‘A surprise?’ blurted Hermann, dragging a piece of paper from a pocket. ‘Haydn, Louis. Right after the intermission.’
‘He can’t time things that closely, Hermann, not unless he intends to be there.’
Weidling took a pistol from his jacket pocket. ‘My wife’s,’ he said. ‘Sadly I neglected to tell her I had taken it from her purse. When the call came to go to the warehouse at the flea market, she must have forgotten to look for it. A Beretta I intend to use.’
‘Then let us hope you do,’ swore Hermann. ‘This place will go up like a torch.’
The lobby was crowded. People were streaming out through the doors. Drinks on the house as a gesture of good will. Champagne and darting looks. Stares and bolder stares.
They went back to work but found nothing further. Absolutely nothing!
Haydn’s ‘Surprise’ Symphony contained the simple melody of the child that should be in everyone. Again the cellos were being worked hard. Always one was waiting for something new to happen. Always there was this overwhelming sense of expectation and the excitement of it. A childlike innocence if one would but listen, yet very, very deliberate a seduction and very, very sophisticated.
From the upper balcony, Louis could not help but wonder at Charlebois’s choice of pieces. Had he chosen those passages which raised the spirits beyond all else to subvert the alertness of those who sought him, or had he done so out of a genuine love of beauty?
A strange man, one governed by an obsession. One who became so desperate after the cinema fire, he would, in hopes of pointing the finger at someone else, plant in the Basilica’s belfry the frivolous shoes of the sister he loved.
Using the opera glasses, St-Cyr searched the faces of the audience. Four rows in from the unused orchestra pit in front of the stage there had been two empty seats side by side and next to the aisle. Seats that Leiter Weidling and his young wife would have used.
Ange-Marie Rachline had taken the farthest one from the aisle. Pensive, and with hands clasped in her lap, she waited for Charlebois to join her. From where she sat, she could not possibly see the sister’s cello yet he was certain she looked that way.
The melody was repeated. It was so like something that would accompany a nursery rhyme or a child’s game of hopscotch perhaps. Again St-Cyr found himself listening to it; again he waited expectantly for it to change. A surprise …
She had taken off her overcoat so that Charlebois might see her better. He knew she would have stood to search the faces of the crowd, hoping to be found. Had she still the scissors in her purse? Would she still try to kill her childhood friend or had she, like Father Adrian, resigned herself to a death by fire?
Following the line of her gaze, he paused at the prompter’s box which was inset into the floor of the stage right at the front and low enough so as to be unobtrusive. He let the glasses search its mat black hood as he remembered the dream, the nightmare and asked, Had anyone thought to look immediately beneath the stage? Surely someone must have.
The cello … Hermann was standing at the far side of the stage out of sight of the audience. He did not look happy.
The cello … Ah mon Dieu, what was there about it? A beautiful glow to the wood, warm, so warm. The sound holes, yes. Yes, of course. A string … Ah no.
Around the strings near the bridge there was a thin piece of gut and this stretched until it disappeared into the farthest sound hole.
‘Hermann …’ he began. ‘Hermann …’
Kohler saw Louis turn on his heel so swiftly he knew there was not a moment to lose. He started out across the stage. He knew he’d never stop the Salamander, not now. Never now. Ah merde! A music stand … He grabbed the thing as it fell, and flashed a grin as he straightened it. Then he was leaning into the conductor’s ear. ‘Keep playing this piece over and over. Don’t stop unless you want the fucking place to burn!’
Threading nimbly among the first cellos and along past the seconds-ah Gott im Himmel it was a squeeze-he reached for the instrument only to see the gut around its strings and hear the music all around him, the rising, joyously mischievous sound of cellos playing Zaddle-zaw, taw, daw, dah. Zaddle-zaw, tah …
Verdammt! The son of a bitch had run another line from the foot of the cello under the platform on which some of the second cellos sat.
Now what was he to do? Aghast, Kohler looked up. Everyone would be watching him. Everyone! Ange-Marie Rachline was coming toward the stage … the stage …
Somehow he got down on his hands and knees between the instruments, the chairs, the legs of the musicians and the music stands. Somehow he got out the wooden-handled trooper’s knife the Kaiser had issued to all ranks above those of dead men. The blade was wickedly sharp because it always had to be, and when he had gingerly cut the tripline, he delicately passed it under the lacquered toe of a black shoe and tied it to the high heel. Said into a pretty ear, ‘Please don’t move your foot. Not a millimetre. Just think of it as a bomb.’
Giving her a fatherly pat on the shoulder, he straightened up to tower over them, a shabby giant without his fedora, and the music went on and on all around him, the music …
Ange-Marie Rachline was now standing just beyond and to one side of the prompter’s box. Ignoring her as best he could, the conductor took the orchestra through its paces, the sound of the cellos diving spiritedly into Zaddle-zaw, taw, daw, dah … until it filled the air.
For an instant their eyes met and Kohler shook his head. ‘He’s below us,’ he said, mouthing the words for her and pointing downward.
The music pounded in her ears as she headed straight for the east wing, and when Kohler caught up with her to take her firmly by the arm, he said, ‘Don’t try to stop him madame. Please don’t. Let us get to him first.’
‘He will not listen to you! He will destroy the things he loves the most. You must let me talk to him. Please! I beg it of you. In his own way, Henri might still consider me a friend. Maybe … maybe he will listen to me.’
Over and over again the melody came to them as they joined the others. Beneath the stage there were timbered posts, a forest of them with cross-pieces for bracing. There were steamer trunks, old suitcases, stage props, cobwebs. The beam of Leiter Weidling’s torch pierced the darkness.
They were all on their hands and knees and scrambling madly through this place until … ‘Henri …’ she managed.
‘Louis, don’t let her go to him.’
‘Don’t any of you move,’ shrilled Charlebois. ‘I’ll do it! I will!’
Weidling swore as his light found the Salamander and he saw the uniform of a Wehrmacht corporal. A corporal …
‘Don’t shine it into his eyes,’ hissed St-Cyr. Ah merde! Each hand tightly clutched a fist-sized brown glass jar of phosphorus in water. Charlebois was sitting right beneath the cellos, with his back against a post. The line of gut was still wrapped around his right hand and it ran from there up to a tiny hole in the floor.
‘Monsieur …’ began Louis.
‘Henri …’ pleaded Madame Rachline. ‘Henri, let me come to you.’
He must have thought this over, for he gave her a brief, sad smile before shaking his head. ‘It’s too late. It’s over, Ange-Marie. Tell them I’ll give you time to escape but only yourself.’
There was gasoline on the floor and when she reached it, she hesitated, for it was all around him and he sat right in the middle of it. ‘Henri … Cheri, listen to me, please. Martine … You know how much she loved to play in the orchestra.’
His face stiffened. The jars were raised threateningly. ‘Only because I made her,’ he said. ‘Me, Ange-Marie. Me, the brother who loved her more than anyone.’