Bellringer sak-13

by J. Robert Janes

  The sun had risen, thought Bamba, but Grandpapa and Papa had said one must never read one’s own future; nor should the gift ever be used for profit or in competition with another such as Madame Chevreul, even though the desperately needed food and cigarettes would pour in; nor should one ever claim to be able to go beyond the future to speak to the dead and hear what they had to say.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Louis.

  ‘Bamba, mon ami, you must tell them,’ said Senghor.

  The sharpshooter’s insignia, his own, thought Bamba, had been upside down, the blanket pin of the dead French soldier hooked through the gold wedding band of the woman who had died of a bomb blast in that other war and given birth to twins they had then had to bury.

  The points of the scimitars had touched the little brass bell as if to ring it one last time, the cock’s foot had been turned inward, the thigh bones scattered.

  Herr Weber would see that both Senghor and he were beaten to death. Not today, not tomorrow, but soon. The receiver of the gift and the giver of it would be no more, and the juju lady of the Hôtel Grand would win. ‘I did look back once as we neared the church. I did see that one enter this place.’

  The victim.

  ‘Though in a hurry, Mademoiselle Lacy glanced our way,’ said Duclos, ‘and I knew then that things would not go well for her.’

  ‘There, you see.’ Weber smirked. ‘Others were waiting in here, weren’t they? Others of you blacks. You knew what they were going to do to her. They grabbed her from behind, didn’t they? They shoved a filthy rag into her mouth, tore at her clothes, forced her down and pushed her face into the ground before flipping her over so that she had to look at them as they raped her, one after the other, before stabbing her to death with that pitchfork.’

  Gott im Himmel, would nothing convince him otherwise? wondered Kohler.

  ‘And wiped it clean, Untersturmführer?’ asked Louis, defying the odds.

  ‘Ask them, don’t ask me.’

  ‘Hermann, be so good as to take the mademoiselle to the Vittel-Palace. We’ll join you when we’ve moved this one to the morgue.

  ‘Untersturmführer, who reported the killing and what did you find here? Please go over everything as closely as possible.’

  ‘Louis, are you sure you don’t need me?’

  One look said it all: Merde, mon vieux, why must you ask? Just bugger off and make use of the opportunity.

  The safe was not as easy to open as it was thought. Kohler spun the dial again, bringing it to between the 52 and the 58. Listening for the tumblers, he moved it a degree and then another and another before leaning back to look at the verdammte thing.

  There was no mistake. It was the basic, three-tumbler combination locking mechanism, a Yale, though that really wouldn’t matter much, for all such had about a million possible combinations. Oh for sure he’d narrowed the range down, but still. .

  A frantic search yielded nothing, not even behind the photo of Weber’s sister, but then tucked inside the cover of der Führer’s Mein Kampf was a slip of paper: 3 right to the 57, 2 left to the 32, and back around to the 11.

  Again he listened for Weber’s approach. Again he realized that there could be no reasonable excuse for his being there.

  Beneath the cartons of cigarettes, tins of the same, and of pipe tobacco, there were the files the Untersturmführer had gleaned from the former Kommandant’s desk before Colonel Jundt had arrived. Telex after telex laid it on from Colonel Kessler to the Oberkommando der Wehrmacht, the OKW, the High Command of the Army: ‘The men are desperately needed here. Already I have had to send far too many. Barely enough remain to adequately guard and patrol the camp. I can let you have three and no more.’

  For the Russian Front, and guess whose name was top of the list? ‘Untersturmführer Weber is most anxious to prove himself in combat.’

  And in another file, this one not from Colonel Kessler to the OKW but from Weber to Obergruppenführer-SS Kaltenbrunner, head of the Reich Central Security Office in Berlin and a drunkard, a sadist, and an anti-Semite if ever there was one but, worse still, an intriguer who was suspicious of everyone and everything.

  ‘Attention, most secret. Kommandant Kessler is a traitor to his country. His cosy friendship with the Americans indicates he is convinced the Reich will lose the war. Having taken a mistress from among them, he has made her pregnant, which unfortunately has led to her suicide on the night of 13–14 of this month. The padlocked gate of an elevator shaft was tampered with and the third-storey gate opened by the victim who then jumped to her death.

  ‘Easy on the Jews who hide here with false passports, Colonel Kessler continually rejects my urgent demands that the Reich Central Security Office be asked to have their Honduran and other papers examined.’

  Another file gave the deaths of the Senegalese while out in the forest cutting and hauling logs. ‘Killed during an escape attempt. Death from heart attack,’ this last a favourite with SS and Gestapo interrogators.

  Three such notices stretched back to well before Kessler had been recalled, but there were also telexes from the former Kommandant to the OKW complaining of the Untersturmführer’s ‘attitude.’

  Weber didn’t just have that photo of his sister with its tiny swastikas at the upper corners of the frame. There were others in an envelope in the safe that, judging by the stamps on the backs, could only have been taken by the police photographer in Koblenz. Overcoat and dress were in disarray and well above the waist, the girl flat on her back, legs slack and spread widely, arms thrown out, blood on the snow near the head and thighs, mouth open, eyes staring, shoes and stockings lying under the shadow of the Schutzmann who must have found her, those of the district’s Polizeikommissar and one of his detectives falling on the white woollen bloomers the mother had insisted on.

  She’d been a student, having completed the first year of what would have been a six-year program to become a home-economics teacher. Dead, Friday 23 December, 1921, at 1807 hours, age eighteen years, four months, and eleven days.

  Kessler had had good reason to be worried and Weber plenty to have gotten rid of him, but there was no sign of the directive Kessler would have left for Louis and this partner of his.

  An envelope gave Jennifer Hamilton’s Paris address on the avenue Henri-Martin, the full name of her maid, Thérèse Marie Guillaumet, an often-added-to list of the paintings and antiques, the address of the Head Office of the Paris ERR, the Einsatzstab Reichsleiter Rosenberg-the covetous collectors of all such things-and a telex from Weber to them stating that when in Paris on leave in mid-April he wished to meet to discuss a matter of common interest that had come up in the course of his duties.

  This boy was a climber who could rightly claim that the valuables had been bought from Jews on the run and for others who were clients in America. Jennifer Hamilton didn’t have a hope in hell of leaving, and as for Becky, if her papers and passport were removed, Weber would be the first to realize it and to telex Berlin about a certain two detectives.

  Reluctantly he replaced everything only to take up the girl’s papers and passport again. Convinced that Louis and he had judged her guilty, she had stood all alone outside this office, hadn’t known what he would be doing in here, only that should Weber come along she was to have given the door a damned good thump.

  Unfortunately Louis wasn’t present to vote on the matter but a can of pipe tobacco might help, along with six packets of Lucky Strikes and a good 10,000 Reichskassenscheine, the Occupation marks at twenty francs to the mark.

  ‘And a wad of American dollars just in case,’ he muttered to himself.

  Only then did he see the chewing gum. Four packets of Wrigley’s spearmint, one of them open and missing two sticks.

  ‘Louis. . ’ he blurted, for Louis wasn’t going to like what he’d found, that was for sure.

  As he looked up, Kohler saw the keyboard again and this time his heart really did sink, for there definitely were two keys to every one of those verdammten locks, and c
ertainly the lift-gate lock hadn’t been tampered with but opened with its key. Weber would have checked the board after learning of Mary-Lynn Allan’s death, but could well not have noticed beforehand if one had been missing.

  The same for the Chalet des nes. It was that or Weber himself who had used them, the chalet killing then having taken care of everything.

  ‘And two missing sticks of chewing gum. . ’ It was not a happy thought.

  To all questions there had been but obstruction, thought St-Cyr. Bien sûr it had been a mistake to have grabbed Weber’s wrist and threatened to break his arm, a greater one to have insisted that Hermann make use of the opportunity and leave them, but now. .

  Matthieu Senghor and Bamba Duclos, terrified of what the Untersturmführer might well do to them, still waited to lift Caroline Lacy’s body on to the stretcher. Weber, the flap of his holster unfastened, smoked yet another cigarette, the two armed guards ready at the wide-open doors. Clearly he was trying to decide what to do: kill them or leave it.

  ‘Untersturmführer, since you feel Colonel Kessler should have called in detectives from Vittel’s Kripo nearby, why, please, did he not do so?’

  This souvenir of Verdun, this irritating, infuriating sûreté was going to pay for what he had done! ‘Verdammter Schweinebulle, ask him, don’t ask me.’

  ‘He left no note of advice for us on the death of Mary-Lynn Allan?’

  Desperate now, this sûreté was waiting for it, as were the blacks. In Paris, Gestapo Bömelburg would lift an eyebrow at their loss, those of the SS on the avenue Foch giving little other than grateful smiles, since their two most hated troublemakers in France would have been conveniently dispatched, such was the reputation of this flying squad of Bömelburg’s, these seekers of the truth. But there might be questions.

  ‘Well?’ came the insistent demand.

  ‘None.’

  ‘Untersturmführer, is it that you no longer wish to assist Hermann and me with this investigation?’

  ‘Gott im Himmel, I am head of security here and must be consulted at every step and yet am simply to be ignored and then manhandled?’

  ‘I’ll speak to Hermann. When we move Mademoiselle Allan’s body, we’ll tell you everything.’

  ‘But only what you want. Admit that the delay in your getting here caused the death of this one.’

  The corpse was nudged with the toe of a jackboot.

  ‘Gut, we understand each other completely,’ said St-Cyr. ‘Bitte, mein Lieber Untersturmführer, where were you on the night Mary-Lynn Allan was pushed?’

  ‘LIEBER CHRISTUS IM HIMMEL, DO YOU WANT A BULLET?’

  ‘Please just answer.’

  ‘La Maison de Roussy on the avenue de Châtillon. It’s very good. They look after you. No taste is discouraged. Little birds of fourteen and fifteen can be found because they want to be, but since you and Kohler are confined to the camp, you will have to take my word for it.’

  Patience. . one must have patience with one such as this. ‘A name-someone who can state under oath when you arrived at that brothel, how long you dallied, and when you left.’

  ‘After fucking two little French girls who were only too willing?’

  ‘Please just answer.’

  ‘Noëlle and Brigitte wouldn’t want to have to swear to anything, not after the time I gave them.’

  And smirking now. ‘Madame de Roussy then?’

  The head was tossed as if struck. ‘That old boot? Ach, she doesn’t write anything down but numbers because she can’t and has been told not to anyway. All she does is hand out the yellow cards each putain has to sign and date.’

  In case of venereal disease. ‘Then those will have to do.’

  ‘Unfortunately I no longer have them. Our resident doctor has, but since he is home on leave, you will have to take my word for it.’

  ‘Then please tell me if you knew beforehand that this girl was to have met someone here. You have your sources.’

  ‘My informants?’

  ‘Isn’t Jennifer Hamilton among them?’

  Kohler would have let him know this. ‘Her lover-isn’t that who you mean?’

  ‘Of course, Untersturmführer.’

  ‘Ach, I did hear of a possible meeting and that this one had thought the death of Fräulein Allan no accident, but in the constant flood of gossip I’m subjected to, I paid no attention.’

  ‘Even though it was forbidden for any inmate to enter this or all such other buildings?’

  ‘Girls will be girls. Contrary to what Colonel Kessler thought, they are not able to police themselves-a matter Kommandant Jundt and I are taking steps to rectify.’

  ‘Yet this girl was not only convinced Mary-Lynn had been pushed. She saw what happened, Untersturmführer, and was convinced that she not only knew who had done it but that she, herself, was to have been pushed.’

  The blacks hadn’t moved a hair but had shuddered inwardly at every word. ‘Perhaps it is that she confided in the wrong person-have you and Kohler even thought of that?’

  Weber had constantly moved from Matthieu to Bamba and back again, often standing close to them. ‘What really happened after Caroline Lacy went missing, Untersturmführer? As head of security you must have been made aware of the girl’s absence.’

  Thinking it had gone unnoticed, this Frenchman had dared to undo that shabby overcoat of his and the jacket so as to make the Lebel 1873 he was carrying a little more accessible. It would do no harm to answer, but was he really ready to die while defending two black Kammeradin from that other war? ‘Frau de Vernon got Frau Parker to speak to Kommandant Jundt. That had to wait until morning and only then was a search of the grounds made, the girl soon found.’

  ‘By whom?’

  The fun could now begin. ‘By one of these blacks.’

  Ah, merde. ‘Which one?’

  ‘That one.’

  ‘Sergeant Senghor, please run through it for me. Leave nothing out, no matter how insignificant.’

  Weber wasn’t going to like it, thought Matthieu. ‘One half of the chalet’s door was slightly ajar, Chief Inspector, the padlock hooked through the eye of the hasp but obviously open and as if replaced in a hurry. I knew at once that it wasn’t right. I entered, found her, and touched nothing.’

  ‘Was she just as she is now?’

  There was a nod. ‘I reported it to the Untersturmführer Weber, who then went to see for himself.’

  ‘Touching nothing?’

  ‘That I do not know. Like the rest of my men, he simply kept me waiting in the cold. He entered, took a long time-fifteen minutes at least, maybe twenty-and then came out but said nothing to us, only walked along our line, pausing to stare at each of us and demanding that we look at him before ordering that the chalet be placed under guard to await your and Herr Kohler’s arrival.’

  ‘You and your men were then sent to get on with your other duties?’

  The head was shaken. ‘We were left at attention. Two hours later, I dismissed the men myself and we went to get warm even though we had things we should have been doing.’

  ‘Corporal Duclos, did you kill this girl?’

  ‘No, I didn’t, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘Then for now, please assist your sergeant. Take her to the hospital. Ask Sister Jane to show you where to leave the body. Request that she make certain no one touches it-not any of the doctors nor any of the sisters. Just a clean sheet placed overtop.

  ‘Untersturmführer, a moment. Since you entered this building to find her, please be good enough to take me through things step by step. It is required.’

  ‘I haven’t time. I have duties I must attend to.’

  ‘And this is definitely one of them. Did you touch anything?’

  ‘Why would I?’

  ‘You took a good fifteen minutes in here all by yourself.’

  ‘That is only the word of a black. If it was five minutes, I’d be very surprised. Two would have been more likely.’

  ‘Did you question the lock’s ha
ving been open?’

  ‘Of course, but as all keys are on the board in my office, I would have known right away if one of them had been taken. Colonel Jundt and I went through everything before you and Kohler arrived. Let me tell you, he is just as dissatisfied with your being called in as I am. Berlin is going to hear of it.’

  ‘When in your office earlier, Untersturmführer, I noticed, as my partner will have, that each lock on that board of yours has a pair of keys. Some are American, most, though, are French, especially the pin tumblers and other door locks. Are you completely certain all of them were there at all times?’

  ‘Have I not just said that?’

  ‘Then for now that is all. Please see that this building is locked and guarded twenty-four hours a day. No one is to be allowed in unless with Hermann or me, and that includes you and the Kommandant. Something is not right.

  ‘Oh, there is one other matter. Everyone seems to have lost a little something. Since you have had to interview many of the inmates, and often several times, has anything been taken from you? Some small, personal item of no value to anyone other than you?’

  How could this one even begin to understand the loss? ‘The bloodstained ribbon that was once in my sister’s hair. Her attacker had tried to use it to tie her wrists. It was always kept neatly folded in front of her photo on my desk.’

  ‘But at first you didn’t notice that it was missing?’

  ‘I often touched it.’

  ‘That is not the answer.’

  They were alone now. There was just the two of them. ‘One day it was there, then it wasn’t. I immediately thought of the cleaning staff, who come in from town for an hour or two, but as would be expected, those bitches denied taking it. I had already searched the floor, my pockets, the drawers-the safe, even. Occasionally I would have it in hand only to set it aside to get on with something. I felt it must have slipped to the floor and then been swept up. No one would have wanted it for a ribbon.’

  ‘Because of the stains, of course, but please, the length, the original colour?’

  Did he doubt the loss? ‘Prussian blue. Twenty centimetres by two, and with a thin, very fine white lace border on each side. Silk from the old days before that other war and the Occupation it brought, which led to her defilement and murder by your blacks. Our grandmother gave that ribbon to her. Sonja wore it often, always with pride.’