Mannequin

by J. Robert Janes

  Down in a cellar too dark and dank for comfort even though it was his own, he moved a wine barrel, one of several from the days when he had once tried to make his own wine, and found beneath it yet another barrel.

  Moving it, he got down on his hands and knees with his pocket-knife and prised out a stone in the floor. The revolver in the tin box, a Lebel Model 1873, was just as he had left it on the day of the Defeat. Well-greased, in its holster and with two boxes of cartridges.

  The gun was heavy—indeed, it was almost as effective as a club. Though some had been modified to eight millimetre, this one still used the eleven millimetre, black-powder, low-pressure cartridges that were slightly less in calibre than the .455-inch cartridges of the British Mark IV Webley.

  Hermann wouldn’t expect him to be armed and would probably find something, yet this could not be guaranteed in time and the sacrifice would have to be made.

  Returning the army holster and one box of cartridges to their hiding place, he went back upstairs. The boy must have been ravenous. The bowl was clean, the thermos dry. Not a crumb of bread remained. Dédé saw the gun in his hand and couldn’t take his eyes from it. What could he let him tell the other boys? ‘It looks like the police revolver I lost in Lyon, Dédé, the same as the gun that was used in the robbery. But this one … It’s not quite thirty years since I had to use it in that other war. Please, it’s a private matter between us, eh? Just you and me. No others.’

  ‘Is it that you know where Joanne is?’

  ‘Ah, I wish that were so. We’ve made great progress, but must now visit a place of flowers.’

  ‘A cemetery?’

  ‘Ah, no. No. Beautiful blue flowers. Lupins perhaps or violets, but in spring.’

  ‘And the robbery?’ asked the boy. ‘Is it that Joanne has perhaps seen something and this is why she was kidnapped?’

  Would it hurt to lie a little so as to give hope? Though he wanted to, he told himself he would have to be honest. ‘We simply don’t know yet. But the robbery and the kidnapping are connected. I’m almost certain of it.’

  ‘Then you have a suspect?’

  ‘More than one.’

  ‘Male or female?’

  ‘Both.’

  The gun, the man, the detective stood before him across the table. How many times had he and the other boys seen the Chief Inspector trudging home to an empty house and a wife who slept elsewhere with another, a German officer? How many times had they kicked the soccer ball to him only to find he had stumbled and fallen asleep from exhaustion to look like a drunkard lying on the pavement?

  He had lost his car, his great big beautiful black Citroën to a Boche, a Bavarian. His bicycle—his precious Sûreté vélo with the five kilos of brass for a lock—had been smashed on a case and then stolen. Yes, stolen. A smashed bicycle!

  A collabo, they had called him behind his back, the people of this street he loved so much, but only because he had had to work for the Boches, the Krauts—les Allemands, the pork-eaters and sneezers, the pickled cabbages, the Schlocks.

  Yet only he and his partner could save Joanne.

  ‘Dédé, what is it?’

  A hand was extended formally. ‘Nothing, Monsieur the Chief Inspector. Only that I am with you.’

  ‘Good! Now go home and tell that grandmother of yours that if she opens her mouth again, I’m going to have her arrested for selling thread on the black market—ah, don’t deny it. We’re friends and these days one does what one has to. Just tell her I want no more of her visions in the night. They make me uneasy and that’s not good when I might be up against a man who can shoot a pea off a post at thirty paces!’

  6

  ALL OVER PARIS, THE SNOW WAS SOFTLY FALLING TO deepen the hush of darkness but lift the city from its misery.

  At 2.00 a.m., Gabrielle Arcuri pushed open the iron gate at 3 Laurence-Savart and made her way up to the front door but turned to look back. The houses were cheek to jowl beyond the low wrought-iron fence with its cement posts and fake Louis XIV urns. The staff car of a German general waited and would do so patiently. A little bite to eat, a glass of champagne with that one, nothing else because … ah because there never could be anything else with them or anyone but …

  Belleville, she said to herself. Jean-Louis will never leave it and only a fool would ask him to.

  Inserting the key Hermann had given her as a Christmas present, she unlocked the door and pushed it open. Jean-Louis wasn’t asleep. From the tiny vestibule, she could see that he was in the kitchen at the back, the only light. There were shadows on the walls … a roaring fire in the stove behind him … a scandalously wasteful fire.

  In his suspenders, trousers and brogues, and wearing a faded blue plaid work-shirt, brown tie and revolver in its leather holster, he remained unaware of her, so deeply was he lost in thought.

  Row after row of photographs were spread across a table whose rustic look and size suggested a farm somewhere. There was so much she didn’t yet know about him.

  He was searching the faces of the victims, was ‘talking’ to each of them. A cup of acorn-and-barley ‘coffee’ had long been forgotten.

  ‘Jean-Louis …?’

  ‘Ah! Gabrielle, it’s you. How did you get in? The club, has it closed early? What time is it? Hermann, he … he’s picking me up at 3 a.m.’

  She told him of the key and that she had developed a small catch in her throat. ‘It’s nothing serious. The voice simply needs a little rest’

  Maybe it dawned on him that, had he been asleep, she might have come up to him. Maybe he regretted this was not so, but all he said was, ‘Joanne tried to tell us of the shop. A bracelet, Gabrielle. This one.’

  He waited for her to join him but they didn’t hold each other or even touch in greeting. Instead, still lost in thought he continued, ‘She was followed by a woman whose reported age was between thirty and thirty-six but …’

  ‘But bundled against the cold and wearing a hat, lipstick and rouge,’ she said decisively, ‘that woman could have been much older.’

  ‘Madame Bérénice de Brisson, but does it fit?’

  ‘She would have caused little notice if she had entered the bank of her husband, Jean-Louis.’

  ‘Yes, the perfect look-out if … if the husband is the one who set the robbery up.’

  ‘Was he broke?’

  ‘Or being blackmailed?’

  Quickly he told her what Madame Lemaire’s maid had seen late last spring. ‘Did he know of what was going on in that house? Were the kidnappers aware of this, so much so they would tempt him with a little gap in the black-out curtains?’

  ‘A blue lamp … the shadows of that poor girl on the ceiling above her … how could he not have said something?’

  ‘Perhaps it is that he participated?’

  Startled, she asked uncomfortably, ‘And Madame de Brisson learned of it?’

  ‘Perhaps, but then … ah, it’s all speculation, the racing of a mind tormented by doubt.’

  He flung photograph after photograph before her. ‘Joanne is still missing,’ he said. ‘We’ve been on this case constantly since Monday afternoon. It’s now just the start of Wednesday. If I fail, I fail not only her but Dédé, Gabrielle. Dédé. At my worst moments, the boys seemed always to be there up the street, watching me trudge home. They would call out, “Hey, oo-oo Monsieur the Chief Inspector,” and kick the soccer ball to me and I would work it up the road and try to get through them. Those boys … they respect the law because of me. Me! I simply can’t fail them. I mustn’t!’

  She touched his hand. ‘You will find her. I know you will,’ she said, but one couldn’t comfort him. What he needed was answers. ‘The Resistance say they have no news of the robbery and think it wasn’t the work of known criminals or the Gestapo and the SS.’

  ‘Amateurs?’

  ‘Perhaps, but good ones except for the killing of the teller which they feel may have been a mistake.’

  She would know only so very few of the Resistance and cou
ldn’t possibly have questioned many. ‘Be careful,’ he said. ‘Don’t take chances. I may not be able to help you and neither might Hermann.’

  He told her of Marie-Claire de Brisson’s ‘Letters to Myself’ and said he hoped the girl wouldn’t destroy her diary, that they might soon need it.

  Saddened, she said, ‘ The father takes what he wants and has total disregard for her as a person.’

  ‘She was adopted at birth and is the loyal servant of her employer and friend, so much so, Gabrielle, she asked Paul Meunier to forge travel papers and documents for two of Mademoiselle St. Onge’s friends.’

  Gabrielle drew in a breath, her lovely eyes alive with interest.

  Jean-Louis told her of Kempf and le Blanc. She said, ‘Let me see what I can dig up on the one from Paris-Soir. Maybe he’s the one who fielded the placing of the advertisements and thought of using the Théâtre du Palais Royal as a letter drop and blind.’

  St-Cyr ducked his head in appreciation but also to indicate the photos. ‘Are all of the clothes and accessories from that shop?’

  Sadly she had to tell him, ‘I never go there but can begin to check.’

  ‘Mademoiselle de Brisson also had a set of papers made for herself,’ he said, ‘but for Dijon on the 1st of the New Year.’

  ‘Dijon?’

  ‘The home of Angèlique Desthieux, and a permanent residence under her own name, not a nom de guerre as with the other two.’

  Gabrielle gave a little toss of her head. ‘Muriel and Chantal spoke of her. Was it her fiancé who threw the acid into her face?’

  ‘And poured it over this one?’ he asked, finding the photograph for her. ‘Or was it someone who wishes us to blame the drooler?’

  Sickened by the sight of the corpse, Gabrielle turned away and felt him reach out to her in comfort. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘I’m used to such things.’

  He waited and at last she said, ‘Apparently Angèlique never named the person who ruined her career. She refused absolutely to blame anyone but herself for having rejected her fiancé so shamefully.’

  They were both silent. She touched a suspender strap and, leaning down, for she was a good head taller than him, lightly kissed his cheek. ‘You really will find Joanne and bring her safely home. Like Dédé and his friends, I have confidence.’

  There were tears in his eyes as there were in her own. ‘Five-and-a-half days, Gabrielle. For five-and-a-half days now she has had to live in hell, never knowing if she will be killed.’

  ‘Is she with the things from that house?’

  ‘I’m certain of it! But not with the paintings, if they were taken and placed at auction.’

  ‘The paintings …?’

  He told her of the outlines on the walls of that house. She reached out to him again. ‘Then we’ll visit the Jeu de Paume together and by then, perhaps Monsieur Vergès or his son will have described them to you.’

  ‘If they’re alive.’

  She kissed him again and held him tightly. She knew he couldn’t telephone Vergès or attempt in any way to find out if indeed the father and son were still alive for fear of jeopardizing Joanne’s life. ‘Take care, mon cher détective.’

  ‘And you. Until the 31st, then,’ he said. ‘Here, let me help you with your coat.’

  Was he burning the last of the scrap boards so as to enjoy a final fire in case he didn’t return?

  ‘It could be perfect for us, Jean-Louis.’

  ‘Yes, perfect. We’ll have to take a little holiday in the spring. Always my mind, it goes back to late last spring.’

  ‘Last spring?’

  ‘And a suicide that didn’t succeed.’

  ‘Ah! I almost forgot. Muriel said to tell you Mademoiselle de Brisson was found in her bathtub by Denise St. Onge.’

  ‘Not by the father?’

  ‘No, not by the father or the mother. Denise stayed with her at the hospital until the crisis had passed.’

  ‘And then paid frequent visits?’ he demanded.

  He was so intense. ‘Of course. It’s what friends do, isn’t it?’

  ‘Friends or those who wish to make sure she keeps her silence.’ His mind ran away from her lost among dates, and only as he muttered them to himself, did she understand they were the dates eight of the victims’ bodies had been found.

  ’7 October 1940—missing since 15 August, Gabrielle. 21 December ’40; 3 March ’41; and Renée Marteau on 15 August ’41 …’

  ‘And then?’ she asked and saw him look up as if startled by the intrusion.

  ’26 October ’41; 18 December ’41; 14 February ’42 and 6 May ’42.’

  The late spring …

  They looked at each other. He didn’t ask. She answered softly, ‘Jean-Louise, Marie-Claire de Brisson was taken to the hospital on the night of the 5th. It was all hushed up but there was talk. Muriel said everyone in the fashion business eventually heard of it.’

  He reached for a photo but kept it from her. ‘And this one died of acid burns. Acid all over her body but not on her face.’

  Just before dawn it was very cold. Darkness hugged the wooded escarpment which formed the north-western fringe of the Côte d’Or but snow among the vineyards on the slopes below gave some light and to this were added the tiny, isolated winkings of fires in sheet-iron barrows between the rows.

  Louis was beside himself with worry about what they would find at the Château near Provins, but first there was a visit with the former mannequin in Dijon.

  Kohler let the perfume of the fires come to him. They had been on the road for hours. Fontainebleau Woods and memories of a murder case there and trouble, much trouble, then Sens, Joigny and Chablis and yet more shared memories but just before Montbard overconfidence, sleepiness or the distraction of not knowing what they would find had caused him to take a wrong turn. Louis had been adamant they should take the left fork. The Bavarian half of the partnership had won out, and they had come down off that escarpment to meet the fabled route du vin well to the south of Dijon. There they had pulled over, to walk off the stiffness and fatigue.

  A former convent stood stark and bleak among the vineyards, having probably been there since at least the seventeenth century. More modern presses would have been installed and expanded cellars in the caves below, but still there would be the prayers for the vendange, the harvest of each year, still that supreme sense of continuity. Wars might come and go but always there would be the vines and always the wine.

  Breaking out the coffee and biscuits, Kohler filled two tin mugs from the hamper Rudi Sturmbacher of Chez Rudi’s had provided, and added a generous dollop of cognac.

  ‘Quit fussing,’ he called out.

  ‘I’m not,’ came the shout from down the road. ‘I’m restoring the soul. That escarpment you ignore so patently provides the microclimate which is so necessary to the vines, Hermann. Moisture from its run-off carries lime to enrich the soils. The southwesterly face prolongs the day, further lessening the effects of frost and extending the time of harvest so that more sugar can be gained in each grape.’

  Ah Gott im Himmel, another tiresome lecture and travelogue but a good sign his spirits were up.

  St-Cyr approached. ‘When I was a boy, Hermann, I dreamed of living here. My aunt had a farm near Beaune.’

  Kohler ignored the passionate outburst and got down to business. ‘So, tell me all about that shooter you’re wearing. If Gestapo Central wouldn’t issue you one, where’s the store?’

  One had known it was coming. One had just not known when it would be asked. ‘My service revolver. A slight oversight, Inspector. It’s nothing. In the haste of the Dèbâcle I merely forgot.’

  An offence punishable by lengthy imprisonment, deportation or death, to say nothing of having kept it since the Armistice of 1919 and discharge from the army! Then see that you use it when needed and shut up about it’

  ‘Of course, but please don’t be so pious. You’ve a spare pistol taped to the inside calf of your left leg. The tape is itchy. Don’t s
cratch so much if you want to keep the weapon secret.’

  ‘Verdammt! Did Giselle tell you about it?’

  ‘Or Oona? Plain detective work. Use a tensor bandage, not tape, and tell me where you got the pistol.’

  ‘Fair’s fair, eh? Provence, mein Kamerad der Kriminalpolizei. Up in those hills to the north-east of Cannes and from a certain Italian. It’s a Beretta nine millimetre Parabellum, the 1934 model and b … e … a … utiful. I’m really quite proud of it.’

  ‘And stolen! Ah nom de Jésus-Christ, you can’t be trusted!’

  ‘Hey, I brought it along for you. You should have kept that revolver quiet and trusted your big Bavarian brother to take care of things!’

  ‘I did, but couldn’t guarantee it would be possible for you to find me something.’ Had Hermann really made such a sacrifice?

  ‘So, what else is new?’

  ‘The changing pace of the war, Hermann, and the need for extra weapons others don’t know about.’

  To this there was no response. The coffee, though welcome, was drunk as if tasteless when really it was excellent and very real.

  The biscuits were dry.

  ‘Franz Ewald Kempf, Louis.’

  St-Cyr accepted the proffered cigarette and found his matches.

  ‘The fags are his,’ said Kohler—they had been through everything countless times on the road south. ‘Kempf accepts a position with Berliner Tageblatt, summer of 1937, as a reporter covering the Luftwaffe, but doesn’t take the wife and children along to Berlin. Likes beautiful young women. Plays around and never mind the tears. Spends like a mogul, drives his racing car, plays polo. Becomes assistant editor in the fall of 1938. Joins Auslands-presse-Abteilung der Reichsregierung in the spring of ’39, the foreign press relations office.’

  ‘Just in time for the invasion of Poland,’ muttered St-Cyr, still hoping to catch the first light on the escarpment.

  ‘On June 1940 arrives in Paris as a special officer.’

  ‘Is one of Goering’s boys but obviously a little more than that.’