Mayhem (7 page)

From a flower-seller on the Place Vendôme he bought two last white roses and a red carnation.

The chestnuts, half gone by then, were meaty and full of flavour. The roses piqued his nostrils.

The film had stopped again at the positioning of the body, the hands in particular. Had the woman done that and then left no trace of her having done so? Had the girl still been sobbing her heart out in the car?

It was a thought – one certainly couldn't expect a maid, a silly young thing who'd just killed her lover, to …?

Ah, her lover? He continued cranking the projector … one certainly couldn't expect the girl to have paused after having killed the boy, to have done such a considerate thing as to have laid the arms to the sides and turned the hands outwards, to have turned the head sideways and laid it on a bed of leaves …

No, the woman, the driver of that car – and by now he was thinking it must have been a big car, something flashy – the woman must have brought the girl back and done it herself. But then … why then, that would indicate the boy must have meant something to her.

And, of course, she did not go after the purse. At least, he didn't think she had.

Again he brought the roses up to his nose, first pinching the left nostril and then the right.

After a decent interval it was the carnation's turn, he filling his lungs slowly while cursing the habit of tobacco which only ruined one's sense of smell.

Then the chestnuts, first the crumpled bag and both nostrils for a whiff, then a single nut broken with the front teeth, the pinching of a single nostril.

The frames of the film were now being seen before the Place Vendôme whose column of stone rose beneath spiralled bronze and Trojan horses to a bust of Napoleon as Caesar.

Unsandbagged by the Germans who thronged the Place with their French girlfriends or who walked stiffly as they always did, among the Parisians who had come, as always, to window-shop if not to buy.

There were a few staff cars, suitably polished, a few generals …

If one discounted the uniforms and took in the lingerie, one could almost believe there was no Occupation.

This, too, was a sadness. The fashion industry's ready acceptance and open doors.

But, he gave a shrug, not to have opened those doors was to have gone against the decree of 20 June 1940, and to have lost the businesses.

From the Opéra to the Étoile, from the Madeleine to the Champs-Elysées, the rue Royale and the Faubourg St-Honoré, business was still booming, though things were, of course, more difficult to obtain.

The lingerie grew closer. Silks, satins and midnight lace, through which the mannequins' figures could not but show, were seen beyond the film, the girl, the boulder, the instant of death, the woman in her car, anxiously smoking a cigarette while waiting for her maid to bring her that purse. Waiting …

St-Cyr wiped his shoes on the mat and removed his hat before entering the shop which had, so suitably, been named, Enchantment.

The silver bell rang. The polished oak panelling, glass display cases and marble columns met his eyes. Aphrodite beckoned in life-sized alabaster with splendidly uptilted breasts and the scents of perfume and toilet soaps about her. Diana stood in gold with arrow pointing, and a laundry-basketful of undergarments scattered at her feet.

‘A woman must undress to dress, Louis.'

‘Chantal, it's magnificent to see you looking so lovely.'

St-Cyr took her hand in his and brought it to his lips – never mind the Nazis browsing in the shop with their French whores, never mind the war, being married and deserted by one's wife and only child, never mind any of it.

‘How's Muriel?' he asked. ‘Me, I don't see her, Chantal. Has she …?'

The tiny bird of a woman smiled – she had such a beautiful smile. Perfectly done. Never too much. ‘She's fine. And you, my friend?'

They were both well up in their seventies. ‘Me? Ah, fine, of course. Here, I have brought you each one of the last roses I could find.'

She kissed his cheek and embraced him as such women do. Like a feather, like a breath of delicately scented air.

Vivacious, made-up, wearing a dress of the latest cutting – dark blue, very close-fitting, calf-length and matching the high heels – Chantal Grenier had been in the business all her life, as had her partner and associate.

The hair was blonde – never grey – cut short and bobbed in the latest fashion. The rings and bracelets were of silver today, of lapis lazuli. A blue day then – did it have some meaning or was it merely the whim of fashion?

She had a very tiny voice, very clear and bell-like. ‘You are suitably impressed, Louis. This pleases me.' She tossed her little head and smiled again before pursing her lips. ‘But come … come.' She gathered him in by the arm. ‘Let me show you the shop. We've changed the décor. Did you not notice more than those?' She indicated the statues with a toss of a hand. ‘Mere trifles, Louis. Stone and fake gold. Men need the real thing, eh? Isn't that so?'

At once the energy flowed from her in motion, the eyes, the tossing of the head, the purposeful strut.

Still very beautiful, she made him welcome. After all, he was a cop, and God would not have had it otherwise, eh? Ah no. Not with this one.

‘Your wife was in this morning with a certain someone,' she whispered coyly. Cruel … it was so cruel of her to do that. Muriel would be sure to scold her. Muriel.

‘Jeanette, see to the Captain, would you please, dearest? He's shy, that one, eh? Try to ease his mind. You're so good at it.'

A burly, plod-minded Prussian the size of Kohler. A general with an Iron Cross First-Class with Oak Leaves was gazing benignly on.

To the Eurasian shopgirl, Chantal said, ‘Kim, I want the silks brushed. Please, I insist, dear. All of them. You do such a superb job of it. Ah, Mon Dieu, Louis, if all our girls were as good as this one, there'd be no troubles.'

They reached the far end of the shop and passed between rows of headless, legless mannequins whose remaining anatomy was flimsily clad.

‘One shouldn't sneeze in the company of such women,' offered St-Cyr drily.

‘Nor in the company of these, Louis.' She parted the curtains and said, ‘Girls, it's all right. This is only Monsieur Jean-Louis St-Cyr, the famous detective from the Sûreté.'

They were naked and there were three of them. All trying on the latest things while Muriel, grey-haired and dressed in a severe suit of grey pinstripe with broad lapels, smoked one of her endless cigarettes and hardly lifted an eye to him.

‘They're a feast, aren't they, Louis?' teased Chantal, squeezing his arm. ‘Me, I thought you would like to see them. That one with the dark hair and the splendid breasts is Martine; that one who is very petite like me and so magnificent, is Brigitte, and the last, a favourite for us because she is everything a young girl should be, is Julie. Alas, they are all taken, Louis, but me, I will console you.'

They took tea in the cluttered office. St-Cyr fingered fabrics – silks, taffetas, crushed velvets, satins and laces. He loved to touch them.

In turn, she stroked his hand and let concern well up in her lovely brown eyes that were still so very clear and large, the lashes long. ‘Now tell me about it, eh? Why a German, Louis? Oh for sure he's handsome, but he will drop her. We both know this.'

He shrugged. ‘That's not why I came,' he said lamely. ‘Chantal, I need your help. We're on a murder case – a boy. It doesn't make much sense but there's something about it I don't like.'

She understood but waited patiently. She refilled his cup but followed Muriel's ritual of first pouring the milk and then adding the sugar. Two teaspoonfuls. Louis had once been such a handsome man – they'd both agreed about this. He still could be if only he'd …

‘First, there is the perfume,' he said, ‘and then there is the purse.'

He was lost to her now, the eyes distant as he conjured up the film of the murder. ‘The perfume,' he said. ‘It has civet as its fixative. That particular tincture has been used to remove certain rough edges, you understand. Me, I think there has been a little too much jasmine – it's a shade heavy, Chantal. This is something very personal – a woman who knows her own mind and is very positive, isn't that so? Lavender is involved – that breath of spring, the essence of constant love. A touch of angelica, some vetiverol and bergamot, I think. Yes, I'm certain of it.'

She looked with admiration at this cop who could be so sensitive. Her tiny heart exploded at those words of his.

While concentrating on the perfume, he continually felt the fabrics as a designer would.

That a woman should ever leave such a man! Ah, Mon Dieu, what was the world coming to?

‘The purse,' said St-Cyr distantly. ‘The scent was on it. There was a small crystal vial as well – twists of cobalt blue glass – candy stripes of it, Chantal. Very, very nice. Very expensive. Something Victorian, I think.'

‘English?' she asked quietly.

‘Yes … Yes, English. With a silver top in the shape of a crown.'

‘A sceptre?' she prodded.

‘Yes … Yes, the head of a sceptre.'

‘And the purse, Louis. It struck you, did it not?'

His eyes were moist and sad – wounded. Ah Mon Dieu! ‘Electric, Chantal. Shimmering flashes of bluey-greens – forks of them beneath beads that were pearls.'

At once she was firm. ‘The pearls would spoil the look of the silk. The woman should have asked for sequins or cut-glass beads so as to flash the fire of the silk and match the motions of her body as the dress moved with her. Like Northern Lights, Louis. The aurora borealis.'

‘Flowing, Chantal – rippling across the heavens as she moved,' mused St-Cyr. ‘It is what I have thought myself.'

‘Is she German or French, this murderess?'

‘Ah! She did not commit the crime, not her. At least, I do not think she did.'

‘But is she French, my friend?'

He nodded – longed for a cigarette but realized Kohler had only loaned him one and that he'd carelessly tossed that away, not thinking to have saved the butt. The big shot on a case.

She obliged and told him to take several. ‘As many as you think will tide you over. Go on. Ah, don't be shy. The Boches, they bring us plenty.'

The generals, the captains and the lieutenants.

‘What did Marianne buy?'

‘Some lingerie, what else? He picked it out for her. She was very shy about it, Louis. Muriel made her undress – completely, you understand – while I kept the lieutenant busy with little things.'

Was nothing secret any more? ‘So, you can help?' he asked. ‘The purse first, I think, and then the scent. The one should lead you to the other, and my feet are tired.'

‘How much time do you have?'

‘Two days.'

‘Two …?' She raised her pencilled eyebrows.

‘The General von Schaumburg has insisted,' he said, grimacing.

‘My poor Louis, it's just not your day. Muriel will know what to do. Try to call back this evening or in the morning, but not before eleven thirty, please.'

‘I'll be out of town by then.'

‘At the scene of the crime?'

‘Yes, at the scene.'

So it was still to be a kind of secret from them. ‘You do not trust us?' she said – one would have thought her near to tears. ‘It's always the same.'

‘Fontainebleau and a back road to Barbizon. Three a.m., and a boulder right between the eyes.'

‘A crime of passion?' she asked, delighted with his confidence.

‘Yes – me, I think so but I am wondering what sort of passion and this, my dear, dear Chantal, I firmly resist telling you.'

At the door she took his hand in hers and brought it to her lips. ‘Take care, my dear detective. Don't worry so much about your wife. A far more brilliant star will come to shine over you and share your bed. Me, I am certain of this.'

Not until he was out of sight of the shop did he stop to look at the vial of perfume he'd pinched.

As a man to the woman of his dreams, he opened the tiny vial and brought it to his nose. First one nostril and then the other – no need for blotting paper samples. None at all.

Muriel had called it Mirage.

Satisfied, he screwed the silver sceptre back down on its candy stripes of cobalt blue glass and ice-clear crystal.

Then he lit up, gratefully filled his lungs, and started out again.

Now he'd find the maker of the dress to which the purse had belonged, and then he'd find the name of its owner.

Kohler gripped the counter. ‘What the hell do you mean, your boys lost him?'

Glotz continued mining the bulbous, hairy nose before examining the dross with the eye of a scientist. ‘Just
that
, my fine Bavarian friend. He bought a sack of salted chestnuts.'

Glotz rolled the dross into a ball.

‘So what the fuck have chestnuts to do with things, eh?' demanded Kohler.

The Bavarian was even picking up the French idiom. Been too long on the beat perhaps. Due for a change. Siberia.

Glotz flicked the cannon-ball away. ‘Look, it's simple, Hermann. After he left the restaurant on the rue St-Denis, St-Cyr played the man on holiday but paid no attention to the whores. He bought a sack of chestnuts, then went into the National Library to borrow a book. Who knows? He left two of the chestnuts on one of the desks in the central reading room.'

‘You schmucks! You call yourselves the Watchers. Christ Almighty, don't your boys know that place has seventeen exits that are clean? Louis had his eyes on you all the time.'

Louis … ‘So, what's he up to that requires such secrecy?'

Kohler silently cursed himself. ‘Nothing. It doesn't matter. Louis had to have a bit of time off.'

Glotz grinned. He ran pudgy fingers over the plain oak desk that was scarred with scratches and initials. ‘He didn't go to see his wife,' he said and smirked. Toying with Kohler had its moments.