Carousel, p.26
Carousel, page 26
Lafont smiled at the homage. ‘I hate all of you,’ he said of Corsicans, ‘but some I hate more than others.’
‘Then listen,’ hissed the Sûreté. ‘Paul Carbone is not involved.’
Rage leapt into those little eyes, a magnum swung and smashed on the floor!
Leaning over the detective, Lafont held a spine of glass at St-Cyr’s face. ‘THEN TALK, COW! TALK!’ he shrieked.
The song kept on. The song did not stop. It was about a man who had lost his wife and only child, a little boy, but had found quite by chance someone else who had lost a husband but had a son. They could not meet; they could not even be seen together.
The ring of angry servicemen who had gathered to silence their table cautiously withdrew as Henri Lafont put down the spine of glass and settled back into his chair. ‘So talk, then, talk,’ he said.
The other one, the older one who had the look of an accountant on trial for fraud, had watched with hatred and … yes, she had to say it, hope that the glass would be shoved into St-Cyr’s face.
The girl in the yellow dress had held her breath with excited anticipation. The battered one’s thigh had come closer so that now Oona could feel it pressed firmly against her own for comfort.
When he next spoke, the Sûreté’s detective was calm, and she had the idea he knew very well how to keep control in situations like this. ‘What did the contents of Charles Audit’s flat turn up?’
‘Nothing but a lot of stuffed birds and animals,’ answered the accountant, watching him darkly. ‘We had to burn the crap after we’d ripped it apart.’
St-Cyr ignored his former colleague. He’d stick to Lafont and try to get him angry again. ‘Where are Charles Audit and Réjean holed up?’
Again it was the accountant who answered. ‘We don’t know. They’ve gone to ground. When they surface, we’ll get them.’
‘How much did Schraum’s uncle have to advance on the thirty coins?’
Louis was playing it tough, but then he had always done so. ‘Five thousand marks. One hundred thousand new francs, but the girl would accept only old francs,’ said Bonny.
‘Which, of course, was illegal and subject to imprisonment, a fine and deportation to forced labour in the Reich,’ replied the Sûreté. ‘One hundred thousand new francs is 31250 old ones. That just goes to show you what devaluation will do, Hermann. But it’s still a tidy sum for two old residents of the Île du Dîable.’
Lafont grinned. The woman in yellow glanced repeatedly from one to the other of them, touching the crowns of her perfect teeth with the tip of her tongue.
‘Their retirement pensions,’ offered Kohler.
‘Or money with which to travel light,’ said his partner.
Lafont could not tolerate being ignored. ‘Réjean hates your guts, St-Cyr. Rot in hell. Bring us the coins and you can rot in heaven.’
‘Where’s Antoine Audit?’
‘Staying out of harm’s way.’
‘Collecting truffles?’
‘Perhaps. It is the season for them.’
St-Cyr leaned forward. ‘Then listen carefully, my fine. We have four killings. One which is separated from the others by two and a half years, eh? It is in this first killing that the answers lie.’
‘What killing? There was no other killing. You are crazy.’
Lafont glanced uncertainly at Bonny, who refused to take his gaze from St-Cyr.
‘What’s it all about, eh, Monsieur Henri?’ asked the Sûreté. ‘Coins for Goering or else the rue Lauriston suffers a reversal from which it can never recover? What did Victor Morande have to say before you cut his throat?’
The little eyes were livid, the sound of the laugh so out of place in a man like this that the battered girl cringed and wept.
‘Not even a charge of murder will stick on us today, Jean-Louis, so don’t get your ass in a knot. We didn’t kill him.’
This had come from the accountant.
‘Carbone did,’ seethed Lafont, working himself quickly into another rage. ‘That bastard Réjean is with him in this. I’ll tear his heart out. I’ll –’
St-Cyr let him have it. ‘They’ve got you just where they want you, eh? Réjean has never worked with anyone before. Charles Audit is his friend, idiot! The code of the Island is at work and nothing you or I can do will break it.’
‘Morande ratted on Réjean while he was in the Santé,’ snorted Pierre Bonny. ‘If you want the mackerel’s killer, Louis, find Réjean Tourmel and you’ve got him.’
‘The new owner of the carousel hires the ex-convict who fingered him in stir to run his pleasure machine?’ snorted Kohler right back at him. ‘Come on, my fine. You can do better than that.’
Hermann would never understand the logic of the French let alone that of the Corsicans, but for now it would be best not to enlighten him. ‘Those who search for gold, Hermann, search not for the truth unless they find it in the dross.’
‘Fuck your philosophizing, Louis,’ seethed the accountant. ‘We’ve come to renew our insurance policies and to take out others.’
The song had come to its end. ‘I never liked you, Pierre. As a chief inspector and divisional head you were always too highhanded. I don’t need you to tell me how to solve this little puzzle any more than I need your threats.’
‘Then look!’ hissed Lafont.
The girl, Giselle le Roy, burst into tears and shouted that she would not do it. Lafont told her that she would. Nicole de Rainvelle wet her hesitant lips, watching the girl and watching the others until Giselle finally stood up.
‘The table,’ ordered Lafont, a whisper through the hush as the audience awaited another song from the stage.
Reluctantly the girl stepped on to her chair and then up on to the table. The fur coat was unbuttoned. ‘Hermann … Hermann,’ she began.
Kohler reached out to her but Nicole de Rainvelle tugged at the coat and it slipped away to a rush of sucked-in breath, a chorus of gasps.
The spotlight left the stage to settle on them. The hush became a murmur, one of puzzlement and growing discontent, one of horror now but of lust, too, in broken laughter and whistles that were silenced swiftly by others.
A switch was to be made and Kohler knew it only too well. Oona Van der Lynn for Giselle de Roy. ‘Kid, I can’t do it,’ he said, reaching up to help her down. ‘You know nothing; she knows far too much.’
‘Then they will kill me, Hermann, unless you do exactly as they say, and they will kill that one up on the stage.’
‘Who did that to her, Jean-Louis? Who beat her with a belt so hard the welts will never be erased?’
The dressing-room, off the narrow corridor behind the stage, was very small, but they were alone.
‘Why can’t you answer me?’
The eyes were of that deep fullness of colour violets get when in the shade of new leaves. The hands were slender and pressed together on her lap so that the diamonds, the seed pearls and the chatoyant, shimmering blue of the sheath were as one and in prayer.
‘Gabi, listen to me. Lafont and Bonny are untouchable. The rue Lauriston holds –’
‘Such power they can tear a young girl’s buttocks and back to pieces and bruise her breasts like that, eh? Me, I have thought you better than to be afraid of such as they! We agreed, did we not, to do something together for France?’
The moisture of shame was in his eyes. He had to let her see it. ‘Please don’t say anything like that. Don’t even think it. You’re Russian, Gabrielle, an illegal émigré for all they care. You can go to dinner at Maxim’s, the Ritz or the Tour d’Argent with any or all the German generals you like, but none of them will stand in their way if Lafont and Bonny really want to kill you, because they are the Gestapo, they are the tools of the SS. Just give me time. Let me settle this in my own way.’
She tossed her hands, was through with him. ‘I can’t go with you and Kohler to Périgord. It’s impossible. Me, I refuse absolutely this “protection” you offer. I’ve too much else to do. Besides, there is the club to think of.’
‘And all the money you’re raking in, eh? Ah! forgive me. I shouldn’t have said that.’
‘We hardly know each other. Perhaps it is best we don’t.’
‘Yes … yes, that would be best but they would never believe it.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘We find the gold and we find out who did the killings.’
‘And then?’
‘We let them have the gold because that is all they really care about.’
‘And what if someone tries to stop you?’
‘We kill him, Gabi, or he kills us.’
‘And this gold?’ she asked hotly. ‘These louis d’or or whatever. Where are they hidden?’
‘That I wish I knew.’
‘To hide best is to expose the things you value most to view. Ah, don’t tell me you didn’t notice the furniture in that place of mine? A small fortune under heavy paint. Things bought for a song and kept because they are hidden so well and …’ the eyes were lowered, for he had the gaze of a saint at times like this,’ … and because I am content in knowing I have saved a few of them, the paintings also.’
‘Don’t give me the heroine’s tale, Gabrielle. Me, I know only too well of your shrewdness and much admire that quality in a woman. What you do both here and with those things you keep in that flat of yours is no concern of mine, eh? But please, please, madame, don’t tell me you do it for the good of France.’
‘Ah! don’t be so wounded, idiot! I’m trying to tell you something. Look where others have looked but failed to see.’
He drew in a breath. ‘Anger makes you even more beautiful.’
‘Compliments won’t hide the truth, Jean-Louis. Take care of yourself.’
St-Cyr got up. She turned away to the mirror. Thoughts of what had happened to Giselle le Roy intruded. He knew she was weakening, knew any signs of weakness would be rapidly overcome.
‘What will you do about the hostages?’ she asked. ‘The twenty-nine who are still left?’
‘Who told you one of them had died?’
‘No one. It’s of no consequence. I only ask because one has to ask such things, isn’t that right?’
Someone connected with the Resistance must have told her. Ah, Nom de Dieu … He let a hand fall to her shoulder. ‘Von Schaumburg will release them if we find Schraum’s killer, but me, I greatly fear that that one will turn out to be as French as all the rest so they will be lost in any case.’
‘Please close the door and tell them I will be a few more minutes.’
‘Gabi …’
‘Don’t! Please don’t. Just go.’
Ah merde, merde! Why would she not listen?
8
Mist crept up the forested slopes to be caught by the wind on the heights above the rocky gorge. There was snow in the air and water dripping from the branches.
‘It’s beautiful, is it not?’ croaked the Frog with all the hushed reverence of a monk.
‘Piss off. I’m catching my death. Goose shit and worry in the eyes of that little one who was force-feeding the feathers between her thighs. No one in his right mind would be anywhere but by the fire.’
Kohler eased the stiffness in his back. Eighteen hours in the saddle and for what? A glimpse of Périgord at dawn, the finest scenery in France?
‘You should have stayed at the château, my friend, or at the walnut mill. But ah no, you had to force yourself upon my patience! Kindly shut up and leave this to the French who understand such things.’
‘Don’t get your ass in a knot, Louis. Gabi will be okay.’
‘And Giselle, eh? What of her? Antoine Audit is out here somewhere, Hermann. Find a man in his element and you understand him best.’
‘Find a girl like that stroking geese like that and ask her to join you in the hay, my old one. You need it, Louis. You’re becoming bitchier than usual.’
‘That girl is nothing, Hermann! Just a diversion the latest Madame Audit tolerates but barely. If one knows where to look, one finds.’
The road south from Limoges had been a bastard. Once through St-Yrieix-la-Perche they had hit the kaolin pits, then wound through the hills and valleys to a doubtful crossing at Muquet. After that Louis had tried to alleviate things by going on and on about the cave art of Upper Palaeolithic man as if the heart of Périgord were at once the heart of humanity and the River Vézère the Nile of that dawning age some 40,000 to 10,000 years ago!
There were caves in the yellowish limestone scarps at Les Eyzies, La Mouthe, Font-de-Gaume, Les Combarelles and Lascaux, the latest and most spectacular find of all. The last ice age had still been very much a fact of life when those caves had been occupied. Swollen rivers here and rains.
‘Food-gatherers, Hermann. Is it not odd that Périgord should be the cradle of modern man and of the black truffle?’
‘I just hope we haven’t made a mistake leaving Oona at the château.’
‘She’ll sleep as long as Madame Audit allows her to.’
‘So what gives then, eh?’
‘What gives is that the goose girl said our Monsieur Antoine would take the pigs with him today.’
Kohler found the crushed remains of a last cigarette but there were no dry leaves to offer help as paper. ‘The pigs,’ he said.
‘Female pigs are used on level ground, mongrel bitches on the slopes.’ A self-evident, if grumpy fact.
‘From here I see lots of slopes, my old one, but level ground that’s far too distant for my lack of boots and wings.’
The opposite side of the gorge! ‘If I remember correctly, Hermann, I warned you to equip yourself accordingly.’
Still bitchy, still worried, eh, and in need of a damned good lay. ‘Since when did that God of yours grant you wings?’
St-Cyr heaved a sigh. ‘The Tuber melanosporum favours the moist areas near the roots of the oak, Hermann. We look for oaks and we look for ground a female pig would not have too much difficulty traversing.’
‘The pig gets the scent, the gatherer digs for the fungus, so we look for the holes, right?’
Sometimes the Gestapo tried so hard to be helpful. ‘The holes are carefully covered over, Hermann. The whole thing is done in great secrecy since the black gold of the Périgord is exceedingly valuable.’
‘And mid-December’s the best time, right?’
‘You’re improving but please, don’t try my patience. Me, I have had enough of your terrible driving. I will take my chances here because I must.’
‘A walk to where, then?’ asked Kohler, dumfoundedly looking around at the woods.
‘Where the scent would lead a man whose fortune began with the fungus, Hermann. A man who must return to its hunt each year as the pilgrim seeks the spiritual nourishment of Jerusalem or the Shrine at Mecca.’
‘You’re too deep for me, pal.’
‘Then leave me to the truffle-hunter and go back to that girl with the geese. Sweet-talk her a little, find out what you can. Already the empire of Antoine Audit is far more extensive than I had imagined.’
‘That château up on the rocks?’
‘Purchased for a song from a departing Jew unless I’m mistaken.’
‘Take care of yourself, Louis. Don’t get lost.’
‘Don’t get shot at either, eh? Can’t you feel it, Hermann? Can’t you sense the tensions of these hills and rocky valleys? Generations of feuds and petty jealousies going well back before the Romans, each landowner fiercely guarding his holdings against all poachers, yet coveting the land of his neighbours? The pigs will be doing their work while the hunter watches with more than half an eye for other game and listens lest his secret be discovered.’
‘He’ll hear the car as it leaves.’
‘You impress me, Inspector. For you there’s still hope.’
‘Since when would the Reich allow them guns?’
‘If you’ve friends in the right places, Hermann, all things are possible. In any case, who’s to know out here?’
He had a point. ‘Shall I come back for you at noon?’
St-Cyr shook his head. ‘That’s too early. Once the sun is fully up, the frost will leave the ground and the hunt will go on in earnest until darkness. He’ll have transport back to the mill. I’ll hitch a ride.’
‘We’ll have to find us a place to stay.’
‘I’m sure Madame Audit will be more than willing to oblige a member of the Führer’s Gestapo, Hermann.’
A hint, eh? Kohler gave him a handful of slugs for the Lebel. ‘Fire three in sequence if you get lost. The sound will carry down the gorge.’
‘Enjoy the girl’s fist. Don’t slip in the shit.’
He ignored the jibe. ‘You watch your back, eh? Remember brother Charles and friend Réjean could just as easily have taken a little holiday.’
‘By train?’
‘Or truck, especially as M Antoine has them running to and from Paris on a more or less regular basis. Wine and pâté, remember? Silk and Cream of the Walnut.’
‘The more there are to hunt, the richer the harvest.’
‘The better the omelette, eh?’
‘They won’t leave Paris, Hermann, because they can’t.’
‘If I were you, I’d not be so sure of myself.’
The Citroën dwindled from sight, but just before it turned down into the gorge, Hermann stopped and got out to look back at him. Mist trailed across the road. The forest, naked of its leaves, seemed to frown as they walked towards each other, two lonely men with their cross.
‘It’s merely a matter of deduction, Hermann. Antoine Audit holds answers his brother Charles and Réjean Tourmel want desperately to keep hidden as does he himself. Why else the girl in that room at the Hotel of the Silent Life, why else this butterfly or these gold and emerald earrings she could not possibly have worn?’
‘Why else the coins that were forged, eh, Louis? Why else the carousel? Do as you’re told, my fine Frog friend. Watch your back because I won’t be around to watch it for you.’
‘Then you do the same for yourself.’
