J. Janes - Carousel

‘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 Rejean 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 Surete’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.’

‘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 Surete’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 …’