‘The German fire chief, he questioned Max and me many times after the Lubeck fire and then again after the one in Heidelberg and then … why then only myself after the fire in Koln. The flames that took my lover from me, monsieur, and now have broken my heart completely because Henri, he was there and I did not know it at the time, nor did anyone else except a certain butterfly who helped him so much and did his every bidding because she was afraid of him.’
Claudine …
From behind the ordered clutter of objects d’art, St-Cyr watched the two of them. Hermann was trying his best to pry every last thing he could out of the girl. She, in turn, was holding back even now but … but were they alone? Was the brother not watching too?
‘Leiter Weidling understands only too well what it’s all about, monsieur. The fire chief from Lubeck won many awards on the backs of my brother’s fires and now will do so again because he is not only ruthlessly ambitious but swift as a fox. When I saw him in the place Terreaux that day after the cinema fire, my heart stopped. Oh for sure I knew he was in our city, and I had been terribly worried about this because Henri had been so upset. But why had Leiter Weidling come like a vulture to feed on the roast of carrion unless he had known who was to blame?’
She paused, then said, ‘His wife, she is very beautiful but like the Salamander, must be able to change her skin when threatened or trapped.’
Louis was behind him-Kohler felt it strongly. ‘Did she know your brother would be in that cinema, mademoiselle?’
‘Was she there to meet him? Was Father Adrian? Ask … ask what you will, but not of me.’
‘Ah no, don’t. Don’t!’ Kohler leapt. The dagger was savagely driven into her breast. In shock, her eyes widened and her mouth opened. For a moment she clung desperately to life, wanting to tell him more … more … She must tell him about Concarneau. She must! The sea … the sound of the sea, the warmth of the sun in the heat of the sands, burning … burning. A pair of white underpants she would later steal to remind Henri of it all some day. Voices … secret voices … Whispers, a shrill scream … ‘Ange-Marie … Ange … Ma … rie is … is the … the …’
She toppled over, knocking the candle stub so that it rolled on to its side with the flame flickering in her hair. Now a touch, now a curling of the hairs as they were singed.
Awakened by the stench, Kohler picked up the candle. ‘Louis … Louis …?’
Pale blue and ethereal in a night of frost, a tram-car clanged from the far side of the place Bellecour. Like marionettes in a play of shadows, the dark silhouettes began to run, and St-Cyr knew he could not hope to keep track of Henri Charlebois in the rush.
Some slipped and threw out their arms as they fell. Some cried to God in despair, while others laughed insanely until the clanging became unbearable.
‘Ah no, wait! Please wait for me,’ cried a girl, only to hit the ice with a fist and add dejectedly, The last car, messieurs. Positively the last! Have you no heart? The curfew! It’s Christmas! Well, it is the day after but why should I have to spend the next months in Montluc among the convicts without a toothbrush?’
Punished by the frost, those who had missed the car stood sentinel or in little clusters, grumbling as such will do. Cursing openly or silently the miserable bastards of the Public Transport, the high wages such imbeciles were paid, the security of their precious pensions …
He had heard it all so many times before. Breathless, he let his gaze search everywhere. Charlebois was taller than most. Charlebois was thin. He had lost his hat, had fallen once. Perhaps he had sprained an ankle or wrist?
As St-Cyr hunted for him, he heard the girl who had fallen say, ‘Merci, monsieur. It is very kind of you to help me up.’
‘Are you all right? There is nothing broken, I trust?’ asked the helper.
He was tall and his hands, they were without gloves, thought the girl, for she had had her mittens stolen only yesterday and had not been able to get others.
‘No. No, I’m fine,’ she said. ‘It … it is just that … that I live so far away, monsieur. Over in Saint-Jean on the rue des Antonins.’
Almost at the foot of the montee des Chazeaux.
‘Well, that’s good. I’m going that way myself. We’ll walk together.’
He took her by the arm and she was not so sure she liked this. Ah, it was so hard to tell with some these days. The grip of the French Gestapo, monsieur? she wondered apprehensively. He had about him an urgency that made her feel uncomfortable, but perhaps it was just the nearness of the curfew and the need to be indoors.
They walked in silence, blending in with others so that perhaps she would feel more at ease with him, thought St-Cyr. ‘Were you at the cinema?’ asked the man. ‘La Grande Illusion. Did you enjoy it as much as I did?’
To go alone to the cinema was to admit that one lived alone, she felt. To make up stories about a boyfriend who lived across the Rhone in Part Dieu or La Guillotiere would do no good with this one. ‘Yes … yes, I have enjoyed the film very much, monsieur.’
‘Even though we have had such terrible fires?’
‘I … I have prayed that it would not happen to me, monsieur. Evidently others did the same, for the cinema was packed, was it not?’
The girl should not have said that, thought St-Cyr ruefully. Ah merde, was he to step in now in hopes she would not be killed?
Charlebois’s chuckle was polite. As they crossed the rue de la Barre, he again used the girl as a shield and mingled quickly with others, chiding her gently. ‘Don’t we both wish that had been the case, mademoiselle? There were so few brave souls in that cinema, it did not pay the owners to open the doors.’
Embarrassed to have been caught out so easily, the girl must have sweltered under the rebuke. But then, determined to be certain of him once and for all, she foolishly began to ask specifics. ‘Who played the part of the French officer, de Boeldieu, monsieur?’
Several people now separated St-Cyr from the couple. He dodged round them, only to be blocked by others. Ah damn … Must God do this to him? Must He mock a poor detective on the run? That film had been released in 1937. Hitler had banned it in the Reich and later the Nazis had banned it in Paris …
‘Erich von Stroheim was magnificent as the German von Rauffenstein, mademoiselle. Pierre Fresnay did an excellent job of de Boeldieu. Why not ask me about the British officers in that prisoner-of-war camp of theirs? Why not tell me how they dressed up for the variety night to amuse their French counterparts?’
‘As women,’ she blurted. She would not be able to trip him up with anything. She knew this now, yet still was not certain of him. Ah, it was his grip on her arm. Yes, yes. It was as if he not only would not let her go, but could not. Had he a need of her, but why?
‘Your name, monsieur?’ she asked sharply.
Momentarily St-Cyr lost sight of them again. ‘Christian Matras,’ said the Salamander, a little test of his own.
They had stopped in the middle of the pavement. They were facing each other now but others were still passing them. ‘That … that is the name of the photographer who has made the film,’ she said, trembling, for he had not released his grip on her arm.
‘Jean-Pierre Rouleau at your service, mademoiselle. Shopkeeper and widower, hence my presence at the film.’
‘Forgive me. It’s just that … Ah, one never knows, does one?’
His grip relaxed. They hurried along. When they came to the river, Monsieur ‘Rouleau’ felt it best to use the quais and the footbridge, as these would bring them more quickly to the Palais de Justice and her street.