‘What about the fire doors that were locked? What about the owner?’
‘What about him indeed? Let’s find the owner and ask him.’
‘No sleep?’
‘Not tonight. Not yet anyway. Not while the Salamander, if he or she even exists, is out there, Hermann, waiting to see what we will do.’
Louis seldom had the last word but the prospect of being watched was uncomfortable and Kohler let him have it. There was also Gestapo Mueller’s interest to consider. Shit!
In silence they returned to the cinema to find Robichaud and ask him where the owner might be found. It was not far.
2
The bistro Albert Brule was on the Quai de la Pecherie, overlooking the Saone and Fourviere Hill, if one could see them through the darkness. There was only a tiny blue light above the entrance to signal anything out of the ordinary behind the black-out curtains, yet three velo-taxis and two horse-drawn cabs were waiting in the freezing cold. The foyer held a bar and coatcheck. The restaurant was jammed, the talk earnest and everywhere. A businessman’s place but several women were about, all well-dressed, gay and vivacious. Excited.
Mistresses? grinned Kohler, inwardly nodding as Louis hushed the head waiter and negotiated Surete business. The men would be showing the girls off to their competitors and associates. Not a whiff of tobacco smoke in the place-a real chef then. A fanatic in these hard times. If you want to smoke, go elsewhere. Don’t ruin the taste of my cooking! And wasn’t it marvellous what a person could do on the black market?
The clientele obeyed the no-smoking rule. Perhaps fifty customers were seated. There were two long rows of marble-topped tables placed end to end. Knees touched. A hand was on a woman’s silk-stockinged knee. Ah yes, she was good for a little feel. Island tables elsewhere had electric lights turned down to give atmosphere, not to save on power as per the regulations. Panelled mahogany walls held oil paintings of nearly naked girls running through moonlight, and of others bathing in the buff while eating grapes and thinking of more tasty things, perhaps.
There wasn’t a word of the recent catastrophe, not a mention of little girls in flames. Why spoil dinner?
‘Remember to let me make the overtures, eh?’ cautioned the Surete, gruffly putting his badge away and removing his fedora. ‘There is absolutely no sense in throwing your weight around in here, Hermann. These people will all have well-placed friends in the SS, the Gestapo or the Wehrmacht. Indeed, several of those types are here tonight, so, please, do not make a disturbance! We’ve been in enough trouble and must get this over with.’
‘Just remember I’m older than you and still the boss.’
‘Then perhaps you would be good enough to tell me what it was you found so disturbing in the toilets of that cinema?’
‘Nothing. Absolutely nothing, Louis. You know how my stomach is. So many bodies, the smell of roasted fle-’
‘Hermann!’ St-Cyr grabbed him by the arm. ‘A cognac,’ he hissed at the barman. ‘Hurry, idiot! Before he vomits all over the place!’
Visions of braised human ribs came to Kohler, of a woman’s shapely buttocks, the skin now crisp and brown, the juices running through the cracks. He smelled the sweetness of death, the putrefaction. He saw a set of white, white teeth, red lips parting in laughter and wanted to choke that laughter off!
The Prunier was downed in a gulp-aged thirty years! The ragged cheeks, with that terrible scar from the left eye to chin and memory of a rawhide whip, slowly began to lose their pallor. St-Cyr gripped his partner a moment more before releasing him. ‘Is the news that bad?’ he asked. ‘Ah, nom de Jesus-Christ! Resistants, Hermann? Come, come, mon ami, out with it, eh? We’ve been condemned to work together. It’s best I know everything.’
The Bavarian’s eyes were smarting. He swallowed another brandy with difficulty. ‘Then you tell me what you didn’t, and I’ll tell you what I didn’t.’
That was fair enough. Always there was this hedging on both sides of the partnership. ‘Later, then. Let’s see what our Monsieur Artel has to say about his cinema.’
The woman who had laughed followed Kohler with her bright eyes, doubt growing in them. He knew she would swiftly lose spirit but had to tell her something.
Leaning closely, he whispered into the sweet shell of her scented ear, ‘I’m sorry if I frightened you, mademoiselle, or is it madame and your husband off somewhere else? A POW camp in the Reich, eh? Hey, more than a million and a half Frenchmen still languish behind barbed wire in spite of all the promises to let them go home. The poor buggers dream of girls like you but have to masturbate.’
Devastated, she dropped her fork and seized her napkin, so, good! ‘Bon appetit, madame,’ he said and tossed the rest of the party a nonchalant wave.
The meal at Artel’s far-corner table was being consumed by four Lyonnais businessmen in almost identical, nondescript blue serge suits and subdued ties. They talked of business, were solicitous towards their host while privately holding their own thoughts. They spooned with stolid indifference the potage veloute aux truffes, the boneless fish soup painstakingly made by pressing the steamed fish through a fine wire sieve and blending the result with long-simmered fish stock, a creamed sauce of beaten eggs and flour, and the truffles of course. Ah mon Dieu, it made the digestive juices run to watch them.
Now and then a double chin was hastily wiped with a large, white linen napkin, a glass of red Beaujolais nouveau was reached for or a crusty loaf from which a generous chunk would be ripped by pudgy fingers and perhaps dipped in the soup before being eaten. On one little finger there was a jade signet ring. All the left hands had gold wedding bands …
‘Louis, they haven’t even noticed us.’
‘Don’t feel so put out. You’re not dressed properly. Observe, eh? Tell me which is the notary, which the banker, which the insurance agent?’
‘And which is our man, Monsieur Fabien Artel?’
The owner of the cinema.
‘Monsieur Artel? Monsieur Fabien Artel?’ asked Louis quite pleasantly.
The man hesitated. ‘Yes. Yes, that is me.’ He threw the head waiter a scathing glance. ‘What is it you want of me?’
St-Cyr took the table in, nodding to the others. ‘Messieurs. No, please, continue with the soup. It is very good, is it not?’
Artel tossed a dismissive hand. ‘You’re from the police. This is neither the time nor the place. Please leave.’
Ah well, a stubborn one. ‘We’d rather not, monsieur. It’s Christmas Eve and we’d like to get home.’
‘The prefet-’
‘Fabien, go easy. As your legal adviser-’
‘Don’t interrupt me, Martin. Guillemette is right over there, dining with the Obersturmfuhrer Klaus Barbie. I need only give a nod, and he will see to it.’
Ah nom de Dieu, Klaus Barbie! ‘Monsieur, do not try my patience,’ breathed St-Cyr. ‘One hundred and eighty-three have died in your cinema. A few simple answers are in order if we are to stop the arsonist from committing another, and perhaps even more horrendous crime.’ He let his gaze move to the insurance agent-one could tell them apart at a glance-but continued. ‘Surely it is to your advantage to co-operate?’
‘He’s right, Fabien. Co-operate,’ said the agent.
The banker nodded curtly at the wisdom of this and motioned to the head waiter. ‘Monsieur Jules, some chairs, please, for our guests. An aperitif, messieurs? A little of the Moulin-a-Vent? Yes, yes, that would be most suitable.’ He turned to the sommelier. ‘Etienne, you may bring the Moulin now for Monsieur Artel.’
Kohler was impressed. Louis was doing all right for himself. The banker got up to formally introduce himself. ‘Jacques-Yves Durant, messieurs. Credit Lyonnais. This is Armand Clouteau of Montagnier-Suisse, one of our principal insurance companies, and this is Martin Lavigne, one of Lyon’s foremost notaries. Gentlemen,’ he indicated the chairs. He sampled the Moulin-a-Vent and, declaring it near-perfect with the upraised forefinger of slight doubt, said, ‘The 1933, eh, Fabien? You do us proud.’