Kaleidoscope

by J. Robert Janes

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘The hot mud treatments, but those are done over at the other place, on the rue Buttura. Chez Paulette, the House of the Eternal Life.’

  ‘Sulphurous mud?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. But of course. Modelled after the hot waters and mud baths in the grottos of Vesuvius. My elder daughter is in charge. My husband, he … he has died in the last war, monsieur. At Verdun. Now, please, you will tell me what has happened to Suzanne. When one is accustomed to reading the truth in the eyes, monsieur, it is very hard for others to conceal it from me.’

  Kohler touched her arm as he was leaving but could not find the courage to face her any longer. Out on the street, he drew in several deep breaths and swore he’d kill Munk and Delphane.

  When he found a telephone to ring the villa and warn Louis, he knew Gestapo Cannes would be listening in for just such a thing, and gave it up.

  Louis would just have to look after himself.

  They came in two cars and they arrived very fast. One moment they were at the front gates of the villa; the next, the weaver was saying, ‘For the love of Christ, don’t let them find me here! There’s a door at the far end of the garden. I’ll go out that way.’

  ‘What about the bicycles?’ shot St-Cyr.

  ‘Ah merde!’ She bit her lower lip. ‘Look, could you handle the two of them? Please, Inspector. I beg it of you. Carlo mustn’t find me here and neither must Jean-Paul Delphane.’

  In mirror after mirror he saw the look of tragedy in her eyes and was transported right back in time to Chamonix and that other villa. An entrance room of some sort. Yes, yes … she looking up at him from a chair – what had there been in her eyes besides that look of anguish? A quivering uncertainty? The dare of one who has gambled hard and is uncertain if she will be found out?

  An entrance room? he asked, puzzled. White … the walls, the ceiling, an inner door opening. Shoes … a pair of shoes … a nurse in a light blue uniform with a white apron. Yes, yes, he urged himself. Think, St-Cyr. Think!

  Remember. ‘Jean-Paul, it’s been a long time,’ he said, still feeling Chamonix intensely, still smelling the fear – everywhere the fear.

  ‘Fuck off. You, you and you,’ said Delphane. ‘Search the house and grounds.’

  ‘Please do,’ enthused the Sûreté. ‘I came alone and entered using this.’ He held up the key. The three Gestapo hesitated and when their leader came in with someone else, they decided not to take orders from the Deuxième Bureau but to await further instruction.

  The key, of course, was to the weaver’s house, but they could not have known this.

  He pocketed it and took out his pipe, only to remember the lack of tobacco.

  ‘Jean-Louis St-Cyr?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, that is me.’

  ‘You are under arrest for high treason.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. I am merely doing my job.’

  The Gestapo Munk leapt. ‘Silly?’ he shrieked, swinging his gloves. ‘French pig, I’ll teach you who is silly!’

  St-Cyr feinted to the left, grabbed the Gestapo’s wrist and carried the arm straight up and back, pivoting the man so that Munk was now between himself and the troops. ‘Don’t ask for help,’ he said. ‘Tell them I will break it, Herr Munk, and gladly die in the process.’

  The Gestapo winced. Perhaps five seconds passed. ‘Please, I am warning you,’ said the Sûreté quietly. ‘All is not as it seems here, and I greatly fear you and the German Reich are being led astray.’

  The hard little dark eyes seethed with hatred. ‘How dare you?’ hissed Munk, spitting.

  St-Cyr released his grip, but slowly. ‘I dare because I must. Is it that you wish to be made to look a fool?’

  ‘We have the proof – proof positive! – that the Buemondi woman was an enemy of the Reich!’

  ‘Please … Please, Herr Munk, do not rewind the engine, eh? If it is as you say, then a day or two will not matter. Something is not right.’

  Munk glanced doubtfully at Delphane and fumed silently for about two seconds. ‘Into the grand salon. Quickly! You, you and you take him. One false move and he’s dead!’

  Their jackboots rang on the hardwood floor and were only dampened by the carpets. Flung into a Louis XVI armchair, St-Cyr bunched his shoulders and waited for the blows. Munk sat down facing him. The other three stood guard but the idiots had yet to take his gun. Jean-Paul Delphane chose to tower over everyone and remained standing.

  St-Cyr held up a hand to caution them all, then slowly drew the Lebel from its shoulder holster and laid it on the carpet at his feet. ‘So, a matter of the maquis in the hills.’

  ‘Terrorists!’ leapt Munk. ‘Enemies of the state!’

  ‘Yes, yes. The Cross of Lorraine.’ He took it out but kept it in an open hand. ‘A foolish symbol that will grow, Herr Munk, as the war in North Africa and in Russia grows worse – no, please do not interrupt me. A woman dies on a barren hillside and one of the best men in the Deuxième Bureau fails to find such a thing as this beneath the lapel of her overcoat? Come, come, Jean-Paul, I know you are far too good to miss a little thing like this. Why did you not take it in evidence? Why did you plant it there if not to pin the accusation of Resistant upon myself and of sympathizer on my partner Hermann Kohler?’

  ‘Who has stolen damaging evidence from the office of Herr Munk.’

  Ah Mon Dieu, Jean-Paul, how could he remain so calm? ‘I know nothing of this. If Hermann has taken anything, it will only be material that is of the utmost importance to the investigation.’

  ‘Dossiers,’ hissed Munk. ‘A photograph and notebook.’

  ‘Telephone numbers, Louis. Contacts. The woman was running an escape line from here to Bayonne and the Spanish frontier.’

  ‘Pilots, escapees, insurgents, Communists, Jews and Resistants,’ said Munk, ‘so you see, Inspector, we have the proof.’

  ‘Then why bring Hermann and myself into the affair? If it is not murder, Herr Munk, and it is an affair for Counterintelligence and Counterinsurgency, why ask two tired detectives for help when they already have far more work than is humanly possible to handle?’

  Munk snapped his fingers. ‘A little cognac. Quickly, you,’ he said to one of the others. ‘Find some and bring my cigarettes.’

  Munk handed his gloves to another. ‘Your German is really quite good, St-Cyr. How is it that you come to speak it so well?’

  Did they think he was some sort of spy? Had Jean-Paul put this into their heads as well?

  ‘Come, come,’ insisted Munk. ‘A wife who runs off with a Wehrmacht lieutenant? A mistress who speaks German fluently to the generals she entertains?’

  ‘Pardon, monsieur, permit me, please, to enlighten you and perhaps correct Gestapo Paris’s misinformation. Gabrielle Arcuri is not my mistress. Indeed, that one is only an acquaintance I met on a former case. The generals do the entertaining. They are the ones that buy her a late breakfast after she finishes work or perhaps a glass of champagne at the club and a little dinner. As to my speaking your language, my work with the IKPK and with the Sturmbannführer Walter Boemelburg before the war made it imperative. But then,’ he shrugged, ‘Walter speaks excellent French so I guess, in this at least, he and I are even.’

  Munk’s smile was sardonic. St-Cyr had learned to speak German as a boy. He’d been found unruly and had been sent several times for the holidays to distant relatives on a farm near Saarbrücken to experience a little Germanic discipline since the French variety had failed. ‘If the Sûreté thinks to use friends in high places, Inspector, he had best think again.’

  ‘Walter is after our heads? Is that what you mean?’ exclaimed St-Cyr.

  Delphane stepped forward. ‘You’re both on trial, Louis. Given half a chance, you’ll go over to the other side, and everyone in Paris knows it.’

  ‘Then here are my bracelets, Herr Munk, and you can let this one wrap it all up. Is it to be the salt mines of Silesia for me, Jean-Paul, and the Gestapo Kiev, where the partisans are so thick, f
or Hermann, eh? Or simply the bolt of an antique crossbow that could not possibly have been fired unless, my friend, both its bow had been restrung and its windlass rewound with new cord.’

  Ah now, what was this? Delphane uncertain of himself and having to sit down? Heavily no less?

  ‘I told you what he was like, Herr Munk. I said you’d get nothing from him.’

  The cognac came but there was only one glass and one cigarette, and after the Gestapo Munk had tossed off his drink, he handed the empty glass to Jean-Paul.

  The humiliation was there, the fear as that one drank from it. Ah yes. All too evidently the Gestapo Munk wanted the Sûreté’s little detective to witness that Jean Paul Delphane was not on easy ground but on quicksand himself!

  ‘Tell me more about the woman,’ said Munk, and for the first time, the hard knife of reality sunk in. Herr Munk was far from being a fool. Instead, he was a very cunning man beneath the belligerent veneer of overt savagery.

  ‘Madame Buemondi died on her birthday,’ began St-Cyr. ‘Though it is a little early to advise you completely, Herr Munk, we see the woman separated from her loved ones and going into the hills to celebrate the occasion with one of them.’

  ‘She was dealing in contraband,’ snorted Delphane. ‘The black market, you idiot!’

  ‘Yes, yes, but why wear her best clothes?’

  ‘Expensive?’ asked Munk casually.

  ‘Quite good,’ said St-Cyr.

  The Gestapo uncrossed his knees and paused to let one of the others light his cigarette. ‘Then I am surprised, Inspector St-Cyr, that you are not aware we Germans and you French tend to think less ill of those who are well dressed. The Buemondi woman always dressed in such a fashion when on her travels. It helped to keep suspicion from her.’

  Delphane did not smile, but in that moment, the light of triumph touched his eyes. ‘Don’t try to cover things up, Jean-Louis. Three weeks ago five British airmen escaped from the Italians at a camp near Cuneo. Sightings put them on the march for the Riviera – oh for sure, it is only natural the British, they should think to come here. They ruled the Côte d’Azur for generations, pushing themselves around and lording it over everyone in their playground. But, is it not more than coincidence that Madame Buemondi should make her little trip just as these escapees are arriving in the very hills to which she has come?’

  ‘Where they soon discovered the south was no longer the “Free Zone” they had been taught to expect six months ago,’ added Munk, watching the two of them closely.

  ‘The woman brought two suitcases with her, Louis,’ said Delphane, noting the Gestapo’s scrutiny. ‘Have you not asked yourself what they contained? Come, come, my friend, clothes suitable for the escapers to wear when taking the trains from here to Bayonne. Madame had houses in both places. It’s obvious what she was up to.’

  ‘Then why, please, was this villa not under surveillance?’ It was a cry to God for mercy, a plea for some sort of help.

  ‘Oh but it was, Jean-Louis,’ said Delphane. ‘How else could we have known to find you here?’

  And? Ah Mon Dieu, the weaver – did they know Viviane Darnot had been with him? Had they taken her into custody?

  Delphane asked for a refill and drank again from the Gestapo’s glass. Never once did he take his eyes from St-Cyr.

  Munk enjoyed the evident hatred that existed between the two men. St-Cyr could know nothing yet. Kohler would be found. Paris would be satisfied and Berlin more than pleased.

  He stood up. ‘So, gentlemen, a matter of resistance. I give you three days before we move into that village to eliminate it.’

  ‘Four days,’ said St-Cyr unwaveringly.

  Munk’s look was cold. ‘Then take them, Inspector, but remember, please, that every day you delay is one more the escapers can use. They must still be somewhere in the hills, since the woman’s death will have prevented them from leaving. If they are not found, I will personally hold you responsible.’

  ‘And Jean-Paul?’ he asked.

  ‘That one also.’

  The Gestapo left in two cars, and Jean-Paul let them go without a word of objection, though it was a substantial hike back to the city. He knew he was being dismissed for the moment – humiliated yet again – and only stood on the terrace staring emptily after them.

  When he returned to the grand salon, he found St-Cyr amid the gold and glitter. Louis did not turn, but chose to face him in one of the mirrors.

  ‘So, my friend, what exactly is going on here, eh?’ asked St-Cyr. ‘By rights, your Gestapo chief should have had the living daylights beaten out of me for nearly breaking his arm.’

  There were several reflections thrown back and forth. Delphane had the uncomfortable thought that Louis was trying to trap him in the mirrors. He brushed an irritated hand over his crinkly iron-grey hair, said to himself, Look at me then, Louis. Try your best to strip away the layers of paint the years have given.

  ‘You are on dangerous ground, Louis. Me, I owe you nothing, but I give you that much since it is near to Christmas.’

  St-Cyr clucked the tongue of impatience. ‘Who fired the shot that killed Stavisky?’ he asked. ‘Come, come, my old one. You and Pierre Bonny – France’s top cop – were there in Chamonix. Bonny was always one step ahead of the law he represented, and you, my friend, one step ahead of him.’

  ‘That business is finished, Louis. Finished! Bonny works in Paris for Henri Lafont, as you well know.’

  ‘For the French Gestapo! Stealing, killing, raping and torturing! Why? Why do you persist? You of all people, Jean-Paul? The good family, the upper crust … You, whom I trusted. Me! You played me for a fool and now are attempting to do so again.’

  ‘Cognac? Come, come, Louis, get down off that high horse of yours and let’s talk a little business.’

  ‘No deals. Ah no, my friend.’ He waved a reproving finger. ‘With you I am finished!’

  ‘Then I’ll let Munk have the weaver, Louis. The surveillance on this place was mine, not the Gestapo Munk’s. Viviane Darnot will have been seen leaving by that back door she thinks is so secret – a door, my friend, that has been used often enough by Madame Buemondi’s escapists.’

  The image of him standing there was so like that of Hermann. Splintered just as Viviane Darnot’s image had been, the woman staring at him now through the gossamer of memory. Delphane overlapping her image as the mind played its tricks upon God’s little detective.

  Viviane Darnot had been in Chamonix with someone. When asked whom, she had replied, ‘I’d rather not say.’

  ‘Leave the weaver out of it, Jean-Paul, and I will not mention again to Herr Munk the fact that you have been lying.’

  ‘They’ll have found Kohler by now, Louis. They’ll be working him over.’

  ‘Hermann? Is Hermann such a threat to you or is it simply the things he has taken?’

  ‘You said you would make no deals, Louis, but this time, my friend, I greatly fear you must set aside those precious principles of yours. Already Kohler will have dug himself too deep a hole and as for the weaver, she is as good as dead unless you co-operate.’

  Kohler let himself into the dusty lecture hall at the School of Fine Arts, only to find that the lecture had been cancelled. The steep little amphitheatre of miserable seats cupped a paltry stage and lectern. One lonely glass of water stood sentinel, waiting for the ice to form.

  Carlo Buemondi – ‘Il Professori’ to the woman on the desk – had not been in his studio or office either.

  Not liking the husband’s absence, he let his eyes drift over the place and only then noticed the girl.

  She was sitting, very still, on the other side of the lanternslide projector, and at first he did not think she had noticed him. But then she flinched and though she did not turn, he knew she was aware of him.

  About twenty-two, he thought. The hair was amber in the last of the sunlight. All frizzed out into a thick mop of waves and curls, the face pale.

  He noted the choker of dark brown velv
et, the beige camel’s-hair overcoat and silvery-grey silk scarf that had been dyed so many other colours.

  ‘So where’s he gone?’ he asked at last, his voice unintentionally loud in that empty theatre.

  Her neck stiffened. She still did not turn. ‘The … the mud baths, I think. Look, Monsieur Whoever-you-are, me, I do not always keep track of him.’

  ‘But only sometimes?’ he asked, still standing up in the gods, off to the left of her.

  ‘Just what the hell do you want?’ she asked, her voice shrill.

  ‘Nothing, really. I came from Paris about the lessons. He told me to meet him here.’

  She would not believe one word of it! Never! ‘You are Gestapo, monsieur. You are here about the murder.’

  ‘Then who the hell are you?’ he asked more quietly, still not completely stepping down to her

  ‘Angélique Girard. Student.’

  The name meant nothing to him. ‘Assistant?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Sometimes. When … when he does not choose one of the others. It … it is his way of letting us earn a little money.’

  Still she had not turned to look at him and he had the thought that it was not simply fear that made her do this.

  He took a seat five rows behind her and she heard him sitting down, heard the clash of the hard wooden seat as it was unfolded into place. ‘What’s on the slides?’ he asked.

  ‘His work. The body casts, the masks, the self, the inner self and the truth.’

  ‘Let’s have a look. There’s no need to draw the curtains.’

  She turned and, in that moment, revealed both sudden anger and defiance in large brown oval eyes and tightened cheeks that quivered. ‘Oh but there is, my fine inspector! The black-out, isn’t that so, monsieur? You will not trip me up on that one, ah no, my fine detective, so, please, allow me.’

  He put a foot on the back of one of the seats and watched as she went over to pull the heavy cord. Of medium height, her figure was all but hidden by the coat, and he had the thought then, that the coat was someone else’s and a lot like that of the dead woman. ‘Don’t try to run away Angélique Girard.’