Which would the monkey look most favourably upon?
Lindens crowded the grassy shores. There were flower-beds now put to sleep, park benches, one old gentleman sitting patiently waiting for a bit of sun to warm the old bones should God be so kind.
Ripples on the water and peace, absolute peace.
The temple was perched high atop cliffs of flat-lying rock in the centre of the lake. Ivy and wild grapevines clung to the unscalable wall. Trees and shrubs, now bare of their leaves, sprouted precariously from the many vertical cracks.
There were eight round columns with ornate capitals to the temple, with what were perhaps acanthus leaves beneath the volutes. An iron railing was inside the columns to keep visitors from defying death, a leap of some twenty metres. In all it was a pretty thing, but still there was no sign of the monkey and he hesitated to ask the old man. Such frailty – that little bit of sun. Could God not grant such a trifling wish?
‘He’s not up there,’ came the acid from beneath that black beret. ‘He was, but he’s gone. He’s seen you.’
‘Pardon?’
‘The monkey. Now buzz off, you parasite! I’ve almost got him to the point where he’ll eat out of my hand. Another day and he’ll be in the oven.’
The man had a burlap sack partially hidden under one hip, and a small wooden club, the last leg of a chair. There was a chunk of bread in his hand.
So much for monkeys on the lam.
‘He’s not yours!’ hissed the man. ‘I saw him first, damn you! He belongs to me now that the operator of that devil’s machine has been murdered. The monkey will only die from the cold, so don’t get holy and spoil it all. My wife and I are going to eat him, or I’ll drown myself.’
So much for frailty. ‘That monkey is a witness to murder, monsieur. Might I suggest that you do not trouble yourself with drowning at this time of year, but attempt the leap.’
‘Batard! I knew you were a cop! The gravy, monsieur. Think of the gravy from such a roast.’
In spite, and in tears, the old man wolfed the last of his bread. ‘I hope the monkey doesn’t tell you anything,’ he shrilled, ‘and that you do not catch him! A witness to murder, he says. Hah! my ass, you fine detective shit!’
The monkey was busy exercising on the suspension bridge. It made no attempt to approach, seeming only to retreat with each hesitant offering of fruit.
It was a spider monkey. The wizened little face had a jet-black muzzle and dark, sunken eyes that were ringed with light amber fur as if by a mask.
‘Chew, chew, come on, my little friend. Never mind that old boy down there. He’d only have done you mischief.’
Another wedge of apple would do, a generous one. He’d lay it on the railing and back away. He’d wait and watch as the monkey did.
The thing swung out of sight and for one mad moment he thought it might have fallen into the lake. But then there it was, coming along the railing to hesitate while still a metre or so from the fruit.
‘You saw the mackerel’s killing. Is it that the man who killed him frightens you, or is it that you knew and loved him and therefore are shy of me?’
If only he could catch the thing. If only there’d been a name tag around its neck.
‘Ah Mon Dieu, please don’t be afraid. Here, have two slices of apple and one of pear.’
Only when he took out his pipe and tobacco pouch did the monkey break the rule of caution and come closer. Closer still. Sniffing now. Waiting … the eyes beseeching.
‘To hell with fruit, eh? You like tobacco.’
Its teeth were sharp, the lips wet and clinging. Saliva oozed as the thing climbed into his arms and the detective hooked a secretive Judas thumb through its little neck chain.
‘So, my friend, you’ve acquired a new master, eh, and since we are so close to the temple, we’ll take a little walk. Please don’t spit tobacco juice on my coat. It’s shabby enough.’
There was no sign of the old man. Perhaps he’d left in disgust to try his hand at pigeons.
The views of Montmartre and Saint-Denis were breathtaking; the dome of the Basilica white and crystalline under thin sunlight. Down from him, the forests, ponds, little rivers and ravines fell away to the carousel. A long red pennant flew from its pole. The canvas roof sagged but in the early light, the carousel looked the place of magic it must once have been.
An Abwehr vice admiral who collected stuffed canaries. The gangsters Henri Lafont and Pierre Bonny. ‘A Big One’. Paul Carbone and his gang over on the rue de Villejust. The SS of the avenue Foch. Talbotte keeping his hands clean of the affair; the General von Schaumburg wanting to help. Gold coins and bullion, the Corporal Schraum, ah yes, and corruption within the ranks.
The mackerel might well have contacted Lafont and Bonny, he might have tried his luck with Paul Carbone, or simply have wanted all the loot for himself but found it absolutely necessary to go along with Corporal Schraum.
The coal the carousel used had had to come from somewhere, and he thought then that he knew exactly where.
Fingering the canary helped, but as with the tobacco so with this. At once the monkey took the canary from him to play mother, cradling the bird in its tiny arms, fussing with delicate little hands, even to lifting the bird to a tired and withered breast.
Down on one of the wooden paths, far below them, an old woman strode along, hand in hand with a young boy.
For a moment St-Cyr watched them, and when certain they were headed for the carousel, he said, ‘Let’s go, my little friend. I think this thing is about to break. You’re the first witness, eh, and soon we’ll have the woman who found the mackerel’s body, but more than this, she’ll tell us what we need to know. She has that stride only those who’ve been forced to survive can acquire.’
‘Joujou! Grand-mere, it’s Joujou. She’s come back!’
The kid was jumping, the grandmother less than happy.
‘The filthy thing should be in a zoo! Chain the beast and don’t give it tobacco!’
The woman was of Belleville, all seventy-eight years of her, and not inclined to have much patience.
‘Why isn’t the machine running, eh?’ she shrilled. ‘Monsieur Audit would never have left it idle, not for a moment. “It’s for the children”, he’d say. The children were everything to him, poor man. He’d lost the wife, you understand, Inspector. He’d only the granddaughter to keep the soul together, she and his “children”. Five sous, no more, and plenty of rings for the little ones to catch the free rides. So,’ she huffed, ‘get it going, eh? or else my Robin will burst his breast and drown his bed again!’
Hermann had appeared in the doorway. Clement Cueillard had poked his head out from the machinery. The monkey’s tin cup was steaming.
‘Start her up, Louis. It can’t hurt anything but my ears.’
‘Take the coffee and go back to bed. I’ll wake you when it’s necessary.’
‘No, I’m okay. I want to see the fireworks.’
‘Then hold the monkey. I think it wants to shit.’
Cueillard found the creature’s chain which had snapped during the murder perhaps, and which he’d wired securely together. ‘I was going to repack the main gearbox this morning,’ he said testily. ‘That bastard, the mackerel, hadn’t done it in ages.’
‘Not since he took over, eh?’ snorted the grandmother, pushing her glasses well up on the bridge of her nose. ‘Just like a turd of the streets without a mother to call his own, or a father. A wipe of the cloth, that one, but seldom deep. It just goes to show you both how well maintained Monsieur Audit kept this thing.’
‘A ride for the kid,’ said the Gestapo’s detective, the pouches under his eyes sagging to the tin cup. ‘Salut!’
The coffee was good, the monkey content not to defecate when chained to one of the horses.