Carousel (14 page)

Antoine Courbet, who lived across the street from Number 3, said, ‘No. The explosion smashed all the windows in our house. My father would beat me.'

‘First they took his car, his beautiful big black Citroën,' said Dédé Labelle, whose mother took in laundry and did odd jobs.

‘Then they took his revolver and only let him have it
after
the shooting had started,' said Guy Vachon, whose sister had been brought home from the streets by that one, and whose father had then miraculously found a very good job in a garage.

‘Then they demoted him to inspector with the consequent loss of wages.'

‘And killed his wife and little son.'

‘
And
blew up the front of his house, instead of letting the Resistance do it for them!'

‘Give him the ball. He looks as if he needs it.'

‘He'll
never
see that we get our windows back. My father says he's not long for this world and that the Resistance are bound to get him the next time, if only God would give him the smile.'

Dédé dropped the ball and kicked it. They all watched in silence as it hit the road and started to bounce and roll towards the detective.

His vision blurred, St-Cyr missed the kick and they knew then that he must be really sad and very preoccupied with another case.

‘I hope he doesn't start playing that horn of his,' said Guy Vachon. ‘My mother says he will.'

‘His
euphonium,
' said Antoine Courbet. ‘It drove the first wife to madness. She had to leave and married a railway worker from Orléans.'

‘It was the crime, the long nights without passion,' said Hervé Desrochers. ‘A woman requires regular thrusting to keep her happy.'

‘That's why the last wife took up with a Kraut.'

‘A house without a woman is a house without a soul.'

‘Or bread in the oven.'

‘Or buns.'

The detective retrieved the ball and worked it up the street towards them. He seemed to falter, to stumble – was he a little drunk perhaps? – but then he had a burst of energy, showed real skill, and took the ball through them all before collapsing into sleep.

‘We can't leave him there. Someone might steal his wallet.'

‘I'll get my father. You get your uncle.
They'll
put him to bed.'

‘He's not drunk. He's just tired.'

‘Detectives need their sleep.'

4

Mirrors turned, lights flashed, stallions galloped madly. He tried to leap aside. A rabbit rushed him, bumping a shoulder and screaming: ‘Why don't you look where you're going, St-Cyr? I've got to hurry … hurry …'

A rooster was right behind, then an elephant that lifted its trunk in the stampede, then a lion, the music blaring – trapped, he was trapped! He'd be trampled to death!

Sprays of blood marred a sequined sky-blue sheath. Everywhere there were swastikas, everywhere flames, and through the flames the faces of the crowd.

The harnesses were bright, the music ribald, playing high, playing low as the animals rose and fell and the corpse of the woman of the sheath came round, she naked now and riding a camel. Her skin pale, her eyes wide and empty, she hanging on to the pommel as the beast kicked and bucked. He thought he knew her, thought he should cry out a warning to her.

She threw an arm back, her pale breasts tightening, rising, falling … blood … blood all over her chest and slender waist. Not the girl of the room … Not that girl …

Blue harness, red harness, green and gold … the sound of coins intruding … hundreds of them being flung about, the naked girl now reaching for them as she raced around and around, the floor rising and falling under her. She beckoning to him now, her long legs spread, her knees up, the eyes, those violet eyes … The beckoning becoming a plea for help as someone … someone came at her with a –

‘Watch out!' he cried in panic and blinked. His heart was pounding.

Something had awakened him. Lafont? Had Oberg sent the bastards so soon?

‘Gabrielle … Gabrielle … Ah, Mon Dieu, you're safe! I had thought … Listen, please. You and me, it would never work. This place … the life I must lead.'

She got up from where she'd been sitting on the edge of the bed. The house was a shambles. Jean-Louis had a good day's growth of whiskers and crusts in the corners of his eyes. The covers were thick and up to his chin. He'd a knitted toque on his head and earmuffs as well as gloves. ‘You'll find me at the club if you need me.'

‘Yes … Yes, of course. The club.' He wet his throat.

She tossed her beautiful head, tossed the mane of hair that was not blonde but the fine, fine shade of a fine brandy.

‘I've a general waiting, Jean-Louis. I only stopped by to see if you were here. I had a premonition you would be.'

‘What time is it?'

‘0800 hours Berlin time. I am just on my way home. We had a good crowd last night. They had missed me.'

‘How's René Yvon-Paul?'

Her son. ‘Fine. Yes, fine, Jean-Louis. He has asked about you, and I have explained things to him. Think about it, eh? It would mean a lot to me.'

‘Me also, but it cannot be.'

She left him then in the cold and paltry light with the faint allure of Mirage in his nostrils. Gabrielle Arcuri, the
chanteuse
in a sequined sheath. A general was waiting.

Flinging himself over on to his left side in anger, St-Cyr saw that cracks had made pleasure with the wall on which had once hung an enlarged portrait photograph of his mother. The frame had been broken, the glass shattered by the blast. The photograph was now in shreds and he knew there'd be no sense in trying to glue it back together.

Gabrielle had made him an offer to stay at her place, an offer he dared not accept. Ah
merde!
why had he dreamt of her like that, and naked too?

The house was draughty but by some trick of fate or act of God, the lavatory he'd installed with plumber's tools and flames had been spared, the kitchen too. They were enough. Once Hermann and he had settled the murders, he'd start in on the repairs.

The nightmare continued to haunt him. Some of the animals had not risen as high as others. The High Court Jester had been trying to tell him something.

When he came out of the house, Hermann was waiting in the car. ‘Louis, I still can't find Giselle. No one's seen her. Madame Chabot is bitching about lost income.'

So much for the leisurely walk up to the carousel, the quiet think!

A cinematographer at heart, the film of Nicole de Rainvelle passed frame by frame before St-Cyr. He knew he should tell Hermann that Giselle might well have been worked over by Lafont and Bonny but … ah,
Nom de Jésus-Christ
! he didn't have the courage.

‘Have you not slept a wink, Hermann?'

‘Not yet.'

‘More Benzedrine?'

‘Louis, I'm being torn apart. I can't get it out of my head that something's happened to her. I'm missing her like crazy.'

Was Hermann really in love? This thing, this case …

‘You drive. I hit someone's black cat, Louis. It's custard for the crows.'

Was he getting superstitious too? ‘Climb in the back, my old one. Go to sleep. I'll wake you when we get there.'

‘Breakfast?'

‘Let's do the carousel first, while it's still fresh in my mind.'

The greyness of the early morning filtered into the carousel through its canvas roof, and the wind, tugging at some bit of bunting, played mischief with the silence.

Not a thing inside moved. The elephant still had its trunk lifted in the stampede that had stopped. The lion still chased the lioness; wild-eyed, the zebra followed white stallions whose nostrils flared and whose eyes shied away in fright.

It was at once a moment profound and one he felt deeply. Here was the essence of the carousel, the lively colours that even in the subdued light of morning had lost none of their vitality. He was glad he'd left Hermann in the car asleep. Even the intrusion of packing a beloved pipe might be too much.

The carousel seemed as if each of its animals wanted to cry out, For shame, Chief Inspector! A killer, monsieur. Help us before it is too late. —, though we hated him, need not have died here, at least not here. — was good to us – you can see that for yourself. Look at our paint, look at how well kept we are. We're still good some two and a half years after he left us. After the Defeat!— is in trouble. — is in danger. — are to blame.

Clément Cueillard popped his grinning head out of the inner workings. ‘You've turned to salt, eh? Good morning, Chief Inspector.' He gave a cheery wave of his straight razor before disappearing to whistle up some lively tune, thus interrupting time and thought. Ah Mon Dieu … son of a bitch!

There'd been a towel folded jauntily about his scrawny neck. Cueillard had made himself at home. The place was warm. ‘Would you care for a coffee?' the man sang out. ‘It'll have to be in the monkey's cup, but I'll give it a swish if you like.'

A swish of soapy water? ‘Did the monkey come back?' shouted the detective.

‘Late last night.' The head popped out again. The razor glinted. ‘The little bastard woke me up. Bitching, swearing and banging things – leaping from animal to animal expecting a free ride and climbing all over the place. When it saw me, it gave a yelp and buggered off. Me, I could not catch it in my long johns. The grass was too cold and wet. Besides, there were stones.'

So much for monkeys at night. ‘Any idea where it's holed up?'

‘The Temple of the Sibyl at Tivoli. Monkeys like height. Besides, there's no food in the kiosks and restaurants. They're all closed. He came back to get some. He'll come back again if you leave a few bananas out.'

Bananas at a time of war, with most of Europe under naval blockade! Bananas from a former banana merchant?

‘Carrots will do,' Cueillard sang out. ‘Or oranges. Personally I think he bitched because I ate the last of his stuff, except for the apples and pears. The chestnuts were excellent with the salt and a little butter. Roasted right in here.'

The ostrich grinned, the giraffe did too. The razor flashed.

‘The Préfet himself has given me the orders, Chief Inspector. I am to stick around until the case is closed. I am to report anything suspicious directly to him in person, and I'm to report in detail all developments. They are sending me a scaffold of paper.'

‘A scaffold?'

Cueillard examined his chin in the mirror that hung from a post. ‘Of paper, yes, monsieur. That is what I will construct for him.'

‘Let's hope it doesn't fall down. Hold the coffee. Don't wake the sleeping beauty in the car.'

Armed with two apples and a pear, he set out. Footpaths led uphill through the trees. The smell of decaying leaves was in the air, the sound of water in some gully not far away.

Prior to 1867, the Buttes-Chaumont had been a stone quarry, the refuge of petty thieves and beggars. Though Baron Haussmann, the Préfet of the Seine, had got all the credit, it had been someone else who had put the place right. And wasn't it odd, or a coincidence, that Talbotte, yet another Préfet, was involved today with the park, and that Talbotte, being Talbotte, would reap all the credit and none of the blame should a successful conclusion come to this whole affair.

Ah, Mon Dieu, what were they to do? Instead of witnesses, he was trudging after a monkey in the faint hope the creature could tell them something.

He'd take the long way round. The lake itself was fed partly by natural springs and partly by a diversion from the Canal Saint-Martin. Access to the island was by a brick footbridge and an iron suspension bridge, or by the simple and pleasurable act of hiring a boat and rowing across.

Which would the monkey look most favourably upon?

Lindens crowded the grassy shores. There were flower-beds now put to sleep, park benches, one old gentleman sitting patiently waiting for a bit of sun to warm the old bones should God be so kind.

Ripples on the water and peace, absolute peace.

The temple was perched high atop cliffs of flat-lying rock in the centre of the lake. Ivy and wild grapevines clung to the unscalable wall. Trees and shrubs, now bare of their leaves, sprouted precariously from the many vertical cracks.

There were eight round columns with ornate capitals to the temple, with what were perhaps acanthus leaves beneath the volutes. An iron railing was inside the columns to keep visitors from defying death, a leap of some twenty metres. In all it was a pretty thing, but still there was no sign of the monkey and he hesitated to ask the old man. Such frailty – that little bit of sun. Could God not grant such a trifling wish?

‘He's not up there,' came the acid from beneath that black beret. ‘He was, but he's gone. He's seen you.'

‘Pardon?'

‘The monkey. Now buzz off, you parasite! I've almost got him to the point where he'll eat out of my hand. Another day and he'll be in the oven.'

The man had a burlap sack partially hidden under one hip, and a small wooden club, the last leg of a chair. There was a chunk of bread in his hand.

So much for monkeys on the lam.

‘He's not yours!' hissed the man. ‘I saw him first, damn you! He belongs to
me
now that the operator of that devil's machine has been murdered. The monkey will only die from the cold, so don't get holy and spoil it all. My wife and I are going to eat him, or I'll drown myself.'

So much for frailty. ‘That monkey is a witness to murder, monsieur. Might I suggest that you do not trouble yourself with drowning at this time of year, but attempt the leap.'

‘
Bâtard!
I knew you were a cop! The gravy, monsieur. Think of the gravy from such a roast.'

In spite, and in tears, the old man wolfed the last of his bread. ‘I hope the monkey doesn't tell you
anything,
' he shrilled, ‘and that you do not catch him! A witness to murder, he says. Hah! my ass, you fine detective shit!'