J. Janes - Carousel

He headed for the toilets at a run. Couples were shoved aside, the gaps closing behind him, now opening in front … Oona … Oona …

The corridor was narrow, lit dimly and layered with smoke. Laughing, ox-eyed girls stopped laughing; one old tart in a tight turquoise suit gave up trying to fix a face that could never make it.

‘A girl … a tall woman … a blonde, for Christ’s sake? About forty, with blue eyes -’

‘Gestapo?’ she asked, giving him an uncertain quiver of wide, painted lips, eye shadow and plucked eyebrows beneath bleached curls that were fast going limp.

Kohler grabbed the woman by the arms and slammed her up against the wall. The compact’s mirror shattered, the lipstick tumbled from that fleshy hand. ‘GESTAPO!’ he roared. ‘Now out with it! A Dutch woman in a light-brown overcoat and scarf.’

‘With blue eyes?’ managed the woman, feeling the urine run freely down her legs. Ah, merde ! her bladder. The evening was ruined. Ruined! Lie then. Say anything. Say what he wants. ‘In the toilets,’ she gasped.

He flung her aside and went through the chipped door into the stench. ‘Ah Jesus … Jesus.’ Some shrieked, some stood as if struck dumb and unable to move. There were holes in the floor. Turkish again … girls squatting, girls fixing their garter belts, one caught rinsing rags and glad of it, only to lose all colour at the sight of him. ‘A blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman of forty wearing a light-brown overcoat and scarf,’ he said.

It was all for nothing – hopeless. Now none of them moved. The girl with the rags discreetly let them fall as the colour flamed back into her cheeks.

‘Look, the woman’s life is in danger. I … I only want to help her,’ he said.

‘Then try the door to the courtyard. Perhaps she went through that one!’ said someone acidly.

‘Yes … yes, she did. Me, I have seen such a one, but that was some time ago, monsieur.’

‘Was anyone following her? A man, for Christ’s sake! Sixty years of age and French.’

The girl with the rags didn’t know. The shrug was genuine. ‘About half an hour ago?’ he asked and heard her say, ‘Three-quarters of an hour, I think.’

The courtyard was dark and he didn’t like it. The city was too quiet. Louis … why the hell hadn’t they stuck together?

He began to move silently along the narrow pavement. Oona had a little less than an hour before curfew. Would she try for the house overlooking the quai Jemmapes? Would she simply keep walking?

The courtyard door to the villa at Number 23 was off the latch. The street was dark. The shop awnings were folded in and there was nothing … nothing. Were they saving kerosene tonight? None of the blue pot-lights were in sight.

Distant on the horizon came the steady drone of RAF bombers bound for the Reich. It would all end some day, this carousel of Paris. If only Louis and he could see it through, if only he could find Oona and tell her that she really did matter to him.

If only he could find Antoine Audit.

St-Cyr ran his eyes over the pews whose emptiness spoke only of vacated penance, piety and sore knees.

The young priest, Father David, was not present. The old priest would stay on his knees in front of the altar all night if necessary, to ward off a confrontation. ‘Father, I must talk to you. Please, it’s urgent. A Dutch woman’s life hangs in the balance, as do those of the remaining hostages.’

Must he be reminded of it? Delacroix brought the rosary to his lips in a gesture so automatic one would have to read impatience into it. ‘What is it you want, my son?’

You tough old man, don’t you play around with me! ‘Captain Dupuis, where is he?’

Shrugging would do no good. Lying … Could he lie in the face of God as he’d done so often of late? ‘He is in God’s sanctuary, Inspector.’

‘Then convince him to give himself up.’

The Surete was a head taller than himself. ‘He’s done nothing. You’ve no right to terrify him like this. He did not kill either of those two young girls.’

St-Cyr drew in an exasperated breath. ‘He shot at us.’

The stance toughened. ‘But not with intent to kill.’

‘There is no other kind of shooting when one is on the run, Father. Now, please, where is he?’

Would God forgive his indiscretions? Father David lying in sin with Marie Ouellette, the … ‘I … I have given him my word, Inspector. He is here in God’s house and neither you nor that Gestapo friend of -’

‘Hermann is not my friend, Father. He is my partner. All of our lives are in danger.’

‘Friend … partner … it is all the same, is it not? My resolve is firm. I have nothing more to say. Now if you will excuse me, I will finish my prayers.’

A depth of sadness came that could not be shoved aside. ‘No, Father, your time for prayers is over. Since you force my hand, I must tell you that I believe one of the guns the Captain Dupuis illegally possesses killed the Corporal Schraum.’

‘Not the girls?’

‘Come, come, Father. You know very well they were both strangled and then raped.’

‘Not raped beforehand?’

Again the sadness intruded. ‘No, my friend, not raped beforehand.’

The old priest crossed himself. ‘He … he is with Father David and Madame Ouellette. He is not in God’s house, because I could no longer let him enter it.’

Kohler stood in the courtyard of the Villa Audit looking up at the starless sky. The bombers were now directly over the city and the air-raid sirens were wailing eerily through the darkness. Though far too high to hit, some stupid sons of bitches manning an anti-aircraft battery over in Saint-Ouen opened up with all they had. That sparked others and soon the searchlights were coning the skies and the sound of gunfire was coming in from all directions.

As abruptly as it had started, the firing ceased. The sound of the planes soon began to dwindle. One by one the searchlights went out, though they wouldn’t have mattered here.

He took two deep breaths and then another before pulling off his soaking shoes and socks.

Padding across the courtyard, he went up the low stone steps and along to the front door. The lock was off and he wasn’t surprised, but damn Louis for suggesting they split up!

He eased the door open. No lights … The sitting-room was pitch-dark and musty. Stuff everywhere, a chaise … yes, yes, he had it now … cushions on the floor …

Michele-Louise Prevost had been a woman who had known her own mind and who had ached for the freedom to express it. An artist, a forger, a copier of the works of others. But what was that? A scraping in the cellars …? Audit?

The hall was cluttered with things the woman had done. Tablets in clay … scenes of bison and deer from the caves of Perigord. The earthy sensuality of the young wife of a stuffy shoe salesman and of the successful younger brother, the hunter of truffles and manufacturer of pates and silks.

The cellars weren’t deep and there was no water in them, only the dampness of stone flagging in winter. There were several storerooms, now mostly empty, rooms for coal that couldn’t be purchased, though there were a half-dozen bags.

Antoine Audit, the handcuffs having been cut away, was working by candlelight. The stone was heavy and he’d almost got it out from the wall. His coat and jacket had been set aside. There was no sign of a gun or knife, no sign of Oona. Just a chisel and hammer.

The kitchen table in the horse bucher’s flat above the shop was littered with dirty dishes and the leavings of three pale-green bottles of red wine. The baby had a cold.

St-Cyr watched grimly as Madame Ouellette tried to calm the infuriated child by nervously suckling it at yet another of the swollen breasts. The fourth go at that one, or was it the fifth? Her milk had turned and she hadn’t liked having to bare her breasts in front of the Captain Dupuis. Ah yes.