Kohler was impressed. Which Cinderella had the Salamander chosen to target by leaving the shoes up there or had she left them herself? Madame Rachline-were her feet that small? One of her girls at La Belle Epoque? Claudine perhaps? Frau Kaethe Weidling nee Voelker, or Mademoiselle Martine Charlebois, the girl with the bicycle?
The shoes had hardly been worn. Indeed, though they were well kept, he had the thought they’d not been worn since those other fires in 1938. They’d been bought on impulse perhaps and then hidden away. Had she been ashamed of them and what they’d shown her of herself, or had the joy of such pretty things been taken from her by those fires?
Madame Philomena Cadieux didn’t want to give them up but he told her she’d better. ‘You’d look ridiculous in them at your age. Right? Besides, I have to find the feet they shod.’
Oxalic acid, Louis, he said to himself as he went out into the night. A white, crystalline powder looking not unlike granulated sugar. Used as a cleaning agent and as a bleach. When combined with sulphuric acid, it produces carbon monoxide AND carbon dioxide.
Deadly if breathed in concentrations of one per cent CO, which would have been the least case, and not a hint of what was happening, poor thing.
Whoever had fed Claudine the vapours of friar’s balsam had made damn certain she’d die. So, too, her mother.
But Louis would not yet know of this. ‘Ah merde, be careful, mon vieux. Don’t take anything for granted.’
* from the verb se debrouiller, to manage
7
‘Madame Rachline, it is absolutely essential that you accompany me to the central morgue. I regret the necessity but …’
‘But business is business, Inspector St-Cyr. Is that it?’
Ah nom de Dieu, had he struck a sensitive chord at last? ‘Madame, a childhood friend and employee is dead. Please, I must insist. I’ve a car waiting.’
A car … ‘Did she die in peace?’
What was the woman thinking? ‘Yes. She would not have known.’
‘Then what is the concern? For years Claudine has wanted release, Inspector. If she died in her sleep, then her soul is at rest.’
He would have to be firmer. ‘Madame, murder is suspected. A positive identification is necessary of both Mademoiselle Bertrand and her mother. The law requires that you accompany me. If you refuse, then I will ask the magistrate to issue you with a summons and the prefet to provide you with the necessary escort!’
Murder … ‘The prefet, of course. Shall I ring for him?’
The bitch!
‘Or shall I come peacefully, Inspector, without further discussion?’
‘Peacefully, I think. Bring an extra wrap and boots for it is very cold and will be equally so in the morgue.’
‘These will have to do.’ The shoes were from that other time, from the belle epoque, of black patent leather, laced up the front and well above the ankles. Once again her jet-black hair was swept up and pinned with diamonds to match those that dangled from her ears and fastened the black velvet choker about her slender neck. A tall and splendidly elegant woman in a tight-bodiced dress of black silk crepe that shimmered.
A girl, a maid he had never seen before, brought a hat with a bit of black veil and a ribbon. A lace scarf went over the hat and was tied beneath the chin. Then the black overcoat with its Persian lamb collar, scarf and gloves were added until she looked exactly like a painting of Tissot’s.
They went out to the car and he held the front door open for her saying, ‘I believe you know our driver, madame.’
There was no light with which to see her reaction, only the silhouettes of two people who had spent their summers on the beach at Concarneau with Claudine Bertrand.
St-Cyr left her to close the door while he got into the back seat. That way at least he would catch their first words.
‘Ange-Marie …’ began Charlebois. ‘Forgive me. I had no other choice.’
‘Nor I, Henri.’
What was it between the two of them? wondered St-Cyr. Would they drive in total silence, cold to each other, frozen to the heart?
They came to the quai Roman Rolland and the Saone. Scant blue-washed lamps, staggered at irregular intervals in the frosty darkness, revealed the pont Alphonse Juin. Once across it, Charlebois headed upriver along the quai Saint Antoine.
St-Cyr studied their silhouettes, trying to fathom what was going through their minds. They both sat so stiffly, the bad back of the one perhaps, the rigid control of the other. Had they once been lovers, had they come to hate each other, or were they united in this, a Salamander? There was a terrible strain between them that could not help but permeate the car just as the faint scent of her perfume did, although the perfume was not Etranger, not tonight.
‘Madame Rachline, the concierge at Number Six rue du Boeuf claims he saw you return with Claudine at about ten on the night your friend died.’
Ah merde … ‘Is he positive, monsieur?’ she asked, not turning to look at him.
‘As positive as a concierge can be. You were apparently an infrequent visitor. He has said that you-’
‘She was ill. I had told her to take a few nights off, Inspector, but then there she was at my door. I … I took her home and put her to bed. What harm is there in that?’
Then Claudine had gone to her house and not to La Belle Epoque … ‘None.’
‘Inspector, surely Madame Rachline is not under any suspicion?’
Was it a crack in their collective armour at last? ‘Everyone who had any connection with her is under suspicion, monsieur, until the deaths of Mademoiselle Claudine and her mother are cleared up and the arsonist is apprehended.’
‘But … but surely there is no connection?’ said Charlebois. ‘Surely Claudine had nothing to do with that fire-how could she have, if she had gone to La Belle Epoque to see Madame Rachline?’
‘Of course. It is a question that plagues me, monsieur. So, madame, you took her home and put her to bed. How was her mother?’
Only pinpricks from the headlamps gave light to the road ahead. There was ice everywhere, and everywhere it was bumpy and cut by ruts. ‘Her mother, like all old ladies who suffer from dementia and do not know why they are where they are or why God has put them there, was asleep.’
‘Would Madame Bertrand have welcomed release, do you think?’
How carefully he had chosen his words and lowered his voice. ‘From dementia, yes, Inspector. From life, no. Madame Bertrand … you would have to have known her from before her husband was killed in the last war. Even though I was very young, I can still remember her smile and the graceful way in which she moved. There … there was always a quiet dignity to her, Inspector, a … a …’
‘A radiance that encompassed everyone who came within her presence.’
‘Yes. Yes, Henri is correct, monsieur. A radiance. Thank you for saying it, Henri.’
Saying it at last-was that it? Frost clouded the windscreen and iced up the side windows. Though there was a heater in the Ford sedan, it was not of much use. Charlebois was forced to lean forward over the steering wheel, gripping it tightly. This allowed her to study him without turning her head.
Again St-Cyr found himself trying to fathom what was going through their minds. Had she stretched out a foot to warn Charlebois of the danger-Be careful what you say, Henri. The detective may know more than he is letting on-or to signal something else, something far more direct?
‘Madame, the friar’s balsam … Did your friend find it gave relief?’
They were on the quai Saint Vincent now, right at the foot of Croix Rousse, whose steep beehive of tenements, narrow streets and traboules the inspector would know well enough to realize their potential for escape. The road was treacherous. One simple mistake and Henri would skid off to the left and go through the railing and down over the bank into the river. An accident … an accident … They’d be at the morgue soon. Would she be able to keep control of her emotions? she wondered.