‘The dead can’t talk.’
Hermann would never understand the need for silent communication with the victim or victims. ‘In their own way they can. Now put your foot to the floor. Me, I’m getting sleepy. A few more minutes … Please do not crash into anything with my car.’
‘Your car! You French don’t own anything any more! Besides, you never had the ownership of this one. The Surete did.’
The Kommandantur was on the place de 1’Opera. The bicycles and velo-taxis scattered at the Citroen’s sound. Kohler clipped a couple, sending shrieks into the crowd.
Darkness was descending on the city.
Von Schaumburg, well past retirement and a Prussian of the old school, hated two things more than interruptions. The French and the Gestapo!
‘It’s on your head, Louis. Just remember it wasn’t my idea.’
Champagne flowed. Old Shatter Hand himself, Rock of Bronze to his staff, was glad to see them.
Kohler’s sagging jowls and shrapnel scars were marred by one half-closed eye and the nicest duelling scar a rawhide whip could give.
St-Cyr looked pale.
‘Gentlemen, your health.’
The Krug went down like broken ice. The orderly refilled their glasses then, at a toss of the General’s hand, left the bottle and evaporated.
‘So, gentlemen, two more murders for you to solve, and the death of one of my corporals.’
He offered cigarettes. Taller, bigger in every way than Hermann, he had the sternness and expeditious mannerisms a general should have. The grey hair was close-cropped and bristly, the eyes were very blue.
No fool, von Schaumburg knew they were on his side, though it would cost them dearly. Vouvray had left its stamp on them.
‘You will want my order staying the execution of the hostages pending your questioning them and the outcome of your investigation.’
He’d had it all figured out. There’d been no need to even ask.
‘Corporal Schraum has been a burden for some time, gentlemen. Frankly, I am not sad to see him depart this world, but I must be satisfied as to who was responsible for his death. I can’t have our men being killed in the streets. You do understand?’
The look was one of apology, a puzzle. The champagne burst against the roof of the brain, keeping the eyes open but only just.
St-Cyr drew in a breath. ‘General, might I ask if you would order also, that the bodies not be released for burial until we request it?’
The nod was curt. The explanation followed. ‘Schraum had relatives in the Reich. Some minor SS bigwig, the Gauleiter of Stralsund, his home town. Berlin are demanding retribution and full military honours. There’s even talk of awarding him a medal.’
For one whose horse had fallen so low, the General had taken it pretty well. A medal …
‘Refill our glasses, Kohler. So, gentlemen, the Oberkommando der Wehrmacht and myself find ourselves in debt to two detectives from unlikely sides and I must ask that you again offer the army your assistance. Kohler, you will be excused your affiliation with the Gestapo; St-Cyr, you will make sure he behaves himself and that I have the answers I need to justify the stays of execution. This office, gentlemen, is at your service.’
‘They all know more than we do, Louis.’
‘Especially the dead ones.’
‘You want a room at the Boccador? No one will mind.’
‘After what that one just said about the Gestapo? No, my friend. I will sleep at my house in my own bed.’
‘Enjoy the rats. If I see Gabi, I’ll tell her the deal’s off.’
‘It has to be, Hermann. As in war, so in sleep; let the warmth of valour offer its slender reprieve. I can’t have her hurt.’
‘Seven will come too quickly.’
‘Not soon enough. The sifting must begin, Hermann. Let’s start with the carousel, eh? and go on from there.’
‘I’ll pick you up.’
‘No, I would like to walk over. It’s not far from the house and it will give me time to think.’
They parted at the foot of the rue Laurence Savart, and he walked up the street alone.
The boys were playing soccer in the dwindling light but when they saw him trudging wearily towards the house, they stopped to watch.
He waved a tired, sad hand. Herve Desrochers said, ‘Send him the ball.’
Antoine Courbet, who lived across the street from Number 3, said, ‘No. The explosion smashed all the windows in our house. My father would beat me.’
‘First they took his car, his beautiful big black Citroen,’ said Dede Labelle, whose mother took in laundry and did odd jobs.
‘Then they took his revolver and only let him have it after the shooting had started,’ said Guy Vachon, whose sister had been brought home from the streets by that one, and whose father had then miraculously found a very good job in a garage.
‘Then they demoted him to inspector with the consequent loss of wages.’
‘And killed his wife and little son.’
‘And blew up the front of his house, instead of letting the Resistance do it for them!’
‘Give him the ball. He looks as if he needs it.’
‘He’ll never see that we get our windows back. My father says he’s not long for this world and that the Resistance are bound to get him the next time, if only God would give him the smile.’
Dede dropped the ball and kicked it. They all watched in silence as it hit the road and started to bounce and roll towards the detective.
His vision blurred, St-Cyr missed the kick and they knew then that he must be really sad and very preoccupied with another case.
‘I hope he doesn’t start playing that horn of his,’ said Guy Vachon. ‘My mother says he will.’
‘His euphonium,’ said Antoine Courbet. ‘It drove the first wife to madness. She had to leave and married a railway worker from Orleans.’
‘It was the crime, the long nights without passion,’ said Herve Desrochers. ‘A woman requires regular thrusting to keep her happy.’
‘That’s why the last wife took up with a Kraut.’
‘A house without a woman is a house without a soul.’
‘Or bread in the oven.’
‘Or buns.’
The detective retrieved the ball and worked it up the street towards them. He seemed to falter, to stumble – was he a little drunk perhaps? – but then he had a burst of energy, showed real skill, and took the ball through them all before collapsing into sleep.
‘We can’t leave him there. Someone might steal his wallet.’
‘I’ll get my father. You get your uncle. They’ll put him to bed.’
‘He’s not drunk. He’s just tired.’
‘Detectives need their sleep.’
4
Mirrors turned, lights flashed, stallions galloped madly. He tried to leap aside. A rabbit rushed him, bumping a shoulder and screaming: ‘Why don’t you look where you’re going, St-Cyr? I’ve got to hurry … hurry …’
A rooster was right behind, then an elephant that lifted its trunk in the stampede, then a lion, the music blaring – trapped, he was trapped! He’d be trampled to death!
Sprays of blood marred a sequined sky-blue sheath. Everywhere there were swastikas, everywhere flames, and through the flames the faces of the crowd.
The harnesses were bright, the music ribald, playing high, playing low as the animals rose and fell and the corpse of the woman of the sheath came round, she naked now and riding a camel. Her skin pale, her eyes wide and empty, she hanging on to the pommel as the beast kicked and bucked. He thought he knew her, thought he should cry out a warning to her.
She threw an arm back, her pale breasts tightening, rising, falling … blood … blood all over her chest and slender waist. Not the girl of the room … Not that girl …
Blue harness, red harness, green and gold … the sound of coins intruding … hundreds of them being flung about, the naked girl now reaching for them as she raced around and around, the floor rising and falling under her. She beckoning to him now, her long legs spread, her knees up, the eyes, those violet eyes … The beckoning becoming a plea for help as someone … someone came at her with a -