The Cyclist

by Fredrik Nath

  It was a large airy room. Lecture seats lined the walls and in the centre stood the plinth topped by a porcelain slab. On it lay the butchered remains of the girl he had heard singing—her angelic voice silenced now, her very substance exposed by a cruel cut from chin to pubic bone. As ever, for Auguste, the intolerable aspect of the place was the smell. It had the stench of death and the odour always clung to the nostrils long after leaving. It was a smell of bowels and chemicals; it clung to his clothes, his hair and his soul. He felt like retching but swallowed hard and it passed.

  Her abdomen and chest were empty, recalling the flesh and ribs exposed in abattoirs and butcher’s shops but this was human. Human and sacred. A girl. Bernadette. The singer. The student; opened, exposed and examined. Auguste hovered on the edge of running away. It was like some macabre horror story, yet it was his job and the dread of it simply strengthened his resolve to find who had killed her.

  Doctor Dubois was there. He stood with his back to Auguste dressed in a long green apron. He turned when he heard the footsteps behind him and Auguste noticed the blood and semisolid material adhering to the doctor’s apron.

  ‘Ah Auguste, my friend,’ Dubos said. ‘You are just in time. I have more information for you. Are you unwell?’

  ‘Unwell?’

  ‘You look a little green.’

  Auguste swallowed. He could taste the bitter and sour flavour of his long since swallowed pseudo-coffee.

  Dubois chuckled. He said, ‘I suppose you do not come here very often. For me it is an everyday horror. One becomes used to it.’

  ‘You have more news?’

  ‘Yes, the girl was killed at around three or four in the morning. She had been raped and strangled. There was semen in the vagina. I may be able to get a blood group from it, but I’m short of chemicals this month. The larynx had been crushed. That in itself is not unusual but there were marks on her buttocks.’

  ‘Marks?’

  ‘Yes. Burns. I think whoever did this tortured her before killing her. The burns are a design.’

  ‘May I see?’

  ‘It would mean turning the body over and my mortuary assistant has gone home. I can draw it for you.’

  Auguste felt dizziness overtaking him. Dubois reached out and held his arm, guiding him to a chair, which stood in the corner.

  ‘Perhaps we can talk in my office, away from...’ he waved his left arm like showing off the mortuary to a group of students, ‘You will get the report late tomorrow morning.’

  Unsteady, Auguste allowed the doctor to support him to the pathologist’s office. The door shut, the smell became attenuated enough for Auguste to feel he was surfacing.

  Dubois sat down at his desk and Auguste sat opposite. The doctor found a pen and began drawing. The desk was an old carved affair with a leather top and a telephone stood, black and ancient, on the left corner. He looked at the walls, adorned by charts and anatomical pictures. A bookcase stood gathering dust, propped against the left-hand wall. In a glass case stood specimens, preserved in some cloudy fluid and to Auguste’s relief, the opacity of the fluid obscured the outlines.

  ‘There,’ said the doctor. He handed his sketch to Auguste who felt as if he was taking some strange and mystical cipher scrawled on a secret parchment.

  ‘I think you will understand what it means.’

  Auguste looked at the symbol. It was a circle with a cross inside.

  ‘No.’

  ‘It is a sun-cross.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘You haven’t heard of it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It dates back to prehistory. Neolithic peoples used this as an emblem and it was used even in the Greek civilisation as a sign of the sun.’

  ‘So we are no further forward.’

  Auguste made to stand.

  ‘We are, I’m afraid.’

  ‘How so? She was tortured by an ancient civilisation?’

  ‘No. It is the original basis of the swastika. It derives from this sign. It appears in far-eastern cultures but the Nazis have adopted it as theirs.’

  ‘I understand now. We are looking for a Nazi.’

  ‘Well, probably. It is not a swastika, but a sun-cross; perhaps intended to tease or confuse. It could be anyone wanting to throw blame on the Germans.’

  ‘They cut this into her flesh?’

  ‘Yes, it looks like burns. There are also ligature marks on her ankles and wrists and a rag was stuffed into her mouth.’

  Auguste stood up. This time he was sure he could escape. He had learned enough for the moment.

  ‘Undertakers?

  ‘They are coming the day after tomorrow. I have to put her back together again first and it’s getting late. It won’t matter to her if I do it tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh yes, I wondered why you telephoned your brother before the post mortem examination.’

  ‘Telephone? No. I telephoned no one.’

  ‘Judge Dubois said you telephoned him and told him of the murder.’

  ‘No, why would I do that?’

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter. If you find anything else, will you let me know?’

  ‘Tonight, I will find nothing else but a glass of good Bergerac and a glass or two of Calvados. At least the Germans don’t have a taste for it yet.’

  They shook hands and Auguste could not recall whether the pathologist had washed his hands or not. It was no use sniffing his fingers since he was unable to rid his nostrils of the mortuary-death-formalin smell.

  He would be late getting home and he was tired and hungry. He had to work on the attic wall and he had promised himself a glass of wine before then.

  He pondered what he had learned from Dubois. The rape and the strangulation he had known. The sun-cross burn was something else. It could be a red herring but equally it could be a sadistic joke from the killer and he still thought Brunner was involved. He had not read Claude’s report to see whether the neighbours had seen anything.

  Tomorrow would do. As Dubois had said, it made no difference to poor Bernadette and he had pressures to preserve the living rather than worry about the dead. He was seeing Arnaud, but he had no idea how he could avoid arresting the members of the Jewish community and he patted the list of names and addresses in his pocket. The Lord would reveal a plan to him. He was sure.

  2

  The farmhouse kitchen in which Auguste sat was his favourite room in the house. It recalled his memories of his mother Marie. At times, he could almost see her bustling, cooking, baking and squatting to the low oven of the black-lead range. She had never cursed; only remonstrated in gentle tones when she bumped into the garlic hanging from the rack above the kitchen table, the one the copper pans hung from, the ones she spent hours shining. Her ghost haunted the place still he reflected, but he knew these were fanciful thoughts and best kept to himself.

  ‘Sometimes, Odette, I think I married you for your cassoulet,’ Auguste said.

  ‘Well you’re lucky there was any left; those two girls could eat for France.’

  He spooned more into his mouth and swallowing, he said, ‘Not much meat though.’

  ‘Ha. Try getting meat now. Everything has gone up in price. I paid a lot for this rabbit. One rabbit for four people.’

  ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘François Dufy. He was selling them near the Prefecture in the market square. He was drunk but he is such a nice man even so.’

  ‘He was in the cells most of this week. His game will be well hung by now.’

  ‘When will you be finished in the attic?’

  ‘I have a joist to move then I can start the brickwork. I will make the door too small for an adult; that way, even if they suspect, they cannot get in.’

  ‘Why would they search the home of the assistant chief of police?’

  ‘Well maybe not for Jews, but they have already put microphones in my office. Brunner and his men. They pretended it was a security check, looking for a bomb. Édith warned me.’

  ‘She can
be trusted?’

  ‘I’ve known Édith since I started work at the Prefecture. What, twenty years? I trust her.’

  ‘I don’t understand what is happening in our world nowadays. You can’t trust anyone anymore.’

  Auguste reached for her hand across the kitchen table, the tabletop scored and scratched from long years of use. He smiled.

  ‘I trust you and it is all that counts,’ she said.

  ‘Yes. We live in a confused world. A world where young women are murdered and their bodies discarded in the street, and foreign soldiers walk our streets as if they own the place, own us. And worse, we are fettered and bound watching cruelty and injustice everywhere. It is not what I joined the police force for, it is not what I’ve led my life for. And I am partly to blame.’

  ‘You are not to blame Auguste. It isn’t your fault.’

  ‘Doing nothing, signing arrest warrants for the Germans, sending my men out to intern innocent people makes me culpable. You know it.’

  ‘Then make amends. Fight. Do what you can to retrieve your soul Auguste. Is it not so? You cannot spend your life looking back. In any case you did not know.’

  ‘I could have worked it out. I just didn’t want to believe it.’

  She sighed. He stood to leave, but she crossed from the other side of the table and placed her arms around his neck. He kissed her cheek, impatient, wanting to go.

  ‘I love you still and I know you will fight.’

  He looked at her and shrugged. In silence, he left her there. He ascended the stairs and heard the chink of plates and cups as Odette cleared away the remains of their meal.

  ‘Not enough meat,’ he said to himself.

  3

  An oil lamp illuminated the attic as Auguste worked. He realised he needed to strengthen the side of the house where he was laying bricks. Removing stones around a joist-end over the main part of the house, he chipped away at the mortar. He rigged ropes to support the joist and using a crowbar, he dislodged the ancient oak baulk.

  It was awkward work; there was no flooring so he had to balance on the crossbeams to prevent himself from putting his foot through the lathe and plaster ceiling beneath. He thought he had done enough damage already by loosening the joist and a foot-hole would add nothing to the appearance of his daughter’s bedroom.

  He lifted the beam end and pushed it, so it swung in gentle pendular movements from the supporting ropes. He looked at the beam. He noticed he was hot and sweating. He removed his shirt and mopped his brow with it, then prepared to shift the joist towards the other end of the roof-void.

  A candle’s light flickered in the loft opening.

  ‘Auguste, how is it going?’

  ‘Odette, I thought you went to bed long ago. What time is it?’

  ‘Three o’clock. I thought you might want some water. I crushed some blackcurrants into it.’

  He crossed the attic towards her.

  ‘Are you not cold?’

  ‘No. The work warms me up.’

  ‘I like you warmed up.’

  ‘The drink may cool me.’

  ‘Then perhaps you shouldn’t drink it.’

  ‘It won’t cool me down overmuch.’

  She reached out as he drank and touched his sweating chest. She teased the hair around his nipples and he coughed, almost choking.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Wondered if you might want to have a little rest?’

  ‘I’m all sweat and filth.’

  ‘I know.’

  He smiled. He felt the beginnings of a gentle tumescence adjacent to his groin.

  ‘I’ll have to come back and finish this.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘The girls?’

  ‘They sleep.’

  He reached for her. Their lips met, her soft moist kiss arousing him further. She smelled of a familiar perfume whose name he did not know. In his mind, he associated it with happy times of love and youthful passion. He was tempted to take her there and then, but she turned away from him and holding his belt buckle, she laughed and tugged him away, her feet nimble on the cross-beams.

  Descending, he followed her into the bedroom. She stopped and they collided in the darkness. She giggled and her childish laugh aroused him even more. She guided him to the bed, laughing, playing. Moments later, naked, they lay, pleasuring each other with their mouths.

  He sensed her orgasm in her breathing, the way she tensed her body, arched her back. Her fingers caressed his hair, pulling him deeper towards her. In waves it came, he felt it, as if she struggled up some steep and arduous slope, stopping now and again for long seconds and then on, on until the summit came.

  ‘God,’ she called from that pinnacle.

  ‘My God,’ she cried, as if desperate and alone.

  She shuddered, breathing fast. With gentle pressure, she eased his head away.

  In the dark, he sensed her smile and turned, facing her, he entered her, thrusting soft and gentle, slow at first but rising in his own rhythm, as his pleasure escalated.

  He fought to keep his day from entering his mind. He struggled to keep the visions of Bernadette’s body from insinuating themselves in his mind. Glimpses of the Jew on the steps flashed in front of his eyes and all the time he stroked and caressed Odette wanting her to take it away, cure him; rescue him. He touched her breast as he made love to her and she held onto him with a desperation he could feel in the strength of her grip, as if she understood. She called out again and began to breathe with him. Faster, ever faster. Ever deeper.

  Then he finished. The deepest thrust of all and for one brief moment in time, all his troubles went. At this glorious moment, nothing interfered or stood between them and he shuddered as she had done, as her hands slipped on the sweat on his back.

  They kissed, long and deep, feeling they were alone in the world, as if all war-torn Aquitaine had gone forever to trouble them no more. The moment lasted minutes then was gone like a breath on the wind, dissipated, dispersed.

  Auguste rolled away breathing hard and she lay on her side facing him, her head on his shoulder. Her hand played with the hair on his chest and his right arm encircled her. He moved his head to escape the tickling of her hair on his face.

  ‘I must get back to work.’

  ‘Not yet, Auguste. Please. We have so little time together.’

  ‘The joist won’t position itself. And besides the concrete will set before I use it.’

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘No. This is for me to do and some of it is heavy. Besides we need to have one of us available in case anyone comes.’

  He dressed fumbling in the dark for his clothes. He swore when he fell over trying to put on his trousers. Odette giggled, hand over mouth. In poor temper, Auguste stomped up the stairs to the attic. He knew it would be a long night.

  Chapter 9

  1

  Brunner. Auguste was sure of his implication in the murder, even if he was not the perpetrator. He had little to go on, but the expression in the man’s eyes when he looked at Bernadette that night in the restaurant was enough to convince.

  And her body? Cut apart by the pathologist, lying in pieces—it was unthinkable. He walked up the steps of the Mairie, now the SD headquarters, and he sighed. He wished he were not alone but he knew there was no one he could trust. Claude had already betrayed him with his ‘preliminary’ report. He could almost hear Édith warning him not to trust the man. Yet, we judge others by our own standards and Auguste was not a man who would ever betray another; at least, not knowing he did so.

  Brunner. Auguste resolved to interview him but he had no plan. He supposed he would enquire about his movements, but what was the point?

  The Major needed only to say it was none of his business and question what right Auguste had to ask and it would all be over. No. He had to be more subtle. He had to try to trap the swine in some way. He hoped it would come to him in a flash of divine inspiration though he was losing his faith in the concept of God’s interve
ntion in the pursuit of justice.

  It was his second night of sleep deprivation. His usual night’s sleep was seven hours and he wondered how he would be able to keep going at this rate. He pictured the little room he had constructed.

  He had placed a cot and a table with a chair into the room before bricking it up. The space was big enough for Monique to crawl through and he had shown her how to draw the false door into the tiny opening. When she had done it to his satisfaction, they had laughed.

  He recalled how in the attic, Zara stood behind watching him with Monique and he wondered if she was jealous or if the danger of it all was making her withdraw into herself. He knew also, he should pay more attention to the girls. He made up his mind to make more effort.

  Auguste waited in the anteroom by the secretary’s desk for Brunner to allow him into his office. He felt like a fisherman baiting a hook not knowing what creature he might pull out of the deep.

  The secretary came out. He was a tall man who towered above Auguste, his black hair tousled but clean. He had bushy eyebrows perched above his eyes like crows’ nests and his black SS uniform reinforced the idea in Auguste’s mind. He looked like a crow.

  ‘Please go in,’ he said.

  No smile disturbed the long face. Auguste wondered what kind of people they awarded smiles to in this hellhole of interrogation and torture. He entered the office.

  Brunner had changed the furniture and the wall hangings. The desk was an antique, eighteenth century, Auguste reflected. On the floor was a rug he imagined was Turkish, stolen from somewhere, the previous owners interned or killed. On the far wall was an oil painting Auguste recognised with shock. It was a watercolour by Renoir. Renoir was his namesake and he knew all of his paintings. It was detailed, showing a countryside boating scene, similar in style to a Monet but more elaborate. Auguste wondered if the artist had used a smaller brush than Monet, though it might have been the converse. A smiling Brunner, who held out his hand in an informal greeting, ripped him away from his thoughts.