J. Janes - Kaleidoscope

‘I asked you who left this little carving and for whom? Don’t shrug, my fine, or I’ll make you carry her corpse all by yourself, right to Cannes.’

‘The grandmother, Madame Melanie Peretti, the mother of Georges.’

‘The blind woman?’

Was it so impossible for the Gestapo to comprehend? ‘She sees with the innermost eye, monsieur, and she carves most beautifully.’

‘Don’t dump on me. For her to have done this, the herbalist would have had to let her put her hands all over his face.’

‘But of course.’

‘But I thought you told us the Perettis and the Borels were not on speaking terms?’

‘They’re not. That is why she has left it on the hillside for the herbalist. The Abbe Roussel, he has acted as the transmitter of their words.’

The transmitter? Why not the relay, or the go-between? Why use a wireless term?

Kohler looked away to the ruins of the citadel and from there, let his eye run to the line of the nearest mountains. Da, dit, dit, da … Merde ! An enemy transmitter in the mountains. The sap. Had he let it slip on purpose?

‘Is the herbalist’s son, Alain Borel, in love with the girl?’

‘Very much so.’

‘And did the mother not agree?’

‘Did she forbid such a thing, monsieur? Is that what you mean?’

‘You know it is.’

Fratani sighed contentedly. ‘Then you are absolutely correct, Inspector. There could be no wedding, no possibility of a union and of offspring. On this, Madame was positive.’

‘Or else she’d cut off their water?’

‘She had already done that long ago, from the Borels, as I have said.’

‘From the Perettis, you idiot!’ Ah Nom de Dieu , this one understood the hills far better than most.

‘Louis, I have to tell you something.’ Kohler drew him round to the leeward side of the hearse while Fratani waited behind the steering-wheel. ‘The Perettis were supposed to keep the girl away from Ludo Borel’s eldest son. Madame Buemondi threatened one of them in no uncertain terms. Georges, the old woman’s son, shot her.’

‘Why?’

‘Because she would have cut off their water, and in these hills that is life.’

‘Hermann, what is it? What’s really troubling you?’

‘The maquis, Louis. Your friend Delphane is using us against them.’

St-Cyr reached out to him. The gesture was so automatic, the barriers of war were instantly set aside. ‘Quietly, Hermann. Quietly, my old one. You’re forgetting the pawn ticket and letting your innermost fears get the better of you.’

‘Am I? You saw the girl’s clothes. You saw the looks she gave us.’

‘Shall we go up to the village to question the abbe?’

There were tears in Hermann’s eyes. ‘Ask Fratani where we can find Georges Peretti, Louis.’

‘In time, my old one. Let us first go to Cannes and tuck her safely on ice. I have something I must do. The rest will keep.’

Kohler wouldn’t let go. ‘You’ve been my friend, Louis, but if there are maquis in those hills, I’m going to have to let the Army know. Boemelburg has forced my hand.’

‘Or Pharand, my own, Hermann. And Jean-Paul Delphane.’

They were up to their necks in shit and both knew it. One last glance through the open curtains revealed the victim still stiff with rigor. She seemed to be trying to tell them something but could not possibly have done so.

Two bodies lay sprawled on the tram-car tracks in Cannes. Perhaps five metres separated them, and when the sub-lieutenant walked up to the nearer of them, he drew his pistol and gave the poor bastard the coup de grace .

Fratani shuddered. Jammed between the two detectives in the cab of the hearse, he saw only blood and brains splashing the stones, not the fashionable shops and hotels of the route d’Antibes. Not the half-frozen crowd of stragglers who were bundled in black or grey with scattered colours and fur coats between who made no move, remained only mute and poised in shock and indecision. Poor and rich alike; alien and resident; one dowager in black with a pair of white poodles who sniffed uneasily at her escort’s heels and cocked their heads as if for more.

A second shot followed, though there’d been no need for it.

The sub-lieutenant then walked slowly back to the woman who raised an arm, outstretched a hand, the fingers spread and bloody. She cried out to that bastard with the gun and he let her cry out to him, let her beg for mercy. One high-heeled shoe had caught in a track and now lay broken behind her just ahead of the tram-car which remained as if hammered against the background of the street and the faces.

Furiously Kohler rolled down his side window and started to stick his head out. ‘ Hermann, no ! No, my friend.’

‘Louis …? Louis …?’

The shot rang out. The face was smashed. The body crumpled. The hand clawed at the pavement.

Not a person moved. Where once there had always been gaiety, the hubbub of traffic, the lights, the fun, the eccentric and the beautiful, now there was only terror. St-Cyr quickly let his eyes sweep the pavements on either side, alarmed by the sudden thought that others might decide to bolt for it. But no, the couple had been alone in this on the tram-car. A random check of papers. They could not have known their little gamble was bound to fail. An informer? he asked, again searching the faces of the crowd. A collaborator?

It seemed likely, but he could not decide on any one face. With the toe of his jackboot, the sub-lieutenant flipped the woman’s body over. Then he put away his pistol and stripped her of her valuables.

Kohler started to get out of the hearse. Louis hissed at him, ‘Hermann, don’t ! It’s finished, eh? What’s done cannot be undone.’

‘The people will hate us, Louis.’

‘They were Jews,’ said Fratani. ‘When the Germans moved in to occupy the south, the Jews and a lot of others fled here to the Italian sector, thinking things would be easier for them. But then the French Fleet scuttled their ships in Toulon and overnight the Italians were kicked out and now control only what is left of the coast from east of here to the frontier and a slice of the lowest hills.’

The sub-lieutenant was now going through the man’s pockets. ID, wallet, watch and chain were taken and still no one else had moved, not even his own men. He found something worthless and tossed it away, then found a handkerchief that the wind stole and one of the poodles snapped at viciously before the dowager could yank the dog back.

Now the wedding ring was being unscrewed to join that of the wife.

Kohler eased the hearse into gear and they crept along the street. At the first intersection, he headed for the Croisette and the sea.

Not a soul was around. All along that vast and glistening arc of sand and posh hotels, only the palms threw their spiked shadows and the pines their parasols.

It was as if the world had stopped.

The three of them got out to stretch their legs. ‘Louis, we’ll have to find Gestapo HQ and …’

‘It is at the Hotel Montfleury on the avenue Beausejour, overlooking the city,’ said Fratani, offering cigarettes from some as yet untapped source. ‘They have requisitioned the hotel for the duration.’

‘Of what?’ asked Kohler, knowing only too well Fratani had meant the Occupation. ‘Louis, let’s let this one cart the body over to the morgue. He can wait for us there and keep her company.’

‘He’ll need the papers,’ said St-Cyr drily. Always it was papers, papers with the Germans. ‘Let us agree to meet at the villa, Hermann, but give me time, first, with the weaver.’

‘What makes you so sure you’ll find her?’

‘A hunch. That’s all.’