Mayhem

by J. Robert Janes

  ‘Then Himmler must have ordered it.’

  ‘Three days – why three, Louis?’ The number three had come up again!

  ‘Why?’ shrugged St-Cyr. ‘Because it’s one more than von Schaumburg gave us.’

  ‘Do you get the feeling everyone’s after us?’

  ‘God included,’ said St-Cyr. ‘Him most of all.’

  The building at number 45, boulevard Émile Auger was like all the rest. Flat, square, unfeelingly modern, cold, and facing the street and the world as if through hooded eyes.

  The black-out curtains were still closed in one of the second-floor apartments though it was nearly noon.

  ‘You or me?’ asked Kohler, looking up at the curtains.

  ‘Me, I think, Hermann. Yes, let me handle it.’

  In the late 1920s and 1930s many of Paris’s upper middle class had moved out of the old and fashionable areas of the city. Like decadent nomads, they had brought all the trappings of their lives but relished plumbing that worked, heating systems that, for the times, were the best available, and electrical wiring that did not blow too many fuses.

  Even as they went up the steps, St-Cyr had a pretty good idea of what the apartment would contain.

  The concierge, a middle-aged woman, reflected her station in life. Several strands of agate beads complimented the soft yellow cardigan and patterned blouse. No fool, she saw copper right away and demanded to know what they thought they were doing.

  ‘Merely a matter of discretion, madame,’ said St-Cyr, taking off his hat. ‘A few questions of Mademoiselle Arcuri.’

  ‘She’s not here. She didn’t come back last night.’

  ‘Her maid?’ he asked, lifting his eyebrows.

  ‘She neither. Such weeping … that girl …’

  St-Cyr waited, but the woman knew she’d already said too much.

  ‘We’d like to take a look through the flat, madame. It’s a matter of some urgency.’

  He unbuttoned his overcoat and slid a hand into his jacket pocket, removing a black leather notebook stuffed with slips of paper, small bills, his ID and badge. ‘We have a search warrant, madame. Do I have to show it to you?’

  The brown eyes were wary. ‘A search warrant? In my building? What’s she done?’

  St-Cyr tucked the notebook away. ‘Nothing that we know of, madame – please don’t alarm yourself – but her life, and that of her maid, Mademoiselle Yvette Noel, may well be in danger.’

  At the door to the flat, St-Cyr gave the woman yet another look of grave concern. ‘You may leave us, madame. I’m sure you have other things you must do. We will touch nothing and take nothing, of this you have our word.’

  Tartly she told them to remove their rubbers and shoes. ‘Mademoiselle Arcuri is very fussy.’

  ‘I’m sure she is,’ said St-Cyr. ‘The rubbers and shoes, Hermann. It will be just as if we were at home, madame.’

  ‘You may leave them in the hall. No one will steal them. Not in my building.’

  The toe of Kohler’s left sock had been completely eaten away and the toe itself was badly in need of a wash. He tucked it under and smiled subserviently at the woman. Not a word. Louis continued to surprise him. That business with the notebook was new … he must remember it.

  Like so many of the wealthy upper middle class, Gabrielle Arcuri’s flat was cluttered with furnishings of one sort and another, all of which, under the subdued light of day, gave back just that: their sumptuous clutter.

  Polychromed deer, frogs, camels and Coromandel screens framed Louis XV chairs and Chinese coffee tables. The baroque Italian mirror above the mantelpiece was huge, heavy and ornately carved with gilded cherubs, grapes, drapes and other things. A bronze Buddha on the mantelpiece was reflected in the glass, as was the Belle Époque chandelier among whose many crystals hung clouds of amethyst and smoky quartz.

  Here was a woman, then, who had a taste for expensive things.

  Kohler ran a hand over the headless, limbless statue of a young man. Since everything else was gone, only the most important parts were left. The kid had lots of fruit. A nice one too. Uncircumcised. ‘Our girl, Louis. Just what the hell is she doing singing in a place like that?’

  ‘My thoughts exactly, Hermann. Shall I take the bedroom while you find that of the maid?’

  ‘Let’s do it together, eh? Don’t spoil my fun.’

  Gabrielle Arcuri’s bedroom had been done in soft pastel shades of green, yellow, powder blue and white. It was tastefully and distinctly feminine – less of the clutter, more room to walk around. One could imagine her doing so. The carpet was very soft, of a dove grey with a faint wash of blue.

  Flowered chintz covered the walls; brocade and lace, the modest pastel green four-poster that was heaped with cushions and pillows.

  Tidy … that was a first impression. Two crystal vases held white roses, there was a painted Louis XVI settee near the windows to catch the sun; an unpainted, Louis XVI dressing table and blue-covered, painted stool against the far wall.

  She’d have seen the bed’s reflection as she took off her makeup or put it on.

  St-Cyr wished Kohler had taken the hint. ‘Your vibrations are disturbing me, Hermann. This is not entirely as I expected.’

  ‘Oh, in what way?’

  ‘The purse and the condoms, eh? Quite obviously Mademoiselle Arcuri kept this room entirely to herself.’

  Trust Louis to notice it. ‘So, were the condoms for real or not?’

  St-Cyr moved towards the closets on either side of the dressing table. ‘Perhaps, but then …’

  He left the thought hanging.

  ‘What is it, Louis? You look as if you’ve found a body.’

  ‘The clothes, my friend. Très chic, of course, but mixed with them, rough trousers of tweed and corduroy, a worn leather jacket, three-quarter length and not unlike the boy’s, riding breeches, even a crop.’

  ‘A whip,’ enthused Kohler, reaching in to get it. ‘Brown leather across the buttocks, Louis. Can you imagine that woman flailing some poor guy to get it up?’

  ‘Frankly, no.’

  ‘You’re not offended, are you?’ Kohler pulled down a lower eyelid.

  ‘A little, yes. Hermann, we’re dealing with a very complex character. On the one hand a second-rate …’

  ‘Downright seedy …’

  ‘Nightclub and this,’ said St-Cyr, with a lift of his bushy eyebrows. ‘A woman …’ He touched a silk chemise. ‘Someone’s daughter, Hermann. You must always remember that even with the worst of prostitutes there has been a mother.’

  ‘A château …’ went on Kohler, prying open a hat box and ignoring the lecture.

  ‘A monogrammed silver cigarette case.’

  ‘Russian initials, Louis, and Russian diamonds.’

  ‘Perhaps, but then …’

  Again he left it unsaid. There were several evening gowns – all neatly pressed, nothing rumpled. The everyday dresses would have come to mid-calf length. Wools, cottons, two of corduroy for rough wear. A pair of brown leather driving gloves, a pair of Swiss hiking boots.

  The gloves had been stuffed into one of the boots. Bits of oak leaves clung to the mud that was lodged between the rubber treads.

  ‘Fontainebleau Woods?’ asked Kohler.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said St-Cyr, ‘but if so, then …’

  ‘I’ll check the maid’s closets. Maybe the shoes will be there.’

  St-Cyr waited, and when the Bavarian had left the room, he closed the closet door and moved over to the bureau, a sumptuous piece of inlaid mahogany that had been painted a pistachio green.

  A rebel? he asked, or one so positive about the décor, she could ruin a valuable antique and think nothing of it.

  Underwear – slips, brassieres, chemises and camisoles – lace again, but sensible things as well.

  He lifted a stack and felt beneath it. Nothing.

  When he found the revolver he let out a stifled gasp not just because it wasn’t expected but because the hiding place was so stupid an
d the gun far too big for a lady.

  A mirage.

  It was a French Army Lebel six-shooter, one of the original 1873 models. It even had its lanyard.

  Using the stem of his pipe, St-Cyr carefully fished the weapon out and brought the muzzle up to his nose. The weapon hadn’t been recently fired. In fact, he had the thought it hadn’t been used in a very long time. Not since the last days of the Defeat.

  Breaking the cylinder open, he saw that the gun was fully loaded. He flicked a glance towards the bedroom door, didn’t hesitate. Stuffing the gun into the waistband of his trousers, he buttoned up the overcoat.

  When he moved towards the bed, St-Cyr imagined Gabrielle Arcuri stretched out on it, lounging with a book perhaps. Silk pyjamas – a soft, coral pink. The smell of her perfume …

  A tall and very beautiful woman in that sanctuary of sanctuaries, her bedroom. With a loaded revolver but a few steps away. Why the gun? he asked and answered, Why unless she’d been afraid for her life.

  ‘Louis, have a look at these.’

  Kohler thrust the snapshots at him. All were of the boy – two showed him sunbathing in the nude.

  He had a dreamy look in his eyes, was smirking up at the camera. No attempt had been made to cover himself.

  St-Cyr gruffly said, ‘Ah!’ and stuffed the photographs into a pocket. ‘Now take a look at this, my friend.’

  The portrait photograph, in its silver oval, was of a French officer – quite handsome, quite the gallant, about thirty-six or so years of age, with a distant look in his warm and sensitive eyes. A dream.

  ‘There’s a son, also, Hermann. A boy of about Philippe’s age.’

  ‘And a map,’ breathed Kohler, sliding open one of the bedside table drawers. ‘A kid’s drawing of the château and its grounds, Louis. In crayon.’

  At sounds from the hall – at an argument of some sort – St-Cyr snatched the child’s sketch from Kohler and tucked it away in a pocket.

  ‘The living-room,’ he hissed. ‘We’ve company.’ Merde! Could nothing be done in private? Just when he was getting a feel for the woman, an interruption …

  ‘Your names?’

  ‘Kohler. Gestapo Headquarters Paris, General.’

  ‘St-Cyr, of the Sûreté.’

  ‘Your search warrant?’

  The black-gloved fingers were bared and then snapped.

  ‘We have none,’ said St-Cyr, watching him closely. Such a man …

  ‘Then get out!’

  It was the general from the balcony at the club. ‘General, could I ask why you’re here?’

  The French! ‘Don’t be impertinent. Your superiors will hear of this.’

  ‘They will only ask me the same question, as will the Sturmbannführer Boemelburg.’

  The man swore. ‘Her maid’s been found. I thought she’d like to know.’

  ‘Where?’ asked St-Cyr, holding his breath.

  ‘Fontainebleau Woods. Now get out of here, the two of you, and find her killers.’

  Kohler went down the stairs first, then St-Cyr, then the woman and lastly that piece of Prussian SS glass with its black-gloved hands and once handsome face that was now such a mass of scars.

  As they passed the concierge’s room, St-Cyr stopped suddenly. ‘Is that the morning’s mail, madame?’ he asked, ignoring the general.

  ‘But yes …’ she began.

  ‘Permit me, please, to examine those two little parcels.’

  ‘I thought I said …’

  ‘General, we’re on a murder case – expressly on orders from Berlin,’ said Kohler. ‘When my partner sees something, it’s usually of interest.’

  ‘Very well, but I must warn you …’

  St-Cyr broke open one of the parcels – it was no more than ten centimetres long by perhaps two in width and height.

  The woman sucked in a breath and gripped her heart as the little black coffin was exposed.

  ‘The Resistance,’ breathed Kohler. ‘Louis, what the hell’s going on?’

  ‘One might well wonder, Hermann. It appears the Resistance have chosen to make an example of Mademoiselle Arcuri.’

  ‘And her maid,’ breathed Kohler.

  ‘Fontainebleau Woods.’

  ‘The house first, Hermann, and then the woods. I must pick up a heavy sweater and my hiking boots.’ And hide a certain weapon.

  It was only after they’d got into the car that Kohler told him, ‘Louis, it wasn’t me who said Fontainebleau Woods just then.’

  St-Cyr nodded but said nothing.

  Madame Courbet had been in to tidy up. The geraniums even looked better. She had put the day’s mail on the kitchen table. St-Cyr fished through it searching for the negative of him and Kohler on safari and when it wasn’t there, he began to worry.

  It was raining when they got to Fontainebleau Woods and that didn’t help. The Gorge of the Archers was south of the road that ran from Fontainebleau town to Milly-la-Forêt on the western edge of the forest.

  One went in by a bit of rough gravel, but only so far. From a small clearing, a footpath led up into the gorge.

  The flics in blue from Barbizon and Fontainebleau were everywhere and viewed their intrusion with hostile eyes.

  ‘A classic Resistance killing,’ snapped Beauchamp, the Préfet of Barbizon. A ferret with nasty looks and a manner that silenced.

  ‘One through the back of the head,’ added Cartier, the Préfet of Fontainebleau, a big man who enjoyed his soup. A father of ten, and strict about it. ‘So, we can wrap things up, eh? Now that you two have seen all there is to see.’

  ‘A moment, please, Commissioner. Allow us the privilege of assisting you,’ said St-Cyr, water pouring off the brim of his fedora. They’d both get pneumonia.

  Yvette Noel’s wrists had been tied tightly together behind her back. She’d been dragged from a car and hustled up the footpath into the gorge, then thrown to her knees.

  There were powder burns on the back of her head. Blood had run from her nose and mouth but with the rain, most of this had been washed away.

  St-Cyr crammed his hands into the pockets of his overcoat. She’d been a little thing and so afraid. After hitting the ground she had tried to crawl away and her assailant had grabbed her by the wrists, dragged her back to her knees, and forced her head forward. No time to say her prayers. No time for anything.

  ‘Time of death?’ he asked.

  ‘Does it matter?’ snorted the Préfet of Barbizon. He’d show the SN.

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, it does.’

  ‘Our coroner has the flu.’

  ‘Then get someone else to have a look at her!’

  The ferret hit his forehead with the heel of a hand and swore. ‘Another doctor, he wants! Georges, did you hear that?’

  ‘I will send Lauzon for Dr Dandelin. He’ll do a job for us,’ said Georges.

  ‘That drunk?’ snapped St-Cyr.

  ‘Ah yes, that drunk. He’s very good with corpses.’

  Something passed between the two men. Both St-Cyr and Kohler had a good idea what it was.

  ‘We will want some photographs,’ said St-Cyr, ‘even though the light is poor.’

  ‘Photographs!’ You’d think he’d asked for the moon.

  The Préfet of Barbizon motioned officiously for one of his men to go and fetch Hermé Thibault on his bicycle, a two-hour jaunt!

  ‘We’re old friends,’ said St-Cyr, not bothering to explain or raise objection to the delay.

  Kohler began to walk slowly around the girl, eyes glued to the ground. Each circle was enlarged. ‘You bastards,’ he said at one point. ‘Fucking slobs. Don’t you know anything?’

  ‘The Resistance …’ began Cartier. It all seemed so evident.

  St-Cyr looked up at him. ‘The Resistance from where?’

  ‘Melun. Those bastards have been stirring up the shit with the local farmers.’

  Who supply the Reich and the black market in Paris, thought St-Cyr. ‘This girl had nothing to do with them.’

&nb
sp; ‘Oh, and how can you be so sure, my friend? She has no ID. The bastards emptied her pockets and took everything.’

  ‘She’s the one who killed the boy on the roadside near Barbizon.’

  ‘Ah! Why didn’t you say so?’

  ‘You didn’t ask.’

  Someone used a bit of sense and stretched a piece of canvas between the trees to keep the rain off her.

  She was, of course, soaked through. The brown beret had been flung off by the hand that had swept her hair forward and had forced her head down.

  The pistol had been crammed against the base of her skull, the shot fired upwards into the brain. She would have been no trouble for a man.

  The flat-soled pumps were of a dark blue leather, the argyle stockings of greys and blues to match both the plain blue skirt and the shoes. Had she been wearing them last night? he asked, but couldn’t remember. It would come to him in time.

  ‘I should have stopped you,’ he said, having been given a moment’s privacy. ‘Did you know this might happen, Yvette? Is that why you were so upset, or was it simply that you’d committed murder and known the Church would condemn you for it?’

  ‘She can’t answer, Louis. Maybe the slug that killed her will.’

  Kohler had come to have a look. When St-Cyr raised questioning eyebrows, the Bavarian said, ‘Nothing, Louis. They’ve buggered it all up. No tracks but their own flat feet. Not a thing.’

  ‘Why would the Resistance send this girl a black coffin after they’d executed her?’

  It was a good question. ‘Maybe the post got delayed.’

  ‘Those little parcels were mailed this morning in Paris, Hermann.’

  ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid I am.’

  ‘The pond gets deeper and deeper.’

  ‘And at the bottom there is only a mirage.’

  Dr Émile Dandelin squeezed the last bit of good out of a soggy fag before pinching it out and pocketing the butt. ‘So, my friends, another crime of passion, eh?’ Fontainebleau Woods was famous for them. The things one found … Twice now, three naked couples …

  When he saw the ropes, he cocked a pale blue, wary eye at Kohler who blithely said, ‘Looks like it, doc. That brandy I smell?’

  ‘Armagnac, please. It helps to keep out the weather.’ A Resistance killing … an execution in the grand manner.