Mannequin

by J. Robert Janes

  ‘Nothing. It was nothing.’

  ‘That man who was speaking to you was from the police.’

  ‘Yes. A detective.’

  ‘Ah merde, those salauds axe everywhere these days, aren’t they?’

  A waiter came and they each took a glass of champagne. The woman who called herself Gabrielle Arcuri offered to dry the corners of her eyes without smudging the mascara and she let her do this for her. They spoke of the sale, of the crowd.

  The woman said, ‘I hear the Reichsmarschall and Reichsführer Goering will attend. It’s bound to be a huge success, isn’t it? He always gets what he wants. Though the dealers bid against him and run the prices up, in the end the Reichsführer always wins.’

  ‘Yes, I believe he does.’

  ‘Manet is a favourite of mine. Will he buy this one, I wonder?’

  The woman touched her lovely lips in thought as she examined the painting by standing back a little and then by walking right up to it to study the brush strokes. She shook her head but indecision crept in and at last she said with a shrug of her exquisite shoulders that perhaps after all Goering would purchase it. ‘Manet was severely criticized for painting nudes with the faces of playing cards, yet this one is a study of introspection. A woman thinking she isn’t desirable when, in fact, she’s very much herself and perfect.’

  They discussed the sale a little more. Marie-Claire saw that Gabrielle Arcuri sipped her champagne with great delicacy. So little was taken, only the lips were wet. A German general with a monocle stopped by to formally bow and kiss the woman’s hand. Her smile was at once gracious and warm yet still she managed to hold herself back, remaining aloof and proud but not letting him see this. ‘A chanteuse …?’

  ‘It’s nothing. It gets me into parties like this. Now I must find my lover before he takes offence and finds another. That one … Ah, he’s always such a wanderer!’

  She was tall and willowy, graceful, regal, stunning …

  They met at the head of the main staircase, this woman and her ‘lover,’ Jean-Louis St-Cyr of the Sûreté Nationale! They kissed on the cheek and delicately held each other, she admiring his dinner-jacket, he raising his deep brown ox-eyes so that he looked up into that radiant, beautiful face! Had they discovered everything?

  Arm in arm, they went down the stairs. She tried to follow them, tried not to let them see her. She mustn’t! She must find out what they knew …

  Others got in the way. Others. ‘Please, I must get past. You don’t understand …’

  A champagne glass was knocked aside. A shriek rent the air as a dress was drenched. Another glass hit the floor …

  They were at the foot of the stairs now and though she couldn’t hear what they said, she knew he was telling the chanteuse how it must be, that Denise had offered the paintings and sculptures of Monsieur Vergès for sale but that there could be only one buyer. One.

  ‘Goering,’ whispered Marie-Claire in despair as she was jostled from behind on the staircase and forced to squeeze out of the way and hug the railing. ‘Goering.’

  Always there was a crowd of hangers-on around the Reichsführer, always the onlookers, but when confronted with a beautiful young woman handcuffed to a man twice her size, Goering lost his grin. The lighted cigar was clutched between his teeth. For perhaps five seconds the leaden blue eyes fought to comprehend exactly what was before them, then cruelty entered.

  Desperately Kohler glanced from side to side. Kempf stood to the right of the Reichsführer. Michel le Blanc was just behind the Sonderführer, dark, darting eyes, doubt, fear … so many things were registering in the anxious looks he gave.

  ‘The handcuffs,’ blurted Goering, taking the cigar from his lips. ‘Please remove them at once. That lady is under my protection.’

  Baron Kurt von Behr, head of the Paris ERR, was on the other side of the Reichsführer, Andreas Hofer, Goering’s chief art adviser and dealer, just behind the Baron.

  Kohler heard himself saying, ‘I can’t, Reichsführer. It’s a matter for the courts.’

  Denise St. Onge tried to step forward but was yanked back and nearly off her feet. The long beige camel-hair overcoat that had been draped over Goering’s shoulders slipped. The dark brown velour trilby that had been pulled well down over the broad brow was pushed up out of the way. ‘What? You would dare to challenge my authority?’

  Silence fell. Laughter and excited talk trickled off to nothing. Again Kohler heard his own voice. ‘I can’t remove them, Reichs-Führer. Not without the authority of my immediate superior officer and that of Gestapo Mueller.’ Louis … where the hell was Louis?

  Enraged, now florid and quivering with indignation, Goering shrieked, ‘Do it! you Schweine Bulle. Don’t be a dummkopf!’

  Ah Gott im Himmel! A bully, a natural-born killer … As a boy, Goering had been expelled from school repeatedly because of his excessive temper and wilful behaviour. As a young man in the Great War, he had earned the coveted Blue Max and had commanded von Richtofen’s famed Jageschwader I after the Baron’s death, the legendary Flying Circus. A hero …

  Kempf tried to intercede. Denise St. Onge took another step towards them and was savagely yanked back again. ‘Reichs-fuhrer,’ said Kohler, ‘she’s one of the principal suspects in the murders of fourteen girls, in the robbery of the Crédit Lyonnais, in the theft of valuable works of art from a house overlooking the garden of the Palais Royal, and in the deaths of their owner and his friend.’

  The cigar was flung at him. Frantically Kohler ducked and tried to brace himself. Enraged, Goering unleashed a torrent of verbal abuse, then screamed, ‘Do you expect me to believe such shit? Free her at once or suffer the consequences!’

  Had he taken drugs? wondered Kohler apprehensively. Here was the vain bastard who had promised the Führer faithfully to supply von Paulus’s Sixth Army at Stalingrad with daily air drops and had failed miserably. Here was the man who, with others like him, had deserted Jurgen and Hans Kohler, two farmboys who should have gone to Argentina like their papa said.

  Kempf leaned closely to whisper something. Startled, Goering turned to him. ‘What?’ he asked. ‘What is this, Franz?’

  ‘She’s a cousin, Reichsführer. You will remember that you met Mademoiselle St. Onge at Horcher’s before the Polish Campaign. Denise was paying us a little visit and I was showing her the town.’

  Berlin and its most famous restaurant. Ah damn, thought Kohler …

  ‘Horcher’s,’ muttered Goering, blinking to clear his mind and wishing suddenly that the whole affair would disappear and he could get on with the party. ‘Of course I remember, Kohler … Kohler, if you don’t remove the handcuffs, I’ll have my men cut off your arm.’

  Luftwaffe security types were all around them. Heaving a troubled sigh, Kohler braced himself. ‘Reichsführer, I’ll do as you request, but must ask that you give me a paper stating I’ve released the woman into your custody and that I believe her to be guilty of the crimes of murder, robbery, kidnapping and extortion.’

  ‘I have done no such things, Reichsführer! I am totally innocent! Wounded to the quick by such false accusations!’

  ‘Extortion?’ muttered Goering. ‘Kidnapping? Franz, what is this? The paintings you promised me …? Andreas, what is this one saying?’ He indicated Kohler.

  ‘That he will agree, Reichsführer, to release her into your custody,’ said Hofer gently.

  ‘Gut. That’s all I want.’ Goering hunched his shoulders to better lift the overcoat back up on to them. Someone helped. Someone else found him another cigar and offered a light. He inhaled deeply and blew a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling. ‘A Dürer, Franz. A Cranach… Please, you must show them to me.’

  ‘We’re not finished,’ breathed Kohler to the woman. ‘You didn’t just help that cousin of yours lure those girls to that house. You took part in everything.’

  The handcuff around his wrist came loose and fell away to dangle from her own wrist. Sucking in a deep breath, she caught it up and swung hard, s
mashing him across the face. ‘Maudit salaud!’ she shrieked. ‘Liar! I did no such thing!’

  Kempf and le Blanc gathered her in and took her away with Goering to view the works of art she had put up for sale.

  ‘All of those taken from that house, Hermann,’ said St-Cyr exasperatedly. ‘The Reichsführer apparently provides forty-eight hours’ notice of when and if he will arrive.’

  ‘Then that’s our delay, Louis.’

  ‘And that is why the house had to be emptied in such a hurry. Until the notice came, they didn’t know if he would show up, even though the invitations had been sent out. Denise St. Onge is haunted by guilt and fear, Hermann, and knows only too well we mean to walk her to the guillotine.’

  ‘Where’s Gabi?’

  ‘Gone to the club for safety’s sake. Apparently Michel le Blanc was once a freelance photographer but gave it up to become a reporter after the Defeat when there was a temporary shortage of suitable applicants.’

  ‘He has jet-black hair.’

  The Sûreté’s nod was grim. ‘Mademoiselle de Brisson made a list of all the works her boss put up for sale.’

  ‘It didn’t take Denise a moment to figure out who the forged papers were for and to put that together with the scattered photographs. She knows Marie-Claire intends to pin it all on them.’

  ‘On her body, Hermann. Unless I am very mistaken, Mademoiselle de Brisson plans to leave the evidence on her when she kills herself in Dijon.’

  ‘Or here, Louis. Here. They’ll try to stop her. They’ll have to. She’ll be aware of this.’

  ‘Kempf will leave Denise with Goering.’

  ‘Marie-Claire will head for her flat and then …’

  ‘Either try to hide until the train tomorrow or try to kill herself.’

  Unfortunately, the place de la Concorde was jammed with parked cars, vélo-taxis, horse-drawn carriages and gazogènes, and so was the rue de Rivoli. Unfortunately, the Citroën was lost among them and Hermann, still badly shaken, couldn’t quite remember where he had left it. Unfortunately, the rain had changed its mind and now fell as half-frozen pellets of ice to make the pavements worse than sheets of glass.

  When they reached the house of the banker on the rue de Montpensier, the front door was ajar, the lights off, the only sound that of the pellets as they hit the street behind them. Thousands of them. Some fully frozen, others not. Some bouncing to roll about beneath a distant blue lamp, the only one in the street, others simply breaking.

  ‘You first or me?’ whispered Hermann breathlessly.

  From somewhere came the sound of an accelerating car and then that of the skid and crash. ‘Me, mon vieux. It was always my affair.’

  ‘Piss off. I’m better at this than you. Count to thirty and then follow. Work to the right.’

  St-Cyr held his breath. The pellets hit the barrel of the gun he clutched. They hit his head and shoulders, the back of his hands, filling the air with their sound and the chill they brought.

  At last he could stand the waiting no longer and stepped into the house. It would all be for Joanne and Dédé. Yes, Dédé would have to be told of it. Every last little thing. The smell of the freezing rain, its sound, the depth of darkness, the faint odour of cognac and whisky, was it whisky?

  The smell of blood, of death, of powder, black powder—yes, certainly, an old Lebel 1873 just like the one in his hand and the one that had killed Gaetan Vergès and the bank teller.

  The sharpness of sulphur, saltpetre and burnt charcoal but faint, so faint … a window open or a door … a door upstairs.

  9

  TRY AS HE DID, KOHLER COULD RECALL LITTLE OF the salon de Brisson. He took a step and then another—would go right around the room if necessary. Lamps, tables, chairs, vases of silk flowers, paintings on the walls … Where were the bastards? Chasing Mademoiselle de Brisson out on the balcony, driving her to that empty house whose doors would be locked unless … A key, of course. She must have had one of her own. How else could she have scattered the photographs without the others knowing?

  Crouching, he waited. Feeling the carpet wet but only in little places, he followed these places out across the floor until his fingers touched hair.

  Louis …? he began. Louis, ah Gott im Himmel.

  Holding back the urge to throw up, Kohler felt the face, the open eyes and broken glasses. Blood trickled from parted lips. The bullet had smashed the nose.

  He found the cushion that had been used. He found Madame de Brisson’s purse, its contents so scattered a careless step would have broken a pencil or compact mirror. This made him realize her body had been moved. It made him cringe and hesitate as he wiped his fingers on her sweater and tried to clean them as best he could.

  Louis would have gone on ahead of him. Louis … Where was Kempf sitting—waiting … waiting for them to turn on a light! Yes, yes!

  Ah merde, thought St-Cyr. Hermann must have gone upstairs.

  The surface beneath his fingers was lacquered, and when he explored a little further, he found it must be a grand piano—pianos always had a smell to them. Dusty, of felt pads and wire, of ivory and ebony keys … Was someone sitting on the bench?

  His heart racing, St-Cyr held his breath. Seldom was darkness so absolute one could not distinguish degrees of change and pick out shapes …

  The piano was near a corner of the room, next to the windows. It was near the fireplace, too. He could smell damp coal ashes. The fire hadn’t been lighted in days, the furnace was on, the radiators were warm …

  Yes, there was someone sitting on the bench, waiting. Having sent le Blanc after Marie-Claire, had the Sonderführer returned to the salon to trap them?

  Edging closer, he tried to better define the shape before him. Was it de Brisson hunched over the keys? The top of the piano was up and braced, the music stand would have to be down so as to allow the freedom to fire across the room.

  For perhaps ten seconds, St-Cyr waited. Raising the revolver, he began to ease the hammer back completely, having already had it on the half-cock. The figure moved. The figure vanished. One moment it was there, the next …

  He stepped back, felt himself come up against the wall. Hermann … where was Hermann?

  The sound of the freezing rain came to him, the feel of a draught from an open window or door, the stirring of ashes in the grate …

  Kohler fired twice. Someone fired back. Glass shattered. Marble shattered. That someone ran, hit something, stumbled and fell, got up, fired again and again, then ran out of the room and up the stairs.

  ‘Louis … Louis, are you okay?’ whispered Kohler urgently.

  ‘Perhaps!’ came the hiss.

  ‘Those stairs he took only go up to the second floor.’

  ‘Was it de Brisson?’

  ‘The banker …? I … I don’t know. Is he in so deep there’s no other way out for him?’

  ‘Perhaps he’ll tell us, perhaps he won’t.’

  ‘It was Kempf,’ breathed Kohler. ‘I’m certain of it.’

  ‘Then where is de Brisson?’

  ‘Take the back stairs up to the attic, Louis. Leave this one to me. Check it out and wait for me. The stairs are off the kitchen.’

  ‘And what if he gets past you and comes back down again?’

  ‘He won’t.’

  ‘Then what if he fires down the stairwell as you are on your way up?’

  ‘He won’t because he’ll hear you go up the other stairs.’

  Kohler waited, and when he heard Louis start up the other stairs, he swore and called himself an idiot. Le Blanc could just as easily have come back from that balcony and be waiting at the top of them and if not him, then de Brisson.

  St-Cyr was grim. The back stairs were steep and narrow. Up the right side, there was a railing and it was along this that he slid his gun. Nothing could be seen. It was far too dark. No shape, no degree of change. Each step was first felt and then … then the weight gradually increased until … yes, it could be done and another taken.

  Wh
en he reached a point perhaps one-third of the way up, he wondered if he should not retreat. The draught, always cold, seemed to have increased. Had the door at the head of the stairs not opened a little? Could he not hear the freezing rain more clearly?

  He took another step only to feel the boards sag. Crouching, he waited. The door at the top moved. The draught increased. There was a rush, a …

  Aiming up the staircase, he waited.

  The rush came down the stairs and when it reached him, it meowed and rubbed itself against his leg. ‘Ah nom de Jésus-Christ!’ he whispered.

  Reaching down, he felt the thing and ran his swollen hand over its back, then rubbed it behind the ears and let it rub its face in his hand.

  Its whiskers were wet. The fur under its chin was wet and sticky. It was not water, not milk—even with the almost total absence of milk from a city of 2,500,000, in houses such as this, it would have been common enough for the cat.

  ‘It’s blood,’ he breathed. Marie-Claire de Brisson’s? he asked and started up the stairs once more, leaving the cat to seek its mistress.

  Once in the attic pied-à-terre, the darkness was less. A set of french windows to the balcony was wide open and the night sky, with the falling sleet, was of a still lighter darkness.

  The sound of the ice pellets filled the flat as they hit the floor nearest the window. Quickly he crossed the small sitting-room and sought the deeper darkness of the opposite wall. He waited, listened—tried to shut out the sound of the ice.

  A corridor led to the bedrooms. There were framed pictures on the walls—photographs, Hermann had said. Sweet things, pretty things, not of death and gunshots and bastards like Kempf and le Blanc or of girls like Joanne whose bodies had been left for others to find and deal with.

  There was nobody in the smaller of the bedrooms, not that he could be certain without a light, but in the larger of them, the carpet was wet.

  De Brisson must have come upstairs to find his daughter throwing things into a small suitcase—it was still open on the bed. Some underwear … a toothbrush … a bottle of pills, a straight razor, a diary …