J. Janes - Salamander

‘He’s right, Fabien. Co-operate,’ said the agent.

The banker nodded curtly at the wisdom of this and motioned to the head waiter. ‘Monsieur Jules, some chairs, please, for our guests. An aperitif, messieurs? A little of the Moulin-a-Vent? Yes, yes, that would be most suitable.’ He turned to the sommelier. ‘Etienne, you may bring the Moulin now for Monsieur Artel.’

Kohler was impressed. Louis was doing all right for himself. The banker got up to formally introduce himself. ‘Jacques-Yves Durant, messieurs. Credit Lyonnais. This is Armand Clouteau of Montagnier-Suisse, one of our principal insurance companies, and this is Martin Lavigne, one of Lyon’s foremost notaries. Gentlemen,’ he indicated the chairs. He sampled the Moulin-a-Vent and, declaring it near-perfect with the upraised forefinger of slight doubt, said, ‘The 1933, eh, Fabien? You do us proud.’

It was by just such little slights that the establishment maintained their positions among themselves. St-Cyr indicated that they should finish their soup but already, at a glance from Artel, the waiter was clearing the plates. A pity.

‘So? Proceed,’ said Artel. ‘My cinema is in ruins and you do not wish such a thing to happen again?’

Implying how could this be possible, eh? ‘It’s a directive from Gestapo Mueller in Berlin,’ said Kohler, leaning forward a little. ‘He doesn’t like Christmas to be spoiled.’

‘Hermann, please. Monsieur Artel knows only too well that if he should invite the prefet and his distinguished guest to join us, others would be certain to hear of it.’

Touche , eh? thought Artel. So, mes amis , a pair of gumshoes from Paris. One from the Gestapo, the other from Belleville perhaps, and what’s it to be? The squeeze in public or the softening up for later? ‘Arson? It’s not possible. What are you people saying?’ He gestured, looked at them both, then hunkered down for the fight. ‘It was a surge in the lines, messieurs. Excess electrical power causes the wiring to heat up and puff! my cinema is in flames and Robichaud cannot get his pompiers there fast enough. Oh bien sur , it’s the factories these days, their demands for electricity. Those old buildings around the place Terreaux … Lovely, but of course … Ah, what can one say?’

‘That’s interesting,’ breathed Kohler. ‘An accident? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Yes. Yes, of course it was an accident. Arson …’

‘Can take years to settle. Louis, I think he’s going to be sick.’

‘Monsieur, your fire doors were padlocked.’

‘Padlocked? But … but this is impossible! Impossible! Why should my fire doors have been padlocked when the theatre was full to capacity?’

St-Cyr tried the Moulin and found it perfect. Would the next course bring the quenelles de brochet , the dumplings made with a forcemeat of river pike served au gratin in kidney fat and eggs perhaps and a sauce of mushrooms and cream? ‘The doors were pad-locked, monsieur. Perhaps you could explain why this was so.’

Ah merde , the Surete! They were always after dirt, always interfering and most of them crooks anyway. ‘I gave explicit instructions to Monsieur Thibault, my manager, that the fire doors were to be unlocked during every- every- performance at my cinema.’

St-Cyr nodded solicitously and sought succour by examining the lifeline of his right hand. Gabrielle had been upset that he had broken his promise to keep Christmas with her and her son at the chateau on the Loire. A chanteuse, a patriot, much taller and much younger than himself, she had the body of a goddess but would share it only with one man. It was yet to be shared, alas. ‘Your manager has told the fire marshal that you expressly forebade him to do so, monsieur. Were some of the patrons likely to cheat and let their friends in? Messieurs,’ he looked gravely around the table, ‘those doors, they are a problem.’

Artel was swift. ‘Then ask the Prefet and Obersturmfuhrer Barbie to join us, Inspector. Communists, yes? Potential terrorists and saboteurs? I think you will find little sympathy at that table.’

The Surete heaved a sigh. The lifeline was not good. Gabi might hold it against him, his being away at such a time. ‘It is not that table which concerns me,’ he said sadly. ‘It is all those lives, monsieur, and perhaps those of others yet to come.’

‘ Then find him! ’ hissed Artel. ‘Find the man who did it, eh? Come, come, my fine messieurs from Paris. Get on with your work!’

The quenelles were waiting. The cote de boeuf garnie a la lyonnaise would be overdone. Braised beef ribs and stuffed onions in a white sauce with quail-egg-sized potatoes that had been sauteed in butter. Butter!

‘Present yourself at the Hotel Bristol at eight o’clock tomorrow morning, Monsieur Artel. My advice is that you come prepared to answer fully all questions pertaining to the fire, including …’ St-Cyr fingered his wine glass delicately. Ah, he would have liked another taste. Perhaps Hermann could acquire for him a couple of bottles, a little present for Gabi, not that she would let the offer sway her. ‘Including, monsieur, that of murder.’

‘Louis …?’

‘Hermann, it is time for us to leave.’

Outside in the freezing cold and darkness along the quai, the memory of those four men came clearly. ‘Four Burgundian trenchermen, Hermann, with merchant hearts of stone. They would as soon cut each others’ throats if advantageous yet are solicitous of our friend. Now each of the others will begin to think it best to leave our fly alone on the wall and he, in turn, will tell us everything or try to run.’

‘A murder?’ asked Kohler, his breath billowing.

Yes. One of the tenants. We shall want to know exactly where Monsieur Artel was at the time of the fire and perhaps for the hour or two prior to it. Also, of course, the whereabouts of his insurance policy.’

‘There was a priest, Louis.’

‘Yes, yes, I saw you take a cross. Valuable, was it?’

‘Quite.’

‘Then find us a taxi, Hermann, and we will pay the Bishop of Lyon a little visit. Use your Gestapo shield if necessary but do not tempt fate.’

‘Not Barbie’s then?’

‘Ah no, that would be most unwise. One of the velos perhaps, if its driver has legs strong enough for Fourviere Hill. We must attend the late-evening Mass.’

‘You really do want to have the last word. Hey, me I’m going to let you have it!’

‘Good!’

‘Then tell me how you knew beforehand who each of those bastards was at that table?’

The Surete’s sigh betrayed impatience. One had to do that now and then with Hermann. ‘It was more in their posture than in anything else. The banker carries himself well and has his corset and breeding to thank for this. When he sits, his back is stiff and his food taken with precise movements. He is more vain than the others. A man who knows women and manipulates them. Shrewd, calculating, determined and believing success is his right due to birth. His nursemaid introduced him to sex and ever since then he has favoured the employer-employee relationship. Were I a woman, I should not wish to work for him. Were I his wife, I would employ a straight razor!’

‘And the notary?’ snorted Kohler. It was good for Louis to get it out of his system. The Frog needed that every once in a while.

‘Secretive-oh they all are-but this one the more so. He’s used to property deeds, to wills, to marriage contracts in which each packet of linen or towels or cutlery, no matter how old or worn, is recorded in the most meticulous detail. His is a safe of secrets, Hermann, and he could well know things about the others they themselves do not know or have forgotten. He strained his soup through his teeth in case of a misplaced fish-bone. His wife is miserable. They rarely if ever refresh their marriage vows because he is too tired. She dreams of taking a lover but knows he will discover the expense, no matter how trifling.’