Salamander by J. Robert Janes Page B

would have thought they would get together as they have? It’s not Chez Blanchette or Chez Francine.’
    â€˜Since when was that ever a problem? All I’m saying is don’t knock down any doors just in case. He might not like it.’

3
    T HE STREET WAS DAMP, FREEZING AND DAMNED unfriendly. Worse still, it stank of piss, mould, soot and dead fish. Not a streetlamp showed. Steps sounded behind. Steps stopped. Louis switched off his torch and they stood there listening.
    At 3.35 a.m. Berlin time, the rue des Trois Maries sighed and creaked as its thin sheath of ice, made colder and harder by the depth of the night, tightened here and there to crack and split apart elsewhere.
    The steps began again—again they hesitated. Two … were there two men following them?
    â€˜The bastards are learning,’ breathed Kohler, exasperated that the préfet—it had to be him—was having them tailed. ‘Louis, are you certain we’ve got the right place? This medieval street of sewers, it seems too … too unfashionable for a whorehouse with a name like La Belle Époque.’
    St-Cyr kept silent. They were in one of the oldest parts of Vieux Lyon, right below Fourvière Hill, right next to the quai Romain Rolland, the Saône and the bridge Alphonse Juin.
    â€˜Wait here, then. Let me handle this. Don’t argue,’ hissed Kohler.
    â€˜Of course.’
    One seldom heard Hermann when he didn’t want to be heard. His ability to tail or find a tail was uncanny.
    Somewhere over in Perrache, perhaps, tyres squealed, an engine raced … Gestapo … Gestapo …
    Otherwise the city was silent. Unearthly and eerie in the clutch of the Occupier.
    Time didn’t want to pass. It was so still. Then the scent of stale cigarette smoke came to St-Cyr, that of sweat, warm wool, urine and garlic.
    The man was not two metres from him. Somehow he had slipped past Hermann and was now searching the Gothic entrances with their narrow sills.
    Even as he watched the silhouette, dark against the deeper darkness of the opposite wall, he saw the man being rushed against the wall—heard the soft, sickening crush of flesh and bone, a smothered cry.
    Smelled blood, then heard nothing more. Knew Hermann had dealt with the fellow.
    Kohler cursed himself. He had let things get to him and had probably put the bastard in hospital for six months when a light tap would have sufficed! Now the bastard wouldn’t talk because he couldn’t, and the préfet would be in a rage.
    Though he searched—went right back down the cramped and narrow street to stand among the tall stone columns of the austere and forbidding Palais de Justice, he could not find the other man.
    He listened to the night. He tried to sort out its myriad odours and hear the heartbeat he knew must be near. The Salamander? he asked himself. Was it possible Préfet Guillemette had only sent one man to tail them, and the other was …
    Perfume … was that perfume he was smelling?
    La Belle Époque …? he wondered. Mademoiselle Claudine Bertrand, age thirty-two, born 18 November 1910. Occupation: prostitute. Hair: black and long—most wore it short these days. Eyes: dark brown. Face: oval. Nose: normal— i.e. , not Jewish. Height: 173 centimetres.
    A little taller than the usual Lyonnaise—but why had the one with the bicycle dropped this one’s card? Surely the two were not one and the same. A wig? he asked and answered, The one with the bike was too young and far too timid.
    Then why had she had the card in her hand?
    The house was at the other end of the street. From there, the rue de la Baleine ran the short distance to the quai Romain Rolland and the Saône. There was a bell-pull. There were no lights.
    They spoke in muffled tones. ‘Louis, maybe we should come back another time.’
    â€˜Did you kill the other one?’
    â€˜No. No, I couldn’t find him. The bitch got