Sandman

by J. Robert Janes

  The sisters would all have come down with it if that had been the case but … but why had they not noticed it in the infirmary? Perhaps they had. They must have. ‘And?’ managed the Sûreté’s mouse.

  ‘Speak up. I can’t hear you.’

  Ah, damn Edith Piaf and the finches! ‘AND?’

  ‘That’s better. She was killed with a Number Four knitting needle. That is four millimetres in diameter, in case you didn’t know, whereas the others were all killed with a Four Point Five.’ He tossed a hand. ‘Then, too, the weapon was not sharpened at the point as were the others. Also, the needle was not driven into the heart.’

  ‘Not into the heart …’

  ‘You should have read the reports.’

  ‘We did not have time.’

  ‘Hah! the Sûreté is as incompetent as always.’

  ‘We have not slept. We have been working on this thing since we got in last night, Coroner. Last night!’

  ‘Please don’t shout. You will only disturb the finches, who are as innocent as the child.’

  ‘Forgive me.’

  ‘Certainly. How’s your stomach?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Good.’ Belligueux removed his glasses and gravely polished them. ‘Jean-Louis, there is something that even our nefarious press have only hinted at out of fear of reprisals from our illustrious government in Vichy, not out of any concern for decency or the parents of the deceased. With each of the first three victims, the Sandman attempted vaginal penetration and fellatio. Perhaps he was too anxious, too excited—who is to say what went through his mind—but premature ejaculation was common to all. Semen was smeared on their private parts and its stains were left on their clothes, but …’ He paused to hold the glasses up to the light and look sadly through them. ‘But with Andrée Noireau there is no such attempt beyond the hasty opening of her overcoat and pulling up of her skirt and sweater. Is it that he realized he simply did not have the time, or having failed before, did he fear he would do so again?’

  ‘This killing was different, Coroner. What you are suggesting is that it was decidedly so.’

  There was a curt nod of agreement. The recording came to an end. The needle scratched. The sleeve,’ breathed Belligueux, tersely tossing the warning aside to the attendant. And then, ‘With Andrée Noireau there are none of the bruises in those tenderest of places as with the others, all of whom had to suffer the harshness of the Sandman’s fingers and bore several scratches inflicted by his nails.’

  ‘Yet another difference,’ said St-Cyr sadly. ‘Is there more?’ The look Belligueux gave him was grim.

  ‘The attack in les Halles, Jean-Louis. In that one, sodomy failed, as did fellatio but not vaginal penetration. There it was complete and brutal with several tears. Please, I regret the unpleasantness, but you must have the truth. Semen was smeared on the face and buttocks and on the genitalia—a failed attempt at first and then completion but …’ He paused before saying it again. ‘… but with your Andrée Noireau we have none of this. No attempt at rape beyond the dishevelling of her clothes. Soldiers,’ he said of the les Halles attack and threw out his hands in despair. ‘Was it a soldier? Is our Sandman one of the Germans here on leave?’

  Had the threat of this brought tears to the Sûreté’s eyes?

  ‘The assailant’s pubic hairs, Coroner? Can matches be made from victim to victim?’

  Jean-Louis was desperate. ‘Ah! this I cannot tell you, for there were no such hairs reported on any of the victims and I found none on this one either. Of course, they would be expected unless purposely removed afterwards by the “assailant” or “assailants”’

  An unpleasant thought, for, if true, it implied an iron-hard calmness, an absolutely ruthless determination to hide his identity. A battle-hardened soldier perhaps. ‘The semen stains?’

  ‘Blood Group A with the Suresnes and the Aubervilliers victims. Indeterminable with the other two. For myself, I wonder if such tests were really done on those two.’

  ‘Indeterminable …? But … but that could mean Group O or a non-secretor? Surely if his blood grouping is A, the others should be the same?’

  ‘This I cannot say, more than I already have.’

  Ah damn. ‘And the dates, the times of the murders, please?’

  ‘All from one to three hours after the midday meal of soup. A Wednesday for the Suresnes killing, a Friday for that in Aubervilliers. The les Halles murder was done on a Saturday; that of the Notre-Dame on a Wednesday, after the crowds of “tourists” had left. And this latest on a Sunday.’

  ‘Had she eaten?’

  ‘Some bread, no butter. Two raw carrots and perhaps three of the vitaminic biscuits.’

  ‘Wool … were there threads of black wool?’

  ‘A few were caught under this one’s fingernails.’

  ‘But not in those of the others?’

  ‘No, not with them, though I must emphasize I personally did not conduct those autopsies and all were quickly buried.’

  ‘And with Liline Chambert, what have you for us?’

  The finches sang, and for a moment Belligueux listened to them before sadly saying, ‘At least three and a half months pregnant, a boy. Massive embolism. A disinfectant and soap but not the National one. No, this soap produced a copious froth. The filthy stuff was injected forcibly into the uterus. Air bubbles penetrated the mural veins. Death was instantaneous. One could ask, Was it deliberate? What better way to remove an unwanted lover? But this I could never prove and you know it. May God crucify the one responsible before she kills another.’

  ‘My partner may have checked with Records. We may have fingerprints we can match with those of a known abortionist. He should have been here by now.’

  ‘He’s not. Ah! I’m forgetting myself. These things, they are never easy, are they?’ Opening the birdcage, he released a finch to let it fly about the room. ‘I find it helps. Their constant conviviality reminds me that life is what this world of ours is all about, not death. Mademoiselle Chambert was, I gather, the mistress of Antoine Vernet. This must be why Préfet Talbotte wishes me to dine with him tonight and why he is waiting for my telephone call and the confidences I shall not reveal to him if it will help your cause.’

  Poised over the glacial crevasse of their times, the Sûreté was grateful to be pulled to safety.

  ‘If you could, I would appreciate your not mentioning the differences in the killing of Andrée Noireau. Simply attribute all of them to the Sandman for now.’

  ‘Of course.’ Belligueux fed the finch a few seeds before returning it to the cage. ‘Is it true you have the goods on our préfet? There are rumours.’

  There were always those. ‘It is. That dossier grows thicker and it is my sincere hope that when this Occupation is over, the Resistance will see I am no collaborator but was forced, as so many of us are, to work with the enemy.’

  ‘Your partner is no enemy.’

  ‘Hermann is special. A worry, yes, when it is all over and the Germans have to pull out but, for now, my friend.’

  St-Cyr watched as the birdcage was covered with its hood and then a blanket. The gramophone was closed. Belligueux gave a nod. He would take himself off to find his suit jacket and overcoat, then would telephone the préfet to send a car round. ‘I will give you ten minutes alone here if you wish,’ he said, ‘That way you will be gone before he arrives.’

  ‘Please have Madame Vernet sent in. We won’t be long.’ Hermann must have been delayed. Hermann …

  The house on the rue Chabanais felt draughty. The child’s leather glove seemed to have a life of its own. As Herr Kohler gently smoothed it out on the counter of her little cage, Madame Morelle flicked a wary glance at the burly, grim-faced Feldgendarmen behind him and touched her heart.

  The glove seemed to want to creep towards her, to rise up, its fingers spread to cry out, Answers, madame. You must provide him with answers.

  ‘The child,’ breathed Kohler. ‘The Sandman, madame.’

  ‘Ah!
my heart.’

  ‘Fuck your heart.’

  He must have explained things to the Feldgendarmen. They were with him in this.

  ‘Giselle le Roy, madame. Age twenty-two. Eugène Debauville, alias Father Debauve has her, and the child.’

  ‘That one, he is not here!’ she shrilled. Hurriedly she crossed herself, and the glossy black beads of jet she wore rattled. Again she looked to the Feldgendarmen for help, her big strong boys, her little boys, her friends to whom she had given so much. Free girls, free meals, free cigarettes, cognac and beer—much beer. Wireless sets, too, and lingerie, perfume and soap—good soap—to send home to their wives and mothers. Their grand-mothers also.

  Pah! men who would desire to ravish whores dressed as schoolgirls now all but wept openly at the loss of a real one and oh, bien sûr, they had every right, herself also, but what had Father Eugène been up to? Violating little girls again? Ah nom de Dieu, de Dieu, was it possible?

  She saw the pistol Herr Kohler fingered as he grinned. It was not a nice grin, and she knew he loved this Giselle le Roy and that Father Eugène, a friend, ah yes, of course—an associate also who had lent her money in the past to take this house; one must acknowledge the loan since it was not yet repaid with interest … Father Eugène would just have to take care of himself. Violette as well, but … but Violette was unique and haste was not wise in her regard.

  ‘He’s a strange one, Inspector. His needs, they … they are not those of a normal man.’

  ‘Just tell me where he is or might be.’

  May God forgive her. ‘Numéro 78, Champs-Élysées, the fourth floor. He … he runs an escort service from there.’ She grabbed Kohler by the arm as he turned to leave. ‘Has he really taken the child?’ she demanded. ‘Is he the …’

  For one who had seen everything, did she still have a tender spot, or was it simply concern for her purse?

  Kohler lifted her pudgy, beringed fingers from his arm and dropped them. ‘Is he the Sandman, eh, madame? A black overcoat, a man who gets his kicks out of little girls? You tell me, and while you’re at it, understand that being an accomplice to the murders of six girls puts you in trouble so please don’t attempt to leave town.’

  ‘Six?’ she croaked. The whores, the customers were watchful.

  ‘Five victims and Liline Chambert, eh? And now also Giselle and Nénette Vernet. That’s what we’re dealing with until it’s all clear and those responsible await the blade and the basket.’

  The morgue was not pleasant, and as she walked out across the concrete floor in her mink coat and boots past drains that conducted fluids to the sewers, Madame Vernet felt the skin tense up over her spine, causing her to shiver.

  She clutched the coat more tightly about herself, ‘Inspector; what has happened? There are two shrouds. One is longer than the other. Why is this, please?’

  ‘Why are there not two of equal length? Is this what you are wondering, madame?’

  ‘No! I …’

  ‘Please take a moment to steady yourself,’ cautioned the Sûreté, watching her so closely she cringed and could not understand why he was looking at her in that way.

  The smell of the place came to her, that of disinfectant, formaldehyde, rubbing alcohol, old blood, death and dampness. The sewers … ‘I have nothing to say. I don’t know why you have brought me here. I shall have to complain to the Chief Magistrate.’

  ‘Please do so, but before you do, madame, I would consult your clairvoyant. Madame Rébé, was it?’

  Ah, damn him. ‘If … if that is … is Liline, you had better talk to my husband, not to me.’

  ‘I will, I assure you.’

  ‘Then remove the shroud, damn you!’

  Behind closed doors, between walls of stone and cold storage lockers, there was nowhere for the sound of her voice to travel but back to her.

  ‘Please,’ she begged, and he saw tears again and he asked, ‘What have you done, madame?’

  ‘Nothing! I … All right, I knew she was having an affair with my husband. There, is that sufficient for your appetite, Inspector?’

  ‘It’s Chief Inspector, and let us not just have the hors d’oeuvres but the main courses.’

  ‘Pompon is mine. I … I don’t know what made me lie about it Fear perhaps. Nénette out there and dead, I thought. Antoine telling me to watch what I said, that I had no right to question him.’

  ‘A tiepin, madame. Where, please, did you step on it?’

  ‘I don’t know. How could I? Ah, damn that child. Damn her for picking things up and thinking they were important. Perhaps it … it came from … from the métro. Yes … yes, that’s where it happened. I felt a leak in my boot. I knew I would have to get the puncture mended.’

  ‘Please remove the boot and let me see if it is wet inside.’

  ‘How dare you doubt my word?’

  ‘The hole I fitted that pin into did not go through the sole.’

  ‘It did!’

  He sighea He let sadness register deeply in his eyes. ‘Very well, let us uncover this one and you can confirm its identity so that the parents can be notified.’

  He did it slowly, this Sûreté. There was about his every action a deep-felt sincerity and respect for the dead.

  Uncovered, the pale and softly bluish face of Liline Chambert in slumber brought a shudder, a gasp, a sudden turning away to place her hands on the other pallet, only to lift them instantly and drop them to her sides. ‘It’s her. Please tell me how it happened. Was she trying to protect Nénette and … and Andrée? Is that how it was?’

  She heard him take a step and then another. She thought that perhaps he was coming to comfort her after all, but no, he … he had drawn the shroud back a little more.

  ‘It was a boy,’ he said, and she saw that … that thing washed and dried and lying all curled up on a clean white towel upon its mother’s breast.

  Ashen, Madame Vernet tried to retreat by gazing at the concrete floor. At last she said, ‘I … I didn’t know she was pregnant. Please, you must believe me,’ and when he gave no sign of this, her anger leapt. ‘Where is Nénette, then, idiot?’ she shouted. ‘Nénette can tell you everything.’

  ‘Then let us hope she does.’ Hermann … where the hell was Hermann?

  Gold letters on a brass-framed, frosted glass panel met the eye, the soft image of a smiling, bright-eyed young woman with bouffant-styled dark auburn hair ghosting through from behind Les Liaisons enchantées. Numéro 78, Champs-Élysées, fourth floor, suite seven.

  Kohler paused. An escort service, a clandestin, eh? He wanted to shout and pounce. An illegal brothel, but this logo of a member of the petite noblesse gazing at him said only, This is class. Let no others enter.

  It was nearly 11.00 p.m. The place should be closed by now but wasn’t.

  ‘Monsieur, what can we do for you?’

  There were two women in their mid-thirties behind the gilded Louis XVI desk, one sitting, the second standing with a hand on the other one’s shoulder. They’d been going over the accounts …

  ‘Giselle and the child. They’re all I want.’

  ‘Pardon?’ said the blue-eyed blonde who was standing.

  ‘Ah! Monique, the monsieur, he means Mademoiselle le Roy. Please,’ said the raven-haired one, indicating that he was to enter another room. ‘She is waiting for you, monsieur. She will explain everything, I think.’

  ‘It’s a pity he’s not a general,’ confided the blonde to the other one. ‘He has the height and the duelling scar but not the clothes, the uniform, too, of course.’

  ‘Mademoiselle Irène would be perfect for him, and there are still two tickets to the opera for tomorrow evening.’

  Kohler stepped past them to enter a drawing room fit for kings. Shades of gold were nearly everywhere in the swirls and oak-leafed pattern of a black, Savonnerie carpet, in the herring-bone fabric that covered the settees and fauteuils and ran up the walls with darker gold bands between. Row on row of gold blending softly in with the painted ceiling an
d the portraits—all of men of distinction. The tall french doors were of white enamel with gilded mouldings.

  Giselle was dressed as he had never seen her before, the soft crimson cashmere sheath worn off the left shoulder, with a diamond-studded clasp, black velvet choker, bracelet and ring to match. Red leather high heels, too.

  ‘Kid, what the hell is going on?’

  Are you jealous? she wondered. Red is my colour but this … this is something far, far different. Silk stockings, too, and silk elsewhere also. ‘He’s not what you think. He’s good and kind—of course we prayed a little. He’s a priest.’

  ‘He isn’t.’

  ‘Oh yes he is. Did you think we would not hear you pounding on the doors of the Saint-Roch? He knew you would not understand why he had taken me there, so he brought me here. It’s all very proper, Hermann. The girls are escorts. Nothing else.’

  ‘What is the matter with you?’

  ‘Has he hypnotized me? Is this what you are wondering?’

  ‘Where’s the child?’

  ‘The glove … Ah! you thought she was here and he had taken us both prisoner.’

  ‘Well?’

  Hermann was jealous—she was certain of it, so maybe she would take the job and dine with a general or two just to see that he behaved himself in future. ‘The child is not with him. He found the glove in the rue Chabanais this afternoon. She dropped it and ran and he could not catch up with her to return it. That is all.’

  ‘She’s alive?’

  ‘Yes. And free.’

  ‘At exactly what time did he see her?’

  ‘In the last of the daylight and just before you left me to find the name of Violette Belanger’s maquereau from those … those salauds in that Café of the Turning Hour where you should never have left me alone, Hermann. Never! If you valued me at all.’

  Hesitantly he reached out to touch the softness of her cheek and press the backs of two fingers gently against her lips. ‘I’ve been through hell,’ he confessed. ‘I feel as though I could sleep for a thousand years.’