Stonekiller

by J. Robert Janes

  ‘Then it’s not her?’ bleated Kohler.

  ‘If it is, her parents, they have much to explain.’

  The bushy brown moustache was plucked at in thought, the robust, swarthy nose pinched, the rounded cheeks with their depths of evening shadow favoured. At the age of fifty-two, and a Chief Inspector of the Sûreté Nationale, Louis was not easily ruffled.

  ‘Only the photographs have been switched, Hermann. It’s not a competent job of forgery—ah no, nothing like that. These are simply the identity papers of Mademoiselle Nénette Vernet, over whose photo this one has pasted her own so as to hide the other. Fortunately, the stamp of the Commissariat de Police has not intruded, and doubtless the heiress has this one’s papers, though bearing her own photograph. But has the killer, having ripped off the victim’s hat and having perhaps torn the pocket to see who she was, now gone after the other one?’

  Verdammt! Another killing and so soon? Girls … ah, just what the hell had they been up to? Von Schaumburg would hit the roof. False identity papers, et cetera, et cetera. ‘Let’s empty her pockets, then. Let’s see what else she can tell us.’

  A dustbin of things came out of the left pocket. A tin pencil case—a Faber Castell; a toy, hand-held, push-lever roulette wheel with a tiny steel ball bearing to roll around; frosted and unfrosted marbles; four of the gritty vitaminic ‘biscuits’ all children were given at school in lieu of fresh fruit, vegetables, milk, cheese and meat, et cetera, at home. ‘A crystal of clear quartz,’ said St-Cyr, gazing raptly down at the loot. ‘A small pebble of poorly polished amethyst. A homemade ring of braided gold wire—scrap most probably and once saved for the jeweller’s, perhaps. A tiny, zinc-cast Lone Ranger on his Silver, a pre-war thing from an American cereal box, perhaps, the horse rearing up so as to give chase to bank robbers. I’ve seen it myself in an American film serial, or was it in a Tom Mix film? There was also a wireless serial. She may have listened to it on the shortwave late at night. Not now, of course. Now she’d be arrested and shot, but we won’t mention it, will we?’

  Louis hesitated at something else. Kohler could hear him gritting his teeth in dismay. ‘A death’s-head cap badge, Hermann. Two of the gold wound badges, the Polish Campaign medal and a silver tank battle badge.’

  ‘Shit!’ They both knew the mere presence of such things would implicate the SS in von Schaumburg’s mind—Old Shatter Hand hated the SS with a vengeance. ‘Let’s keep it quiet,’ said Kohler and, snapping his fingers, demanded the badges. ‘I’ll take charge of them. That’s an order. I’ll toss them in the Seine if I have to.’

  The look in Louis’s sad brown eyes never left him—they’d been all through this sort of thing with the SS before and knew the consequences only too well, but still … ‘Then perhaps you might like to keep this also, Herr Hauptmann Detektiv Aufsichtsbeamter, since so many of your number are attracted to our fair city to play at being artists?’

  ‘Ah, don’t get so pissed off about being one of the conquered and having to take orders from your partner who can’t measure up to you in rank. Just tell me what it is.’

  ‘A crumpled, empty tube of oil paint. Mummy Brown and, yes, made well before this war from ground Egyptian mummies. There is a use for everything in this life, and the Egyptians, they had so many dried corpses some enterprising soul decided to export the dust to Paris to satisfy Renoir and Degas and the others, all of whom had insatiable appetites.’

  ‘Mummy Brown,’ breathed Kohler, filing it away.

  ‘Yes. It’s not overly dark, I think, but a deep, sandy brown, perhaps not unlike the desert at dusk.’

  ‘Since when did you ever see the desert?’

  ‘Never. Only in my imagination, on the silver screen, and in the adventure novels of Saint-Exupéry, the airmail pioneer and aviator.’

  ‘Ancient history. Then keep the tube and stick to the present eh, Chief? Six Tarot cards,’ he snorted, wanting to get it all ove with and gazing at a naked Brünnhilde emptying two stone jugs at a pond. ‘“The Star”, it says.’ He looked at the others. ‘“The Lovers; the Nine of Swords; the Devil”.’ Puzzled, he raised his eyebrows. ‘“The Eight of Swords”, and finally “the Ace” of the same suit.’

  ‘Will you be able to remember the order in which you found them?’

  ‘Hey, are you forgetting I was a Munich detective before Berlin and then Paris?’

  ‘Never. Absolutely not for one minute!’

  ‘Touché, eh? There’s also this. Lost, I guess, and found, or the other one is missing.’

  ‘Just let me see it.’

  The storm-trooper’s stumpy middle left finger was wetted to stab the object and thrust it at him. ‘Gold. The fob of an ear-ring.

  ‘The Virgin with welcoming arms at her sides. On the reverse, the cross and the twelve equally spaced stars denoting the Apostles or the twelve tribes of Israel. A first-communion present, perhaps, or one for confirmation, but not our victim’s. Her ears, they are not pierced.’

  Merde, it never bothered Louis to work so close to a corpset Never! He enjoyed it ‘Her chaim bracelet is of dogs, in silver. A dachshund, a spaniel a border terrier, but one is missing. It’s been purposely removed, I think The loop that held it is still here but has been squeezed to death with the pliers.’

  ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘Lots. A handkerchief bearing the heiress’s initials. A small, gold-capped Lalique vial of perfume. Good stuff, too. And one turquoise-on-silver tiepin that’s been stepped on and has its shaft bent. No clutchback to it, though. That’s missing. And some chewing gum, the ersatz stuff. Pink and horrible and chewed to blazes before being wrapped in a scrap of newspaper.’

  ‘To be saved for a rainy day.’

  ‘Five forgotten raisins among the lint. No coins. Two elastic bands—extras for her braids, probably.’ And then, anticipating Louis’s question, ‘Ja, ja, mein brillant Detektiv Französisch, there are some tangled black hairs. Long ones.’

  St-Cyr nodded grimly. ‘Then our victim wears the coat not of herself but of her friend, the heiress, who may, perhaps, wear this one’s.’

  ‘And that, mon fin, can only mean they planned to switch coats again and must have thought they could get away with whatever they were up to, only the Sandman stepped in.’

  ‘If it really was him. If, Hermann. This we really do not know.’

  Were things not right? Kohler hesitated. He thought of the death’s-head cap badge, the medal and the wound badges … They’d have to go carefully. They couldn’t jump to conclusions. ‘Then let’s keep the identity switch to ourselves for the moment, eh? Let’s talk to the parents first and get a feel for what’s been going on?’

  This was heresy, but had the identity switch been done so as to throw the killer off? Just why had he had to rip off her hat and check her identity papers?

  Had a mistake been made and, if so, did he not now realize it? And where, please, was her hat? Now thrown away or hidden, never to be found?

  ‘First leave me alone with her. Go and talk to the sous-préfet. Find out where the custodian of this cage is and ask him why he was not around to prevent such a tragedy.’

  ‘At about three o’clock this afternoon, the new time. Berlin Time.’

  And in winter an hour ahead, so four o’clock the old time and with the shadows quickly gathering. ‘He’ll have been flogging doves on the black market, Hermann. Pluck his feathers for us.’

  Hermann needed little jobs like that. They brought out the best in him. Reaching over the corpse, St-Cyr said a whispered, ‘Forgive me, my child, but we have to talk a little, you and I, and I cannot stand to look at your eyes any longer.’

  Closing them, he knelt a moment seemingly in quiet contemplation while the cameras of the mind filmed the body from every possible angle, noting near the end that horse manure had been smeared among the droppings on the floor beneath the snow—the boots of the police perhaps, the killer, the custodian or themselves, the child also. The stables and riding trails were near.


  Only then did he find between the last of the bins of droppings beside her left shoulder a small and folded scrap of white notepaper. It had been hidden by the snow.

  Opening it, he read, Je t’aime. I love you. It was signed Nénette.

  Outside the ring of lights Kohler found no comfort.

  ‘Monsieur l’Inspecteur, the family … Please, someone must speak to them, yes? The aunt … Madame Vernet, is distraught. The uncle, Monsieur Vernet, he … he is a man of consequence. For us to …’ The sous-préfet in charge of Neuilly gave a helpless shrug. ‘For us to keep them from the body of their little niece is just not right and can only lead to trouble.’

  An understanding nod would be best. ‘All the same, Sous-préfet, we have to stick to protocol and to orders. The Kommandant von Gross-Paris has specifically stated the relatives are not to see her yet.’ This was not true, but what the hell. ‘Who told them it was her?’

  The lead-grey rheumy eyes that had sought him out ducked away to the lantern. ‘I did. Please, I have kept the news from them for as long as I could. Madame Vernet, she … she has torn her cheeks with her fingernails and is … is blaming herself.’

  Kohler swept his eyes over the dodgy little pseudo-Führer with the tiny grey moustache. ‘Self-immolation, eh? Hey, that means remorse, my fine one Who reported the killing to you?’

  ‘Remorse …? Ah, Foumier, one of my best men. He … he was discreet. Please believe me, we held off for as long as possible.’

  ‘Who invited the press?’

  ‘No one. All will soon be charged with breaking the curfew and will spend the rest of the night in the cells. If we smash a few cameras that is just too bad, since it is all but impossible to replace them.’

  Curfew was at midnight now unless otherwise reduced as a citywide punishment and reprisal in addition to the taking of hostages for some act of terrorism or disobedience. Kohler glanced beyond the sous-préfet to the darkened shapes of the members of the news media. Paris-Soir, Le Matin, et cetera, et cetera. All collaborationist and controlled, as were Radio-Paris and Radio-Vichy. ‘Did your man tear her coat pocket when he took a look at her identity papers?’

  Indignantly the sous-préfet leapt to the defence. ‘Her pocket …? Ah, but … but I myself have asked him this and he has denied it. Please, we are not so careless.’

  ‘Then why the subservience, Sous-préfet? Why the hangdog look? I’m not about to eat you.’

  ‘Nor I you, particularly as there are others who are hungry for the hearts and livers of a certain two detectives.’

  ‘Where’s Talbotte?’ asked Kohler suspiciously.

  It would be best to fry the goose in axle grease and not to smile as the flames consumed it, even though, when seen in the lantern light, the Bavarian, he was especially formidable. ‘The préfet of Paris and the Île-de-France is keeping his distance, since the Kommandant von Gross-Paris is completely in charge of the investigation.’

  ‘And your boss hates my partner with a passion. Hey, I think I’ve got the message.’ Insidiously jealous of his turf, Préfet Talbotte had been flattened by Louis on a recent case. Unfortunately, the Sûreté’s gumshoe had told the préfet in no uncertain terms that he had been gathering evidence against him. Evidence of corruption outright collaboration and worse. Ah nom de Dieu, de Dieu, things were never easy and could only get more difficult. ‘Let me talk to the one who found her. Tell the relatives we don’t want to see them anywhere near here and will call on them shortly. Oh, by the way, where are her mother and father?’

  The préset had warned him of these two detectives. He was to ‘cooperate’ but to do so while keeping one hand behind his back, fingers crossed. ‘Dead also, but some time ago.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Yes. The aunt and uncle are raising her as their own. Monsieur Vernet makes things for the submarines of Herr Dönitz. Other little items also. Tank parts, gun parts, munitions and explosives. Classified things. He is very important, very well connected and not inclined to take no for an answer, but I, ah! I am sure he will find the will to understand your request, though he will most certainly bring the matter up when he confers with the General von Schaumburg at their weekly briefing. It is tomorrow, I believe. Yes … yes, now that I have thought the matter over, I am absolutely certain it is always on a Monday unless something interferes.’

  Ah damn …

  When the man joined him, Kohler drew him aside into deeper darkness but still, though he wanted to, could not find the stomach to offer a cigarette. It would be too much like bribery in any case, particularly as tobacco was almost always in such short supply.

  ‘Begin at the beginning. Leave nothing out.’

  ‘Of course. Part of my beat includes the Jardin d’Acclimatation, particularly the children’s zoo, and amusement park. Sunday afternoons are busy, even in winter At fifteen-fifty seven hours I was patrolling near the Norman farm. Monsieur Amirault, the custodian of the doves, he has hurried to summon me. A murder, a child, the Sandman. Together we have run from there to the riding stables, then to the clay-pigeon shoot, and from there to the cage. He … he is also in charge of the clay pigeons. Sometimes one of the Boches, the Germans … Ah, excuse me, Inspector. Sometimes they … they command him to release a few doves so as to … to perfect their target practice.’

  Hence the custodian’s absence during the murder, was that it, and all carefully thought out so as to have an answer ready? ‘We’ll see. We’ll have to ask him ourselves.’

  ‘As you wish, Inspector. We are here to assist you.’

  I’ll bet, thought Kohler, snorting inwardly and cursing Talbotte for the bastard he was. Police couriers must have been hurtling back and forth. ‘Was anything other than her identity card touched?’

  ‘Anything else …? But … but … Ah no, of course not. I have simply leaned over her to tease the ID out, then have put it back just as I found it with … with the pocket torn a little.’

  ‘But to get at it you would have had to dig into each pocket?’

  ‘I was lucky. The left pocket. I had no need to try the other one.’

  ‘Good. Then tell me who lifted her change purse?’

  Ah merde, had it been stolen? ‘But … but there was no purse, Inspector. I swear it.’

  ‘Yet she comes to the Bois without a sou? An heiress to what?’

  ‘Billions.’

  ‘Sweat a little, mon fin. Think about it, eh? To say there was no purse is to imply you had a thorough look. Let honesty touch your heart lest we haul you in, and haul we will if we have to. As sure as that God of my partner’s made heiresses, He gave them the wits to take along a little change for the pony rides.’

  ‘I … I will have to ask the others.’

  ‘You do that. Now lead me to the custodian. Maybe it’s his tongue that needs loosening.’

  ‘Two girls,’ said St-Cyr softly to the victim as the doves watched him with such sorrowful eyes he knew they were freezing. ‘School friends who tried to switch identities. Both of you would have worn your school uniforms under your coats, since the hems of the skirts, the lower parts of the socks, the boots and gloves would have been seen. Yes, yes, am I right? The braids perhaps tucked underneath your hats and your coat collars turned up to further hide the difference in your hair—ah! yours is indeed turned up. Everything would have matched, but then what would be the sense of switching coats? A mistake, you say? A restaurant? A cup of that ersatz hot chocolate which tastes like clay and is not made with milk but with saccharine added? Ah no, my little friend.’ He sadly shook his head. ‘These days no one—I repeat no one—hangs their coat up in a public place for fear of theft. It’s usually far too cold inside anyway. No, you see the switch was deliberate. We have the note you dropped. Je t’aime. Presumably, since it was in your hand when attacked, you treasured it and perhaps had received it only moments before. Therefore, unless I am very mistaken, your friend the heiress wore her school coat and uniform on this outing while you wore perhaps a brightly coloured coat and be
ret or toque—not your school ones. All else was the same so that at a distance, especially from behind, one could not tell the two of you apart except for the coats, the scarves and the hats—yes, yes, that’s it, isn’t it, but why was the switch made?’

  He paused. He looked at her. He silently pleaded for answers, then breathed, ‘You must have known you would be followed, but by whom? You had both planned it all well beforehand, hadn’t you, but had not thought either of you would be killed once the mistake was discovered.

  ‘Then was it the Sandman?’ he asked and had to answer sadly, ‘How could it have been?’

  It was not good, ah no, it most certainly wasn’t. The city was up in arms and demanding they put a stop to the killer. In this, Parisians were united with the Occupier, and God help His two detectives if the assailant turned out to be anything but French. Ah yes. There were perhaps one hundred and fifty or even two hundred thousand of the Occupier in Paris and its environs. Who really knew how many of them there were? The Germans coveted the city and used it for rest and recuperation, so the traffic in and out was constant. Soldatenheime—hotels and guesthouses—were scattered throughout to billet the common soldiers. The Ritz was for generals and very special people; the Claridge, at 74 Champs-Élysées, was for still more generals and holders of the Knight’s Cross. Of the one hundred and twenty licenced brothels, forty were for the troops, four for their immediate officers, one for their generals, two for the SS and no less than five for the Gestapo, to say nothing of the countless ‘trade’ commissioners and buyers, et cetera.