Kaleidoscope

by J. Robert Janes

  ‘My pumpers …’ began Robichaud. ‘The lines up here on Fourvière Hill—oh for sure, Bishop, my men can fight a normal fire but this … this? Ah no, no. It’s impossible. Impossible! The mains would collapse, isn’t that correct, Guillemette? Well, isn’t it? For years I’ve been trying to tell you all that new and far larger water mains are needed. More pressure. A new station up here, two new crews. Men! Where am I to get them, eh? Where? They’re all off in Germany either in the prison camps or the forced labour brigades.’

  ‘Easy, Julien, go easy, eh?’ snorted the préfet. ‘We all know how much you care but you are not the only one to consider when the budgets come round.’

  The light swung, pinning shadows to the walls as Robichaud turned on him swiftly. ‘Then what about you stopping this one, eh? You have yet to visit the temporary morgue we have set up in the Lycée Ampère. Ah, you’ve not thought it necessary to inform the children who have lost their parents, is that it? How are we to find them, eh? Lists … that bastard Weidling demands lists? Let him pull the limbs apart himself. Let him examine the teeth and hope for dental records.’

  Bishop Dufour stepped forward. ‘Julien, go down to my study. Have some of the port, then take a glass of the Calvados my sister sent me. Please, I must insist. You’re exhausted. There is no need to be ashamed. Your tears are quite understandable.’

  ‘Are they, Bishop? Are they?’ The beam of his light fell to the floor at their feet.

  ‘Now, now, Julien, control yourself. Please, I beg it of you. Say no more. We have enough trouble as it is.’

  Patting him on a shoulder, the bishop led him to the top of the belfry stairs. ‘Auguste and Philomena will wash this down and be most careful.’

  ‘That old caretaker and his wife? Don’t be silly. My men will handle it.’

  ‘Then do as I say. You need to sleep. Look at you, you’re still dressed for a fire. Have you forgotten time? Please, I promise I’ll awaken you in a couple of hours. At least do that for me.’

  Robichaud started down the stairs then swung his light back over them before settling it on the préfet.

  Blinded by it, Guillemette said nothing, only waited.

  ‘Hermann, go with him,’ said St-Cyr quietly. ‘See that he does as he’s told. You’ll find me on the terrace in front of the church. I’ll be looking out over the city trying to figure out what has happened here and where our Salamander could be hiding.’

  ‘If it was those two women from the cinema, Louis, they know all about how to start a fire.’

  ‘It’s the mark of a professional!’ hissed Robichaud. ‘Surely our préfet must have the names of all such people. Ask him to provide them. Give that list to Herr Weidling when you join him for breakfast!’

  St-Cyr drew the bishop aside. ‘A small problem,’ he said, glad that the edge of light from his torch just touched the bishop’s eyes. ‘Three fires in 1938, Bishop, in the Reich, and now this. Was it to have been number two, I wonder, or was Father Adrian the target and our Salamander did not realize he had been killed?’

  ‘I … I don’t know what you mean, Inspector? N … no one would have wanted to kill Adrian. No one.’

  ‘Good. I just wanted to hear you say it, but it is odd, is it not, that the Salamander should know the workings of the Basilica so well? None of the other towers were touched. Only the one with the paintings.’

  ‘An insider …? But … but …’ Desperation haunted the bishop’s eyes until, at last, he said, ‘It’s not possible. No. No. Absolutely not.’

  Again the detective said, ‘Good,’ but this time he grunted it as he abruptly turned away in dismissal and went down the stairs before another word could be said. Ah merde, the paintings …

  The city was in silence but now the skies had cleared. Up from the rivers came an icy ground fog to hug the streets and blocks of flats in silver-grey and hide the infrequent pale blue lamps.

  St-Cyr stood alone. Christmas … it was Christmas Day! Ah maudit, what were Hermann and he to do? Lyon—old Lyon—was a rat’s nest of narrow streets and passageways, the traboules that darted from a side entrance down a long and arched tunnel, up a spiralling flight of stairs, through buildings three and four hundred years old to yet other streets and lanes and other passage-ways. Dark and filthy, most of those passages, with doors here and there and iron-grilled windows and cries in the night. No lights. Not now, and not much evident in the past either.

  Though old and venerable, its citizens more Swiss-like in their attitudes than French perhaps, Lyon was also very much an industrial city. Its railways linked it to every corner of the country. One could come and go so easily if one knew how—oh for sure there were the controls, the sudden spot checks, the Gestapo or the French Gestapo, the German and the French police too, and the harsh demands to see one’s papers. Papers, please. Your carte d’identité, your laissez-passer—the ausweis, the pass! all travellers had to have to go anywhere—anywhere—outside their place of domicile. The work permit too, and ration tickets—books of these each week, the colours constantly being changed so as to confuse Allied agents and foil counterfeiters. The letters of explanation, too, that one had to carry at all times. Those that freed one from ‘voluntary’ labour service in the Reich; those that gave the medical history if needed. A valid military discharge for being wounded at the front in 1940. Papers and more papers.

  If one hesitated, the suitcase or handbag or both would be ripped from one’s hands and dumped out on to the street no matter what the weather, the crowd, the traffic, time or place, or even if one was in a hurry and would miss their bus or tram-car or the Métro.

  But forged sets of papers were now becoming much, much better and far more commonplace. Those two women … the Salamander … could have provided themselves with false papers. They could come and go, and could already have left the city, having left their warning here, if such is what it was.

  Close … far too close for comfort.

  ‘Well, Jean-Louis, we have the pleasure of your company again,’ said Préfet Guillemette ‘yet in spite of the urgency you do not call at my office? You do not exchange greetings or ask for assistance? A car, the ration tickets, some little thing? Ah no, not you. Well then listen, my friend. Listen, eh? Things have changed here. Be careful.’

  The tramp of hobnailed boots came up to them from a Wehrmacht patrol somewhere on the side of the hill. ‘Préfet, let us bury the hatchet and not be so territorial. This case demands our every co-operation no matter on which side of the fence we sit.’

  St-Cyr would never change. Never! ‘Fences? You talk of fences? Is it so wrong of me to invite the Obersturmführer Barbie to dine with me, eh? Especially, my friend, as he is in charge of countersubversion and I must work with him and show good faith in public.’

  ‘Don’t try to make excuses, Gérard. I know all about your kind. Fence sitters, ah no. You and the others have always been in bed with them.’

  ‘Bâtard! And Kohler, eh? What of him? Isn’t he Gestapo? Won’t the Resistance still be aware of your association with him? Pah! I’ll do as I please and tip them off if necessary.’

  ‘Don’t threaten me, Préfer. Please don’t.’

  ‘Then don’t be a fool. Try to understand how it is. No mouse can fart for fear the lion will step on him.’

  ‘But you’re no mouse; you’re one of the lions? What did Herr Barbie want, Préfer? Your thoughts on the cinema fire, on this Salamander and Gestapo Mueller’s interest, or more Jews for you to herd on to railway trucks to Nowhere? Was the round-up of last August twenty-sixth insufficient? One thousand, I heard. Was it one thousand you contributed to the forty-odd that have so far been taken? You sent them to Vénisseaux, to buildings that had long been abandoned, and then they were deported.’

  Ah nom de Jésus-Christ! St-Cyr would never listen. ‘Shot or deported, it’s all the same with them. Like Robichaud, Louis, your tears are admirable but out of place.’

  ‘Then please do not light that cigarette, there is gasoline on my sleev
e.’

  Suddenly furious with him, Guillemette angrily stuffed the lighter and cigarette away. Much taller and bigger, a flic all his adult life and proud of it, he leaned on the railing, blocking St-Cyr’s faint view of the Croix Rousse. ‘Herr Barbie could not help but notice that little exchange you chose to have at the restaurant with Monsieur Artel and his associates, Louis, but that one, he did not ask me about it, you understand. The Obersturmführer acted as though completely unaware of the furore.’

  ‘He didn’t want to spoil his dinner.’

  ‘Cochon! Did you not think when Herr Kohler borrowed his fiacre?’

  His carriage. ‘Don’t call me a pig, Gérard. Please, let us try to work together, eh? The city demands it.’

  ‘My city, Louis. Mine!’

  Ah nom de Dieu, was there no common ground? At sixty-two years of age, Guillemette had been Préfet of Lyon for the past twelve years. A hard-fought post. One had had to oil the way there but he was shrewd and clever, a force to be reckoned. An enemy that was definitely not needed. ‘Robichaud has had a hard time of it.’

  Guillemette faced him bluntly. ‘Then start by asking the right questions. How is it he escaped to send in the alarm? Surely he should have stayed to direct people out of that building?’

  When no answer came, the préfet clenched a ham-hard fist and raised it defiantly. ‘He panicked, Louis. He ran to save himself. That is why the tears, my friend. That is why he is so upset.’

  Guillemette blew out his cheeks in exasperation. ‘Robichaud’s every action is being called into question, Louis. There are several who are saying he should be dismissed.’

  ‘Herr Weidling?’

  ‘Yes. Most certainly.’

  It would be best to get it over with. ‘Where was Robichaud sitting, who was he with in that cinema …?’

  The préfet snorted lustily. It was always refreshing to get the better of Paris! ‘One of my crows tells me he was in the back row, off the left aisle with his mistress, Madame Élaine Gauthier.’

  The crows … the informers. Without them the police could not survive for long or advance up the ladder of command. Clearly Guillemette had been having the fire marshal followed. ‘I should like to meet this crow. Did he stay for the flames?’

  ‘You listen, Louis. Listen hard! Now I apply the gristle before the muscle. Robichaud does not remember with whom he was sitting or where, exactly. He claims the shock was too much and this has caused a loss of memory. Let us hope that it is temporary, eh? It would be a great calamity to us if we had to confine our fire marshal to the mental hospital at Bron!’

  ‘And this Madame Gauthier?’

  Good! ‘Sizzled to bacon, my friend. Bacon! Pah! He was with his little bit of cunt and has abandoned her because he does not—I repeat not—want his wife to know about the affair!’

  Ah nom de Dieu, Lyon and its politics! The couple would have met inside the cinema. ‘Are you certain she was killed in the fire?’

  ‘Positive! I make it my business to find out such things. There is another matter. Letters are starting to pour in. Anonymous, it’s true. Always we get them now. One says that Madame Robichaud must have set the fire to get even—hey, it’s been done before, eh? A lover lost. How many women go crazy after such a thing? But me, I’m not holding that one up like the gospel, though it’s an interesting idea, is it not?’

  One would have to keep the voice calm. ‘Were there any other letters of interest?’

  ‘Two. One points the finger directly at Monsieur Artel—that is only to be expected. A girl, I think. One who perhaps was interfered with and wishes to get even.’

  ‘And the other?’ It was coming now. Everything had been building up to this moment. merde!

  ‘Don’t pretend to be so disinterested, Louis. This one claims Father Beaumont was breaking his vows with Mademoiselle Aurelle in that flat above the cinema and that God became angry with him. As a measure of my good will, you may keep the letters for study but must return them when this is over, so that we will have a record of them in case they are needed.’

  First the threats and now the warning, but the damaging evidence too! Clearly Guillemette expected him to inform the bishop of the allegations. This could only mean that they were true. ‘And what about Herr Weidling?’ asked St-Cyr cautiously. Talking with the préfet was like walking on broken glass in bare feet!

  ‘What about his wife, Louis? Herr Weidling, like most men with young and very beautiful wives, must constantly keep up appearances and advance himself in her eyes so as to secure his position between her legs.’

  ‘Ah merde, a young wife, an old fire chief and a need to always impress her,’ muttered Louis. ‘And Robichaud had a mistress who was lost in the fire!’ It was a plea to that God of his for help.

  Kohler grinned hugely as he joined them bearing the bishop’s bottle of Calvados. Tapping the préfet solidly on the chest, he snorted and said, ‘Madame Gauthier escaped the fire, mon fin. One of your crows has just died. Might I suggest you pick the buckshot out and attempt to sell the carcass on the black market? Try seven francs. That’s the going rate in Paris. At least it was, the last time I was there.’

  With barely controlled fury, Guillemette said, ‘In Lyon we eat much better, mein Kamerad. What else did he confide in his alcoholic stupor?’

  ‘Plenty but we’ll leave it for now. Just see that he isn’t bothered again. He’s got enough on his plate without worrying about his back.’

  ‘And yourselves?’ asked the Préfet. Kohler … Kohler of the Kripo, the most ignored and insignificant of the Gestapo’s subsections. Common crime.

  “Right now we could use a place to eat and spend what’s left of the night,’ said Kohler blithely.

  Without another word the préfet walked away into the deepest shadows of the basilica.

  ‘It’s all right, Hermann. Really it is. I think I have exactly the place. The address on this card our girl with the bicycle dropped in the place Terreaux.’

  ‘What card?’

  ‘A little yellow card.’

  ‘You’re full of surprises. Gabi won’t like it but you can trust me, Louis. I won’t breathe a word of it.’

  ‘If you do, Giselle and Oona will be bound to hear of it. Me, I would not like to cause disruption in your little ménage à trois, especially when you’re being sued for divorce!’

  They shared the Calvados in crystal glasses Kohler had borrowed from the bishop’s study. They wished each other a Happy Christmas, then asked, How can it be?

  ‘The Salamander is out there, Hermann. Having given us the scare of our lives, he or she or they, for some reason, failed to strike the match.’

  ‘Perhaps I scared them off?’

  ‘Perhaps, but then … ah, I do not know, Hermann. The cross leads us to the bishop and what do we find but everything in place for another major fire, a priest who messed about with spinsters, and a storeroom full of valuable paintings. It is a puzzle when puzzles are not needed.’

  Louis always liked to take his time. The bugger enjoyed nothing better than a damned good case, murder especially!

  ‘Three fires in the Reich, Louis. A pattern. Same method, same reason, eh?’

  Good for Hermann. ‘Yes, yes, and now that same reason again—is that so? The trigger for madness, the willingness to sacrifice so many perhaps all because of only one person.’

  ‘Our priest?’

  ‘Did the Salamander know him, Hermann, or better still, know of him?’

  ‘Of that woman who was tied to her bed? The priest wouldn’t have worn that cross if he was only going to fuck about with Mademoiselle Aurelle, Louis.’

  ‘The priest received a telephone call of some urgency.’

  ‘And that, then, caused him to wear the cross.’

  ‘And attend the film.’

  ‘Then he knew the Salamander, Louis, and was aware of what might well happen.’

  ‘He had been warned but not by Mademoiselle Aurelle, by someone else.’

  ‘But cou
ld not stop the fire and chose to die instead.’

  Silently they toasted each other. Kohler refilled their glasses, draining the bottle and then tossing it over the edge to smash and tinkle and make its music somewhere below them.

  ‘Our fire chie’s no collaborator, Louis. The préfet’s been having Robichaud tailed ever since friend Barbie came to town. Our Klaus suspects the pompiers of being in league with the cheminots, but Robichaud swears it isn’t true. Not yet anyway.’

  ‘Fireman and railwaymen, Communists and Resistants … That’s a bad combination for the Occupier, Hermann.’

  Kohler quietly confessed to everything he had found in the toilets at the cinema. He felt he had to do that. Things had become too rough as it was. ‘I’ve got all the schedules and papers on me, Louis. I couldn’t bring myself to burn them, and want to hang on to them for a bit. Okay? There’s another thing. Klaus Barbie is a fanatic when it comes to hunting down Jews and terrorists. The bastard has a mistress, one of the locals, but visits the best houses as well. That’s where he must have been heading after dinner, otherwise he’d have been here with the préfet.’

  St-Cyr fingered the card the girl had dropped. ‘Not at this house, Hermann. It’s not one that is reserved for officers of the Wehrmacht and now the SS. How things have changed, eh? The SS and the Army, who would have thought they would get together as they have? It’s not Chez Blanchette or Chez Francine.’

  ‘Since when was that ever a problem? All I’m saying is don’t knock down any doors just in case. He might not like it.’

  3

  THE STREET WAS DAMP, FREEZING AND DAMNED unfriendly. Worse still, it stank of piss, mould, soot and dead fish. Not a streetlamp showed. Steps sounded behind. Steps stopped. Louis switched off his torch and they stood there listening.

  At 3.35 a.m. Berlin time, the rue des Trois Maries sighed and creaked as its thin sheath of ice, made colder and harder by the depth of the night, tightened here and there to crack and split apart elsewhere.