‘And we must force the Salamander into making a move now, Hermann, before it’s too late.’
Kohler told himself to give it a moment. He’d take a deep breath. ‘We needed Robichaud, Louis. We should have had him with us.’
‘And Madame Elaine Gauthier, Hermann? What of her?’
Did he have to ask it like that? ‘Dead-she threw herself out of a fourth-floor window at the Hotel Terminus. Went right through the glass before the bastards could stop her.’
It would be best not to sigh. ‘Then that’s all the more reason for the Obersturmfuhrer to allow us the use of his car and the full co-operation of Gestapo Lyon should we need it.’
‘Never, Louis. Never! I’d rather shoot myself.’
Ah no. ‘Please don’t say things like that, Hermann. You can’t tell who might be listening. Besides, we’ve a date to go fishing after this war is over.’
Louis hardly ever had the last word but this time he’d let him. It’d be freezing at Stalingrad. The boys would be hunkered down behind some pile of rubble trying to keep their Schmeissers warm enough to prevent the gun-oil from freezing and seizing them up. They’d be trying not to think of home.
And Gerda? he asked. Ah nom de Jesus-Christ, was it not a form of poetic justice to have her wrapped in the arms of a French labourer and suing himself for a divorce?
He thought of Oona and of his little Giselle in Paris. He thought of all the cases Louis and he had been through, of sleep needed but denied to the point of overexhaustion.
He thought of Frau Weidling and of the cartridges Louis had found in that woman’s purse, and he said so quietly to himself alone, You’re mine.
10
Kohler hunched his shoulders against the cold and pulled his collar up more tightly. The little buggers were going to kill themselves. Instead of the silence Louis had depended on, the kids and teenagers were whooping it up on their bobsleighs, and oh mein Gott, what a wizard of a run! Right down Fourviere Hill and through Vieux Lyon to place Bellecour or place Terreaux! Right down the snaking climb of the jardin du Rosaire past the Stations of the Cross … zip! What Cross? Then straight on down the montee des Chazeaux, hitting each section of steps. Bump, bump, rumble, rumble … Forty … fifty … sixty kilometres an hour-would they hit such a speed? Maudit, they had the guts and the wild abandon of their youth!
And wasn’t it nice to hear them having such a good time, forgetting all about the fires and the threat of others, forgetting everything about this lousy war?
It had been years since he’d been on a bobsleigh. Years! He’d led the pack-there’d been no one to catch him, and Gerda … why Gerda had been there too, sometimes on the sleigh, ja, ja, as light as a feather in those days. Sometimes by the old iron kettle of hot cider, cocoa or mulled wine if they could steal it, and always ready for a roll in the hay. Always ready with water for the runners.
Ah merde, sentiment had no place in a detective’s life. Louis was having trouble. The noise was constantly distracting him. Once a father, always one, the poor Frog would leap in alarm at each gap in the rumbling, each pause that might signal a cliff, an imminent head-on collision with a stone wall or tree, then he’d try to recover only to catch an impatient breath as the next bit of quiet suggested its ugly possibilities.
‘Monsieur Charlebois, don’t be so evasive, eh? A tragedy, my friend. Your sister …’
Rumble, rumble …
‘Mademoiselle Charlebois telephoned me here, Inspector. I assure you she could not possibly have tried to kill you,’ said the brother stiffly.
‘And herself!’ shouted Louis nervously.
‘No, no,’ grunted Bishop Dufour. ‘It’s just not possible in one so tender.’
‘Tender? Is that how your secretary found her, Bishop? Ah, must I throw the two of you to the Obersturmfuhrer Barbie? That girl is out there, my friends. Does she have the phosphorus? Is she going to torch another crowded tenement?’
‘Inspector, what is this?’ demanded the antique dealer. ‘Are you suggesting Mademoiselle Charlebois is the Salamander?’
That was better, thought St-Cyr. He would take out his pipe now and begin to pack it and they would know he was doing so, because he would offer them some tobacco. Resistance tobacco!
An uncanny silence closed in on the hill, and for a moment all the bobsleighs had gathered for a rest or had departed, or perhaps it was the riders were simply hauling them back?
Louis waved out the match. ‘No, monsieur, I am not suggesting your sister is the Salamander.’
‘Then what are you suggesting?’ demanded Charlebois nervously.
‘Monsieur, if she telephoned you here, tell me, please, how she knew you’d be with Bishop Dufour? It’s a Saturday night. You cannot have seen her in some time or is it, monsieur, that you saw her at your shop at around seven this evening and that what she said then drove you to seek an audience with the bishop?’
‘Henri, let me,’ began Dufour. The Surete had no business being so high-handed! ‘Monsieur Charlebois and I had a meeting, Inspector, to discuss the final details for the concert. This meeting had been arranged for some time and was conducted over supper in the manse. Martine Charlebois would have known of it. She is also a member of our symphony orchestra.’
Ah nom de Dieu, had he to contend with them both? ‘The cello … yes, yes, Bishop. But the girl did try to kill me and herself …’
‘Surely not. The gas is often turned off by our German friends out of necessity, is that not so? Perhaps the main valve at the school was left open, the others also?’ said Dufour.
All right then! ‘Did you give Monsieur Charlebois absolution this evening, Bishop?’
‘If I did, Inspector, that is a matter between God, myself, Monsieur Charlebois and no other.’
The bastard!
‘Inspector,’ said the antique dealer, ‘I have a great deal of work to do tomorrow. There is an important sale in Paris on Monday afternoon and evening. The Reichsmarschall Goering will be there. Due to the robbery at my shop in Dijon, I must place a number of pieces up for auction and must have them ready to leave with me on the first train.’
How convenient! At 6 a.m. Berlin time, and with Frau Weidling, was that it? ‘Paris … yes. Yes, I understand, monsieur, but what of your sister? Surely you have a thought for her? A little concern, perhaps?’
‘Mademoiselle Charlebois will be at home where she belongs. Bishop Dufour will attest to the fact that I told her she had nothing to fear, Inspector, and that she was to go home and wait for me there.’
‘And then, monsieur?’ asked Louis, drawing on his pipe. God, but the city was quiet!
‘Then I will sort it all out, Inspector. I promise you there’s been nothing untoward. It’s all a misunderstanding.’
‘Yes, yes, a misunderstanding,’ echoed Dufour.
‘Bishop, we have the deaths of so many to consider, that of Father Adrian also, and now that of Monsieur Robichaud.’
‘Julien … but … but …’
Were they both so taken aback? wondered St-Cyr. Ah, it was not possible to tell, and now … why now the shouting grew again as the boys and girls struggled back up to the heights with their sleighs.
‘Inspector, surely Julien was not murdered? An accident …’ said the bishop, aghast at what had happened.
Louis was brutal. ‘No accident, Bishop, and now the city is at the mercy of the Salamander. Yes, my friends. With Robichaud out of the way, the Salamander has a clear field unless …’
Damned if Louis didn’t pause to tap out the pipe and begin to repack it!
‘Unless what, Inspector?’ asked Charlebois impatiently.