Mayhem

by J. Robert Janes

  The address was Apartment 22, number 45, boulevard Émile Auger. It wasn’t very far from the flat where Marianne was staying. In fact, it must be just around the corner.

  A small brown purse yielded up the maid’s name: Yvette Marie Noel, of the same address.

  For a moment he stood there looking at the girl’s photograph. The nose was aquiline, the eyes … ah, what could he say?

  It’s my night for young girls who are in trouble, he answered. There were some photographs, small snapshots – the turrets of a château, an osier field, farmhands at work, happier times perhaps. The boy – the photograph badly crumpled and blotched by tears. The Loire – he was certain of it. Flat-bottomed punts lay among distant reeds.

  Reluctantly he stuffed the things back into her purse, then retraced his steps to the balcony only to catch sight of the stage and hear himself drawing in a breath. ‘The mirage,’ he gasped. ‘Ah, Mon Dieu, it’s magnificent!’

  The pearls gave their lustre to the shimmering, sky-blue opalescent silk that was moulded so well to her body, every curve, every feature was at once exposed to view and yet not exposed.

  She had the voice of a nightingale – strong and throaty, yet full of warmth and bell-like clarity. Wrapped in it, in the motions of her arms as she gripped the microphone or held them out, the audience was spellbound. Gabrielle Arcuri was at once every man’s dream of a lover and the heart’s dream of home.

  And the song? he asked. Ah, but of course, ‘Lilli Marlene’.

  3

  ‘Excuse me, Monsieur the Detective, but would you like my mother to take care of your house?’

  It was Antoine Courbet from across the street. St-Cyr looked questioningly beyond the boy only to see the lace curtain fall into place.

  The serious eyes continued to haunt him. ‘We thought, monsieur, since you were on a very difficult case and your wife and son have departed, you might be away. The geraniums in your windows, monsieur, they do not look well. The pipes, they might freeze …’

  ‘How much?’ asked St-Cyr, resigning himself to the inevitable.

  ‘Fifty francs a day.’

  ‘Thirty-five, Antoine. Sadly, I cannot pay more.’

  ‘Don’t detectives make a lot of money?’

  ‘Not this one.’

  ‘But you’re a chief inspector …?’ The Germans had docked his wages too, the poor man. So sad in the eyes and wounded in the heart. It was just as Maman had said to Madame Auger. He’d go to seed and take up with whores or the bottle.

  St-Cyr heaved a sigh. The whole street would now know the exact state of his house and goods but what the hell.

  ‘The geraniums are worth saving, Antoine. Tell your mother I will leave a key for her under the mat.’

  Kohler had dropped him off at around 3 a.m. He’d probably awakened the whole street with the hole that had mysteriously appeared in the Citroën’s muffler. Another classic example of Gestapo care.

  St-Cyr shut the door and went through to the kitchen. As he patted the pockets of his overcoat, he remembered the girl’s shoes and drew them out.

  One heel hung by a few bent nails.

  She’d been a girl of medium height and slender frame, a student. Eager … impetuous perhaps – that would explain why she’d been out after curfew. That would be the reason for the sudden embrace.

  The kiss, he said, touching his moustache. The dark plays such mysteries with us. She not knowing who he was; he not knowing her.

  He’d fix the heel before returning the shoes – some rubber cement if he could find such a thing, and then a few new nails, or perhaps he could simply straighten the others?

  A shoemaker, he answered positively. It’s a wise man who recognizes his limitations. The girl was far too young. He wasn’t getting into that mess again. So many of the young men of France were away in the prisoner-of-war camps, the older men were having a field day.

  Not him, of course. Ah no.

  Kohler would be by in a few minutes. Being on Berlin time meant that the clock had been shoved ahead and everyone got to work an hour earlier – never mind the late nights. Those were extra.

  He couldn’t blame Marianne for leaving him. It was no life for a woman to share. Alone and celibate, he could take up fishing again. Ah yes. And the euphonium – he’d played it in the police band before the first wife had objected to his practising an hour or two a week. He’d played it in the interval between her and Marianne, had worked like a fiend and had got his embouchure perfect, the fingering …

  Of course he’d be rusty now, but a few licks and he’d be in shape.

  He didn’t say, I’ll kill Steiner. He knew it would be senseless to even try.

  Others would be shot – hostages – and as for himself, he still had no taste for the guillotine.

  The diamonds lay beside the velvet pouch. 1,500,000 francs and he was worrying about thirty-five francs to pay a housekeeper!

  The notebook was to one side – more entries still to go through. The monogrammed cigarette case didn’t bear Gabrielle Arcuri’s initials.

  What, exactly, had happened and why was Berlin taking such an interest in things? Have we a scandal beyond all proportions? he asked himself, feeling sad for that little maid – sympathizing with her. She hadn’t looked like a killer but then, ah Mon Dieu, so few of them ever did.

  Records still had not come up with the name of the victim. He’d have received a call if they had.

  Yet Yvette Noel had known the boy, had had a photograph of him in her purse. By just such things are criminals brought to justice, isn’t that so? he reminded himself.

  Had the next of kin been too afraid to claim the corpse?

  Kohler leaned on the horn. St-Cyr scooped up the Arcuri woman’s things and stuffed them into his pockets.

  Out on the street, heads had appeared from several windows and doors. Hermann was in a foul mood and hit the gas while St-Cyr was only half in the car. In a cloud of exhaust they started off. ‘The key!’ shouted St-Cyr. ‘I’ve forgotten to leave it.’

  Kohler swore and ground the car into reverse. The key was waved and then dropped. The ring it gave as it hit the paving stones stayed with St-Cyr through the all-but-empty streets as they plunged downhill, heading straight for the Kommandantur.

  ‘Von Schaumburg wants a word,’ growled the Bavarian, reaching for a fag and letting go of the wheel. ‘The shit must have got up on the wrong side of the bed!’

  They’d start at the top of the chain of command. It would be the Army first, then the Gestapo, and finally Pharand of the SN.

  And in between them, Hermann would pay Glotz a little visit.

  Brooding darkly by one of the windows in his office, Old Shatter Hand swung to fix his gaze upon them. ‘You took no fingerprints. You asked no questions of the local residents. Why haven’t you been able to identify the victim?’

  Kohler drew himself up. ‘We have two suspects, General.’

  ‘Their names? Why weren’t they in your report, Sergeant?’ He’d get to the ‘report’ later.

  Blithely Kohler trod thin ice. ‘We feel discretion is best, General – to protect innocent lives and let us carry on the investigation without undue interference.’

  Von Schaumburg tore the cigarette from its holder and crushed it into an ashtray. ‘You call yourselves detectives, Kohler. I want their names. Undue interference, how dare you suggest…’

  Kohler even managed a smile. ‘General, the daily police reports, and those of this office, are circulated. We’d like to stake out the suspects’ flat and see if anyone else is involved in the case.’

  That was nice, thought St-Cyr, wondering how Hermann would handle Boemelburg.

  Von Schaumburg fussed with the Iron Cross First-Class with Oak Leaves that was at his throat. ‘All right, one more day of your discretion, Sergeant. Then some answers.’

  ‘Jawohl, General.’ Kohler crashed his heels together.

  The Frenchman found the general looking at him. St-Cyr … not entirely reliable. Que
stions were being asked about his loyalty.

  ‘Dismiss, the two of you. St-Cyr, you’re to see that the diamonds are handed over to this office.’

  There was a moment of silence, an impasse. Then the Frenchman said, ‘Wouldn’t it be best, General, if you told us what you know of the case?’

  There was a brief smile – more like a grimace. ‘Inspector, you of all people should understand that when a general of the Reich gives an order to dismiss, he means it.’

  Boemelburg was worse. He kept them waiting for an hour, then standing in front of his desk as he slid two freshly signed telexes over to them.

  ‘A transfer for you, Hermann. To Gestapo Centre Kiev, effective three days from now. You’ll see that Gestapo Mueller has signed it.’

  ‘But, Herr Sturmbannführer, we’ve two suspects …’

  ‘Have you searched the woman’s flat?’

  ‘No, sir. Not yet.

  ‘Then do so and don’t tell Glotz about it.’

  St-Cyr read his deportation order – forced labour in Silesian salt mines. Three days hence as well.

  So much for past acquaintances.

  ‘Now the diamonds, Louis. Let’s have a look at them.’

  When handed the pouch, Boemelburg hefted it as a good cop would. Then he found a sheet of white paper and poured the stones on to it.

  The eyebrows went up; the lips went down at their corners. There was a nod, bags under the eyes – the frames of past cases clicking over. ‘Russian, Louis?’

  ‘Perhaps, Walter. It’s hard to say. They’ll have come from South African mines.’

  ‘Who evaluated them?’

  ‘A Jew, but we guaranteed his being left alone.’

  Again there was that nod, the blunt head moving only slightly.

  ‘We’d like to keep those for another day, Walter. It’ll help when we confront the suspects.’

  Boemelburg ran a stumpy forefinger through the stones. They were such pretty things. ‘Blackmail?’ he asked.

  Was there sadness or resignation in the look he gave? ‘Blackmail perhaps,’ said St-Cyr. ‘But until we confront the woman, we won’t really know.’

  ‘Herr Himmler is insisting that I send him daily reports. I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I have no other choice but to demand the names of your suspects.’

  Kohler wrote them on the paper, dotting the i’s of Gabrielle Arcuri’s name so hard that the diamonds jumped.

  ‘Be quiet about this, the two of you, and I’ll see what I can do about those telexes.’

  Pharand was feeling very left out of things. ‘You’ve not been straight with me, Louis. You’ve betrayed the good name of the department. As of now, this moment, your rank is back to that of inspector with the consequent loss of pay.’

  St-Cyr knew that it was useless to argue. Kohler grinned hugely.

  Pharand began the onslaught again. ‘Talbotte, Préfet of Paris, demands to know why you have not consulted him about a murder in his territory.’

  Talbotte was a real bastard.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Pharand.

  St-Cyr let him have it. ‘We have hardly had a moment’s sleep, Major. We’re already working round the clock. If we have to deal with the Préfet of Paris and that of Barbizon and the General Staff and the Gestapo in Berlin, we’ll …’

  ‘Berlin …? What is this, please?’

  Insidious, territorial himself, Pharand gripped the edge of his desk.

  ‘It’s nothing, Major. You know how Berlin is,’ offered Kohler. ‘Herr Himmler is always suspicious of you French.’

  ‘Herr Himmler …’ Pharand dropped his gaze. ‘You should have warned me, Louis. It was most inconsiderate and unwise of you to have neglected this.’

  ‘We only just heard of it, Major. I was about to tell you.’

  ‘And the suspects – have you suspects?’

  St-Cyr glanced at Kohler before shaking his head. ‘Not yet, but we’ve some pretty good leads.’

  Pharand touched the pasty brow. Three fingers … always it was with three fingers. ‘Then I must tell you, Louis, that I have better sources of information than yourself.’

  Fortunately, perhaps, the Americans chose that precise moment to direct one of their daylight bombing runs over Paris, heading for the Reich. But as the sirens wailed, Pharand refused to move. ‘Their names, Louis. I must have their names and the value of the diamonds.’

  The anti-aircraft batteries across the river had begun to open up. A duty sergeant stuck his head into the office and shouted, ‘Air-raid!’

  ‘Piss off,’ said Pharand. ‘They’re not leaving this office even if a stray bomb should fall on us!’

  St-Cyr gave him the names and the value of the diamonds.

  ‘Was it a crime of passion?’ demanded the major.

  Did he like to hear it? ‘Yes … yes, I think so,’ said St-Cyr, ‘and with your permission, Major, I think I can prove it to you.’

  ‘Within three days,’ said Pharand – had the Germans actually hit one of those blasted planes? The scream of shattered engines roared overhead. He waited for the crump of the explosion and when it didn’t come, he said, ‘So, that’s all for now, Louis. A full report this evening, eh?’

  Records still didn’t have the boy’s name and Glotz proved very difficult when Kohler went to see him alone.

  ‘I warned you, Hermann. We’ve managed a bit of film and we’ll have more by tomorrow.’

  ‘Philippe!’

  ‘Papa!’

  Kohler parked the car two streets from Gabrielle Arcuri’s flat on the boulevard Émile Auger. Marianne and the boy had obviously been for a walk in the Bois de Boulogne.

  ‘I’m sorry, Louis. I didn’t mean this to happen.’ He felt a fool.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Hermann. Me, I’ve missed the boy and his mother.’

  St-Cyr started across the road. Released, the boy ran to him and, in spite of knowing there could be no traffic, St-Cyr tore his gaze away to search the street.

  Relief flooded through him. The boy leapt into his arms and he lifted him up.

  Marianne looked well. The straw-coloured hair had been braided into a rope which fell from under the scarlet beret to hang over the right shoulder against the dark blue overcoat. The face and brow were strong and wide, the eyes clear blue with crinkles at the corners. There was the blush of youth and weather in her cheeks.

  ‘Marianne, there’s no need to say anything. Me, I understand.’

  St-Cyr rubbed the boy’s back and gave him a hug and a kiss but didn’t set him down. Not yet.

  The dark blue gloves and black leather boots were new, not so the scarf he’d given her with the beret.

  ‘How have you been?’ she asked, searching his eyes – feeling perhaps some twinges of remorse.

  Was she having second thoughts?

  ‘Me? Busy on a case as usual. I’ve hired Madame Courbet to look after the house. There’ll always be a key under the mat. I suspect you’ll want to get in from time to time.’

  ‘Are you hurting?’ she asked. There was such sensitivity in her eyes.

  ‘But of course I’m hurting. To be cuckolded by a German officer …’

  ‘Would it have been any better if he’d been French?’

  ‘No … No, of course not.’

  They walked along the street, each feeling lost with the other, Philippe playing with his water pistol and saying, ‘Bang! Bang!’ at his father.

  The poor sap, thought Kohler. He’s mush before the woman when he ought to have smacked her face at least a couple of times.

  They reached the corner. Kohler lit a fag and leaned against the car. There was only one thing to do for Louis. Keep the poor bastard hopping until he forgot about the woman. And as for Glotz and his film … von Schaumburg would tear the roofs off Paris if he found out what was going on.

  ‘You must take what you like from the house, Marianne. Please, I insist. The boy’s things … It’s not easy to find good warm clothing these days in the proper sizes.’

&nb
sp; ‘Erich’s very generous. There is no problem, Louis.’

  ‘Is he also married?’

  ‘Of course. Look, it doesn’t matter, eh? I couldn’t go on. I had to escape.’

  ‘You should have told me how you felt.’

  She found the will to smile – she had such a warm and generous smile but this one was all too brief. ‘Would you have listened? Louis, you were never home. Nights I’d lie awake wanting you beside me. A woman can want a man, can’t she?’

  St-Cyr nodded. He shrugged. He said, ‘So, it’s okay now, eh? He’s there beside you.’

  Louis could see through anything. ‘I know he’ll leave me, but it doesn’t matter.’

  He set the boy down. She took Philippe by the hand. ‘Isn’t Papa coming with us to our new house?’

  ‘Ah no, chéri. He has to go to work.’

  ‘Always he’s going to work. He never stays at home.’

  ‘Take care of yourself, Marianne. Me, I really mean it.’

  ‘And you,’ she said, giving him a moment more. Poor Louis, he looked so lost in his shabby overcoat and rubbers. ‘Find someone else. Quit that lousy job before you do.’

  St-Cyr watched as they crossed the boulevard Henri Martin. When they reached the other side, the two of them turned to look back – Marianne still emanating that strength of character and determination he had so much admired.

  ‘Don’t forget the key will be under the mat,’ he shouted and gave a last wave.

  Kohler raised his eyebrows. ‘Come on, Louis, let’s have a look at the woman’s flat.’

  ‘Yes, let’s attend to business. We both know those papers Boemelburg shoved at us are for real.’

  ‘I can’t see you working in a salt mine.’

  ‘Kiev is full of partisans, Hermann. You’d be assassinated on the second day. Me, I’m positive of this.’

  ‘Then tell me just who the hell wants us out of the way and has taken the steps to see to it?’

  ‘You tell me. You know the Berlin Gestapo better than I.’

  ‘Mueller wouldn’t have signed those papers of his own accord.’