J. Janes - Carousel

‘I was not. What is more, I can prove it.’

Emeralds and diamonds, gold and more gold … ‘Lift the stone away. Let’s see what’s behind it. Maybe the two of us can make a deal.’

The candle flame stirred. His hackles rose higher. Something cold and hard pressed against the back of his neck. Son of a bitch, where was Louis now?

St-Cyr touched the courtyard door and felt it give. He’d come round the corner from the rue Saint-Luc, heading for the foot of the rue Polonceau, and had just stepped into the Pas-Leon when he’d heard something. These old neighbourhoods, the darkness, the imminence of the curfew … The courtyard beside the draper’s shop. The scene of that other murder. Mila Zavitz.

Roland Minou? he asked. Was it possible that Roland had ducked in here?

Hermann … where was Hermann? There had been the sound of screeching tyres heard faintly above that of the shrieking child in Madame Marie Ouellette’s arms, but he’d had no time even to consider it.

And now? he asked. Had Otto Brandl been in that car? Had Henri Lafont and Pierre Bonny?

The hinges creaked. He cursed the war, the Occupation and the shortages of lubricating oil and grease. Even goosefat was in tragic absence.

Whoever it was now held the breath and kept very still. The walls were dark, the shuttered windows only a little less so, the slot of winter’s sky above the roofs but a whisper of infinity.

Roland Minou … was he lurking in some corner of this place?

St-Cyr breathed in softly. The cold and the dampness accentuated the pungency of mouldering plasterwork and window sashes that needed more than paint. But was there something else?

He drew the Lebel and cocked it. One corner of the courtyard proved vacant to all but disused trash cans. No one could afford to throw anything out these days; everything was used up or recycled. The Occupation was good for some things, eh? Rats were in retreat. There was no more of that pissing about with arrogant dustmen who turned up their noses at a bit of honest labour for which they’d been handsomely paid. Pensions, full pensions they still gave them.

Whoever it was had moved.

When he heard a breath being taken in and held, the musk of fear came strongly, and through it a faint bath-soapy odour that was sweet and of woman.

‘Madame Van der Lynn, it is me, Jean-Louis. Where is Hermann?’

She threw herself into his arms and he could not stop her shaking. ‘I was being followed. I know I was!’

Roland … Roland Minou? he wondered.

‘Four cars. Two from this end of the rue Polonceau and … and two from the other.’

Son of a bitch!

The candle flame flickered. The truffle-hunter’s wary gaze had momentarily been fixed on each of the visitors but Audit was far too intelligent to let it linger on either of them.

His hands held high, he forced a grin. Kohler waited. The one behind him shifted his weight. The other one just stood to the left doing nothing. Bergmanns? he wondered. Schmeissers?

‘The pistol,’ breathed the one behind him.

‘Look, Louis is out there some place. I wouldn’t want him to get the wrong idea. He might think you’re Rejean Tourmel or Charles Audit.’

‘The pistol, Herr Kohler.’

‘Hey, come on. It’s brand-new. I’ve only just checked it out. Gott im Himmel , the paperwork. Stores aren’t the same any more.’

Kohler was just fucking about. ‘You won’t be needing another. You can forget about the paperwork.’

‘It’s all up to you, my Hermann.’

‘Otto …’ Antoine Audit began to lower his aching arms.

‘Don’t!’ breathed Kohler. ‘Just relax. They mean business.’

The grin faded. The hands climbed back up. ‘Otto … the … the coins, they are not here.’

‘Nor the emeralds or the diamonds?’ snorted Kohler. ‘What’d he do, Otto? Call the Bureau for help? Who was it took the message, eh? Offenheimer? Was he the one?’

Brandl stood at the foot of the stairs. Had that been a car screeching its brakes in the street outside? Company so soon? ‘As a matter of fact, Hermann, the Captain was the first to take the call, but then I myself talked to Antoine.’

‘Idiot! Offenheimer’s been working for the rue Lauriston. Lafont and Bonny have been putting the squeeze on him.’ Kohler still held his pistol. If only Brand! would lay into Offenheimer. If only …

The cellar was too confined. Audit would be killed, himself … The candle was not that far. A sudden gust, the toss of something?

The Schmeisser nudged him. ‘Don’t even think of it, Herr Kohler. Just drop the gun.’

In the Name of Jesus was there nothing that could be done? Offenheimer would have tipped off the rue Lauriston. Lafont would go berserk! ‘Louis knows where the coins are hidden. The Frog’s got it all figured out, Otto, but being a Frog, the bastard’s kept it to himself.’

The front door slammed. Steps rushed along the hall above them … Brandl snuffed out the candle. ‘So, we wait, yes, and see what happens.’

A burst of firing shattered the silence of the cellar, ripping boards and smashing things. ‘Henri … Henri, in the Name of Jesus, slow down!’ shouted Pierre Bonny. ‘It is Brandl , Henri. Otto Brandl!’

‘CARBONE … It’s that Corsican son of a whore’s basket! That dog’s offal! I’ll kill the swine! I’ll kill him!’

‘Henri, Henri, wait! He’s not here,’ shouted Bonny desperately. ‘ Brandl , Henri … the Bureau Otto.’

Another burst of firing tore into the walls, the floorboards above them, and armfuls of wine bottles. Kohler found his pistol on the floor and started to worm his way across the flagstones. If only he could reach the stairs. If only Louis would come by.

Son of a bitch, the place had gone to silence! The stench of cordite was everywhere. Littered shell casings lay about in the pitch-darkness. One of them stirred and fell suddenly from a step. It rolled away.

‘ I want the coins !’ shrieked Lafont, his falsetto ringing.

Someone anxiously fumbled for a flashlight but was told to leave it be.

Brandl hazarded a few words from behind a pillar. ‘The coins aren’t here, Henri, but there is enough gold and emeralds for us to share. What do you say?’

‘NEVER! Goering has ordered the avenue Foch to find the coins and they have ordered me to do the job! You are trespassing on my turf!’

Another burst of firing sent splinters everywhere. Kohler cringed and pulled himself along.

‘Where’s Kohler?’ hissed someone.

‘ Kohler ?’ shrilled Lafont, fighting to reload that thing of his. ‘ St-Cyr! I’ll kill that bastard! I’ll tear him to pieces !’

Kohler made a break for the stairs. He pitched into someone, fell, got up, tripped on the steps, heard shots … more shots!… and threw himself out of the cellar and into the hall. ‘Louis … Louis, where the hell are you?’ he yelled.

The street was blocked by opposing pairs of cars, one behind the other, engines idling. Headlamps lit up everything. There’d barely be room to pass. The Citroen would have to lose its fenders. Would the doors be taken?

‘Get down, madame! Lie on the floor,’ shouted St-Cyr.

More firing came from the villa. Men poured out of the car behind Lafont’s Bentley. Others spilled from Otto Brandl’s backup. Would there be a fusillade, no chance to get away? Ah Mon Dieu, Mon Dieu , glass was so expensive these days, windscreens almost irreplaceable.

Someone in bare feet bolted through the open doorway to the courtyard only to leap back from the light. St-Cyr leaned on the horn and trod on the accelerator. These old cobblestones … the narrow kerbs and pavements, the lampposts … awnings that were folded back but had their side bars low on the walls …