until needed.’
‘Maybe you’d better let me have it and I’ll get the Kommandant to lock up the firepower.’
‘Don’t be crazy, not with Madame Monnier and her hatpins. Now, please be so good as to carry your own overboots. You might need them.’
The first victim wasn’t easy to get at, for the elevator, in the farthest wing from the entrance of the Vittel-Palace, had been decommissioned like all the others in September of 1939, its cage left in the cellars at the bottom of the shaft.
‘Someone opened the gate on the third floor, Louis. The corridor lights were blinking on and off—another electrical problem for which the electrician from town was later brought in. Caroline Lacy had had a rough night and was out along the corridor trying to get her breath and light one of her cigarettes. Mary-Lynn Allan, from Sweet Briar, Virginia, was coming toward her and Caroline thought the girl might need a little help, but then there was a scream.’
‘Why help? I thought Caroline Lacy was the one who needed it?’
‘Mary-Lynn was unsteady on her feet. Drunk perhaps, on home brew.’
‘And Nora Arnarson, who divulged this information, where was she?’
‘On the stairs. She swears it.’
‘And also drunk?’
‘A little.’
‘Date?’
‘Saturday to Sunday, the thirteenth and fourteenth.’
‘Time?’
‘About 0100 hours on the Sunday and the reason for that urgent call to summon us.’
‘And why was Nora on the stairs, Hermann, since she obviously hadn’t gone to help Caroline Lacy?’
‘She and Mary-Lynn had been to a séance in the Hôtel Grand.’
‘Madame Chevreul?’
‘How the hell did you know that?’
‘The Ouija board I found under Nora’s bed and the words of Madame Monnier, but for now it would take too long to discuss it. Find us a flashlight. This candle stub of mine won’t last.’
‘ Ach, I’ll have to go out to the gate. No one here is allowed one.’
‘And when the lights go out, it’s pitch-dark. Ah, merde, Hermann, what have we got ourselves into?’
‘A problem, especially since the Kommandant who asked for us but has now been replaced must have given the two permission to be out late that night, as well as letting them keep such personal items as watches, rings, and bracelets.’
With the cellars at close to freezing, only now were there touches of yellowish-green to copper-red discolouration, but the veins in the neck and on the backs of the hands, where marbling was present, were a dark purplish blue.
St-Cyr looked up the shaft of the elevator’s well. Mary-Lynn Allan had fallen the four floors from that third storey, had instinctively grabbed at cables that were shamefully frayed, considering it had been a deluxe hotel when built in 1899 and partially renovated in 1931. The palms of both hands had been badly torn, the left cheek as well.
She had then turned over and had plunged to land facedown with arms flung out atop the elevator between its two cables, the rest of her bent over the iron bars to which those same cables were bolted.
Blood had drained. Within about twelve hours, postmortem hypostases had coalesced and made the face, ears, and neck livid in their lowermost parts. The eyes bulged, the mouth, teeth, forehead, and nose were broken, as were the arms, legs, ribs, and shoulders. Having emptied herself instantly, the rats had got at her.
‘ Ah, mon Dieu, Mademoiselle Allan, Hermann had best not see you. Death has haunted him since his days in the Great War from which a prisoner-of-war camp saved him but allowed time to dwell on the matter. Outwardly he puts on a veritable show, but inwardly. . . It’s not just that the big shots of the Gestapo and SS will use this against him, a detective of theirs who no longer has the stomach for it, but though he would never admit it, he’s far too old for the Russian Front and has already lost his two young sons to that. Boys. . . They were only boys. Yet, still, it’s really just Hermann himself. We’ve
‘Maybe you’d better let me have it and I’ll get the Kommandant to lock up the firepower.’
‘Don’t be crazy, not with Madame Monnier and her hatpins. Now, please be so good as to carry your own overboots. You might need them.’
The first victim wasn’t easy to get at, for the elevator, in the farthest wing from the entrance of the Vittel-Palace, had been decommissioned like all the others in September of 1939, its cage left in the cellars at the bottom of the shaft.
‘Someone opened the gate on the third floor, Louis. The corridor lights were blinking on and off—another electrical problem for which the electrician from town was later brought in. Caroline Lacy had had a rough night and was out along the corridor trying to get her breath and light one of her cigarettes. Mary-Lynn Allan, from Sweet Briar, Virginia, was coming toward her and Caroline thought the girl might need a little help, but then there was a scream.’
‘Why help? I thought Caroline Lacy was the one who needed it?’
‘Mary-Lynn was unsteady on her feet. Drunk perhaps, on home brew.’
‘And Nora Arnarson, who divulged this information, where was she?’
‘On the stairs. She swears it.’
‘And also drunk?’
‘A little.’
‘Date?’
‘Saturday to Sunday, the thirteenth and fourteenth.’
‘Time?’
‘About 0100 hours on the Sunday and the reason for that urgent call to summon us.’
‘And why was Nora on the stairs, Hermann, since she obviously hadn’t gone to help Caroline Lacy?’
‘She and Mary-Lynn had been to a séance in the Hôtel Grand.’
‘Madame Chevreul?’
‘How the hell did you know that?’
‘The Ouija board I found under Nora’s bed and the words of Madame Monnier, but for now it would take too long to discuss it. Find us a flashlight. This candle stub of mine won’t last.’
‘ Ach, I’ll have to go out to the gate. No one here is allowed one.’
‘And when the lights go out, it’s pitch-dark. Ah, merde, Hermann, what have we got ourselves into?’
‘A problem, especially since the Kommandant who asked for us but has now been replaced must have given the two permission to be out late that night, as well as letting them keep such personal items as watches, rings, and bracelets.’
With the cellars at close to freezing, only now were there touches of yellowish-green to copper-red discolouration, but the veins in the neck and on the backs of the hands, where marbling was present, were a dark purplish blue.
St-Cyr looked up the shaft of the elevator’s well. Mary-Lynn Allan had fallen the four floors from that third storey, had instinctively grabbed at cables that were shamefully frayed, considering it had been a deluxe hotel when built in 1899 and partially renovated in 1931. The palms of both hands had been badly torn, the left cheek as well.
She had then turned over and had plunged to land facedown with arms flung out atop the elevator between its two cables, the rest of her bent over the iron bars to which those same cables were bolted.
Blood had drained. Within about twelve hours, postmortem hypostases had coalesced and made the face, ears, and neck livid in their lowermost parts. The eyes bulged, the mouth, teeth, forehead, and nose were broken, as were the arms, legs, ribs, and shoulders. Having emptied herself instantly, the rats had got at her.
‘ Ah, mon Dieu, Mademoiselle Allan, Hermann had best not see you. Death has haunted him since his days in the Great War from which a prisoner-of-war camp saved him but allowed time to dwell on the matter. Outwardly he puts on a veritable show, but inwardly. . . It’s not just that the big shots of the Gestapo and SS will use this against him, a detective of theirs who no longer has the stomach for it, but though he would never admit it, he’s far too old for the Russian Front and has already lost his two young sons to that. Boys. . . They were only boys. Yet, still, it’s really just Hermann himself. We’ve
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