Mannequin

by J. Robert Janes

‘Well?’ he asked harshly. ‘Nanette, tell me what she thought you must have seen.’

  ‘There … there was a gap in the curtains—just a little one. A girl with … with her hair in tufts. Naked and … and chained by the wrists and ankles so that she …’ The girl broke down. ‘She was stretched out, Inspector. Stretched! Reaching for the ceiling and … and leaning well forward over the lamp with … with her legs spread widely and her ankles tied to … to the floor.’

  ‘The lamp?’

  The girl dragged in a breath. ‘Painted blue and without its shade. Its shade!’

  ‘When?’

  Would he arrest her? ‘Late last spring. She … she had fainted. She … she looked as though she had fallen asleep but was still chained up like that with … with a rag stuffed into her mouth and … and her eyes blindfolded.’

  ‘Yet you said nothing to anyone? Nothing?’

  The girl was frantic. ‘I couldn’! I would have been arrested and sent home!’

  Was there more? he wondered. The sound of crying, this one awake at night listening to it and knowing what was going on!

  He must be firm. ‘Did you see anyone else in that room?’

  She shook her head as if her life depended on it, was so ashamed.

  ‘Who did you see on the balcony, Nanette? Was it only Mademoiselle de Brisson or was there someone else?’

  The girl bolted and ran from him. He heard her on the stairs, heard her fling herself on to her bed, heard weeping as if she herself was one of the victims.

  She lay with her face buried in the pillows. Madame Lemaire was now shouting at the top of her ancient lungs and banging her cane. A decanter fell …

  ‘M … Monsieur de Brisson,’ blurted the girl. ‘De Brisson! He watched at my windows for the longest time and … and finally he went away.’

  ‘You didn’t draw the curtains?’

  ‘I was waiting to see if anyone would come to the house next door. I was sitting in a far corner of my room, in darkness. It was not so very late. Perhaps only eleven o’clock.’

  You fool! he said but to himself. Again he asked when this had happened and again she said. ‘In the late spring. Just a few days after Mademoiselle de Brisson found me with their cat.’

  ‘Did Monsieur de Brisson go into the house next door? Come, come, Nanette, now is not the time to hesitate or hide the truth.’

  ‘He must have! He went that way, Inspector, and not back towards his house. For the longest time I waited, but then the telephone rang and Madame … I was so afraid it would awaken her but … but when I answered it, they hung up.’

  There were the usual things in the bedroom of a girl such as this. A heavy white flannel nightgown was folded over the back of a chair. There were no slippers. Like so many these days, she would wear two or even three pairs of woollen socks to bed.

  Letting himself out on to the balcony, St-Cyr made his way next door to peer into that empty house and test its lock and door handle.

  How was access gained? Had Monsieur Vergès left a key with someone? The banker? A notary—this would be the most logical—but how had he kept the Germans from requisitioning the house?

  Kempf? he asked. Had Kempf seized on the use of the house and made certain no one in authority would interfere?

  If so, then the Sonderführer and Denise St. Onge most probably had visited Mademoiselle de Brisson in her attic pied-à-terre as early as September of 1940, and it was then that the possibility of using the house had been conceived.

  ‘Access could simply have been a matter of breaking in and replacing the glass, he muttered to himself.’ Once a spare key was found in the house, they could come and go at will, or perhaps they changed the locks.’

  Through the darkness all he could discern was the line of the rooftops across the garden and more dimly beyond them, those of the houses on the rue de Montpensier. Leaving the girl with a warning to say nothing to anyone, he went downstairs and outside, to enter the house from the street.

  Empty, it had its own feeling as if the walls, the voices of those girls, cried out to him.

  Shining his pocket torch briefly on the ceiling, he found where the ringbolts had been—the holes had been plastered over and painted but this had been done in haste and the plaster not allowed to dry.

  The holes in the floor had simply been filled with sawdust and wax.

  If only Madame Lemaire’s maid had spoken up. How many would have been saved? Two—would it have been two or three?

  But he couldn’t find it within himself to blame the girl. He understood only too well how fragile her position was even after five years of service.

  As far as he could determine, the attic window-doors hadn’t been forced nor had a pane of glass been broken and replaced. They had had a key, then, right from the start. A key …

  Hermann was waiting for him beside the Citroën. ‘Nothing, Louis. A bookseller and his assistant in the attic flat who claims he is nearly deaf and that the assistant doesn’t stay the night. Homosexuals who won’t say a thing for fear of drawing attention to themselves and getting a one-way ticket to nowhere. A medical doctor, his wife and son in the flat below who must be out having supper, then the owner of a department store who says he saw and heard nothing. Absolutely nothing!’

  ‘Good. That makes life easier for us. I’ve just cracked a bank and must transfer my accounts to another.’

  ‘Monsieur de Brisson?’

  ‘The same.’

  * * *

  The descendants of the Kings of Prussia ate in uniform—blue, grey and black or the business suits of the mighty—amid the sumptuously warm glitter of the restaurant. Gilded, trifold, mirrored screens reflected the gaiety of bejewelled mistresses and wealthy friends. A banker, the owner of a racing stable, a judge—all sat before framed tapestries of barefooted, docile girls, a lamplighter, a gatherer of grapes.

  ‘Sliced testicles of water buffalo in sauce lyonnaise,’ seethed the Sûreté as they followed the maître d’ among the tables. ‘Braised anaconda steaks in cream with poached cobra eyes! Hermann, mon vieux, you must leave this one to me, eh? Let me have the son of a bitch on little wedges of toast!’

  ‘Be my guest!’ grinned the Bavarian. ‘Remember I’ve got the only shooter.’

  ‘His is between his legs!’

  Oh-oh, the Frog was really hopping.

  Louis pushed the maître d’ aside so as to make the introductions himself. ‘Monsieur de Brisson? Madame, mademoiselle, please forgive this slight intrusion into what I know must be a private family supper.’

  ‘Georges, what is the meaning of this?’ demanded de Brisson of the head waiter.

  ‘Don’t fuss,’ hissed St-Cyr. ‘It’s not his fault. Tip him generously and see that he finds us two chairs before the embarrassment of our visit causes you grief.’

  The chairs were brought. The truite aux amandes pochée au vin blanc—the poached trout with almonds—looked superb. Cooked in white wine first, then dipped in egg yolk, rolled in thinly sliced almonds and lightly browned in butter and olive oil, the meal made a poor detective sweat with desire. Where had they managed to get all the ingredients?

  Kohler lifted a bottle to examine the label. ‘The dregs of a Romanée-Conti 1915, Louis. Jésus, merde alors, where were we then, eh? Cleaning the dust and shit from the shelling out of our eyes and ears, or was it the remains of some poor bastard’s guts?’

  ‘Hermann, please! A few simple questions.’

  André-Philippe de Brisson was in his early sixties. The immaculately tailored grey suit with dark blue tie and handkerchief went with the image. The dark blue eyes which, from behind gold-rimmed spectacles, returned his gaze were those of a banker about to dismiss a dishonest employee.

  ‘Monsieur,’ began St-Cyr.

  The knife and fork were at last carefully set down on his plate. ‘Inspector, what is the meaning of this? You have no right.’

  A tough one. ‘Monsieur, eighteen millions have been stolen from your bank and a teller killed. Sur
ely it is in your interest to co-operate a little?’

  ‘Here?’

  Still handsome, suave—eminently successful and master of all that was around him—de Brisson appeared to be a man of little patience and much arrogance. ‘Here, there, what does it matter,’ said St-Cyr, ‘so long as the money is recovered and the criminals apprehended?’

  ‘Then contact me at my office. I will have them roll out the carpet of welcome.’

  Was he a friend of the préfet and of Pharand, the boss of this humble servant of justice? Probably. Ah yes. A self-conscious grin and a little shrug of apology would therefore suit. ‘Unfortunately time does not allow us the luxury of polite custom. The Sturmbannführer Boemelburg wishes my partner and me to settle the matter as expeditiously as possible.’

  ‘Boemelburg. Ah very well, you may proceed.’

  The closely shaven, rounded cheeks would smell but faintly of an aftershave. The puffiness beneath the eyes suggested late nights and too much work, the receding hairline a vanity that regretted such a loss. ‘The shipment from your head office, monsieur. Is it customary for such large sums to be transferred to Paris?’

  Though the one from the Sûreté concentrated almost totally on him, the one from the Gestapo kept looking from Marie-Claire to Bérénice. Maudit salauds, what were the two of them really after? ‘The German authorities, Inspector. They wish us to put the notes back into circulation as soon as possible so as to save on the printing costs and paper. Once every two months Lyon ship to us. Oh bien sûr, it was nothing new. Merely routine.’

  ‘Eighteen million?’

  ‘In October seven million. In August only four.’

  ‘But always on the 24th of the month?’ asked Louis still meeting the steely gaze of the banker.

  ‘Unless it’s a Sunday or a Wednesday, the half-holiday. In which case, the next working day. Inspector, what is it you wish me to say? That someone outside of my immediate staff had learned of the shipment and been so indiscreet as to let someone else know of the matter?’

  ‘Could that have been possible?’

  ‘Never!’

  ‘Then could your teller have recognized one of the two men from a previous visit?’

  The cheeks were blown out in exasperation. Immediately the face came alive with the preposterousness of such a thing. ‘Ah no, no, of course not! Monsieur Ouellet, he had merely reached for the alarm button which was just beneath the counter and to the right of his cash drawer. A brave man—he’ll get a citation for sure—very conscientious and due for a promotion to head teller as soon as the post came free. Isn’t that correct, my dear?’ he asked the wife, disturbing at once her stony gaze and silence, and awakening the downcast eyes of the daughter, their little mouse.

  ‘Yes, of course, my dear. You are correct,’ said the woman.

  As always? wondered St-Cyr. How could such a positive-looking woman have stood for the continued sexual abuse of her daughter? A fine-looking woman but one who, in the company of her husband, was so used to taking a back seat, she couldn’t force herself to rise above it.

  ‘It’s sad,’ went on the banker. ‘Ma chère, you must come with me when I visit with his wife and children. Perhaps a hamper? A few little things …? Inspector, you see how it is. At the Crédit, the employees really count. My wife and I were very fond of Monsieur Ouellet.’

  ‘Certainly.’ But why lie about it, wondered St-Cyr, if not to hide something else? ‘The suitcases, monsieur. Why suitcases? Why not banker’s dispatch cases?’

  ‘Why, indeed, Inspector? Ask Lyon, don’t ask me. Maybe all the cases were in use.’

  ‘Had they ever used those suitcases before?’

  ‘No. No, of course not but there is always a first time, is that not correct?’

  ‘Louis Vuitton and alligator leather, monsieur? Their choice was admirable to say the least and very handy for the thieves, but what I can’t understand is why those two men discarded them?’

  ‘Then why not ask them, Inspector? Maybe they can tell you.’

  Patiently Kohler watched the proceedings, still wondering if Louis would confront the banker with the statements of Madame Lemaire’s little maid and the daughter’s ‘Letters to Myself’. Mademoiselle de Brisson obviously feared the worst, though she could only know of his own visit to her flat, not what they had discovered.

  The golden mohair dress fitted Marie-Claire like a glove, even to hiding the razor marks on her wrists. The green eyes that still looked down at her plate held nothing but despair. Was she knitting her fingers in her lap? he wondered. Was she swearing to kill herself and not botch the job this time?

  ‘Those two men were nothing but gangsters,’ said the father. ‘Nothing but rubbish, Inspectors! The dregs of a society that, if given half a chance under our German friends, will shape up, eh? They had no reason to kill Adrian. He was such a kind man and so good with his children. There are six, or is it seven? Ah, I can never remember. It was always a little joke between us.’

  ‘Of course,’ said the Sûreté who had taken to studying Madame de Brisson. ‘There was a woman in the street, monsieur?’

  Madame de Brisson! sighed Kohler inwardly, and the banker setting up the robbery of his own fucking bank and having the wife play look-out even though she was a bit too old for the part, or was she?

  ‘Talk. Nothing but talk.’ The banker shrugged and tossed his hands and head. ‘You know how it is, Inspector. One witness says this, another says something else—ah! it was all over in a few seconds. The gun, the demand, the cash, the shot, the car and zoom, those bastards were gone!’

  It would be tiresome to again say Of course, thought St-Cyr. The urge to do so was almost overpowering, but one must go carefully. The age of the woman in the street had been put at between thirty and thirty-six years. Then why, please, he asked himself, was Madame de Brisson sweltering? Was she about to choke on a fishbone even though her trout had not been touched since their arrival?

  De Brisson didn’t like the silence. ‘There was a young girl who window-shopped, Inspector. Eighteen perhaps. Yes, that was the age. Another supposedly stood watching this girl and the street. The woman who reported this to the police could give few details except to say that the girl at the window was aware of the one who watched.’

  Gravely Louis tidied the table-cloth in front of himself though it needed none. He looked away across the restaurant, seemed bent on deciding the best course of action. All around them the diners went about their business. The place had now settled down and would take little notice of them until they left.

  ‘Mademoiselle de Brisson, is there anything you can add that might be of help? I know you were not a witness, but … ah, some little thing perhaps? One of your girls taking too close an interest in the car your employer borrows from time to time? Perhaps someone saw something out front? A window-shopper like this … this … How old did you say she was, monsieur?’

  ‘Eighteen.’

  It was such a fiercely perturbed answer. ‘Eighteen,’ acknowledged the Sûreté gruffly. ‘Repeated visits, mademoiselle, so as to case the bank of your father?’

  ‘Inspector, it was a simple hold-up,’ breathed de Brisson impatiently.

  ‘Not with eighteen million, monsieur. No, it was an operation that involved meticulous planning. Of this my partner and I are certain. So, mademoiselle, have you anything to say? Did anyone notice this girl looking in the window of your shop?’

  What did he really know? she wondered harshly. The Meuniers were dead—dead! The Gestapo had shot them before … before Paul could … could say a thing. A thing! These two could know nothing of the papers. Nothing! ‘We get thousands looking in our window each day, Inspector. Sometimes it is only a glance in passing, sometimes a searching for hours on end as the mind, it fantasizes.’

  ‘The girl, mademoiselle, had long brown hair—was it brown, Hermann? Is that what the préfet said?’

  ‘Dark brown, Louis, and brown eyes, I think.’

  ‘One of so many, Inspector,
’ said Madame de Brisson tightly. ‘It can mean nothing. Absolutely nothing.’

  ‘Or everything, madame,’ said the Sûreté with that little shrug Kohler knew so well. ‘You have a cat, madame?’

  ‘A cat? Why … why, yes.’

  And now you look as if you had just swallowed your canary. Again he would gravely tidy the table-cloth and pass smoothing fingers across it waiting always for the silence to do its work.

  ‘My cat, Inspector? What … what has Samson to do with the robbery?’

  Moisture had collected around the stern blue eyes behind their glasses. Guilt, fear—the horror of what she had done—was it this that made her tremble? ‘Your trout, madame. I greatly fear my partner and I have spoiled your supper but, as you have a cat, well …’

  He left it unsaid. ‘Hermann, mon vieux, we have work to do. Monsieur, madame, mademoiselle, please forgive the intrusion. Merci.’

  Outside on the rue de Beaujolais Kohler exploded. ‘You had me believing you were going to slam that bastard against a wall and cut off his balls before confronting the daughter with the forged papers!’

  ‘Ah, no, Hermann. It’s best, is it not, to add the spices only at the moment of tenderness so that the bouillon becomes the sauce when quickly thickened and allowed to simmer but for a little while?’

  ‘Hey, for a moment there you had me worried.’

  * * *

  ‘Dédé, ah mon Dieu, what are you doing on my doorstep at such an hour?’

  Wrapped in a blanket, the boy stood up and shook the snow from himself. ‘Grand-mère, she is saying she has had a vision in the night of Joanne, Inspector. Naked, ravaged and with … with her … her breasts cut off.’

  ‘Ah damn that old woman! Come in. Quickly. Light the stove. Here … here take this thermos. My partner knows another Bavarian who has a restaurant. It’s a little soup, Dédé. Ham and lentils with red kidney beans. There’s a handful of croutons in my overcoat pocket. See that you restore the body’s temperature, eh? while I find a little something from my days as a soldier. Be sure to use the bread. Mop up the dregs. Keep nothing. I’m not hungry.’

  The boy would do as he was told but was there no way to shut that old woman up? The breasts … How could she have said a thing like that to the family?