Kaleidoscope

by J. Robert Janes

  And from the sister, ‘Josianne, have you still got the crossbow and its quiver of arrows?’

  ‘Uncle Jean-Paul, he has not been able to take it from me this time, Josette. Me, I have made certain of this.’

  ‘Good. He had a photograph taken of me in Paris, Josianne. This I could not understand but now fear he has given it to the Gestapo.’

  ‘Yes, yes, he will have done such a thing. Didn’t Viviane tell you what he had asked of her?’

  Chamonix … had it been in the villa near there?

  ‘Viv has not written to me for some time. Not since she became so very afraid of what was happening. Are there really maquis in the hills, Josianne? Please, the Inspector St-Cyr, he will want to know of this. It is very important to him.’

  ‘Alain says the hills, they are empty, that it is now too cold in the mountains.’

  ‘Are you in love with him?’

  ‘Josette, I’ve longed to tell you about it. Josette, I’ve lain in his arms beneath the stars and he has filled my soul and my body with rapture.’

  There was a pause and then, ‘Me, I wish I had such a lover. Someone to banish the terrible loneliness of the big city, but now I am afraid I will never experience such a thing. Paris, it was not good for me, Josianne. I failed miserably at everything I tried so hard to do.’

  ‘You should have come home. Mother should have let you.’

  ‘Yes, yes, she should have let me.’

  Chamonix … the weaver …? puzzled St-Cyr, desperately trying to clutch at the windblown chaff of a fragmented memory.

  ‘Were you very jealous of me?’ asked Josianne-Michèle coyly.

  ‘At your having such a lover? Ah no, my sister. Envious, perhaps, and happy for you who have suffered so much.’

  Ah damn, were the sisters at each other’s throats?

  ‘Josette, our father forced himself upon me time and again. Please, it is so very difficult for me to tell you this, but the Inspector, he should hear it from myself.’

  ‘And Alain … what does Alain say about it?’ asked Josette suspiciously.

  Pride entered. ‘Alain, he says that it does not make any difference to him, but me, I was so ashamed and so afraid, it took forever for me to let him touch me.’

  Now bitterness and jealousy intruded. ‘You were always Alain’s favourite, Josianne. Me, I could never get him to do the things I asked of him. He must be very kind to you, petite. He must still be the very gentle and sensitive person I knew.’

  The epileptic betrayed anger. ‘Ludo wants us to get married; Madame Anne-Marie would not allow it. She refused absolutely to give us her blessing.’

  There had been tears in that last little bit. Ah Nom de Dieu …

  ‘Are you with child – is it Alain’s?’ hazarded the sister.

  ‘Yes.’

  St-Cyr found the place where the two of them had stood among a cluster of statuary beside the ruins of a broken wall. Crouching, he ran his hands lightly over the frozen clods of earth that lay beneath their dusting of snow.

  Josianne-Michèle Buemondi had been in Chamonix with Viviane Darnot. Jean-Paul Delphane had gone to the clinic to find the weaver after the shot had been fired.

  But the weaver had been in the villa just before the financier had been killed. St-Cyr knew he had seen her in that mirror. He had looked up suddenly to the floor above them, had been momentarily distracted …

  ‘Viviane …? Viviane, are you there? Mother, why won’t you answer me? Mother, please! I think I’m going to kill myself.’

  The girl had been suicidal, and Viviane Darnot had intervened and taken her to Chamonix for treatment. But the voice he had heard just before being hit on the back of the head had not been that of Josianne-Michèle. It had been Josette-Louise who had called out, ‘Mother, please! I think I’m going to kill myself.’

  The screech of tyres and throb of engines pelted them out of the heart of the city and up the boulevard Carnot towards Le Cannet and the villa. Jammed into a back seat and held at gunpoint, Kohler managed to touch the weaver’s hand. He felt her fingers close about his own and wanted to tell her he’d do everything he could to save her.

  Forbidden to talk, she watched through tear-filled eyes as they raced past darkened streets, and he held her fingers a little tighter and tried to tell her again.

  She could not stop herself from trembling. In image after image, Kohler knew she would see herself being thrown to the floor. Dazed and bleeding, she would try to get up, try to speak out but Jean-Paul Delphane, that bastard would have her by the hair. He would drag her up and rip the dress from her. Shivering uncontrollably, she would clutch her bare shoulders. The brassiere would be torn from her and then the underpants. Reeling from a blow, she would stumble and fall and try to get away. Blood would burst from her battered lips, a breast would be savagely kicked. No breath, no breath … In agony, her mouth would keep opening and closing until she had passed out. ‘Answers! he shrieked. ‘We must have answers, Viviane! It is necessary for you to give them.’

  Kohler shook his head to clear it. The bastard hadn’t shrieked. He’d said it quietly, was arrogant and cock-sure of himself because that was the only way he could bluff it out.

  Viviane Darnot saw that Jean-Paul had turned to look at her. The streets flashed past. The headlamps flung their beams across a row of empty shops. They caught puzzled onlookers frozen in their tracks, gaping and too stunned by panic to move.

  ‘I will not give them the answers you want, Jean-Paul. Josette means everything to me.’

  The one from Bayonne leaned over the back of the seat to trace a finger under her chin. In revulsion, she jerked her head away and swore, ‘Don’t touch me! Don’t you ever touch me again.’

  ‘Just give them the answers they must hear.’

  ‘I have nothing to say.’

  ‘Then I will let them have Josette, Viviane. Josette was in on it too. There is proof enough.’

  ‘Your daughter? Your own flesh and blood? Have you become so heartless, you would sacrifice her to save yourself?’

  Lunging over the seat, he struck her twice and then again. She shrieked and tried to get away. Kohler struggled to help her.

  Lights were flung over the Villa of the Golden Oracle as they raced up to it and slammed on the brakes. ‘Out!’ shrieked Delphane. ‘Get out and see what becomes of you.’

  ‘Je … Je …’ She tried to say his name.

  Leaning forward, Kohler breathed, ‘You’ve forgotten something, my fine. St-Cyr has it in for you and so have I.’

  Delphane tossed an indifferent hand. ‘Pah! What are you both to me? Nothing but vermin that need to be stamped on!’

  ‘But rats in trouble always go around in circles inside the bottom of the barrel, my friend, and two of them will eat a third if left alone long enough. The Abwehr had your number, right? So you went over to Gestapo Cannes, but Munk’s no fool. He wants us to sort you out.’

  ‘Then me, I will drop the tom-cat into the barrel and let them see what happens!’

  ‘You do that, but remember the barrel gets filled with water, and cats can’t swim as well as rats.’

  They were hustled into the villa and up the stairs at a run. Viviane Darnot saw the doors to the bedrooms flashing past, some open, others not … A porcelain vase was accidentally knocked over, then some glassware …

  Spinning, stumbling, falling drunkenly, she was thrown into Anne-Marie’s bedroom and left to claw herself upright. Retreated hesitantly from them in horror of what they were going to do to her. Held the back of a hand to her broken lips.

  ‘Now talk,’ said Munk quietly. ‘You were helping your lover to get escaped prisoners of war out of France, mademoiselle. You are a British citizen and have a bank account in England on which you wrote numerous cheques. In return, money was handed over to you and you gave this to Madame Buemondi to finance your activities. Behind that painting is a wall safe. You are to open it.’

  There was nothing in his eyes, no thought of compassion, and
she knew then that he would let Jean-Paul beat her to death, knew the others would all stand around and watch.

  Vomit rose in her throat and she gagged on it. Even Herr Kohler would be powerless to help her.

  ‘Don’t say a thing, mademoiselle,’ said Kohler grimly. ‘Let me tell him.’

  It was Munk who said, ‘Very well. Proceed.’ In dismay, Kohler realized the bastard had used the weaver to trap him into talking.

  ‘Hadn’t you best remove the painting?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s Gestapo Leader Munk, Herr Kohler. You will address me properly.’

  Kohler nodded. ‘The painting,’ he said. ‘Let’s see what’s in the safe.’

  A ramrod in a black uniform yanked the painting away and threw it aside, ‘It’s open,’ he said in German. ‘Empty, Gestapo Leader. The safe is empty.’

  Savagely Munk swung his black leather gloves. Stung by the blow, the weaver reeled into Kohler. Blinded by her tears, she fought for some sort of sense and shrilled, ‘Empty? Empty? This I cannot believe!’

  As she looked into the safe, Kohler held her. Every nerve and muscle in her body quivered. Quickly she turned aside. ‘A chair,’ he seethed. ‘Gott im Himmel, let the woman sit down!’

  Delphane swung a chair across the carpet. Someone brought a lamp and they made her look up into it but this she could not do without help, so one of them simply seized her by the hair and yanked her head back.

  ‘Now talk, Herr Kohler,’ said Munk. ‘Already your sympathies are in question. The Sturmbannführer Boemelburg has left the matter entirely in my hands so do not look to Paris Central for help.’

  Kohler could barely control the outrage he felt. He wanted so much to say, Hey, listen, my fine, I’m a detective and we’re dealing with a murder, but he knew that was of little consequence in the scheme of things. ‘Perhaps, Gestapo Leader, it is the Inspector from the Deuxième Bureau who should talk. Unless I’ve missed something, that safe should have been crammed with bundles of francs, and that was exactly what Mademoiselle Darnot expected. So if she expected to find it loaded, and this one told you it was, then ask him where the cash is.’

  Delphane glanced questioningly at the safe and then at the weaver. ‘The money, Viviane …?’ he said.

  ‘It’s gone, Jean-Paul, but Anne-Marie could not have taken it.’

  Kohler filled things in. ‘The Buemondi woman was desperate for cash. On the Saturday before she was killed, Madame Buemondi pawned a kaleidoscope in Bayonne. In exchange, she received 35,000 francs.’

  ‘Which she then passed on to a Basque guide who knows the routes across the Pyrenees into Spain,’ offered Delphane. ‘She had a little problem on her hands, isn’t that so, Viviane? A dead pilot was in her house, is that not correct, eh?’

  ‘Easy, my friend. Easy,’ cautioned Kohler. ‘The body had been there for a good two or three weeks, maybe more. Abwehr Central knew of it. Colonel Henri gave me the pilot’s identity disc. They’d been watching the Inspector here and had their doubts about him.’

  ‘What doubts?’ challenged Delphane. ‘Come, come, my fine Inspector from Gestapo Central, Paris, spill the beans.’

  ‘It’s the lentils I want to spill,’ said Kohler but didn’t elaborate. ‘Doubts about what you’d been up to in Bayonne, Inspector. Visits to Madame Buemondi’s house there.’

  ‘Oh for sure, that means nothing. Nothing! I’ve been a friend of hers for years. I knew her father well. One of the old school. A great man at boules.’

  How nice. ‘Visits to this villa, Inspector? Conveniently it has a back entrance.’

  ‘Most of them do,’ said Delphane blandly. ‘It is so that the help can come and go.’

  It was Munk who reminded them of the pilot’s body and the need for cash.

  Kohler let him have it. ‘First, she had to dispose of the body in Bayonne and no doubt that is why she gave the 35,000 francs she had received for the kaleidoscope to the daughter of the mountain guide. Then five days later she found she had to redeem her pledge, and thus needed yet another 35,000 francs.’

  ‘The … the kaleidoscope has the combination to the safe hidden in it,’ confessed Viviane Darnot. ‘Anne-Marie said she had an engraver in Marseille cut letters on some of the chips. The letters can be transcribed into the numbers of the combination. It … it was her way of ensuring that if anything should happen to her, I … I could eventually get at the money. At least, that is what she said before … before she died.’

  ‘And the money?’ asked Gestapo Munk. ‘The bundles of francs?’

  She would not open her eyes to the lamp though they would make her do so. She would kiss the back of her hand and wipe her lips one last time.

  ‘Louis knows the answers,’ said Kohler. ‘Louis has the cash.’ Wolfishly he grinned at Delphane. ‘My partner opened that safe, my old one. Now what are you going to do about it? Mess with him again?’

  ‘I already have,’ snorted Delphane.

  Kohler looked down at the old Lebel six-shooter that had been a devil’s gun in the right hands. Cases and cases flashed across the screen of memory. Vouvray, the carousel …‘Louis?’ he gasped. ‘Not Louis.’ He leaped at Delphane. He was clubbed and kicked and forced to his knees.

  ‘The village, I think,’ said Munk. ‘Bring them both.’

  *

  ‘A pastis, please. Make it a double, then get me another.’

  ‘Shove off. There is no alcohol today.’

  ‘Then make it one or you will feel the weight of my boots, monsieur. The Sûreté, eh? And impatient.’

  St-Cyr dragged out his badge and ID. ‘Look, I’m on a case and on the run. A patriot’s life is in danger. A village will be razed to the ground if my partner and I do not stop it.’

  ‘Then why sit here asking for drinks that cannot be served under the laws and ordinances you obey?’

  A wise one. ‘I obey them because I have to. That doesn’t mean I agree. Ah Nom de Jésus-Christ, don’t be so difficult! I’ve had nothing substantial to eat for far too long and must fortify my constitution for the terrible task that lies ahead.’

  He had meant it too. ‘Can you pay?’

  ‘Pardon? Ah, the cash. Yes, yes, certainly.’ St-Cyr dug deeply into the sack at his feet, and dragged out a bundle. ‘Thirty thousand, I think, if you will hire me the taxi with a motor that runs on gasoline.’

  Ah no. ‘But … but the Boches …’

  ‘Hey, listen, idiot. Did you think I would come to a place like this for a pastis? I need transport and I need it immediately.’

  Raoul Santoni threw a razor-look over the few customers who already knew enough to keep to themselves. ‘The warehouse,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s just across the tracks. Meet me there in five minutes.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. You would only telephone the Hotel Montfleury. Neither of us need those jokers breathing down our necks.’

  A mouse-eared little Corsican, the proprietor wiped the zinc and reached beneath it for a green bottle. ‘The bike’s not mine. Some idiot left it there two weeks ago and hasn’t come back. It’s trouble. Maybe you can help me out.’

  Oh-oh. ‘A bike?’ hazarded the Sûreté, watching as his glass was half filled.

  ‘Water?’

  ‘Ah, no. No. Straight. Merci. A bike …?’

  This one had the squawk of a chicken in heat! ‘Can’t you handle one?’

  The pastis was good. Pre-war stuff and 90 proof. ‘Of course. The Sûreté can handle anything. Me, I only wondered whose bike it was.’

  The glass was refilled. ‘And me, I thought such things, they would not matter, monsieur, since you are in a hurry?’

  Ah Nom de Dieu, the Corsicans were a breed apart! ‘Proceed. The warehouse, eh? You first and then myself so as to cover you with my revolver.’

  ‘What revolver? I see no revolver?’

  St-Cyr gathered up the sack and the bundle. ‘Ah, don’t worry about it, monsieur. The revolver is always kept hidden until needed. Rest assured I would not lug around a few million fr
ancs and seek the life of danger without it.’

  The warehouse was a garage suitable in size for one car and little else. The BMW R75 with side-car and under filthy canvas was in mint condition. ‘Fresh camouflage paint,’ muttered St-Cyr, aghast at what he’d stumbled on to. ‘Straight from the factory in Germany and one hell of a problem for you, monsieur, if caught with it. Ah yes.’

  Santoni acknowledged this with a slight, sidewards toss of his head. ‘The 750 cc engine drives …’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said the Sûreté. ‘It drives the bike’s rear wheel and that of the side-car.’

  ‘There’s a spare tyre …’

  ‘Yes, yes, and an extra pair of gauntlets and goggles. Better still, unless I am very mistaken, my partner has never driven one of these. Keep the thirty thousand and say nothing. Perhaps I can sell it to a certain hearse-driver.’

  ‘A hearse-driver …? Ah no, monsieur. But how did you …?’

  ‘Let’s just say Madame Anne-Marie Buemondi had a list of telephone numbers. Yours was among them.’

  ‘The eggs … and … and the cheese, and the wine. The rosé.’

  ‘Never mind the groceries, my friend. You were one of her middlemen and marked with an asterisk. Don’t breathe a word of it and I’ll do you all a favour and burn the list.’

  St-Cyr mounted the bike. Immediately there was that tremendous sense of power, that sudden surge of adrenalin. Kicking it to life, he pulled the goggles down and heaved the sack into the side-car.

  The open road beckoned. Moonlight was everywhere. Within forty-five minutes he was walking up to the village, having parked the bike where Hermann would not fail to see it.

  Right where the woman had died, right out there on that hillside beneath the moon.

  A beautiful bike. A beautiful thing but had God not mocked His little detective by providing such a benediction?

  Only the ruins of the citadel, ghosting whitely on high, gave answer and suddenly all the exhilaration, the momentary reliving of his youth, then the Great War and the roads of Flanders, vanished, and he saw it all for what it was: a disaster, a tragedy so in keeping with the history of Provence. All God had done was to speed him on his miserable way.