The Watchers by Jon Steele Read Free Book Online Page B

think.’
    A gust of wind whipped through the timbers and circled the bells.
    ‘I hear you whispering, mesdames. A giant X in the sky means nothing, you say? It’s only vapour trails? And what do you know about vapour trails? You’re a bunch of old bells from middles of ages. I think it’s a secret message, that’s what I think.’
    Far below the belfry, the cobblestone lanes of the old city surrendered to the evening. Rochat listened to sounds drifting in the wind. The ferry tooting its horn as it crossed the lake from Évian, a train rolling through Gare Simplon, footsteps of passers-by on the cathedral esplanade. All the sounds echoing against the cathedral stones and rising to the belfry. Then a familiar set of footsteps approached the cathedral and stopped just below the tower.
    ‘Rochat! Marc Rochat!’
    He looked down through the iron railings and saw a familiar form 95 metres below.
    ‘Monsieur Buhlmann, what are you doing here?’
    The old man shouted back:
    ‘I tried to call you on the telephone. Is it working?’
    ‘ Oui , but I was cleaning the bells and took it off the hook. I must’ve forgotten to put it back.’
    ‘ Pas grave .’ Monsieur Buhlmann held up a large shopping bag and gave it a shake. ‘I have something for you, Marc.’
    ‘I’ll come down, monsieur.’
    ‘No, I want to come up.’
    ‘ D’accord .’
    Monsieur Buhlmann continued looking up. Rochat continued to look down.
    ‘Marc?’
    ‘ Oui? ’
    ‘If I’m to come up, you must first lower down the keys.’
    ‘Ah.’
    Rochat dashed into the loge, grabbed a block of wood with a big wad of string wrapped around it. He tied the end of the string to his ring of skeleton keys and dashed back to the railings. He slowly wound out the string to lower the keys. Monsieur Buhlmann untied the string and waved.
    ‘ Bien, à tout de suite .’
    Rochat began to rewind the string round the block of wood, imagining if he had a fishing rod this key business would be much easier. Then imagining if he put a hook at the end of the line instead of skeleton keys and waited for unsuspecting Lausannois to walk by, he could snatch their hats and reel them up and mount them on the walls of the loge. 24 Heures would write stories about the Mysterious Hat Thief of Lausanne Cathedral. Lausannois would appear on the front pages of newspapers, standing on the esplanade with confused looks on their faces: ‘I was walking here when my hat vanished from my head! Where are the police when citizens cannot walk safely in the streets?’
    Everyone in Café du Grütli would talk about it with their after-dinner cigarettes and wine. And he imagined a few days later he’d lower those same hats back on to the same unsuspecting heads. And the same Lausannois would appear in the newspapers again: ‘ C’est un miracle ! I was walking by the cathedral and my hat reappeared on my head!’
    The sound of the creaky door echoed up the tower steps. Rochat hurried into the loge, hung the line on the nail.
    ‘It’s a long way up, Rochat. The old man will be wanting his tea.’
    He opened the small window on the east wall, called out to Marie-Madeleine:
    ‘Monsieur Buhlmann is coming. Tell your sisters. What do you mean you’re busy? Busy doing what? Oh, of course. Preparing for your performance. Do forgive me, madame.’ He slapped the window closed, opened it just as quick. ‘And tell your sisters they must sing very well tonight.’
    He slapped shut the window again, filled the electric kettle, switched it on. Two cups of tea were steeping as Monsieur Buhlmann came through the door of the loge.
    ‘ Salut, Marc! Ça va? ’
    ‘ Oui, très bien. Et toi? ’
    ‘ En forme, Marc! En forme !’
    Monsieur Buhlmann sat on a stool to catch his breath. He tossed the skeleton keys on the table. He took big gulps of air. He didn’t look en forme at all.
    ‘Are you all right, monsieur?’
    ‘Oh, I’m fine, Marc. But it’s a cruel joke to grow old. When I was your age, I