow her, Inspector. That is often the way of those who are totally dependent on another.’
St-Cyr dragged out a broken package of cigarettes and offered one. ‘And if the mother had died first?’ he asked.
‘Then Mademoiselle Bertrand, she … she would have been relieved of a burden she has been forced to carry for far too long.’
The Surete struck a match and held it out. ‘Did Madame Rachline know her friend was a prostitute?’
‘That one? Ah no … no, Inspector. How could she? Madame Rachline is a mother with two children and no husband to support them. She takes in mending, is a seamstress, a fixer of dresses. A make-over artist to whom my wife and others go when the need is dire. A wedding, a funeral … ah, excuse me. A funeral, yes, yes of course. Another visit will be necessary, no doubt.’
Aubin looked up and shrugged at the added cost. Of course they would have to attend the funeral since who else would?
St-Cyr began to pack his pipe. ‘Then this Madame Rachline lives nearby?’ he asked non-committally.
The cigarette was budgeted with a sigh. ‘She rents that part of the house behind La Belle Epoque, on the rue des Trois Maries, Inspector. I think, but cannot be certain, you understand, that Mademoiselle Bertrand used to work in that place. Perhaps that is how they came to know one another? The dresses, the sheets, the seamstressing. Perhaps it is that Madame Rachline does a little work for the house. In any case, she is a lady who protects her children from all such things, of this you can be certain.’
‘And her husband?’ asked St-Cyr.
‘Gone as I have said. Where, I do not know since she never speaks of him, nor do either of her children. A son of ten and a daughter of twelve.’
He put the tobacco pouch away. ‘Did Mademoiselle Bertrand limp when she returned at nine fifty-seven?’
‘Limp? But …? Why … why, yes. Yes, she had lost a shoe.’
‘Good!’ St-Cyr crammed the pipe-stem between his teeth and lit up. Blowing smoke, he waved the match out and nodded sagely. ‘Don’t touch the rooms. Let the police do their work. They will remove the bodies and dust for fingerprints and then they will seal everything until further notice.’
5
Grimly St-Cyr drew on the pipe he longed to enjoy. It was Christmas Day, and for one brief glimpse, the grey above cleared as church bells pealed.
He reached the centre of the pont Alphonse Juin and leaned on its carved stone parapet, gazing downriver at the Saone. Sheet-ice had formed in places. Vapour rose above pools where brown scums of sewage froth overflowed to stain that pristine glacial sheath.
Two women, the one now dead, the other a ‘seamstress’, the mother of two children, the madam of a very high-class bordello.
Childhood friends, one of whom had been ‘special’.
A convoy of Wehrmacht lorries began to cross the bridge, startling him and scattering the velo-taxis, vibrating the ancient footings which seemed to cry out, For shame! How can you let this happen to us?
The convoy was travelling at a march-past to impress the populace and not suffer the indignity of skidding on the treacherous surface that had already spilled too many. Three motor cycles were ahead of an open touring car. Klaus Barbie and some woman …
The grey fox-fur coat rippled in the breeze. She laughed, wore no hat and must be freezing but would not let on. Flashing grey-blue eyes and dark auburn hair, not French, ah no, definitely not. Frau Weidling … was it Frau Weidling?
The lorries threw their shadows over him and when the last of them had passed, he heard the rudeness of a flatulent trombone and saw that it came from a concert band.
The convoy reached the far side and turned downstream along the quai des Celestins. The sewage bubbled up from the bottom of the river. The stains followed the lorries, flooding over the ice as if unstoppable.
Two women, three fires in 1938 in the Reich and now another and far worse fire in Lyon and an attempt that could so easily have ended in disaster.
The shards of a gilded glass tree-ornament, an antique taken, no doubt, from La Belle Epoque so as to have a bit of decoration, a little something to love and remind one of Christmases past and childhood friends, the beach at Concarneau. Ah yes.
And a girl with a bicycle. One whose earnest brown eyes had looked searchingly across place Terreaux towards the ruins of the cinema.
A girl with short, light brown hair, no lipstick and no rouge. A grey plaid skirt and dark grey woollen argyle kneesocks. Flat-heeled brown leather walking shoes-was she English? Had she once visited England and adopted that style of dress? Had she been so agitated and distracted she had forgotten to wear her winter boots?
Not beautiful, not plain either. About twenty-five or -six years of age. A schoolteacher perhaps and therefore formerly a student.
A priest who took advantage of lonely women. A jewelled cross and a wealthy benefactor who could well have been in the priest’s debt: Monsieur Henri Masson.
La Belle Epoque.
The girl had returned to the scene of the fire. She had been worried, had been struggling valiantly with her conscience. Why else the yellow work card of Mademoiselle Claudine Bertrand? Why else the one thing that would most easily lead them to the brothel and then to the prostitute’s body?
Kohler warily let his eyes sift slowly over a pair of women’s shoes that would come well above the ankles and were of black leather with lacing up the front and pointed toes. The shoes were on the floor at the back of the closet in which he had hidden for so long. But shoes they were and he knew that if presented with them, Suzie, the usherette who was still downstairs in the bar of the Hotel Bristol, would recognize them instantly as the ‘boots’ she had seen on one of those two women.
Frau Weidling and Claudine Bertrand must have sat side by side in that cinema. But two women had come in late, and he was almost certain Frau Weilding had come in alone.