But whose gods, was that it? wondered Kohler. Trapped into betraying his eagerness, he said. ‘But you think it was done in daylight perhaps up to an hour after the Captain was seen leaving the pits, so at about 4 p.m. your time?’
Was it a small offering of peace, this Gestapo’s use of the old time? ‘At a prearranged spot and with the victim’s back turned so that the Captain did not have to see his face.’
‘Then why the killing?’ asked Kohler levelly. ‘What was the motive?’
‘You will see. The washing plant is over there not far from where the Captain took his clay. That large silhouette on the horizon, yes? The granite is crushed and screened to remove the coarsest material, after which the clay is separated by washing and allowed to settle into two products. Coarse kaolin, at up to five microns in particle size, and the fine at below one micron. When dried, most of it is sent to Quimper for the making of faience.’
‘Why not admit it doesn’t make a bit of sense Kaestner’s killing that shopkeeper? Not here, not anywhere. There’s no money in dolls – there can’t be.’
And you have fallen right into my little trap, thought Kerjean. ‘Oh but there is, Inspector. Herr Kaestner comes from a very old family in Waltershausen, Thuringia. His grandfather was the famous Kaestner, one of the finest dollmakers in Germany. The Captain dreams of revitalizing an industry he knew and loved as a boy but which fell prey to the last war and the hard times after it. He and Monsieur le Trocquer, our shopkeeper, were partners in this little venture. Kaestner and his crew put up the money, since Monsieur le Trocquer had none. Absolutely none, you understand.’
‘How much?’
They had not moved in some time, so intense was their conversation. That, too, was good. ‘300,000 marks to get things started.’
‘Reichskassenscheine?’
‘The Occupation marks, yes. Yes, of course. None other can be used, isn’t that correct?’
‘6,000,000 francs. That’s one hell of a lot to entrust to an impoverished shopkeeper.’
‘Monsieur le Trocquer was perhaps on his way to tell the Captain the money was still missing. One cannot say at the moment just why he came out here. It is too early in the investigation.’
‘Missing?’
‘Yes. Since at least the 5th of November.’
A decisive man, the Captain – was that it, then? A simple matter of money? ‘You’re not exactly happy to see us, are you?’ asked Kohler cautiously.
‘Should I be? The Captain killed him, Inspector. Justice has to be done no matter how difficult or on which side of the fence one sits.’
‘I could have you shot for that.’
‘You won’t. You are not like the others, Herr Kohler. Even here in the Morbihan we have heard of you.’
‘But you wanted to get it straight between us?’
‘That and my knowledge of Jean-Louis. He’s one for the truth, as is yourself apparently, for you wear the scars, particularly the one down the left cheek from eye to chin, a rawhide whip and a little matter in Vouvray, I believe, that was settled regardless of the status quo.’
And now you’re trying to make me think you like me, thought Kohler warily.
‘Inspector, who is to say how the wind blows in these troubled times? For myself, you will understand, I had to be certain. If, as your reputation says, you seek the truth, then you and Jean-Louis will have my entire assistance no matter the consequences. If not, then rest assured justice will find its way. Ask the stones. They will tell you that here in the Morbihan we do things a little differently if necessary.’
All alone and happy about it, St-Cyr carefully set the lantern next to the fragments of bisque, then retraced his steps to the corpse. Though the light flickered over the edge of the embankment and into the nearby gorse, he could no longer see the lantern due to the bend in the tracks, and when he stood all but where the killer had delivered the death blow, he could see even less of the light.
‘So, good. Yes, that’s good,’ he said to himself, and taking out his pipe and tobacco pouch, stood a moment in quiet contemplation. Somewhat corpulent, not tall, but not too short either, he was a solid trunk of a man with broad shoulders, a wide brow, thick bushy dark brown eyebrows and a moustache grown long before the Führer had taken up the fashion. A muse, a lover of books and of gardening and fishing, a lover of many things, a cop.
The thin trails of spillage from the railway trucks glowed a ghostly white, emphasizing the blind spot most definitely. ‘Kerjean should have noticed this,’ he said aloud. ‘There is no way such a one could have missed it, yet so far he has said nothing of it.’
And what of the Sous-Préfet le Troadec? he asked himself. An unknown quantity, though to his credit he had noticed the fragments, ah yes. But had he noticed the most important thing of all?
Between the fragments and the corpse someone had stumbled and fallen, then, still on his or her seat and in terror perhaps, had frantically pushed themselves away and back around the bend and out of sight. A full twenty metres. The clay was often smeared. Sporadic threads and clots of coarse black wool – an overcoat no doubt – had been caught on some of the sleepers. The heels had been dug into the gravel to give purchase and at one place, a sharp bit of granite had punctured the left palm. There would be scrapes and bruises. Blood and kaolin were smeared on the outermost rail nearest the fragments, red against stark white and the burnished grey of the iron.
Whoever had backed away from the shopkeeper had then stood and had dropped the doll, which had hit that same rail and had showered its fragments inwardly at that person’s feet.
One tiny fragment – a portion of the cheek, he thought – revealed a smear of blood, indicating that just before falling, the doll had been gripped in the left hand by the head.
‘Either this visitor discovered the body and retreated from it in horror or there was an altercation of some sort with the shopkeeper just prior to his death and this drove the visitor from him.’
After dropping the doll, the visitor had left the railway spur and had wandered out into the moor next to the innermost part of the bend. Had he or she then killed the shopkeeper?
Most of the terrain was either covered by gorse and bracken or was of bare rock with rare pockets of coarse granitic sand, so footprints were not easy to find and only with daylight could they conduct a thorough search. But was the presence of this visitor the reason the Kapitän Kaestner had been so diligent in collecting the pieces of the doll, and why, please, had Kerjean not looked more thoroughly?
There was still no sign of Hermann and the Préfet. Though the Bavarian was easy-going and no man’s fool, still it was sometimes a problem for others to accept their having to work together. Kerjean could well have thought it best to keep things close until he could speak privately with the Sûreté.
Again St-Cyr looked along the track into the night but saw only the flickering of the light. In spite of the war and animosities that were only natural, Hermann and he had got on splendidly. Well, most of the time, and had done so since the fall of 1940. A trick of fate God had played on him. A friend among the enemy! God often did things like that to his little detective. ‘So, what have we here, then?’ he asked, throwing a look up into the heavens. No answer would be forthcoming. There never was. God wanted detectives to think for themselves.
‘Did you confront this visitor?’ he asked the shopkeeper. ‘Did you challenge him or her, and force them to retreat from you in horror?
‘Or did this visitor kill you and then retreat in horror at what they had done only to return for a cautious look and to inadvertently step on your glasses? And why, please, did you remove them? You were holding them in your left hand when struck, is that not so?’
Retrieving the lantern, he again located the place where the killer had stood to deliver the blow. It had been a ruthless, downward swing of the switch-bar with both hands no doubt and the weight so totally behind it, the shock had driven the toes of the killer well into the gravel. Craters of several centim
etres’ depth marked the places where the shoes or boots had been planted. Kerjean should have noted this too, yet had chosen to say nothing of it.
An open and shut case. One U-boat captain. Must things always be so difficult?
When the Préfet and Hermann finally arrived, he had them place extra lanterns round the bend. Lit up, there was no dispute. ‘The shopkeeper, the Captain and at least one other person,’ he said gruffly.
‘There, what did I tell you, Préfet?’ enthused Kohler. ‘It’s not for nothing that Louis was chosen to work with me. Right, Louis? Boemelburg knew him from before the war. The IKPK, the International Police Organization.’*
‘Yes, yes,’ said Kerjean testily, ‘but I still say the Captain killed that one.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Louis – Kohler held his breath and waited for the oft-pronounced disclaimer – ‘but perhaps not, Préfet. For now the Kapitän Kaestner can keep. The time of killing, please?’
Ah merde, thought the Préfet. Now it’s serious. ‘At dusk, or just before it.’
The ox-eyes of the Sûreté swept emptily over him. ‘And when did the watchman see the Captain leaving the pits? Remind me, please.’
One would have to face it. ‘At 3.20 in the afternoon, the old time, as I have said.’
‘Perhaps an hour before dusk and almost exactly twelve hours before reporting the crime.’
Light from one of the lanterns etched Kerjean’s shadowed cheeks and watchful gaze. ‘Who was this other person, Préfet?’ asked Louis severely.
The one called Kohler was now out of sight behind himself. To shrug would be stupid, thought Kerjean, but he would do so anyway. ‘I do not know. I only got here this afternoon, Jean-Louis. I have barely had time to find accommodation for you and your colleague.’
‘My partner and my friend.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do!’
‘Good. Then if you have no more need of me, Chief Inspector, I will see if I can find the coroner and a photographer.’
‘Good! That is exactly what we need and the next time you lead us to a murder, Préfet, be so kind as to use the most direct route. I think you will find your car is much closer and the walk across the moor, though edifying, an utter waste of our time.’
Normally the diplomat even in the toughest of situations, Louis had let things get the better of him. Kerjean merely nodded curtly then turned abruptly away to vanish into the moor.
‘Louis, who the hell is he trying to protect?’ hissed Kohler, not liking it one bit.
‘I don’t know, my old one. I wish I did. We worked together on several things before the Defeat of 1940. Always I have found him absolutely forthright and efficient but then, ah what can I say, I did not have a partner such as yourself.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be. We will find things out now because he has made it imperative!’
‘6,000,000 francs are missing.’
‘Six?’
Kohler quickly told him that the Captain had entrusted the shopkeeper with so much. They set to work, were very thorough. Some fifty metres beyond the fragments, Kohler found where the Captain had swung his satchel of clay aside. The bag was still there on the edge of the embankment. ‘We walked right past it, Louis. Kerjean said nothing of it.’
‘Yes, but from here, Hermann, could the Captain not have left the tracks to strike overland to the site of the murder?’
It was all so dark but for the lanterns. Dark and eerie. The wind wouldn’t stop. There was the feel of rain in the air. They found a boot print, a smear of the white clay and then another and another, then no more of them. ‘Did he kill the shopkeeper, Louis? Is that what Kerjean wanted us to see? He and that watchman spoke Breton. I couldn’t understand a word but am certain the bastard could speak French as well as I can.’
Which was pretty good for one of the Occupiers, most of whom couldn’t understand more than a few words and couldn’t have cared less, since the French willingly ran things for them. But, then, Hermann had been a prisoner of that other war from 1916 until its Armistice and had used the opportunity to learn a cultured language. Which was entirely to his credit and fortunate, since that was the way one found things out. Well, sometimes. Besides, how else was he to have conversed with his little Giselle and his Oona?
‘Hey, if it makes you feel any better, I can’t understand Breton either,’ confessed St-Cyr.
‘Even though Marianne was one of them?’ Uncomfortably Kohler offered a cigarette. ‘Sorry, Louis. I shouldn’t have reminded you, should I?’
‘Of my dead wife? My second wife?’ retorted St-Cyr. ‘She never spoke Breton at home, even to our son, since to do so would have been to admit of that shameful ignorance the rest of France have tarred such people with. Which reminds me, if I can do so, I had best pay her parents a visit.’
‘They’ll only blame you and you know it. Why punish yourself?’ The Resistance in Paris had accused Louis of being a collaborator – still did for that matter – and had left a bomb for him which his wife and little son had inadvertently tripped a month ago almost to the day. She’d been coming home to him from the arms of her German lover who’d been sent to the Russian Front. The woman unrepentant, no doubt. Still defiantly independent and proud of it, as most Bretons were. ‘Look, I really am sorry I mentioned it,’ said Kohler.
‘So am I.’
‘Why didn’t the Captain return for his satchel?’
‘Perhaps he was too shaken and forgot it,’ offered the Sûreté.
‘Then Kerjean really did leave it there for us to find.’
‘Perhaps.’
They worked in silence, each taking a side of the tracks and retracing their steps to the fragments and beyond them to the Captain’s collecting bag.
‘An ammunition satchel,’ grunted Kohler, looking down at the thing. ‘Regulation issue. Kriegsmarine blue. Stores must be tolerant of heroes. Quite obviously he saw something up ahead and eased this thing aside.’
‘Yes, but what did he see? A broken doll on the tracks? The visitor sitting there or standing? Or both the doll and that person?’
‘Whatever it was, it caused him to make a little detour.’
‘And that detour could just as easily pin the murder on him.’
It was only as they retraced their steps and searched along the tracks well past the body, that they came upon an abandoned shed and found in the scant gravel nearby, the marks of a bicycle’s tyres.
‘Both coming and then leaving,’ murmured Kohler, running fingers lightly over them. ‘The leaving in haste, I think. The road is just beyond the shed. That’s where our friend the Préfet should have left the car and led us to the railway spur but decided not to.’
St-Cyr heaved a troubled sigh. ‘Then he knew of the cyclist but has made no attempt to remove the evidence.’
A strange man. One up to his ears in something. ‘There are no footprints,’ said Kohler. ‘Whoever pushed the bicycle into that shed, took the trouble not to leave any.’
‘Perhaps … but then, ah mais alors, alors, Hermann, were they removed later?’ There was plenty of bare rock, so the task would not have been difficult. ‘Was the owner of the bicycle the visitor?’
‘Or someone else? A fourth person.’
*
One by one the lanterns went out of their own accord and still there was no sign of the Préfet and the coroner. Only the sound of the breaking seas kept St-Cyr and Kohler company but this was soon muffled by dense fog that came in of a sudden and decided to stay.
Beaded mizzle broke on icy cheeks. Noses constantly dripped. Kohler wiggled his toes trying to find a particle of warmth. Far out to sea, the long lament of a fog horn sounded faintly.
‘That’s the one on the Île de Groix,’ commented St-Cyr grumpily. ‘A good ten kilometres. Dead flat and painfully mournful, as is appropriate!’
‘Let’s find that shed. Maybe it’s dry.’
‘Is Kerjean deliberately leaving us out here to stew in our own juice?�
�
‘Maybe the coroner likes to sleep in? Maybe he had to come all the way from Vannes, eh? Hours, Louis. It could take the son of a bitch all day to get here!’
‘Nom de Jésus-Christ, Hermann, what is it this time? A photographer without a film? Some argument as to bills unpaid – a last job perhaps? Or is it that the Admiral Doenitz needs to be informed of recent developments and has demanded one of his photographers assist?’
These days there were always complications. Others always had to get in the way. ‘The shed, remember?’ snorted Kohler and when they found it, he held the door open and from some hidden cache among his inner pockets, offered a flask of peach brandy, though God knows how he had obtained it and one did not often ask such questions.
There were two upended wooden kegs that had once held sleeper spikes. These they used as stools, resting their backs against the bare cold boards and sharing a last cigarette in silence until Louis was moved to say, ‘Misery unites us.’
Kohler ran his eyes over the inside of the shed. It was nothing much. Bare pine poles clad with boards. Tarpaper on the roof, thank God. No leaks. Just room for a bicycle or two and, in a corner, lots of flattened, clean straw. No sign of sheep dung or any other such item …
‘Don’t even think of bedding down!’ seethed St-Cyr acidly. ‘You do and they will be certain to arrive.’
‘Hey, I thought that’s what you wanted?’
Did Hermann always have to grin at adversity?
The Bavarian leaned over the straw, and from a niche on one of the cross-timbers, plucked a package of cigarettes. ‘Voilà, Chief. Lucky Strikes.’
‘Pardon?’
He pulled down a lower eyelid in mock salutation and rubbed his frizzy, fast-greying hair that was not black or brown but something in between. ‘Nineteen of them, my fine Sûreté flic. One is missing, in case you wondered.’
Dollmaker Page 2