Mayhem Read Online Free Page B

of the murder also, and of St-Cyr’s birthday. Jesus Christ!
    Kohler was impressed by the coincidence but didn’t believe in omens. ‘The apartment number?’ he asked quietly.
    â€˜Thirteen. It’s on the third floor at the back. There’s a roof terrace. He likes to sunbathe.’
    â€˜In this weather?’
    Glotz grinned and shook his head. ‘In the heat and in the nude. The woman as well. Last October 11th to be precise.’
    â€˜Thanks. I’ll be in touch.’
    â€˜Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. He’s a nephew of von Schaumburg.’
    â€˜He’s what ?’
    â€˜I just thought you ought to know.’
    Von Schaumburg’s nephew.
    â€˜Leave it for a bit, Hermann. He’ll soon tire of the woman and she’ll have to go home to your buddy.’
    â€˜He’s not my buddy. He’s my partner. That used to mean something to a man like me but you wouldn’t know about it.’
    â€˜Perhaps not. I’m really a lawyer.’
    â€˜I’ve always hated lawyers. They’re always so dishonest.’
    â€˜I’d be careful what you say.’
    â€˜Is that a threat?’
    Glotz reached for his coffee. ‘Of course not, Hermann. It’s only a warning that the walls have ears.’
    â€˜Then let the bastards listen!’
    â€˜Louis, it’s me. Look, something’s come up. Try to get a bit of sleep and I’ll see you in the morning.’
    â€˜Is she safe?’
    â€˜Yes, she’s safe.’
    â€˜And the boy?’
    â€˜With a nursemaid. Look, it’s okay. I’ve checked it all out. Now go to sleep.’
    For a long time there was only silence from the other end of the line – a waste of several centimetres of Gestapo listening tape.
    â€˜It’s that lieutenant, isn’t it? Steiner.’
    â€˜Yes … Yes, his name is Steiner. Louis, I would have told you if I’d known. I would have tried to put a stop to it.’
    â€˜Thanks. I’ll see you in the morning. Oh, anything on that you know what?’
    â€˜No, there’s nothing to report on that.’
    Still in his street clothes, St-Cyr lay in the dark on their bed, wrapped in three blankets and smoking the last of his tobacco ration. The purse had been of silk, very French, very femme fatale – from one of the fashion boutiques. The perfume had been someone’s very special concoction. Nothing mass produced. Not that scent. Ah no.
    But from a silk purse, without knowing of its contents, and a single whiff of expensive perfume, can a humble French detective sketch not only the figure of the woman but also the rest? Her character, her likes and dislikes. The reasons why, perhaps, she had waited in the car on that lonely forest road while her maid had gone to fetch the purse and had killed the bearer of it?
    Steiner was a power to be reckoned with. Only in thinking of the murder was there escape from the hard reality of what had happened.
    The photographs were grainy. In an attempt to please, Barbizon’s photographer had made them a set of 25x20 blow-ups but these were streaked as if by specks of sand. Old photographic paper? wondered St-Cyr. Damp in any case, at some point in its career. Things were so hard to get these days. One bought on the black market or worked some other fiddle but one never really knew what one was getting.
    In spite of the graininess – indeed, because of it – the boy’s features were etched more sharply. He looked beatific, saintly. Some mother’s son. The face was long and narrow, the mop of dark brown hair curly and careless or carefree. The cheekbones were hard and finely moulded, the mouth somewhat small, as was the chin. The nose was long and typically French, hawkish and of the upper class.
    The deep brown eyes had clouded over but their expression was still one of surprise.
    A small, brown mole marred the angelic left earlobe. Was twenty years not too young