Three women, then, had there been three of them? Frau Weidling first and sitting elsewhere, then the two who had come in late. Ah merde.
At last the chambermaids he had followed into the Prince Albert Suite departed and he was able to step out of the closet and take a look at the place. Room upon room opened before him, with ornately carved and gilded mirrors and Louis XVI furniture. There would be nothing like this back home at the Fire Protection Officers’ School in Eberswald.
The bedroom was huge and with a canopied bed fit for a queen; another for Leiter Weidling elsewhere, of course, through a connecting door that was locked. Ah yes.
Kohler strode over to a magnificent commode. Opening drawer after drawer, he settled on the one with the lingerie. Pinks and blues and white and lace like he’d never seen before. Airy and as soft as a summer’s breeze beneath the moon, black and gold, silver and cinnamon-all colours. Silk … nothing but the finest silk.
Frau Weidling liked it next to her skin and quite obviously wore nothing else in those parts no matter the climate.
There were six of each, with washdays on Sunday? he wondered acidly. Had she tried them all on before that husband of hers? He shook his head. She’d have shown them to him and let Leiter Weidling see what he had to earn.
The box was of ebony, about twenty centimetres wide by fifteen in depth and perhaps eight in thickness. There was much scrollwork at the inlaid corners and around the lock … the lock, ah damn!
The box was heavy but when he shook it, there was no sound. She hadn’t been wearing the key around her neck-he was certain of this.
It was hanging from one of the taps in the bathtub by a simple ribbon of cream silk.
Frau Weidling pleasured herself. Three ebony godemiches lay nestled in black velvet, one longer and much thicker than the others. Rings of silver formed little ridges to give that extra bit of shudder, the heads so penis-like he had to lift one out. Beautiful workmanship; polished as smooth as glass.
The French word for dildo came from the Latin gaude mihi, rejoice me. Lost in thought, he fingered them. To each her own, he said. By themselves they didn’t mean a damn. Coupled with the presence of the boots, one had to wonder.
Closing the case, he put it back under the lingerie and swept the drawer for anything else. Was greatly troubled when he found a coil of sash cord and a pearl-handled pocket-knife. Ah merde, what now? he asked.
There were photographic prints, some twenty centimetres square, and they were not pleasant. When naked and very dead, the female form gave him no joy. Breasts that once might have been pleasing, sagged. Pubic hair that once might have drawn the eye, looked small and sordid, a clutch of nothing much. Wounds gaped but no longer bled.
The photos were all of sex crimes from the files of some criminal investigation branch-Lubeck, Heidelberg or Koln, which had it been and how had she come by them?
There was nothing on the plain brown envelope, not a stamp or signature, not a mention of any kind on the backs of any of the photographs.
Had the victims all been burnt in those most tenderest of places? he asked, wishing he’d time to study them-knowing now that time was precious and that the couple could come back at any moment.
The women’s ages varied. Some were old, others young, heavy, thin, long hair, short hair, bound wrists and ankles-burned, yes, yes, that one-strangled, some; knifed, others-at least two had been shot in the forehead. Bullet wounds in corpses don’t look nice.
Kohler slid the photographs away. Inadvertently, he saw himself in the minors, ashen, badly shaken and afraid. She’d be with Klaus Barbie. Louis and he couldn’t withstand another run-in with the SS. Mueller would have them hanged with piano wire.
Sickened, he fled the room-could only spend a few minutes with Weidling’s things. A briefcase tempted him and, in the end, he pulled out the files on the three fires and realized only then that the bastard had had them with him all the time.
Lubeck, Heidelberg and Koln. No need to contact anyone at home.
At the sound of laughter out in the corridor, he stopped breathing.
A light snow made greyer still the place Terreaux. Like a monument to loneliness, a single pumper truck sat near Bartholdi’s fountain. Still in tall rubber boots, coveralls, cape and helmet, his gauntleted gloves thrown aside, Robichaud gripped a wounded right hand from which blood ran. Silently he cursed the twisted metal that must have done that to him. He looked utterly exhausted, like some ancient gladiator upon whom the lions would now feed.
The crowd, kept back behind the barricades, stared mutely at him but now there was definitely a mood of vengeance. They wanted a scapegoat and they had him.
Angrily the fire chief ripped the scarf from around his neck and bound his hand, then stood staring defiantly back at them.
St-Cyr searched the faces. Hats, raised coat collars, earmuffs and scarves made it difficult. The girl might have come and gone or might yet return. He had no other choice but to help the fire chief.
‘There is a bottle in the cab,’ gasped Robichaud when he saw who it was. ‘Would you be so good as to get it for me. Quickly, I think, Inspector. Yes, the sooner the better.’
He didn’t wait for the bottle to be uncorked but snatched it away and used his teeth. Flinging off the scarf, he exposed the eight centimetres of torn flesh to the crowd and poured brandy over the wound. ‘Ahh …!’ he grimaced, clamping his eyes shut and dropping the bottle to grip the arm. ‘Now another,’ he gasped. ‘Another!’ he shouted. In the Name of God, don’t be weak. Just do it!’
St-Cyr got him bandaged and in the course of this, Robichaud saw the stitchmarks across the back of the detective’s left hand. ‘A knife in the night. Another case … two, yes. Yes it was not the case before this one, but the one before that. A carousel.’
They agreed that life was seldom easy, and shared the remainder of the brandy. ‘That gasoline at the Notre Dame came from the depot at the Delfosse Barracks in Perrache,’ grunted Robichaud.
‘So near Gestapo Headquarters?’ blurted St-Cyr.
The broad shoulders lifted. The haggard eyes didn’t waver. ‘The bishop gets an extra allotment at Christmas, so nothing untoward was suspected. The three jerry cans were delivered to the Basilica that afternoon and left outside the caretaker’s door.’
St-Cyr lit a cigarette for him. ‘Was it usual to leave them there?’
‘Ah no. No, of course not-not in these times, eh? But Auguste and Philomena-old Cadieux and that wife of his, the caretaker, you understand. He’s difficult, so it’s entirely understandable that one would leave the cans outside his door. He and the bishop are always quarrelling. It’s a caretaker’s right to defend his honour at all times, isn’t that so? Those two exist on God’s little piece of real estate only by being constantly at war. They act as though they’ve been married for years!’
He would ignore the allusion to Robichaud’s own marriage. ‘And the person who obtained the gasoline?’
The Surete had asked it so softly. Well, my friend from Paris, prepare yourself, thought Robichaud. ‘He said he was the bishop’s secretary, Father Adrian Beaumont. Look, Inspector, the caller knew all the ropes. He knew exactly who to contact and where to have that gasoline deposited.’
Ah merde! ‘A man?’
Robichaud drew deeply on his cigarette then let it cling to his lower lip as he exhaled. Yes, Inspector, a man.’
‘But … but it was two women at the cinema. We have the proof.’
‘What proof? The word of a terrified usherette? That of a fire marshal who should have stayed inside to help others escape? Come, come, Inspector, we need more proof than that and even I, who was so certain, have been forced to admit I must have been mistaken.’