‘Me, I think. Check the coach house. See if there are living quarters above it—the groundskeeper perhaps.’
They parted without another word, and when he neared the folly, St-Cyr realized that it was in the style of the Parthenon. Steps led down to the pond where water lilies would bloom in summer beneath the shimmering wings of dragonflies as they hovered above the lurking shadows of the carp.
He could barely see the woman, so deep was she among the shadows. ‘Madame, I regret very much this sudden intrusion into your solitude. My name is Jean-Louis St-Cyr of the Sûreté Nationale.’
‘was she naked? Did she suffer a lot?’
‘Naked …? Ah no. No, madame,’ he said, conscious of the tremor in her voice, its shrillness. ‘She suffered, yes, but … but perhaps not too much, if one can say such a thing was possible.’
‘I loved her as my own. We were very close. We confided things to each other. She … she trusted me absolutely. I blame myself for what has happened.’
He had not moved, this detective from the Sûreté. He stood at the foot of the steps looking up at her through the columns into darkness. Was he wondering why she had come out here to this place? Would he question why she was wearing only this?
She plucked at the flimsiness of her peignoir. She said, ‘Pompon has run off again. I … I should not have let him off the lead, but … but it was her dog, not mine. Actually, I have no love of dogs. Even the best of them are dirty and do disgusting things, but … but for a child’s sake one has to make sacrifices, isn’t that so? Do you have children, Inspector? Girls perhaps? Girls who might someday be …’
She felt his hands take her firmly by the shoulders. Cursing the flimsiness of the peignoir under his breath, he pulled off his overcoat and wrapped it around her. ‘The house,’ he said determinedly. ‘Indoors, I think.’
‘Not yet! Please! I … I have to tell you how it was. He … he won’t let me say a thing. He’ll see that he does all the talking. He’ll send me to bed.’
Ah merde … ‘Then come and sit on that bench out there. Let me warm your feet.’
‘Give me a cigarette first. Let me fill my lungs.’
Kohler eased himself through the side door of the coach house to stand in the light as he let his gaze sift over the place. There was room for six autos but it held only two. A maroon Citroën coupé was up on blocks for the Duration and hadn’t been requisitioned by the Luftwaffe for a favoured squadron leader. The forest-green, four-door sedan with excellent tyres, including a spare, was big, powerful and handsome.
Both cars shone, but this last was getting yet another going-over at about 1.15 a.m. The chauffeur, his back to him, was polishing the leather of the front seat. Sleeves rolled up and held by grey elastic bands, jacket carefully set aside in spite of the cold. Vest and tie to complete the attire, with gold pocket-watch and chain probably. One of the old school. Floor swept and washed—not even an oil stain was evident The stiff black high leather boots glowed; the grey herringbone breeches were creased by the welding iron of determination and discipline.
One had to be impressed. The S.P. sticker was just visible beyond the left shoulder and was exactly where it ought to be, bang up front inside the left lower corner of the windscreen. The Service Publique, that much-coveted mark of distinction that allowed a private set of wheels in this gas-thirsty world, to say nothing of a chauffeur.
Ten jerry cans were ranked in a corner, so there was no problem in that department. If you made classified items for the Führer’s war machine, a little petrol was your reward, among other things, ah yes.
Still with his back to Kohler, the chauffeur straightened. He set the tin of saddle soap lightly on the roof, gave the seat a final wipe, a thorough scrutiny, then softly closed the door and did the chrome-plated handle. A man of sixty years of age perhaps and of medium height. Iron-grey, well-trimmed hair, thick, big ears, a swarthy neck and broad shoulders that now slumped as he stood in silence with head bowed and forearms resting against the car’s rain-gutter.
‘Captain, it cannot be true,’ came the bitter lament, not to Kohler, for he had yet to be noticed. ‘Our little Nénette gone from us? Our treasure? Our constant reminder of you and your dear wife?’
The fists were clenched, tears splashed the car and in that moment a shudder ran visibly through the chauffeur. ‘I warned you not to go to England. I begged you not to leave us like that, and what did I receive but the lash of silence from the tongue of a man who had always listened to his sergeant. Always, especially in times of strife when the battle, it did not go well.’
The eyes were wiped, the nose was blown. The tears were removed and the car polished so as so leave no evidence of them. The tyre pressures had to be checked all round and only then did he notice he had a visitor. ‘Monsieur …’
The rugged countenance was marked by four years of war—an idiot could have seen it at a glance. The eyes were grave and deeply set, dark brown and ever watchful. Sun blotches and shrapnel scars, one of which had nicked off the tip of his nose, served only to emphasize a quiet determination and intense loyalty.
‘She’s a beauty. A thirty-seven Delage, am I right?’
All thought of tears vanished. The shoulders were squared. ‘Monsieur, please state your business. If you have none, I suggest you leave.’
A ball-peen hammer lay to hand on the workbench. ‘Kohler, Paris-Central, and yours?’
‘Honoré Deloitte, sergeant to the child’s father. Chauffeur to the Vernet family for the past twenty-four years since my repatriation and, before that other war, for six of the finest years of my life.’
The look seemed to say, I have killed far better Boches than you in my time but will gladly oblige another. There was a scar across the back of Deloitte’s left hand, the slash of a bayonet that had missed its mark as his had gone home.
‘Can we talk?’
‘Talk if you wish. For myself, I will, I assure you, listen.’
It would be best to tell him something. ‘Look, we can delay the investigation until all the staff are assembled, but we think there may have been two eleven-year-old girls involved and we’d like to know what’s happened to the other one before it’s too late for her as well.’
‘Too late …? Two girls …? But … but that is not possible. Mademoiselle Nénette, she was most distressed to find that her little friend had at last gone to join her parents in Chamonix. The mother had had a crisis of the nerves and had not been able to invite the child to be with them for the holiday.’
How nice. The poor kid. ‘And the name of this friend?’ he asked, all business now, the black leather notebook flipped open, pencil ready.
A sigh of resignation was released. ‘Andrée Noireau. She was staying at the convent school but … but had left for …’
‘Chamonix.’ Kohler gave a nod. ‘So who accompanied Mademoiselle Vernet on her Sunday outing?’
‘Why, the Mademoiselle Chamber. She is a student at the university, the daughter of one of Monsieur Vernet’s accountants.’
‘A nanny.’
‘Ah no, no, monsieur,’ countered Deloitte. ‘A member of the family since now nearly two and a half years, since the parents of our little Nénette went to England to die by the bombs of your Führer. Die, monsieur, in Coventry on the night of the fourteenth to fifteenth of November 1940.’ He paused. He realized he had been incautious. ‘Mademoiselle Chambert always accompanied the girls so as to … to give a little supervision yet allow them to assess each new situation and … and decide how best to handle things. Is that not the wisest way for one to ensure that young girls learn how to take care of themselves?’
But they hadn’t, had they? said Kohler sadly to himself, his gaze one of emptiness. Mademoiselle Chambert had not been with them and Deloitte had suddenly realized this. He’d have to be loyal to the aunt and uncle. He couldn’t jeopardize his future, not in these troubled times, even though he might well want to.
‘Just tell it to me plainly.’
W
hat has happened to Liline? wondered Deloitte anxiously. Why was she not there with Nénette? ‘I … I drove the two of them to Mass at the Notre-Dame this time, as they liked to experience other churches than our own when possible. Then I delivered them to the Jardin d’Acclimatation. Though they wished to take the métro, Monsieur Vernet had issued strict instructions they were not to do so because of … of this sadist.’
‘Vernet had their safety in mind, so, okay, we’ll try to remember that,’ said Kohler bluntly. ‘And where, exactly, did you drop them off?’
Had this one been a Hauptmann in the last war? wondered Deloitte uneasily, ‘I dropped them off at the puppet theatres and the giant doll’s house. They were to spend a little time there and then were to have tea in the children’s restaurant. Nénette was fond of taking tea. Her mother was British. The child used to say it made her feel closer to her dead mother.’
The doll’s house might have suited the switching of the coats, but as for the rest of the outing, it had probably never happened. ‘At about what time did you drop them off?’
‘At thirteen-ten hours—it’s in my log, in the glove compartment. Monsieur Vernet requires that I keep an accurate record of all trips just in case the authorities might wish to question his using his own car.’
‘Don’t be blaming me for what’s happened, eh? Just stick to the matter at hand.’
‘I will.’
‘The eleven o’clock Mass?’
‘The ten o’clock.’
‘Two hours, then. What the hell did they do, Sergeant? Pray for that long?’
Sergeant … ‘Mademoiselle Nénette wished to visit the belfries of the Notre-Dame, and one of the good fathers was prevailed upon to allow her to do so, since it was not a regularly scheduled time for such a visit.’
‘Okay, so why the interest?’
‘Look, monsieur …’
‘It’s Inspector.’
A fist was clenched only to be relaxed in defeat. ‘Inspector, the master did not want Mademoiselle Nénette doing such a thing but … ah, the child, she has pleaded with me and I … Please, I … I could seldom say no to her, especially not after the deaths of her dear father and mother. It is to my discredit and shame that I let her and Mademoiselle Chambert disobey her uncle’s wishes and now … now … all those trips I let them take on the métro, all that freedom, it has come back to …’
‘Easy. I know how you must feel. The ten o’clock Mass, the belfries, and then the doll’s house? That’s fine, were it not for one thing I’m certain you’re as aware of as I am. The Sandman has killed four others, and one of those murders was up in the belfries of the Notre-Dame.’
The chauffeur’s head was bowed in defeat. Had the man a rifle and helmet, they would have hung at his sides, and how many times had he himself seen such things? wondered Kohler, remembering past battlefields and war-weary men.
‘The belfry?’ he asked gently.
There was a nod. ‘Nénette had read all the newspaper reports. She and her little friend were both much concerned and wishing they could do something to … to put a stop to … to the killings.’
Amateur sleuths, then. Ah nom de Jésus-Christ, what had the two of them stumbled upon? ‘Look, I won’t say anything of this side trip to the belfries unless I absolutely have to. Just tell me where I can find Mademoiselle Chambert. I presume she went off somewhere because I don’t think she was with the girls when it happened. Did she go home? Is she now under sedation?’
His expression was grim. ‘Ah no, Inspector. You see, she has … has not yet returned.’
‘Not returned.’
‘No, and that is most unlike her.’
The snow continued, and all about the garden was a hush, that of the city, too, and one could never quite adjust to the silence where once there had been traffic and commotion at nearly all hours.
‘Madame …’ said St-Cyr. ‘You mentioned a companion?’
‘Yes, Liline Chambert.’ The women drew on the cigarette and snuggled her toes deeper into the warmth of his hands. ‘Liline and Nénette were always very close. Like two sisters, though one is much older, of course. Eighteen, I think, or is it nineteen now? Antoine … my husband, he gave the girl a part-time job to help fill the void that was created by the tragic deaths of the child’s parents.’
‘The bombing,’ he sighed, for she had told him of it. ‘Escape to England only to find no escape at all.’
Not escape, please. We … we do not say such things. My brother-in-law went to England on business and to try to calm the fears of those people, and since my sister-in-law was British, she went along to visit her family.’
The detective indicated that he understood the delicacy of using such words as ‘escape,’ but made no comment about calming ‘the fears of those people’. His hands had long since lost timidity and now gently massaged her feet. Had he a wife? she wondered. A woman? Certainly he seemed to understand her need to be calmed, yet he sat so like a priest in his suit and fedora, with the snow dusting his shoulders and sleeves, she had to wonder about him. Her long legs were stretched out; her back rested against an arm of the bench. She was cosily wrapped in his overcoat, but was it that he was worried she might explore the pockets of his coat? Was that what was troubling him? If so, he need not have worried, no, not at all.
She heaved an inward sigh and said silently, It was my duty, to examine those things Nénette had in her pockets. I had to make myself aware of what the child had discovered.
‘Antoine,’ she said. ‘Bien sûr, he … he has done everything possible to make things right for Nénette. He gave up his beautiful house near Rambouillet, the house his father had given us at our marriage, and moved us in here. He kept all the servants. He wanted the child to feel at home in the house she had always loved.’
‘And had inherited.’
‘Yes. Yes, that is so, of course. The factories, too, when she comes of age—everything, you understand. Just everything. But … but now …’
She gave a ragged sob and burst into tears—flung the cigarette away and cried, ‘Ah merde, merde, why did I not force Antoine to listen to her?’ She sucked in a breath. ‘Forgive me, I … I had best go in. I might say things I shouldn’t. He … he’s not to be blamed for what happened, is he?’
Passing her the clean handkerchief he always kept for such occasions and others, St-Cyr gave her a moment. He took out his pipe and tobacco pouch and began that pleasant task of preparing to settle down.
A spare few, careless crumbs of tobacco fell on her bare feet, a waste, a sacrifice he would normally never have made had he not wished to unsettle her—yes, yes. And she felt them as if they were grains of silicon carbide or the hot turnings of metal from a lathe in one of the factories, even to catching in her imagination the pungent odour of burnt cutting oil. ‘Inspector … Antoine just doesn’t understand children. He’s far too busy now, since the death of his brother. He’s been dragged in from semi-retirement and forced, yes forced, to work for a living. Children have their little games, isn’t that so? It was just a game, wasn’t it? But … but,’ she blurted in tears again, ‘it wasn’t a game! It wasn’t!’
Her feet began to leave his lap. He clamped a hand down on them and said, ‘No, we will stay. A child has been murdered, madame. Murdered.’ He softened his voice. ‘Now, please, what game?’
‘She … she had been following the killings. She was convinced the … the Sandman would strike again and … ah, may God forgive me, and in the Bois, in or near the Jardin d’Acclimatation.’
He gave her another moment and at last, when he made no comment, she said, ‘Antoine, he … he dominates everything. He issues directives as the Occupier does ordinances. He believes I talk nonsense when really I spoke the truth and warned him the child was on to something.’
Snow was brushed from the detective’s sleeve. A match was struck and then another and another. At last his pipe was lit and savoured in that first moment, and she knew then that he was delighting in the pause, that
he was relishing the time to reflect on what she had said.
‘They … they went to Mass, Inspector. Liline and Nénette. Liline, she was like Antoine in that she didn’t believe the child either but would humour her all the same. They … I know they visited the belfries of the Notre-Dame. Nénette, she confided this desire to me the other day. She … she has said she had to see where one of the schoolgirls had been murdered.’
Again he waited. Again she saw his priestlike silhouette against the ghostly light of darkness and snow, the sharp angularity and curvature of box and yew. ‘Nénette was a pack rat, Inspector. A magpie. She was always picking things up—a button in the gutter or on the méto, a tooth-brush or pocket comb she would then sell on the black market, a pin, a badge, a medal, a toy … She had found something she said and was convinced the police, they were not looking hard enough.’
They always got it in the neck, the cops. The poor, the wealthy … all held the same antipathy, even children. But was it the fob of an ear-ring she had found? Had it belonged to the Notre-Dame victim, and had Madame Vernet yet to realize exactly where the rubbish in his pockets had come from?
She must have realized it by now, for both hands were deep in those pockets. ‘Had she any other friends?’ he asked cautiously.
‘Friends?’ she shrilled. ‘Only Andrée from school. Inseparable, those two, and both picking their noses at the same time at the dinner table! I caught them. The … the poor child’s mother is a disaster. Very wealthy, very pampered. The parents left her at the convent school for the holiday but … but at last reluctantly requested to see her. She took the train to Chamonix three days ago. Antoine had to help the child obtain a laissez-passer. Nénette was devastated when she discovered what he’d done, and cried for hours. “Right when we were so close to trapping the Sandman!” she said. She hated Antoine for doing it. Hated him who has done so much for her.’
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