Carousel (38 page)

‘Madame, I take it that some years ago coins were put up as surety against a loan which their owner was then not able to repay?'

Caught in the mirror, he was still standing on the carpet behind her, still holding that stupid, stupid glass of that stupid, stupid cordial.

‘Yes … yes, that is correct. In 1904, a … a long time before I … before I ever knew him.' Oh damn.

‘Did he add to the collection?'

‘Whenever he could.'

The dream was bad, the dream was terrible! A trapper, a hunter, a prospector perhaps, was skinning a naked woman. Blood … there was blood on the thin, razor-sharp knife. He'd hung her up by the ankles and had pulled the skin down off her buttocks and thighs … There was a gaping wound across her throat, blood in her eyes, blood in her nose and hair, her lovely hair. The lights all flashing from the mirrors and from the overhead rider bars. The court jester grinning, grinning … ‘Faster!' he shouted. ‘Faster!' The thing would not stop! Stop! A carousel … a pair of violet eyes that were wide with excitement and pleasure, the woman's hands firmly gripping a spiralling brass pole upon which a coal-black charger was mounted … mounted … mounted …

Skinny legs and bony knees and a billowing skirt beneath which were glimpses of white cotton underpants. A wire … a wire … The child threw out a hand to lean dangerously from the stallion as the carousel came round. Now up in the saddle to stand laughing at everyone, she balancing as the music blared … ‘Don't! Please don't!' he cried out in alarm, dragging in a breath as he sat up suddenly.

Ah no, another nightmare! Gabrielle again! Gabrielle, but as a child last and a woman first. The flensing-knife had been scraping her peeled skin. A butterfly with a clear, bell-like voice and a shimmering dress.

Gabrielle and twenty-nine hostages. Giselle le Roy also. Ah Mon Dieu, Mon Dieu, where were the coins hidden? Where were Charles Audit and Réjean Tourmel?

St-Cyr flung himself back. The monkey had flitted by on the screen of his imagination carrying its tin cup to the body of what must have been Victor Morande. It had given an excited burst of chattering, had banged the cup against one of the spiralling brass poles and had tried to draw attention to something, but what?

The court jester had grinned and watched. Then the scent of Gabrielle's perfume had come to overwhelm the Súreté's detective with momentary intrusions of lust.

But then Revenge … the sweet bitterness of bitter orange, the pungency of musk and civet, the scent of lemon grass, rosemary and coumarin had come to the clothes of a young girl who had dyed her hair.

A tall and beautiful woman had stood naked by a bath upon which long-legged ibis had been painted, she touching herself with that same perfume. Revenge, but then the woman had become Gabrielle.

She had tried to tell him something. Had it been about the carousel?

At dawn a light dusting of snow was shaken from the backs of ducks that swam or had slept near the wooded shores of the pond from which the walnut mill derived its power.

St-Cyr breathed in deeply. Frost clouded the air. Fog lay everywhere among the blackened trunks of the trees.

The door was opened and then closed. In time the girl, Jeanine, came out of the mill to break the ice in the washbasin by the pump and bathe her face, her throat and underarms beneath the heavy shirt and sweater, then drink.

Unbidden, the musk of her fresh young body mingled with that of the walnuts and the lingering pungency of the truffles.

The boy soon came along the road with his father, and the girl stood out beside the pump, watching in silence as they approached.

Antoine Audit would be gruff with the girl. He'd have no patience or time for her troubled mind. She'd extend the offer of coffee. He'd say he was too busy and she'd know then that he would have no further use for her.

‘That does not mean he is the killer,' muttered St-Cyr to himself. ‘Ah Mon Dieu, I wish there was more time.'

He hurried across the little bridge, raising a hand. ‘Monsieur, one moment, please. I must ask you to accompany us to Paris today. I think I know where your coins are hidden.'

Audit flung his cigarette away. ‘Then find them. I don't want them.'

The boy glanced apprehensively at his father. The girl sought something solid by leaning back against the washstand to place her strong young hands firmly on its ancient boards.

‘But surely, monsieur, you want justice?'

Audit tossed his head in anger. ‘Justice? What is justice but interference in the affairs of others?'

‘Four people have been murdered because of your coins, monsieur. Two others have died while under questioning. The lives of twenty-nine hostages hang in the balance.'

Audit raised the fist of the belligerent. ‘Piss off! Who am I to care about them, eh? Jews? Communists? Radicals, eh? Away with you, Inspector. I've too much to do.'

So be it. ‘Then come peacefully monsieur, or is it to be the bracelets?'

‘On what charge?' he demanded fiercely.

‘Why, that of murder, monsieur. Nothing less. If you are innocent, it will be but a small interruption and you can, perhaps, conduct a little business while you are there. If not, then unhappily you can kiss your truffles goodbye and welcome the guillotine.'

‘I have friends –'

‘And they have others, monsieur, whose duty it is to look into your undeclared wealth.'

A wave of sickness came. It could not be helped, but was it only an act? ‘The rue Lauriston …?'

‘Orders straight from the avenue Foch.'

‘Then I will gladly go with you, because I am innocent.'

9

‘Madame Minou, I must ask again, is this the man you knew only as Monsieur Antoine?'

The bosom heaved. ‘No … no, that is not him, monsieur.'

‘But he has
said
he and the girl used that room, madame!' How could she do this to them?

‘Absolutely not, Inspector. Absolutely!' she swore, squeezing the cat half to death.

Tough … Ah merde, she was tough! In a moment they'd be shouting. ‘Madame, is it that you have had yet another visit from the rue Lauriston?'

The Sûreté's left hand was bandaged. The one from the Gestapo had a woman with him. She'd best say something. ‘The hat, the clothes, they are not the same. No, Inspector, this one I have never seen before.'

In the Name of Jesus, why was she doing this to them? ‘How
dare
you lie to us? This place is shut down as of right now! Enough is enough!'

‘My son … my son. He … he has not come back, monsieur.'

St-Cyr sucked in the breath of caution. ‘Why should he have? What's he to do with it, eh? Come, come, madame. Out with it!'

The folds of her throat rippled with indignation. ‘Nothing …
Nothing!
I'm just a poor woman. I know absolutely nothing!'

‘Let me, Louis.'

‘Hermann,
please!
Are we to let him go so that he can silence her tongue for ever?'

The woman winced. The soccerball breasts strained at the printed frock and the double layer of knitted cardigans with matching holes and missing buttons.

Audit allowed a small grin of triumph. ‘So, my friends, the waters of truth, eh? I did not come here. I did not meet anyone and I, too, know nothing, just as madame has said of herself.'

St-Cyr snatched the key to Number 4 – 7 from the hook above the tiny desk. ‘Take him up to the room, Hermann. Let him think about it! Leave me alone with this one.'

The cat struggled in vain. Madame Minou gripped it. ‘Arfande, stop it! Ah, Mon Dieu!' She gave it a slap.

The claws, caught in the fabric of her dress, dug in and scratched the fleshy thighs. Blood began to seep through the laddered stockings. She rugged the slip and dress down while freeing the cat. ‘Monsieur …'

‘Madame?' he breathed, and when there was nothing further from her but a concierge's watchfulness, he said, ‘Why didn't you tell me your son had made the acquaintance of Antoine Audit?'

‘He's gone. My Roland is gone. I've not seen him in years.'

St-Cyr dragged out the dragonfly. ‘A simple brooch, madame. A thing that was found clutched in the murdered Corporal Schraum's hand. Roland stole this from the girl's room.'

Vehemently she shook her head. ‘No … no, it wasn't like that, Inspector.'

‘Then how was it, eh?'

‘I know nothing.'

‘Don't be so stubborn. Your son could easily have come here on several occasions, madame. He has a key. He stole from your purse. He went into that girl's room and took this, then sold it to the Corporal Schraum or simply gave it to him.'

‘When … when could he have done such a thing?'

‘After he had first killed Victor Morande.'

She set the cat down on the carpet at her feet. ‘Roland is not a bad boy, Inspector, only wrongful in some regards. He …'

Yes, yes, come, come, he willed her.

‘Roland worked part-time for this … this Victor Morande, the one who ran the carousel. He helped him out from time to time. Me, I …'

‘When we took you there to see the body you thought it might be that of your son.'

‘Yes … yes, that is so.' Must she tell him everything? ‘Roland was interested in the girl. The Captain Dupuis has said Roland had been watching her, but I …' The foothills of her shoulders lifted. ‘I did not believe him.'

‘So you went to the carousel and saw it for yourself.'

‘Yes … yes. Roland was taking the tickets just as she must have done, but only when the other one …'

‘Victor Morande.'

‘Had to leave the premises.'

St-Cyr dragged out his pipe but reluctantly decided against it. ‘Your son had to have a place to live, madame, and Victor Morande had to come and go a little bit more than you have indicated. From time to time your son lived at the carousel just as Victor Morande did. It was nice and warm with all that lovely coal the Corporal Schraum provided.'

‘It's so cold in here these days,' she said, staring emptily past him at the wicket.

‘I'm not surprised.'

‘What will you do to him?'

‘Nothing, if he is innocent. Now when did he make the acquaintance of Antoine Audit?'

‘About two months ago. In late October. The Captain Dupuis will tell you more than I, monsieur. My Roland, is he …? He hasn't been seen in some time, monsieur. Me, I had thought … a job at last, something solid. A future …'

‘Bring your shawl and come upstairs. You must identify Antoine Audit to his face. Please, I am sorry but it is necessary.'

‘He did not do it, monsieur. He could not have done such a thing.'

‘Roland or Antoine Audit?'

‘Roland, of course. Oh for sure a mother's love is blind, but disregarding this, I do know my son, monsieur. He wouldn't have killed her. That one liked the girls too much.'

St-Cyr took out his cigarettes and offered one. Lighting it, he waited while she filled her lungs, then watched as she let the smoke trail slowly from her nostrils. ‘Last Tuesday, madame, Monsieur Antoine met the girl here in the afternoon at four o'clock. He left the meeting early, after only a few minutes perhaps? The girl seemed quite agitated about it?'

Again her eyes sought some distant place among the rubbish of her cage. ‘Yes, she did not change her clothes or wash herself. I have thought the affair over, that Roland …'

‘Yes, yes,' he urged, reaching for her shawl but letting her have all the time she needed.

‘That Roland might have …' She gave the tired shrug of an old woman in defeat. ‘Might have spoken to him about the girl.'

‘About what Victor Morande and the Corporal Schraum had been up to?' he asked.

‘Roland would have demanded money of this Monsieur Antoine. Blackmail, I think.'

But never murder. He held the shawl for her and she let him place it over her shoulders as she stood to leave the cage.

‘One last thing, madame, before we go upstairs.'

She'd seen it coming all along but now had no way of averting her eyes.

‘The night before the Defeat your son came back to steal money from you. Did he know the girl Mila Zavitz who was strangled and raped in the courtyard beside the draper's shop on the Pas-Léon?'

Her eyes had blinked but she'd hold her ground. She'd not admit to anything further.

Pity was unwanted at this time but he felt a wave of it for her anyway. ‘Had he been out looting the shops, madame? A few tins of coffee the Germans wouldn't miss? A bolt or two of cloth – things that would become scarce in the years to come? Mila Zavitz went there to seek help from her employer, madame. A young girl who was so afraid of being alone in the city, of being a Jew. She'd become separated from her family. The Nazis were at the gates. It was evening … sunset. The shop was closed. They'd all fled. There were two suitcases …'

‘I know nothing of this. Two suitcases? Roland would not have killed her, monsieur. Not my son. Not even if he had demanded and taken from her that which she had refused to yield.'

‘Then let us go upstairs and try to get to the bottom of things before it is too late.'

Lost in thought, Kohler fingered the edge of the pistachio-coloured washstand. The room had been tidied. Attempts at sponging off the blood-spattered sickly green walls had failed. Each finger flick of blood had been rubbed with steel wool as if Madame Minou had had to banish the thought of it from her tormented mind. She'd even dug into the plaster with a knife and now there were shrapnel bursts of pock-marked plaster that could only mean the concierge had been worried sick about her son's involvement.

He'd handcuffed Audit to the painted iron frame at the foot of the bed so as to give himself more freedom and let the bastard sit right next to where the girl's body had lain.

Louis hadn't yet come upstairs. He must still be questioning Madame Minou.