Kohler tossed off the cognac and held the glass out to Barbie for more. ‘Now that she’s left us, Herr Obersturmfehrer, I can tell you Frau Weidling lied. She was nowhere near that hotel of hers last night when the tenement caught fire. Her husband told us she was dining with you.’
‘And the night of the cinema fire?’
‘There wasn’t enough time between when she went in and when the fire started. She could have got there earlier and been waiting long enough, but I don’t think so. That driver of hers had to find Leiter Weidling, who then had to extricate himself from whatever he was doing. Then they had to drive back to place Terreaux and then back to place Bellecour before turning around to find out where the pumper trucks were heading.’
‘Leiter Weidling is above reproach. He has very good references, the best of security clearances.’
Kohler sighed inwardly at the futility of dealing with Berlin. ‘Was he keeping tabs on that wife of his, Herr Obersturmfuhrer? Was he using her to set it all up, eh? A Salamander who was just a bit too smart for him.’
Boemelburg had said that if anyone could stop the Salamander it would be Kohler and St-Cyr. ‘It was Leiter Weidling who gave us the dossier on his wife.’
‘Like a good Nazi should? Well, listen then, Herr Obersturmfuhrer. If that bastard isn’t bird-dogging his wife at her games then how is it he came to marry a woman like that? Either she knows something about him he doesn’t want anyone else to hear, or he’s in it with her and the two of them are making monkeys out of us all. Hey, you’ve given them exactly the set-up they need, so what’s it to be?’
Kohler would never learn that to swear allegiance to the Fuhrer and the Party was to obey its dictums. ‘Robichaud will be released into your custody. The Gauthier woman stays here until I am satisfied the Salamander is no longer of any use or a threat.’
‘And then?’
‘Then we shall see.’
Gingerly St-Cyr began to walk out on to the floor. There would be ropes for climbing, mats for tumbling, a box-horse and parallel bars … Wax? Had there been a dance? Ah no, of course not. Only in the most progressive of schools perhaps, but not here, he thought.
Ah merde! She was sprinkling wax on the floor behind herself. She was laying down a trail of it in hopes he would run and slip!
He stepped to one side. ‘Was Mademoiselle Bertrand blackmailing your brother, mademoiselle?’ he asked suddenly, his words echoing. ‘She wanted out, didn’t she? And fast! She knew Frau Weidling had suddenly turned up in Lyon and wanted to play-that’s why she needed money to escape. She knew that the cinema fire might happen and when it did, you had to kill Claudine to protect your brother.’
The canister of wax hit the floor and rolled away into a distant corner, and he knew she had thrown it as far as she could to fool him.
He started for her. When he had taken several steps, he stopped suddenly and she shrilled, ‘Henri was in Dijon! Are you mad? Insane? He … he had nothing to do with that fire. How could he have?’
She gave another ragged sob but did not move-at least he did not think she had. Ah merde! ‘Father Adrian had to die, mademoiselle. Did you telephone the Basilica using the name of Mademoiselle Aurelle? Did you get him to come to her flat where he found her naked and tied to her bed? You wrote the anonymous letters denouncing not only him but also Monsieur Artel, the owner of that cinema, and Madame Robichaud. How often did you watch for Robichaud and Mademoiselle Gauthier at that cinema? How often did you watch for Father Adrian and stand in the street outside looking up at Mademoiselle Aurelle’s bedroom window?’
She had moved away from him. He was forced to turn back. When he spoke resignedly it was as if something had gone out of him and a great sadness had entered. ‘How many times did you bare your soul to Father Adrian? You told him everything. How as a child you had secretly watched your brother and his friends, Claudine and Ange-Marie. Father Adrian encouraged you, didn’t he? Well, answer me. Answer!’
‘He … he made me take off my clothes. He said that … that God would not punish me and that … that I would begin to forget myself, my troubles.’
Ah no … ‘Where … where did this happen?’
‘At … at the house. Henri … Henri was always away. Dijon … Paris … out in the countryside some place. I knew it was wrong, that he was a priest and that Henri would find out. But I was so very lonely, Inspector, and so very worried. I … I could not stop myself, I could not stop Father Adrian. When I knelt before him, he … he would put his hands on my head, then pass them slowly down over my shoulders and under my blouse, my sweater, whatever … “Sin,” he would say. “Sin, my child, so that God will see that you are normal.” Normal!’
‘He knew about the fires, didn’t he? The ones in Lubeck, Heidelberg and Koln.’
‘Yes … Yes, he knew of them. He was my confessor, damn you!’
She ran. She slipped and cried out-fell and rolled sideways.
He heard her scramble up and bang into something-the wall perhaps. He heard her frantically searching for the door.
When he gripped her by the arm, she leapt and stiffened. When he let go of her, her back was pressed to the wall and she knew then that he had trapped her, that he would force her to tell him everything. Everything about those days at Concarneau on the beach among the dunes and in the woods. Everything about Henri and Ange-Marie and how Henri had touched Claudine between the legs and brought the flame close … close. A scream and then … then the sound of her crying out in rapture.
Everything about Claudine and Lubeck and how Henri had sent Claudine to find his little sister with her fiance naked in bed, sweating-copulating! Crying out to God in joy. Everything.
‘Is your brother intimate with you in a sexual way, Mademoiselle Charlebois?’
Ah no. No! ‘How dare you say that to me? How could you? Henri … Me? What is it that makes you think such a horrible thing?’
‘Mademoiselle, is it true?’
‘No. No! Of course it is not true!’
‘Then why, please, did your grandfather give Father Adrian that cross? Come, come, Mademoiselle Charlebois, Henri Masson would not have done so had he not exacted a promise from that priest.’
Promise … a promise. Why had the gas not exploded and killed them both? Why had it not burst suddenly into flame to burn the hair and melt the flesh? It would have been best that way. Flames, Henri. Flames. Your little sister, your little ‘Mademoiselle Charlebois’.
Throwing herself at the detective, she pushed him in the face and ran-ran-said, Must get away. Must not let him stop me. Not now. Never now. Run … run … A door … door … the hall … the hall … Hurry, hurry … Stop!
Listen.
He was searching for light switches. She was outside one of the toilets. There were windows high up in the far wall …
Easing the door open, she slipped inside and quickly crossed to the grey light of day that came in through wire-meshed, frosted glass. He must not find her. She must not go home. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. Henri …
Kohler’s spirits sank. Though he had no time for such things, the Theatre des Celestins was magnificent. It offered up its magic in ornate gilding everywhere and in plush, wine-red velvet on rows of seats too many to count.
Up on stage, and lit by floodlights, the outer curtain hung in folds of ruby-red that were held aside as by a woman’s hand to reveal the flame-red of her petticoats through which shafts of yellow shot upwards.