‘Then Mademoiselle Bertrand has been with you from the start?’ he asked. Yet there is nothing to tell?’
‘Claudine cares for her bedridden mother who knows nothing of this place and thinks, in her confused state of mind, that her husband, who died in the invasion of 1914, still provides for her. They live alone here in Vieux Lyon, on the rue du Boeuf at Number Six.’
Not far away. ‘She has no pimp?’
Madame Rachline shook her head slightly. ‘None of my girls has one, Inspector. It’s not permitted. It’s a rule of the house that ensures each gets fair recompense for her services and there is no trouble.’
‘And the doctor?’ he asked. What was it about her that alarmed him in addition to the colour of her cheeks and lips?
‘Dr Sévigny comes three times a week for their sake, Inspector, more than for that of the clients, though of course I am concerned on their behalf as well. My girls are good and I give them all the protection I can. It’s a profession, isn’t it? Therefore, let us put a little dignity into it. Each has money in a safe place but can draw on future earnings if necessary up to one-quarter of her annual take which is split fifty per cent for them, thirty for the owners, five for myself, and fifteen for the house.’
It was an amazingly fair relationship, almost unheard of. But if Madame Rachline had any further concerns about him, she hid them well. He asked if they might sit down. She did not hesitate but said, ‘Would you prefer my bedroom, the grand salon or the dining-room?’ He knew she had included the bed-room on purpose and he had to suggest it.
‘Then follow me. It is the only bed that is not yet in use.’
‘Were you outside in the street, madame?’
‘Yes. Yes, as a matter of fact I was. I attended the midnight Mass at the Basilica.’
‘And walked home alone in those clothes?’
‘Yes.’
Ah merde.
Kohler helped himself to the foie gras de canard, the duck pâté with a mildewed crust that must be a good ten years old. He filled one of the ruby-rimmed, gilded Venetian goblets with Romanée-Conti, 1917—was it really that old?
Then he laid into the truffled veal sausage, had a finger-taste of the glazed fruit and then the Kirsch soufflé—all bits and pieces that still lay about the cluttered dining-room table with its tapestry cloth of deep red, green and white patterns beneath a chandelier of glass lozenges in shades of ruby, emerald, lapis and citrine.
He tried the oysters and then the Portugaises vertes—how had they come by them? A half-filled bottle of pepper vodka made him think of his two sons at Stalingrad. Were they saying it would be their last Christmas?
‘Salut!’ he said, pausing to spoon in the black Russian caviar. ‘Gott mit uns, eh, Hans? Shit! Tell Jurgen you both should have listened to your papa and gone to Argentina like I said.’
Ah merde. Merde! This lousy war. He took another swill of vodka. Those two bitches in that tower, that one out on the street—had it really been a woman?
He downed a snipe that had been hung until it had dropped from the hook, then roasted on a cushion of toast smothered in a paste of brandy and its rotted innards.
A wealth of bone-white porcelain and old silver covered the table. There was a ceramic crèche as the centrepiece—elephants and tigers led by Nubian slaves with jewelled parasols to keep the sun off their masters as they made their way to Bethlehem. Decanters and bottles—strands of pearls and cut-glass beads, beeswax candles like he hadn’t seen in years. Spirals and twists and fluted columns but plump, golden artichokes also, and bunches of grapes and fleurs-de-lis.
More caviar was swallowed, more vodka, pâté and soufflé. Some of the candles had gone out or had been pinched out by licentious fingers. He could almost hear the gaiety of their laughter. Fifteen couples had sat here, the cream of Lyon industrialists, bankers, lawyers and merchants, no doubt. Money, money and more of it because business was booming for them, ah yes.
The vodka was gone. He refilled his goblet. When alternated with the Romanée-Conti, it wasn’t bad. A bit too peppery, but the Russians always had been driven to excess. Too emotional a people.
The braised goose had had all of its bones drawn out through its anus before being rammed with a forcemeat of foie gras and truffles. Small mushrooms lay like plump, ripe breasts among stoned ripe olives and small sausages that had first been fried in butter. All were mingled with a dark, rich sauce that had cooled and was now setting into a gel.
He spooned a bit, cut off a slice—tore away a larger piece—hell, there must have been a dozen geese scattered along the table. The potatoes were good. With the snipe and the pâté and the cold purée of leeks, a meal. Dessert too, and another shot of wine. He’d try the Clos de Vougeot this time or perhaps the Beaujolais Blanc.
‘You must be hungry.’
For seven seconds he paused, then hesitated knowing gravy was drooling down his chin.
Her hair was as red as the sunset over Essen with the Krupp furnaces going full blast. Her eyes were a lively green, wide and full of innocence, the lashes long and a shade darker than the loosened mass that fell richly to delicious shoulders. Nom de Jésus-Christ, she was absolutely gorgeous. About twenty-three years of age.
Kohler swallowed tightly—he really hadn’t realized how much he’d been missing his little Giselle back home in Paris, or Oona, his Dutch housekeeper. ‘Bonsoir,’ he said. ‘Pull up a chair. Here, let me fill you a glass. The Dom Pérignon, eh? Come on, I’ll join you. Some of the pâté? A little of the caviar? Your client …?’ He arched his eyebrows. She smiled softly and her lips … Ah nom de Dieu, they were perfect! Paris … would she consider coming to Paris when this thing was over?
‘My client, he is relieved of his little burden, monsieur, and will now sleep until it comes upon him again. Were you …?’
‘Waiting? Ah, sorry. I wish I was but know I haven’t got the strength tonight. Maybe another time, eh? I’m Georges Chartrand from Dijon, here on business, and you?’
‘Mademoiselle Renée Noirceau.’ She pushed her hair back off her brow a little sleepily and pulled the blue silk wrap more tightly about her. ‘Then why are you here, waiting, monsieur, and so hungry for the use of my body, one has hardly to look into your eyes but to see the depth of your lust?’
He gestured with the half-eaten chunk of goose. ‘One of the house clients is an associate. He was supposed to put me up but his wife locked the door.’
She would give him a rapid little smile of disbelief and the shyness of a virgin’s eyes. She would take some of the soufflé to keep herself busy, and have a sip of champagne. She would study this one from the Gestapo as one would a bull one wishes, perhaps, to castrate, should that be necessary to control him. ‘Are you married?’ she asked, not letting up.
Kohler grinned. ‘How else does a man know best how to keep a woman happy?’
‘And the woman? Does she learn best in the same way or by being with many men?’
He dabbed caviar on to a leftover snipe and handed it to her. ‘Try this. I think you’ll like the combination. It’s interesting.’
She kissed his fingers, then the hand that held the snipe, its tiny head tucked under a wing, but demurely shook her head. ‘I must get back. Monsieur Bertolette makes trucks for the Army of the Germans—lots and lots of them. Perhaps it is his conscience that causes him to be such a light sleeper. When he pays, he demands. I only came down for this.’
Another bottle of the Dom Pérignon, the 1908.
‘Tell me about Mademoiselle Bertrand.’
Her eyebrows arched. ‘Did your friend give you her name?’
‘Instead of yours? Yes, he did. She’s older, more …’
‘Experienced?’
Gott im Himmel, she had a lovely accent! Refined, of the aristocracy of Lyon, the cream of the crop!
‘Experienced?’ she asked again, only to see him smile and hear him say, ‘You tell me, Mademoiselle Noirceau. Is Mademoiselle Claudine Number One in this stable or Number Twenty?�
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A stable … She would shrug at the insult. ‘Perhaps it is, monsieur, that some women, they are good for many things and others are not. Is it that your tastes, they are …?’
‘Peculiar? No, no, I like my women au naturel and the usual way.’
‘Not sometimes a little different? Over the arm of a chair, perhaps, or up against the wall, the bureau, the armoire with its big mirrors or on the hands and knees like animals?’
Louis should have been with him! ‘Does she go with women?’
The girl’s throat tightened under her hand. Fear touched those lovely eyes only to vanish. ‘Why do you ask such a thing?’
‘Because it’s possible.’
‘Then you must ask Madame Rachline, monsieur. Me, I would not know since I service only those stallions with the proper equipment!’
Hot under the collar, eh, at the mention of lying naked with another woman? Kohler grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back, only to have her rake her nails across the back of his hand and grab a thumb that was already sore from the last investigation! He gripped her arm all the harder.
Ah maudit, he was so stubborn! A giant. Trembling, she let go of the thumb to touch the scar on his left cheek and then the wound on his forehead from which, hours ago perhaps, the bandage had fallen or been torn away.
‘Claudine is special, monsieur, and that is why Madame keeps her on.’
Kohler collected two of the forgotten favours that were scattered about among the candles. The condoms were powder-blue or chartreuse, one took one’s pick. Rolled up and ready with a gumdrop in each.
When he pressed them into her hand, she frowned and heaved a sigh. ‘Monsieur Bertolette, my client for tonight, will not use these. Instead, he looks first to see if there is disease and then rides without the English riding coat. I’m pregnant, and now the sight of all this food is making my stomach turn.’
Bertolette was one of the old-style, union-smashing patrons who’d send his mother to the guillotine if necessary to further business. Trucks—he made them in plenty. His was the largest works in the country.
Kohler chucked her under a chin so soft and gently curved he knew it had been raised on milk and that her family had been well off. ‘Bon Noël, Mademoiselle Renée. Don’t shed tears. Just get rid of his bastard. Don’t try to convince him to keep you.’
‘For me, there are no illusions, monsieur. Madame has arranged everything but I cannot be free of my little burden until the New Year.’
‘Does she go with any of the clients?’
‘Madame? Ah no, of course not. She is our only defence in the times of crisis and must remain neutral.’
‘Was she here for the supper?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’
‘Did she leave for a bit?’
‘Ah, I … I would not know, monsieur. Me, I was kept busy.’
‘Who owns this place?’
She had a way of shrugging that both pleased and puzzled. ‘Others,’ she said a little sadly. ‘Oh bien sûr, we are the first to wonder, monsieur, and the last to know.’
I’ll bet! ‘This stuff,’ he said. ‘These things … this place and all that’s in it? Hey, me, I’ve never seen a house like this. Who furnished it and keeps it going? Those dresses you all must wear? That robe? None of this stuff is being made any more, so where’s it all coming from?’
‘That I do not know, monsieur.’
The green of her eyes had darkened. Wary now, her eyelids flickered once under scrutiny, then she gripped her stomach, dropped the champagne bottle, and with a hand to her mouth, rushed from the room.
Fortunately the bottle didn’t explode. Gingerly Kohler picked it up and followed her into the kitchen to wait while she emptied her guts, washed her face and tried to steady herself.
The stairwell was carpeted and grand, replete with staggered palms and ferns in porcelain buckets under gorgeous nudes on canvas. Renée Noirceau said nothing but led him up to her room on the first floor at the back.
‘Merci,’ she said demurely as he handed her the bottle.
Kohler let her open the door. Satiated, Bertolette lay face down among the scattered covers on an Empire bed. ‘He snores,’ she said, dismayed. ‘Me, I think that men, they should not snore after they have made love to a woman.’
One stocking hung from the arm of a chair. Her corset, with all its metres of lacing undone, had been tossed aside.
As he watched, she pulled the tie from around her middle and let the robe fall to her feet. ‘Goodbye, my dear detective. Me, I would perhaps prefer you to him, but really it’s all the same once the eyes are closed, or is it?’
Ah nom de Dieu! How could a girl of good breeding become so wicked?
She touched her lips with a fingertip and smiled. ‘Come, come, Inspector. Here on the floor. Let us experience the grand frisson, eh? the great shudder. Please, there is no need for you to shoot the stork in flight since the egg within its little nest has already been fertilized.’
Kohler kissed her on the lips and patted her gorgeous backside. ‘Sleep tight. Good luck. We’ll be back.’
‘We …?’
He touched her lips. ‘My partner and I. He’s downstairs with Madame.’
‘Then it is a cold supper he will have, for that one opens her legs to no one.’
‘Not even another woman?’
‘Not even one of those.’
‘I like your perfume. What’s it called?’
‘Étranger. It’s Madame’s. For tonight she has asked us all to wear it. A little gift.’
He closed the door. He stood there breathing in the last of it, said, Louis … Louis, I think I’m going to be sick.
Every moment in that tower came back, every second in the street. He saw the corpses in the ruins of the cinema, the young, the old, the not so old, and smelled the stench of their flesh.
* * *
Hesitantly St-Cyr strained to touch the chandelier in Madame Rachline’s bedroom and heard the rippling, mocking laughter of its crystal lozenges as they brushed against each other only to fade as if in the distance like a far-off, fleeting embrace or whispered confidence. What had she in mind, and should he have let her go so easily?
Madame Rachline, having conducted him to her room, had left to go in search of one of her maids. Surely she must have known he would realize the room was unused and totally for show?
The walls were papered with pale green linen on which there was a white-rose motif in sprays and single flowers. This was matched by a quilted bedspread and curtained canopy which was draped from the ceiling over the head of an Empire-style four-poster of brass and ebony rods.
There was a brass peacock-fan screen in front of a grey marble fireplace on whose mantelpiece stood two flanking, pale green amphorae filled with white silk roses. One could imagine their scent. The same was true of the luminous poppies in a painting by Henri Fantin-Latour and in the older, and far richer spring flowers of van Dael.
The room was a museum. It felt like it—just as cold, just as remote and silent. All that was needed was a glass display case over the tall vase of pink silk lilies. Exquisite—yes, yes, and untouched. Yet now … why now she would try to suggest that it’ was used.
Even as he unstoppered a pale green bottle with entwining, swimming nudes, graceful, gorgeous things, he wondered if she had left him alone on a dare just to see how far he would go.
The scent was troubling. Bergamot and jasmine, rose absolute and petitgrain of lemon-tree. Orange flower, Clary sage and musk. Though it took him back to the belfry at the Basilica, it also took him back to his boyhood, for it called up with a suddenness that shocked, the faint-hearted trembling steps of a boy of ten who had found himself slipping guiltily away from his parents to search out and walk through the forbidden exhibits in the Palais des Fils, Tissus et Vétements—thread, fabric and clothing—at the great Universal Exhibition in Paris, the year 1900.
There had been sweeping skirts and tiny, bejewelled or richly embroidered bolero j
ackets, smallish hats trimmed and veiled; frock coats, toppers and silk cravats for the men of substance. But deeper, deeper into the maze and to one side as if forbidden, there had been the lace and muslin over silk petticoats that had always rustled when maman or Aunt Sophie or any of his other aunts and older cousins had been angry or simply in a hurry and all too willing to box his ears.
Les Toilettes de la Collectivitée de la Couture it had been called, the first really public exhibit of haute couture. The chemises and corset-bodices—the whalebone and steel-shanked armour the women of those days had strapped themselves into. The camisoles, the white drawers that continued right down to their knees. The silk night-gowns that were so soft and sensual, all hand-sewn and monogrammed and edged with Cluny lace or Flounce of Argentan or any of the other antique laces and with pink or blue ‘baby’ ribbons inserted as if one would have to untie each of those tiny bows to get at what was within.
Black silk stockings of knee length and black shoes that were high and laced up the front, and more like boots with sharply pointed toes. Openwork muslin blouses of broderie anglaise that were deemed immodest yet allowed only the sight of a stiff white bodice that hid all cleavage beneath an armour of white lawn if one were decent and not up to mischief or really dressing up.
They’d shaken him savagely, both his mother and father. For days afterwards he had sweltered. His mother had refused to speak or acknowledge a delinquent son. The maid had accused him of secretly going through the laundry to find out things no boy should even think about!
And now? he asked a little sadly. Why now that boy knows far more of evil than that mother or father could ever have imagined.
He stared at the perfume bottle in his hand. The scent was earthy, not common and most certainly from forty to fifty years ago. It contained far too much musk for his liking—at least he thought so now, for it suddenly embarrassed him.
Madame Rachline had returned—she had caught him at her dressing table.
‘Inspector, this is Michèle-Louise, one of my housemaids. Unfortunately one cannot retire without assistance. Please, we can talk while I …’ She indicated the dressing screen, said nothing about the perfume vial that was still in his hand. Not even a hint of surprise or question. Clever … had she been clever?
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