Kaleidoscope

by J. Robert Janes

  It was all so still. Surely he would have heard Louis and Josette? Had she killed him? ‘And now a tunnel, a passageway, Herr Kohler, that leads to freedom but,’ Delphane lifted the gun slightly, ‘but only for myself.’

  ‘Idiot! What passageway? If there’d been one, the Romans or the Saracens or whatever would have used it.’

  ‘A fissure that leads to a cavern. Josette has told me of it.’

  ‘Then what about her, eh?’ shouted Kohler in panic, a last defiant act. Ah Nom de Jésus-Christ, why hadn’t Louis poked his head up out of the ruins?

  ‘Josette-Louise will take care of herself by jumping to her death exactly from the place her sister fell. For me, I will use the money Louis took from the villa to make my way to Spain and then to Britain. I will vanish, my friend, into the hills, leaving only fear among the minds of the Waffen-SS and your Gestapo. Then I will return with the Forces of the Free French to wipe you people off the face of the earth!’

  He really believed it too. Kohler wanted to ask him why he’d changed sides, but couldn’t take his eyes from the muzzle of the gun. He thought of home, of the boys in their winter’s hell, of Gerda’s warm embrace, her stern no-nonsense nature, and of Giselle, his little pigeon in Paris. Giselle would be waiting for him. Naked on her back, or on her hands and knees with that gorgeous rump of hers bare for all the world to see but only himself. And Oona? he asked. Gott im Himmel, the muzzle was black! It was like a hole or a well down which he was about to fall … Oona would have the flat ready for the holiday. Nothing expensive – Gott im Himmel, there wasn’t much available unless he could get back to Paris and the black market. Oona who washed his socks but refused to do Giselle’s laundry. Oona who had such fantastic blue eyes and long legs, and who would argue with herself like lessons in catechism, then roll over on to her back for a bit of gentle loving. Two women … Never had he had it so good and now this … this poisson of the bottom muds, this carpe from the aristocracy was going to put a bullet in him!

  ‘Don’t, Jean-Paul. It is myself you need dead, not Hermann. Hermann must be with you and alive so that you can both drag my body down the hill to Herr Munk. Otherwise, there is no leader of the maquis.’

  ‘Louis …? L … o … u … i … s!’ Kohler threw himself at Delphane. Pieces of glass began to fly everywhere. Giselle … Giselle … He saw her reflected in the mirrors, her bottom round and firm, her breasts uptilted for waiting hands that strained to hold them, the nipples taut and flushed with heat. Her supple back and slender waist, her hips, her seat … everywhere there were mirrors in the Room of Looking-Glasses at Madame Chabot’s little place, and everywhere he saw the many views of Giselle le Roy, age twenty-two but no virgin … wet, so wet between the legs, she was climbing on to him and he was lifting her up … up … her lips hot and feverish against his own … his own …

  The mirrors flew apart in one final burst of shattering as he hit the ground. All over the ruins, the sound of the shot resounded. It was like cannon. It raked up history and brought the battle cries of old. Hauntingly it echoed among the hills and threw itself back and forth between the village and the fortress.

  Then for a long time there was no sound.

  The girl was softly crying. Sunlight poured down an ancient stairwell into a large room whose broken walls were stained with rust. She was sitting, slumped against the far wall in fullest sunlight, with the crossbow in her lap and he had not come by the stairs but through a doorway. St-Cyr noted the quiver of iron-tipped bolts in the open rucksack, the handles for turning the windlass that would draw the bowstring taut. He brushed the tears from his own eyes. He did not know where Jean-Paul was, knew only that Hermann … Hermann had been hit and now lay face down in the snow, blood seemingly everywhere.

  The room was dark in shadow except for the pool of sunlight, and under the stairs it was darker still. She said so clearly, ‘Mother, I think I’m going to kill myself.’ Time suddenly meant nothing. It vanished, and in that instant he was carried right back to Chamonix. He smelled the wool of the weaver’s hangings and her cloaks, her shawls, her vibrant rugs, drew in the scent of her perfume – found it was now so strongly in his nostrils, he had to turn, had to look for her face, her eyes in the mirror. But she was not there, and with a start he realized Josette-Louise’s voice alone had transported him.

  Yet the fear remained. That tenseness that did not creep up the back to stiffen the spine or prickle the hairs, but was at once everywhere.

  He felt the muzzle of the gun – his own revolver – pressed against his temple and could not help but think things had repeated themselves.

  And he realized then that it had been that sense of hopelessness in the girl’s voice that had most distracted him. That and the look in the weaver’s eyes. The look of a mother who must save her child, even if it meant banishing all other things and stooping to murder.

  ‘Well, Louis, it comes to pass that we find ourselves in a similar situation, and once again Josette, she has not failed me. You’re too sensitive to be a detective, my old one. You need to harden the heart.’

  Jean-Paul was to his right – gripping him by the elbow but keeping a little distance.

  ‘You should not have killed Hermann, Jean-Paul. Given the right sort of conditions, my partner would have let you go free. Hermann, he … he was the realist, yes? A cop to his last breath but a saint from the barn of his boyhood. He dragged the truth out of you in that little theatre, and you gave it to him.’

  ‘Walk gently, my fine. Do not move more than the necessary muscle.’

  The girl waited. Judas to him though she was, St-Cyr said, ‘Josette … Josette, I am sorry my partner and I could not find a way to help you.’

  ‘The one from Bayonne, he … he has promised to see that my mother goes free, monsieur. Me, I could not do otherwise.’

  ‘The steps, Louis. You first, then myself, then Josette. We will go up on the ramparts so that Herr Munk and the others can see us. That will stop the executions and allow us a moment.’

  The steps were worn, the stone bleached a yellowish-white but darker where the snow had reached and had begun to melt.

  ‘What made you change sides, Jean-Paul? You were always among the Far Right, loyal to the descendants of the throne and among the Cagoule. You welcomed the Nazis but now have chosen to switch sides. Please, at least allow me the generosity of knowing. By herself, Viviane Darnot would have kept out of it – ah yes, don’t deny you forced this girl’s mother into taking a terrible, terrible risk. A gamble, eh? The hiding of escapers first in her house and then in the villa of her former lover.’

  Louis was only trying to excite Josette-Louise and turn the girl against him.

  ‘Well?’ shouted the Sûreté as they came up on to a broken rampart some ten metres above the main level of the ruins. Now there was sunshine everywhere and only the expansive blue of the sky above.

  Two black eagles soared as they circled on an eddy and it was as if only the wind made a sound as it slipped over their wings so high above them.

  ‘It would take too long to tell you, Louis, so let us forget it, eh?’

  They walked gingerly in single file along the rampart, picking their way past the gaps and over scattered blocks from once higher walls. When they came out into full view of those gathered below the village, they went up and up until they stood more than sixty metres above the base of the cliff.

  Munk was now watching them through the binoculars of the SS major. Already two of the villagers had been executed. Hands tied behind their backs, the herbalist had stood against the wall and had fallen there; Dédou Fratani must have panicked at the last and run toward the guns.

  The weaver, her hands also tied behind her back, stood where he had fallen and she, too, looked up towards them as did all the others.

  ‘The Boches will leave someday, Louis, but for now will only be satisfied with death. Yours, hers, Kohler’s …’

  ‘But not yours, eh? Is that how it is to be, Jean-Paul? Josette to pitch h
erself over the edge where her sister fell, while you, her father, go free?’

  ‘There is a passage, monsieur,’ said the girl hesitantly. ‘I am to show my father how to leave this place without their ever knowing it.’

  ‘But he has told my partner you are to take care of yourself?’

  ‘Yes. It … it is what I should have done in Chamonix.’

  One of the SS, straining at the leashes, brought the dogs up to the Gestapo Munk and the major. The dogs! Ah Nom de Dieu, they were going to unleash them …

  ‘Herr Munk is finished with you, Jean-Paul. Dédou Fratani or Ludo Borel, or the weaver perhaps, has told him the truth of the maquis.’

  For the first time in his life perhaps, Delphane did not know what to do. He shouted at Josette, ‘How far to the passage?’

  She said, quite simply, ‘It is safer here, my father. Only then can you offer yourself and let mother go free.’

  ‘Idiot! They will kill her anyway. She’s English! You … you are a murderess, Josette. Do you not know what that means? The guillotine … yes, yes, screw up that face of yours. Cry, Josette! Don’t threaten me with that bow.’ He dropped his voice. ‘You cannot kill me. You who have killed your sister, have not the heart to do so again. But,’ he paused, ‘they will use the Nazi refinement of the guillotine, chérie. The axe!’

  ‘Bâtard!’ shrieked St-Cyr, slipping as he lunged at Delphane. A shot rang out, then another and another. Hit in the lower leg, Delphane spun away. Pushing the girl aside, he stumbled and fell – began to drag himself to cover.

  ‘Louis …! L … o … u … i … s! Get down, you idiot!’

  It was Hermann. Ah Nom de Jésus-Christ! Blood … there was blood on his forehead and all over his face and hands …

  St-Cyr raced along the wall, yelling at the top of his lungs, ‘The dogs, Hermann! The dogs!’ He grabbed Delphane by the ankle. The Lebel swung round. A shot rang out from below. Ricocheting off a boulder, it flew up. Another followed. The girl shrieked and ran past them, lashing out at the gun in her father’s hand … still too tight a grip … too tight … Ah made, the scuffle then on the ramparts. ‘My bracelets, you bastard! Feel the clench of steel on your wrists!’

  They rolled about. The revolver came at him, a savage blow …‘Ahh!… Mother of God …’ Reeling, St-Cyr tumbled away, clawing desperately at the stones … too far … too far … He saw the drop below and felt himself falling … falling …

  ‘Louis … Louis! It’s me.’

  Kohler dragged him up and, racing with him, got him to cover. ‘Telescopic sights, idiot!’ he swore, trying to catch his breath. ‘Gott im Himmel, Delphane’s beat it with the girl. Now we’re going to have to ferret him out!’

  ‘My chest … Ah Jesus, Hermann … the breath. I must stop the smoking.’ He coughed, wheezed terribly and dragged in air as Kohler pounded him on the back. ‘The dogs, my old one. The dogs!’

  ‘Verdammt! I knew it! You okay, eh?’

  St-Cyr raised a tired hand. ‘Yes, yes. I think I will live a little longer.’

  ‘Then maybe we’d better get away from the dogs.’

  ‘A passage,’ gasped St-Cyr, so fraught with worry he was waving a useless hand. ‘Josette, she has said …’

  ‘Hey, my old one, there is no passage. That kid is only going to lead him into a trap.’

  St-Cyr blinked, gaping as he took in a breath and tried to still his aching chest. ‘Pardon?’ he bleated. ‘No passage …?’

  ‘Not unless I’ve missed my guess. Come on. Let’s … Ah no!’

  The dogs had found the ruins. They made no sound as they raced along the ancient byways, going here, there, revealed only by their flying fur.

  The girl was motioning anxiously. ‘Up here,’ she cried. ‘Quickly! Quickly, messieurs. There are few places they cannot reach.’

  They ran. They made it across the little amphitheatre and in among the columns. Blood marked their trail.

  Even as they scrambled up to her, Josette-Louise sighted along the crossbow. The lead dog was huge. It would throw itself at the wall. It would tear at their trouser legs …

  Kohler couldn’t manage it. Loss of blood perhaps, or pain in the head from the bullet-graze Delphane had given him. ‘Louis,’ he managed. ‘Gott im Himmel, Frog, pull me up!’

  The girl fired. The Alsatian caught the bolt squarely in the chest and was carried back by it. ‘Verdammt …’ muttered Kohler as the thing hit the ground below them. ‘Verdammt, Louis, I’m done for.’

  The kid was working the windlass like a trooper. Round and round the handles went, her foot jammed solidly into the stirrup. Then the arrow in the slot. She gave a satisfied gasp and said, ‘Now this way,’ even as the other two dogs threw themselves at the wall in a rage.

  Kohler hesitated. Louis and the girl pelted along the wall, slipping, stumbling once while he held the dogs here. ‘Louis …’ he managed. ‘Louis … what was it the herbalist gave me?’

  The greyish-red powder was very fine. Kohler clenched a fistful. He got down on his knees and deliberately let the dogs leap at him.

  Louis was yelling for him to join them. ‘Their SS handlers, Hermann. They will be coming!’

  The dust stung the dogs’ eyes. It burned their nostrils and reached far down into their throats. It only drove them to a madness that alarmed. Flinging the last of the bottle at them, Kohler ran but by then Louis and the girl had vanished. Ah merde! Where had they gone?

  There was a cistern deep in the rocks below the ruins. As he peered doubtfully past the girl, St-Cyr saw that the steep and narrow staircase disappeared uncomfortably into inky darkness below. ‘Ah Nom de Dieu,’ he whispered, giving a troubled sigh. ‘We must wait for Hermann, mademoiselle. This I cannot undertake myself.’

  ‘But we must, monsieur. The dogs, isn’t that correct? There is a narrow bridge to cross. Once there, I will come back for your friend.’

  ‘Leave an arrow for him. Place it up high, in sunlight if possible. That will have to do.’ Merde, this place! Ruin piled upon ruin; passageways and passageways.

  As she stepped past him, they brushed against each other precariously. His back was to the wall; she had nothing but the abyss to guide her steps.

  He watched as she found a slender patch of sunlight high on the wall and placed the arrow there; he hoped Hermann would not be too busy with the dogs to notice it.

  ‘The dogs …?’ he asked, and wondered what had happened to them.

  ‘Hurry,’ she said, her voice a hush, and stepping quickly past him, went down the steps. ‘Come,’ she urged. ‘Don’t hesitate. It’s quite safe but stay close to me.’

  ‘Josette-Louise … your voice, mademoiselle? You have used the voice of your sister.’

  ‘Have I?’ she asked, flashing a smile. ‘She is with me, Inspector. Can’t you feel her presence? It was she who discovered this place and who found the beaker you have in your pocket.’

  ‘Ah yes. “Drink and live for ever”.’

  ‘Let us drink then, when we reach the water. Let us drink to her.’

  Ah Nom de Jésus-Christ, Hermann, he shouted to himself. With what are we dealing? Two people; two voices. The one from the world beyond. Both calling to each other …

  Down in the darkness there was nothing but the sound of trickling water as it spilled over the cistern’s lip. And he had to wonder how it was that the village had never discovered this ready source, just as he had to wonder where Jean-Paul was hiding. ‘Mademoiselle …?’ he began hesitantly, only to find that she had left him.

  Immediately a cold sweat broke out all over him. ‘Chamonix again!’ he cursed. Jean-Paul, he was so near, so near …

  Feeling with a toe, he hazarded a step – felt all around him with a hand. A bridge, she’d said. A narrow walkway.

  Listen as he did, the sound of the water was not near or far, or from the left or right, but coming from everywhere. It echoed too. And the musty damp of the ages was there as well. Ah yes. And the stale pipesmoke and tobacco of the present. Tha
t, too, of small cigars. Dutch cigarillos.

  Getting down on his hands and knees, St-Cyr found the narrow slab of stone that formed the bridge, and crossed over what must be a chasm filled with water. Now the ground was flagged and he could feel the edges of each stone. He went on for perhaps twenty metres, perhaps a little more. A narrow fissure forced him to stand and squeeze sideways and only then did he realize a wall or several layers of rock must have slid sideways to all but close the passage. An earthquake perhaps. In Aegean times, or Roman.

  Here time really had no meaning.

  The fissure ended. St-Cyr sucked in a breath. Josette-Louise was standing on some rocks in the centre of a circular pool whose rim was only slightly raised. Sunlight fell on her from a hole high in the roof above, but all around her there was darkness.

  Jean-Paul would be waiting for him. Then why … why did he feel he was so near?

  Kohler dragged in a ragged breath and brought the stone down with all the force he could muster. The dog’s skull cracked. Blood shot from its eyes. ‘There …’ he gasped, too tired to fling the boulder from him in disgust. ‘I like dogs, damn it! Good dogs. I always had one when a boy.’

  Kneeling still, he let his hands fall between his legs as he bowed his head in utter exhaustion. First one and then the other of the dogs had come at him. Unsteady … yes, yes, perhaps, but how was he to have known for sure?

  Dragging himself up, he leaned against the wall and tried to still the aching in his head. Jesus, it was as if all the fireworks in China were going off inside him.

  Blood still seeped from the damage Delphane had inflicted. Must he bear the scars of every investigation Louis and he got into? He wanted to rage aloud at the injustice of it all. He wanted to curse Himmler and the Führer but knew it would serve no purpose. ‘Louis …’ he muttered. ‘Must get to Louis before that bastard does him in.’

  ‘Monsieur …?’

  It was the weaver but she had not come alone. Two burly SS with Schmeissers stood on either side of her, and neither of them looked happy about the dogs.