J. Janes - Carousel

Kohler flew through the doorway of the courtyard. Ducking wildly, he shot across the street between the cars.

The brakes were slammed on. The door was flung open. The fenders went. A drainpipe fell. Bursts of firing took out the rear windscreens and then the one in front of them. ‘The tyres … they have hit the tyres!’ shrieked St-Cyr.

Banging and throwing sparks, they just made it around the corner and into the rue Saint-Luc. ‘Enough! Enough! Abandon the car! Head for the Church of Saint Bernard, Hermann. Father Eugene will just have to give us a hand.’

They beat it. They went to ground and bathed their faces in the baptismal font.

The church was cold, and like the Hotel of the Silent Life, it had cellars that became tunnels which turned into vaulted rooms where wine had once been stored.

Madame Minou was surprised to see them, but they could not stay long.

Kohler drained his shoes and put them on. At 2 a.m. the Villa Audit was now quiet. Only faint traces of perfume remained to mingle with the stench of cordite.

‘The perfume is Mirage,’ said St-Cyr sadly. ‘Nicole de Rainvelle has been in to have a look.’

‘Lafont and Bonny won’t touch Gabrielle, Louis. They wouldn’t dare.’

‘They will and they probably have by now, Hermann. In any case, we must pry Giselle le Roy away from them and try to save the hostages.’

‘There’s a telephone in the bal musette on the corner. Why not call the Club Mirage and warn her? She might still be singing.’

‘That would only let them know where we are. The lines are constantly monitored, eh? No, we will simply have to tough it out. Two things remain to be done before we can lay our hands on those blasted coins.’

‘Find Roland Minou and find Charles Audit and Rejean Tourmel.’

‘The latter two first, for I’m beginning to believe I know where Madame Minou’s son must be.’

‘In Hell?’

‘Or Heaven.’

‘I’ll see that the car’s repaired, Louis. No problem.’

‘Good. So, a small journey for me, Hermann. Let’s agree we meet at the carousel in …’ he glanced at his watch ‘… in about three hours.’

‘You’re sure you don’t want me to come along?’

‘Positive. Madame Van der Lynn will need constant attention.’

‘You talk as if Giselle was ancient history.’

St-Cyr looked at his partner and friend. ‘Let us just say that I hope I am wrong. Without the car, our hands are tied. In any case, Father Eugene and Father David have only one bicycle.’

‘Enjoy yourself then. Take care.’

‘You too.’

The night was cold but fortunately there was no rain. It would soon be Christmas. Christmas 1942, and what?

Father Eugene had not gone to sleep, nor, indeed, would he pass the night in anything but prayer.

The bicycle was wheeled from the vestry lock-up, the loan granted without surprise or comment. Muffled thanks were accepted with but a toss of the hand, dark in the darkness of the night.

As with the animals of the carousel, so with the pedals of the bicycle. As they went round and round, they went up and down. Each moment, each facet of the case appeared before St-Cyr. The streets were empty and if not, if the sound of an approaching car or patrol were heard, sufficient time was allowed for cover.

It was not far in any case from the rue Polonceau and the Church of Saint Bernard to the Cafe Noir on the avenue de Laumiere and the parc des Buttes-Chaumont. Ah yes, the park. The carousel.

Smoke rose from the chimney pipe in the centre of the marquee. The music had stopped, the thing did not go round and round or up and down. There’d be no more dreams, no more terrifying nightmares. Hermann and he would either solve the case or fail.

‘Personally, I do not fancy the latter,’ he said, the park silent as the city was silent.

Clement Cueillard would be alseep beside the firebox, cosied up with Joujou the monkey. Morning would come. The music could begin again and with it the turning, turning, always the turning and the going up and down.

The Cafe Noir opened at 5 a.m. just as the curfew ended. The first stragglers were three labourers in for their breakfasts of ersatz coffee, no milk, saccharin, and no croissants with jam or butter.

A sleepy shopgirl wearing a leather jacket was next, her ‘Good morning, Monsieur Philou,’ given with a yawn that was reflected in the copper coffee machine. Her slip hung below the back of her dress. The lines on her bare legs marking the seams of non-existent stockings were crooked. Some of the beige wash had rubbed or been scratched off.

There was only one place from which to observe such things unnoticed and that was from the front left corner. When Charles Audit and Rejean Tourmel entered, there was hesitation – the proprietor had been warned not to look their way, but of course such a warning in itself had been enough for them.

‘Please do not move, Rejean. I will not hesitate to use the gun, not these days, eh?’

The bracelets came out of the overcoat pocket. ‘Easy,’ said St-Cyr. ‘Now your right wrist, Monsieur Charles. Please, it is necessary.’

They’d have their coffee and he’d have a look at them. ‘Now the knives on the floor and carefully, my friends. Now the guns.’

‘What makes you think we’re carrying?’ asked Rejean.

‘Nothing, but I wish to be certain.’

He’d allow them a cigarette but sit well back and to the side so as not to receive the table in the face.

‘You’ve come alone. Where’s your partner?’ asked Charles Audit.

‘Outside. We often work this way. Myself to make the arrest -’

‘For what?’ hissed Rejean. ‘For cutting you up?’

‘Perhaps, but then …’ He’d leave it for the moment. He’d take his time to study them. Charles Audit was as his concierge had said, swarthy, of medium height and strongly built. No shoe salesman and shop owner this. Not any more.

The black beret covered a wide head of bushy grey-white hair, thatches of which protruded over the tops of robust ears. The grey-blue eyes were large and, though filled with watchfulness, full also of sadness. Ah Mon Dieu, such pain. Years and years of it.

The nostrils were large and flared.

‘May I?’ asked Audit, indicating the long-stemmed pipe that protruded from the breast pocket of his black corduroy jacket. The bristly cheeks were ravaged by creases, the skin around the eyes looked as if he had had to squint whenever the sun was high.

Their coffee came and there was both milk and sugar, and it was freely given. ‘I am sorry, my friends. This one’, the proprietor indicated the Surete, ‘threatened to have me arrested if I did not co-operate.’

‘Think nothing of it,’ said Rejean. ‘Cows are always flapping their tongues.’

‘Quit seeing flames, Rejean. Hey, listen, eh? We know all about it – everything. By now the quartier will be swarming with Gestapo. It’s useless to be so stubborn.’

The dark-brown eyes of the Corsican were swift. Tourmel would have another knife, a bit of wire; he’d have already begun to assess not just one way out of things but two or three.

‘How’s Madame Van der Lynn?’ asked Tourmel, giving the Surete a grin. They’d flip the table and use their feet. Coffee in the face and fists, the bracelets around that throat of St-Cyr’s. Flames! They’d show him flames like a cow had never seen before.

Kohler pushed open the door. ‘Louis, – Gott im Himmel , don’t you know where to eat breakfast yet? Chez Rudi’s, Louis. It’s hands down over a dump like this.’

‘Me, I wondered when you’d show up, Hermann.’

‘So this is the son of a bitch who took advantage of Madame Van der Lynn, and this … by God it is, Louis. Charles Audit himself. The brother. Diamonds and emeralds, my fine, and gold coins.’