Robichaud clenched his fists in utter frustration but never in defeat. ‘You were right behind the first of my pumper trucks, monsieur. How is this, please?’
Weidling stood right up to him. ‘I was at the Préfecture going through the records of known arsonists when I heard the alarm.’
‘And that wife of yours?’ demanded the savage hotly.
‘Dining with the Obersturmführer Barbie and friends.’
‘And did you find anything among the préfet’s records?’
‘Don’t be so mule-headed, Herr Robichaud. If you had acted properly, the deaths in the cinema fire would have been far less.’
The bastard! thought St-Cyr.
‘And this most recent fire, monsieur?’ demanded Robichaud. ‘Is it that I did not act properly? Well, come, come, monsieur. Answer me, please. You’re the expert.’
‘You acted properly but I must question your methods.’
Ah merde! thought St-Cyr.
Robichaud pointed a forefinger at all of them then stabbed it repeatedly in Weidling’s direction before wagging it bitterly. ‘Then understand this, my friends. That one doesn’t know the city as I do nor does he have the loyalty of the men. Nor can he ask them to risk their lives or be with them when their own language is needed most. Or is it, Herr Weidling, that you intend to take along an interpreter?’
St-Cyr attempted to hand the fire chief the blanket but it was brushed aside.
‘You think that I am with the Resistance,’ said Robichaud to the préfet, ‘that that is why Élaine and I were in the cinema on the night of the fire. You think that, to save the city and pacify the Occupier, a sacrifice should be made. All of you ache for blood. Then let me tell you—no, no, Monsieur Barrault, please do not interrupt. The Théâtre des Célestins is in Presqu’île, in your very own district. Listen carefully, my friend. A hot start means an igniter that burns with a very high temperature. Any rubbish that is nearby also flashes into flame because the heat of the starter raises it well beyond the ignition temperature. Oh for sure, trailers of gasoline may well have been used, and perhaps one ran down the central staircase from the attic, all of which implies, my friends, that the Salamander must have gained entry to the building twice or maybe even three times.’
Someone at the back of the room demanded that Robichaud explain. Johann was going to give Herr Robichaud every opportunity to make a fool of himself. Suicide … would Klaus Barbie really organize such a thing to silence the savage for ever? she wondered.
‘First,’ said Robichaud fiercely, ‘a room is rented and the device then put in place, either on that day or subsequently. Another visit, perhaps at nine thirty or ten in the evening, is used to activate the starter and then lay down the trailer. Gasoline was smelled by more than one of the tenants but for myself, I know only too well how confused and terrified victims can be. Our very mention of gasoline during the preliminary questioning could easily have caused them to believe they had smelled it.’
Lost in thought, Johann reached for his glass but decided abruptly not to touch it. ‘Phosphorus?’ he grunted—only that one word. She held a breath.
The interpreter translated but there was no need. Robichaud agreed with hesitation, revealing doubt, but then more strongly, as if now convinced he’d best be firm, he said, ‘Yes, it is my belief that phosphorus was used as the starter. This very quickly burned through the old floorboards and then the fire was able to race along between the joists and up the inside of the walls. It got a good start, my friends, because it was out of sight until it was too late to save the building. For me, though I know you will not listen, this indicates that gasoline was not used.’
Begrudgingly Johann nodded agreement and she couldn’t understand why he would do so and was hurt by this. ‘One places the phosphorus in a small bag of water and hangs it up,’ he said. ‘So long as the phosphorus is under water, the air cannot get at it and there is no problem in storing it safely. The arsonist then punctures the bag with a needle and lets the water drip slowly out while he or she leaves the building and is soon far away before the fire starts.’
This was translated but she could not take her eyes from Johann or stop the tears from forming. Why had he said it? Why had he done this to her?
‘Air then comes in contact with the phosphorus,’ said Robichaud sadly. ‘It flashes to a flame that is so hot, the presence of a little water on the combustibles is of no consequence.’
‘Then what are we to do?’ asked someone in fluent German—Kohler, had it been Kohler? she wondered.
‘Has he such starters in several places?’ asked another, also in German. Had it been St-Cyr?
‘It was not a man who rented that attic room,’ said Robichaud, looking her way. ‘It was a woman.’
‘Only one woman?’ asked someone in German—St-Cyr again?
‘Ah yes, only one and young,’ said Robichaud. ‘Not two as in the cinema fire. A strong German accent also, it is thought, but this must be checked. Now am I to be dismissed or am I to carry on?’
It was the préfet who, making a big show of brotherly love, praised Herr Robichaud for his tireless efforts and then turned things over to the mayor. ‘Take a rest, Julien,’ said that one. ‘You’ve been on your feet for several days and nights, isn’t this so? A long sleep will do you the world of good. We shall see how things go once the Salamander is caught.’
They were leaving it up to Johann.
St-Cyr opened Frau Weidling’s purse and removed the papers she’d taken from Hermann’s jacket. Rummaging, he found a key he could not explain and then three Wehrmacht-issue rubber condoms. Phosphorus was not easy to obtain at any time, never mind in wartime unless one dealt with incendiary explosives and their manufacture, but could she have gotten some?
Wooden matches, cigarettes, elastic bands and two twists of heavy white string followed and then a worn slip of folded paper with the address of La Belle Époque and a name: Claudine Bertrand.
Another and much newer slip of paper yielded the address of an antique shop: M Henri Masson, rue Auguste Comte, not all that far from the hotel.
A silk handkerchief smelled of the perfume Étranger and he had to ask, Why had they all been wearing it, if not to confuse Hermann and himself?
There were two tickets to the concert at the Théâtre des Célestins on Sunday evening. A small bottle held fluid for a cigarette lighter, but he could not find the lighter—had she lost it in the cinema? Now a magnifying glass … ah merde! What had she been planning? The use of the sun’s rays in wintertime? In Lyon of all places?
Lipstick, a compact, rouge and eye shadow followed, then nail clippers and a nail file. Some Occupation marks—about ten thousand, he thought—and about twenty thousand francs. A first-class ticket for the Lyon—Paris express on the morning after the concert, at 6 a.m. Had she taken the Lyon—Dijon express on Tuesday, the twenty-second, to rob a certain shop so as to get Henri Charlebois out of the way or to provide an alibi for him?
There were books of ration tickets just in case she felt hungry and had to eat as the natives did. And four 7.65 millimetre bullets. A Beretta? he wondered.
As he closed the purse, he was momentarily lost in thought and was not conscious of her standing in the doorway to her bedroom. She grabbed the sides of the doorway to stop herself from shouting at him, and when he struck a match, she did not say a thing as he held it to the papers she had taken from Hermann.
Then he turned to look up at her as he held them over an ashtray, coning the flame upwards so as to contain the embers.
At last he said in German that was really very good for a Frenchman, ‘In the morning, Frau Weidling, you will accompany me to the Lycée Ampère, then to Number Six rue du Boeuf, and then to the Croix Rousse to talk to the concierge of that tenement.’
‘And if I refuse?’
‘Then we will go to the Préfecture.’
‘I’ve friends.’
‘That is understood.’
Kohler tried to keep his eyes open
long enough to focus on the profiles he had dug out of Leiter Weidling’s briefcase. Louis was still with the woman in the other bedroom.
‘Profile One: male in mid-to-late 30s. Well-educated, sophisticated …’ ja, ja … ‘able to move freely among established society and the leading hierarchy …’ Come on, cut the drivel, get to the meat of the thing … ‘sees fire as a means of purging the evil within himself. Is fascinated by it but does not display the usual pyromaniac …’ Did they have to use such big words in Berlin? And here he’d thought all they understood was Heil Hitler and Raus! Raus! Get out! Get out! Halt or we’ll shoot!
The usual firebug traits of hanging around the scene of the fire, offering help, condolences …’ et cetera, et cetera … ‘Prefers to read about it in the newspapers and to sustain excitement in this manner. Will most probably have kept a record of every fire he has caused.’
Ah merde, a library. His head dropped as he thought about it, and for perhaps ten seconds he slipped away only to awaken with a start.
‘Profile Two: male’—here the age range was very broad but grouped: ‘18-26; 30-45; 50-70 …’ Seventy? Again there was a lot of psychological drivel …’ uncomfortable in established society who consider themselves his betters. Intelligent, well-educated even if at tradesman level, may speak several foreign languages fluently, a leader …’ ja, ja … ‘Ambitious, conceited, not above destroying others to get ahead, nor using others to gain position. Views himself as a hero and strives always to demonstrate this. Is totally without conscience … very knowledgeable in the ways of arson and clever … Likes to confuse and torment investigators and to demonstrate that he is far superior to them. Sexually very attracted to women who see fire as a means of sexual arousal …’ Arousal …
Kohler nodded off. Flames leapt before him. The papers began to slip away. A woman was coming toward him through the flames. Rich, dark auburn hair and stunningly dark grey-blue eyes. She was … was rubbing her … her … ‘Ah, mon Dieu. Verdammt, idiot! Wake up!’
Arousal … ‘Jealousy may motivate the urge to arson, fire being used as the supreme act of revenge on a partner’s illicit lover or to purge the couple, killing both of them. May often return to the scene of the fire. Plans fires well in advance, often staging them in groups of three at widely diverse points so as to further confuse and elude investigators. Favours gasoline for its shock factor, since everyone understands its explosive nature, but likes to use other means to demonstrate the fullness of his knowledge. May be sexually infatuated with an unobtainable woman or actively engaged in the sexual suppression of another such as a close relative.’
Incest? Ah merde. And no time to close his eyes.
Louis and Frau Weidling must have gone into the salon. Surely Louis wouldn’t leave him here alone?
‘Profile Three: female, age 26 to 34. Uses fire as a fetish to attain sexual gratification and climax. Returns repeatedly to the scenes of her fires. Either has a troubled conscience and is constantly tormented by what she has done, or has no conscience whatsoever and thinks only of orgasm.
‘Enjoys masturbating when in the presence of fire so that she may see flames and feel their heat but never let them touch her naked body. Hence, the flames are seen here to take the place of the male erection which she totally rejects. Has strong lesbian tendencies but avoids any lasting relationship and enjoys arousal through the sight of pain in others. To this end, collects images of female murder victims.’ Shit!
It was really furnace stuff. Naked, as a child, and whipped by her grandfather to cleanse her of unclean thoughts, the file he’d found in Klaus Barbie’s office had indicated. Sodomized by the old bastard because it was safer to shoot the stork up there and female buttocks … Well, at the age of fifteen, what could one say of Prussian sea captains who’d seen it all?
A door closed at a soft word. A light in the hall went out. The blanket slipped from his shoulders as he stuffed the papers back into the briefcase and tried to close the lock … the lock …
‘Johann … Johann, darling, is that you? I … I thought you had gone with the others?’
Kohler switched off the lamp and held his breath. ‘Johann …? Johann, St-Cyr thinks it’s me.’
The door was nudged open and, though he tried to see her, his eyes were not so good. They kept on closing.
‘Johann … Johann …?’
Her perfume enveloped him. He remembered the belfry, remembered a street some place and a whorehouse with palms and lights and ostrich plumes. Corsets too.
‘Johann …?’
She would have a gun, a little pistol. She would find him naked and that would be it. Kohler of the Kripo shot for the attempted rape of a fire chiefs young wife. Ah merde, Louis … Louis, where the fuck are you when needed most?
The saucer of saccharine was filthy. Dead flies from August were one thing, cigarette ashes from then on, another. And the muck they called coffee in the Café de la Gare was about as tasteless as the water from a pugmill in a brickyard.
Zombies, in from the cold, coughed, hawked phlegm and blew out each nostril with a knuckle pressed to the other. They shuffled as if in giant boots, their breath steaming. Like a dunghill just before the frost had crucified its inhabitants, the Gare de Perrache was crawling with people. Trains to here, trains to there with long waits in between and no one seeming to care that pride, self-respect and pie de vivre had once been hallmarks of civilization.
Four German soldiers sought a table in between trains but found none. Their rifles were slung over greatcoat shoulders that no longer bore unit insignia for fear such information might be fed to England via clandestine wireless or courier.
Posters decried waste, USE THE WATER FROM YOUR NOODLES TO MAKE A NOURISHING SOUP. SAVE THREAD. UNRAVEL WORN-OUT SOCKS TO MAKE NEW ONES. OPEN YOUR CURTAINS TO LET IN THE SUNLIGHT. DON’T FORGET THAT IT IS A SOURCE OF HEAT. In winter? In Lyon?
WHEN BOILED, BONES RELEASE MUCH PROTEIN AND NOURISHMENT. NEVER THROW THEM OUT BUT ALWAYS THINK OF REUSING THEM THEN SAVE AS A LAST RESORT FOR MAKING SOAP OR POUNDING INTO FERTILIZER.
Make jam without sugar—oh, he knew it well. Do the washing in cold water. It was like a catechism. Use sand for the difficult stains, never mind the fabric! MAKE SALAD OIL OUT OF WHITE LICHEN, A LITRE OF WATER AND A CRUST OF BREAD—what bread? TO TAKE AWAY THE CHEMICAL ODOUR AND TASTE, PURIFY THROUGH POULTICE MUSLIN—in wartime, with all of it confiscated for wounds on the Russian Front? Ah maudit! CONSUME THE OIL WITHIN 48 HOURS TO PREVENT IT FROM GOING RANCID. Rancid!
TWO HUNDRED GRAMS OF MUSHROOMS ARE EQUIVALENT TO ONE SERVING OF BEEFSTEAK!
Starved for tobacco, St-Cyr searched the saucer of saccharine for a cigarette butt to no avail. Hermann was taking forever. What could have kept him? Surely he hadn’t forgotten they had agreed to meet here?
When a young man in a brand-new suit and open overcoat hesitantly put down a cardboard suitcase to sit opposite him, he wondered apprehensively how long the fellow could possibly remain at large and asked himself if he could not help in some little way.
‘Monsieur,’ said the traveller, indicating the chair. ‘May I?’
The schoolboy French was not too bad. ‘Ah, but of course, of course. Going far?’ he asked pleasantly.
The boy shook his head and took to studying a grimy pre-war railway schedule that had somehow remained stuck to the wall. ‘Paris,’ he mumbled. ‘I’ve friends.’
‘Tobacco?’ hissed St-Cyr.
‘What?’ yelped the boy in English. His face fell. ‘What?’ he asked lamely in French.
St-Cyr told him. ‘I must do some thinking while there is still time, monsieur, but unfortunately with the rationing, I seem to have run out.’
Was he Gestapo? wondered the boy. He looked like a cop …
‘I am a cop, a detective, monsieur. A chief inspector.’
The pouch contained a coarse-grained mixture of Vichy-blended pipe tobacco that, given the circumstances, was quite acceptable. ‘Merci. Have your coffee … no, no, please do not worry.
For the moment, the three Gestapo who were watching this place have gone after other fish. Try to stay close to those soldiers—strike up a conversation in broken French. Be quite loose about it, not rigid, so that they can grasp a little. And when you get to the barrier, they will walk on ahead but you will shout auf Wiedersehen to them as you hand your papers over. The Swiss border is a good day’s journey and it will be closely watched. Have you a friend, a contact—no, please don’t give me a name or password. Just nod.’
‘Is it that easy to spot me?’
‘Try to relax a little, eh? Ditch the suitcase and steal another that is not nearly so new. Keep the overcoat buttoned up. Everyone despises suits like that, even the Nazis and especially their Gestapo. Use common sense. It’s always best.’
‘The … the woman I stayed with thought it would be best if I were dressed properly.’
‘Forget you ever saw her. Just concentrate on looking like one of the crowd. Don’t hesitate when you come into a place like this. Walk right up to the counter as if you know it well and are only intent on going some place else that is equally known to you.’
‘I—’
St-Cyr held up a cautioning finger and shook his head. ‘Enough. I’m a perfect stranger and such people seldom talk to others. We’ve discussed the weather and now will brood over our coffee in silence. You’re a gunner or a pilot that has been shot down, monsieur, but I know nothing of such things or would, of course, most certainly have to turn you in for the reward.’
The detective took forever to pack his pipe and when he lit it, he gazed off into space with moisture in his eyes, and one knew that he was saying thanks for having come over, that this war could not last forever.
One by one pieces kept coming from his pockets with a disgruntledness that said he was angry with himself for having been such a fool as to have even said a thing. The spiked iron shank of a woman’s high-heeled shoe troubled him. A bent and twisted compact and charred cigarette case were then firmly laid beside it as if he knew to whom they had belonged. A little slip of paper with a name …
Salamander Page 20