Read Online Carnival by J. Robert Janes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: J. Robert Janes
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anonymous one? Please, I must ask. You see, you wouldnât have received such a notice directly. You would have gotten the news from the Lager office, which would have received it from Vichyâs Berlin office of the Service diplomatique des prisonniers de guerre .â
There had been little else in the pockets. A rag Monsieur Thomas had been using as a handkerchief, some notes he had been scribbling on a scrap paperâchemical equations, not written words. Two rose-coloured dress buttons had been picked up but where? A mégot tin had nothing in it, a last cigarette having been smoked down to its soggy end to be angrily thrust into a pocket.
âThere is rust on this rag. Earlier I had to break open your fingers to remove your wedding ring, but why the rust? A little of it is smeared on this photo, the first, I believe, that was torn. Ah! Permit me my magnet. A moment. Sacré nom de nom , did Hermann borrow it again? He never returns anything unless reminded. I tell myself itâs not that he doesnât intend to, simply that his mind is elsewhere.â
Finding the magnet, he brushed it over the skin of the fingers, yielding little, the left palm a touch more, the rag still more.
âRust and iron filings,â he called out after having gone down the aisle to stand under one of the lights.
Along with the carte dâidentité , there was the Arbeitslager âs grey Kennkarte or ID. The Dienstausweise , a mud-brown card, allowed the victim to be on Wehrmacht property. An Ausweis and Vorläufige Ausweis were passes and temporary passes, the first allowing him to be in the administrative buildingâs laboratory and in the cellulose plant and dye works, the second, to visit the carnival site. A Polizeitliche Bescheinigung , a police permit, authorized him to do general maintenance and paintwork there.
All of these last three pieces of paper had been signed by Colonel Rasche.
âEugène André Thomas, age thirty-two; born, Chartres, 2 February 1911; died, Kolmar, a mere three days after your last birthday. Hair brown, eyes brown, height 176 centimetres (5â9â), weight 72.6 kilos (160 lbs.) recorded after you were taken prisoner. Letâs put it now at 56.7 (125 lbs.) give or take a kilo, but why the iron filings, why the torn photographs? Why commission a comrade to make such a ring unless you had loved your wife dearly and believed emphatically that she had reciprocated? Why the little bankrollâwas it to have paid for the ring?â
Questions ⦠there were always those and always far too little time.
âIn short, mon ami , everything says you took your own life out of despair. There are no bruises to indicate otherwise, no evidence of strangulation before the rope was used. Perhaps the coroner will have a different opinion, but I didnât find any skin under your fingernails, no hairs from an assailant either, just a little dirt and grease. Oh for sure, Hermann might have somethingâis that what you think? Then let me tell you, with Hermann one never quite knows what heâll come up with or how far he will go.â
âHerr Kohler, please ,â objected Jakob Dorsche.
â Ach , give me a minute, will you?â
Just along from the toilet, a doorway opened into the upper offices. Like the mill, the room seemed to run on and on. Rows of desks showed lots of vacancies, but also those who nailed down specific tasks: plant maintenance, supplies, sales and accounting. It wasnât hard to pigeonhole them, most looking as if theyâd been with the firm for years. Beyond these desks, filing cabinets and shelves to the ceiling held the pattern books, fabric samples and order books going right back to when the firm began, since places like this never threw anything out.
Enclosed offices were to the left.
âHerr Kohler ⦠â
âDidnât I tell you to leave me be?â
Lying on two of the vacated desks, beside framed
There had been little else in the pockets. A rag Monsieur Thomas had been using as a handkerchief, some notes he had been scribbling on a scrap paperâchemical equations, not written words. Two rose-coloured dress buttons had been picked up but where? A mégot tin had nothing in it, a last cigarette having been smoked down to its soggy end to be angrily thrust into a pocket.
âThere is rust on this rag. Earlier I had to break open your fingers to remove your wedding ring, but why the rust? A little of it is smeared on this photo, the first, I believe, that was torn. Ah! Permit me my magnet. A moment. Sacré nom de nom , did Hermann borrow it again? He never returns anything unless reminded. I tell myself itâs not that he doesnât intend to, simply that his mind is elsewhere.â
Finding the magnet, he brushed it over the skin of the fingers, yielding little, the left palm a touch more, the rag still more.
âRust and iron filings,â he called out after having gone down the aisle to stand under one of the lights.
Along with the carte dâidentité , there was the Arbeitslager âs grey Kennkarte or ID. The Dienstausweise , a mud-brown card, allowed the victim to be on Wehrmacht property. An Ausweis and Vorläufige Ausweis were passes and temporary passes, the first allowing him to be in the administrative buildingâs laboratory and in the cellulose plant and dye works, the second, to visit the carnival site. A Polizeitliche Bescheinigung , a police permit, authorized him to do general maintenance and paintwork there.
All of these last three pieces of paper had been signed by Colonel Rasche.
âEugène André Thomas, age thirty-two; born, Chartres, 2 February 1911; died, Kolmar, a mere three days after your last birthday. Hair brown, eyes brown, height 176 centimetres (5â9â), weight 72.6 kilos (160 lbs.) recorded after you were taken prisoner. Letâs put it now at 56.7 (125 lbs.) give or take a kilo, but why the iron filings, why the torn photographs? Why commission a comrade to make such a ring unless you had loved your wife dearly and believed emphatically that she had reciprocated? Why the little bankrollâwas it to have paid for the ring?â
Questions ⦠there were always those and always far too little time.
âIn short, mon ami , everything says you took your own life out of despair. There are no bruises to indicate otherwise, no evidence of strangulation before the rope was used. Perhaps the coroner will have a different opinion, but I didnât find any skin under your fingernails, no hairs from an assailant either, just a little dirt and grease. Oh for sure, Hermann might have somethingâis that what you think? Then let me tell you, with Hermann one never quite knows what heâll come up with or how far he will go.â
âHerr Kohler, please ,â objected Jakob Dorsche.
â Ach , give me a minute, will you?â
Just along from the toilet, a doorway opened into the upper offices. Like the mill, the room seemed to run on and on. Rows of desks showed lots of vacancies, but also those who nailed down specific tasks: plant maintenance, supplies, sales and accounting. It wasnât hard to pigeonhole them, most looking as if theyâd been with the firm for years. Beyond these desks, filing cabinets and shelves to the ceiling held the pattern books, fabric samples and order books going right back to when the firm began, since places like this never threw anything out.
Enclosed offices were to the left.
âHerr Kohler ⦠â
âDidnât I tell you to leave me be?â
Lying on two of the vacated desks, beside framed
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