J. Janes - Salamander

She bobbed up like a cork just beyond the edge of the ice, only to disappear suddenly. Where … where was she? ‘Mademoiselle,’ shouted the Surete. ‘I’m a police officer. No, no, please do not give up. Here, I am coming to help you.’

‘ Louis , I’m right behind you !’

‘ Hermann ? Ah grace a Dieu , thank goodness you are here. The current is too fast for her.’

‘She’s downstream against the ice. She’s trying to smash her way in but will never make it.’

They ran. Louis slid himself flat on the ice and worked his way out to her. He grabbed and grabbed again and again, but each time she slipped away.

‘You or me?’ shouted Kohler desperately.

‘I must be wetter than you,’ said the Surete’s little Frog. ‘Hang on to my ankles this time.’

The ice broke and it nearly took the two of them. When Louis grabbed the girl, she cried out and tried to fight him. Now both of them were yelling and spluttering. Kohler ran. Working his way downstream, he hunted for a place where he could get out to them and use his overcoat as a lifeline. Louis threw up a hand but missed it. ‘ Verdammt ! Must I jump in there too? Hang on. Don’t let go of her!’

A sleeve was caught, then a wrist. ‘ Pull! ’ shouted Kohler. He grabbed the girl by the scruff and hauled her out, was now soaking wet and freezing rapidly.

‘Louis …? Louis, where the hell are you ?’ Downstream … downstream.

His head was just above water. He was swimming in a pool some fifteen metres away.

Leaving the girl, Kohler crawled out on the ice. Thin … it was so thin. He felt it give, heard it crack and sigh and crack again. Ah merde …

They touched hands, and he managed to get Louis out. With fifteen degrees of frost, they had but a few minutes and they knew it. Dragging the girl, they forced themselves to run. They made it across the footbridge and past the Palais de Justice, were slowed to a crawl in the rue des Trois Maries and could barely pound on the door of La Belle Epoque.

In rosewood, ebony and gold, the green baize-covered armchairs and peacock-hued faience cockerels began to change their places, thought St-Cyr. And the maidenhair ferns flew languidly with the storks on their pots, while the water-lilies on the walls kept trying to go round and round.

Vaguely he was aware of many hands tearing at his clothes, of corseted and uncorseted bosoms, lace, perfume, much flesh, powder, eye shadow and rouge. Of black-meshed silk stockings, garters and urgent voices that demanded rum and blankets and hot water. ‘Blue … they are so blue, madame,’ cried a girl with sunset hair that spilled over bare and gracefully moving shoulders. ‘She’s more frozen than those two,’ said another, rubbing the arms of the girl they had rescued. ‘The bath, madame. Upstairs. Quickly! Quickly!’

Four of them pushed and heaved him up the stairs. His legs, they wouldn’t work. Ah merde , what was the matter with him?

Hands were everywhere, with sponges. Earnest faces drew close, only to dissolve as they receded.

Gradually warmth returned. The tub was huge and there were at least five of them in it. Hermann’s eyes were closed. The girl they had rescued was being turned on to her stomach so that her seat and back could be sponged and rubbed. One of the others was holding the girl’s head and shoulders just above the water.

A last glimpse revealed Madame Rachline with three glasses and a decanter of dark rum. Rum … rum … Mustn’t touch it … mustn’t touch it. He shut his eyes and, giving himself up to the ministrations of her girls, allowed himself a momentary lapse into sleep and warmth … much warmth …

‘Drink,’ urged someone sternly. ‘Ah nom de Dieu , come on, Inspector. Open the mouth like a little bird in orgasm. Swallow!’

The rum burned his throat. Like liquid fire, it spread its warmth to his loins and he knew he was slipping off into oblivion, knew that he could no longer stop himself.

‘Don’t drown them,’ said someone harshly. ‘Put them to bed and keep an eye on them.’

Grey-white, and with a crust like Brie, the phosphorus shone in the brilliant glare of the torch but it had not yet burst instantly into flame. A forest of undressed, upright timbers no more than a metre high separated him from it. The posts were stubby, had splintered surfaces that were coated with coal dust and webbed by spiders. Absolutely bone dry and excellent fodder … fodder … And the space between the floor above and that below was crammed with the rubbish of a theatre. Stage props and steamer trunks on their sides, suitcases left in haste or arrears ten, twenty-fifty years ago. Was there no end to the space, no end to the distance between him and the phosphorus?

Frantically St-Cyr scrambled among the timbers, ducking under bracing cross-timbers, banging his head on the floor joists above. An arm was caught, an ankle … Savagely he yanked them free and cried out in pain, snarled at God. Said, Why can You not stop mocking Your little detective just this once, eh?

Probing anxiously in the pitch darkness, the torch beam picked out only more and more of the same. Then he saw it in a far corner. A bag of some sort hanging from one of the joists by a bit of string. It was dripping water … water … slowly, steadily. Would there be time to reach it before all the water was gone? Was he now too late … too late? He must try. He must!

The bag was plump and soft and smelled mildly of garlic, and where the water seeped out to gather into each droplet, there was a small protuberance, stiff and with an aureole of little bumps around it.

Gingerly he caught hold of the bag with both hands. He must not squeeze it. Somehow he must stop it from dripping. He must not let air reach the phosphorus. Air, he said. Air.

Awkwardly he ducked his head under and turned to face upwards. A pin-hole … yes, yes. A droplet hit him in the eye. Another fell on his forehead. A third on his cheek … Stop it. You must stop it from sweating, he shouted at himself and demanded, How …? How?

He closed his lips about the protuberance and put the tip of his tongue against it, but the bag moved and gave a sigh, and when he looked up, it was into a pair of stunning green eyes that silently watched him with animated curiosity. Ah merde ! ‘What time is it?’ he asked, his throat dry.

She sat up. ‘Exactly three in the afternoon, Inspector.’

Sunday? Ah no … ‘Where is Hermann?’ he asked. ‘ Hermann , mademoiselle? My partner.’

She frowned. She very nearly burst into tears. ‘Well?’ he asked, only to hear her blurt, ‘Next door, monsieur. Next door.’

‘Were we drugged or was it simply exhaustion?’ he demanded bitterly. ‘Come, come mademoiselle, I must have the truth.’

Tears flooded from her, making her shoulders and breasts shake. ‘Madame has gone after the Salamander, monsieur. The Salamander ! Your friend, he is-’

‘My clothes. Ah nom de Jesus-Christ , mademoiselle, where the hell are they?’

‘The kitchen. They have been cleaned and … and ironed. You must stop madame, monsieur. You must stop her before it is too late. Already it is hours since she has left the premises. Hours !’

He ran. He stumbled and fell. When he reached the door, he grabbed it to steady himself and catch a breath. ‘The girl that was with us, mademoiselle?’ he managed, tossing a look her way. Ah, he was still so dizzy …

‘Here. Here with me, asleep. Hurry, Inspector. Hurry!’

Hermann was next door in Madame Rachline’s work room. He was with the children, over by the big work table, and he was not happy. ‘Louis, Gestapo Lyon will now be after him. I’ve just filed our report with Boemelburg and the Chief’s definitely worried. Apparently Knab and the other bigwigs really are going to attend the concert. Also, the shears, if they were returned to this room, have now been taken again.’