Dollmaker

by J. Robert Janes

  ‘Louis,’ he croaked. ‘Where the hell is he? Come on, damn you. He should be with us. I … I heard him cry out my name.’

  In spite of the noise from the canneries, Herr Kohler did not realize where they were or what had happened. ‘Please, you have been asleep, Inspector. Such a sleep. The Kapitän Freisen and I found you in the car when we came out of the Kernével villa to drive here to Quiberon.’

  ‘Quiberon …?’

  She smiled faintly. ‘The interrogation, yes? Have you forgotten? You did not even hear us get into the car.’

  Oh-oh. Two hours, three … He recognized the stench of boiled sardines in oil. ‘I was tired. Where’s Freisen?’

  It had been good that Herr Kohler had been asleep. It had made things so easy for her. Johann had been pleased with her help. ‘Inside the prisoner’s cell. We have waited for you such a long time. It is almost dark, yes? Do you wish to cancel the interrogation for today or to carry on?’

  Again he asked for his partner. He sat up and flexed his arms. He discovered the rucksack he had used as a pillow and pulled it possessively towards him.

  ‘Your … your friend is not at the Hotel Mégalithe. Indeed, he may still be in Lorient or … or with Frau Charbonneau and her husband.’

  ‘Is the Préfet here?’ he asked sharply.

  She withdrew and now knelt not touching the back of the seat. ‘No. No, he hasn’t shown up either.’

  Gott im Himmel, was it trouble?

  That faint, hesitant smile crept over her. ‘Please, they will come, yes? The Kapitän Freisen is most anxious to get the investigation over so as to clear the Captain’s name. The Kapitän zur See Kaestner is … is willing to talk.’

  Kneeling like that, she took him back to lonely roads, hot afternoons and cars parked among the fir trees. ‘But is he willing to tell us what really went on,’ he asked, ‘or is it going to be more of the same thing?’

  ‘The … the Admiral Doenitz has ordered the Kapitän Kaestner to be truthful and frank and to give you all the help he can.’

  ‘And the Captain Freisen?’

  ‘He … he cannot possibly have had anything to do with the … the murder.’

  ‘But the two of them are playing a tight little game of their own, fräulein. The Admiral is unaware of this. You are.’

  ‘I … I don’t know what you mean?’

  Blushing made her even prettier. ‘I think you do. I think you would like to see Herr Freisen take over command of U-297. But what you want doesn’t matter to them. Point is, Fräulein Krüger, though he wishes he could avoid it, Herr Freisen will go to sea if ordered but the Dollmaker is a stubborn man. Only he can bring that boat back but in his heart of hearts he knows he won’t be able to and so do Baumann and that boy they’ve got in there. Now only being convicted of murder can settle it. Murder.’

  ‘You … you … Why did you have to come here?’ she blurted. ‘He’s ill. He needs help. He …’ She choked back a sob.

  It would be best to be gentle but to tell her where things really stood. ‘He won’t let Freisen take command even if Doenitz, against his better judgement, orders it. He won’t, Fräulein Krüger. He’s too damned clever to allow it to happen, too cool, too arrogant, too proud and yes, too damned good. Hey, he’s Lorient’s top ace, a survivor. Though the men might make book on it and lay off their bets on the outcome of our little investigation, they’re still counting on him. And who’s to say they won’t try to take him with them if necessary? Ah yes, fräulein, there’s that to consider.’

  She brushed her tears away. ‘Then you had better talk to him.’

  The din from the canneries was unbelievable, the stench horrendous yet both were totally ignored as in a submarine after weeks at sea.

  ‘Vati, it is the Inspector Kohler.’

  The boy, Erich Fromm, stood aside in the narrow corridor to let them squeeze past. Kohler took in the faded blond hair and furtive blue eyes, the broad jaw, cleanly shaven cheeks and the bad case of acne that had erupted overnight.

  Fear made the boy dart his eyes away from him; embarrassment from those of the Fräulein Krüger. Nerves made him pick at a pustule. Some were bleeding.

  ‘I’m going to want to have a private little chat with you, my friend,’ breathed Kohler. ‘Death’s-head tells me you put all your money on the Captain. Right?’

  There was no answer, only a rapid moistening of the eyes. No constriction of the swarthy throat yet but it would come.

  The telegraphist stood uncertainly in the doorway waiting for him. ‘Well?’ asked Kohler.

  Like a ramrod, the kid snapped to attention. ‘Jawohl, Herr Haupsturmführer Kohler.’

  ‘Good. Now save us both time by telling me why you think he killed that shopkeeper.’

  A desperate look for help was thrown at Fräulein Krüger; a wary and uncertain glance down the corridor to where Baumann and the Second Engineer were both bored to death rereading the Christmas issue of the Völkischer Beobachter on whose front page the Führer had splashed a map of the Atlantic that was peppered with red dots.

  ‘… like drops of blood, the text had read. Each one marks the position of the sinking of an enemy merchant ship … January to 17 December 1942. Clang, clang and up periscope!

  ‘Well …?’ asked Kohler.

  ‘The … the Kapitän has … has ordered me to do so, Herr Hauptsturmführer.’

  ‘Kaestner told you to bet against his getting off?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘When did he do so?’

  ‘As … as soon as he heard Death’s-head was making book on the outcome.’

  Verdammt! the bastard. If he really was guilty, Kaestner was making damn sure the kid would double his money, if not, he was slanting the odds so as to make a bundle himself. Half the crew had money on his head. A great joke if it wasn’t true and he got off scot-free.

  He was also creating yet another smokescreen from behind which he could slip away. Who else would so blatantly admit to murder in such a fashion? He had to be protecting someone and he had known instantly when ordering the boy to bet against his getting off, that this detective and his Sûreté partner would try to see beyond the smoke to Madame Charbonneau.

  He’s too sharp for us, grumbled Kohler testily. Louis … where the hell was he when needed most? Probably sawing it off or sipping pastis while poring over his bits and pieces of a broken doll.

  Kaestner was grinning broadly; Freisen was frowning impatiently and rhythmically striking a pencil against the edge of the table as he rocked back and forth in his chair.

  Unlike the previous meeting, the Captain sat alone with his back to the wall in which a tiny, barred window of meshed and frosted glass let in the last of the day.

  Freisen sat opposite the telegraphist – the seating had all been worked out in advance. The C.-in-C. U-boats Kernével could better signal the telegraphist from there to pause if things got rough.

  Another visit to the toilet? wondered Kohler.

  Drawing out the only other chair, he sat down across from the Dollmaker and only then realized the chairs for Louis and the Préfet had been removed.

  ‘So, we begin it again,’ he said. ‘Start by telling me about your relationship with the pianist.’

  Elizabeth Krüger could not hold back a faint smile. Flushed with elation, she did not dare to look up from her pad but waited for them to continue.

  Kaestner rested his forearms companionably on the table and grinned good-naturedly. ‘All right, you win. Yes, he was there earlier. When I arrived at the clay pits, I found Yvon digging at the foot of one of the standing stones. We spoke briefly.’

  Merde, he was being too co-operative. Ah damn, thought Kohler and asked cautiously, ‘How was he? In what state of mind did you find him?’

  The shrewd grey-green eyes sought him out as they would a distant tanker. ‘Vague as usual and reticent – he is a very lonely man. Many creative types are really very shy and withdrawn. You will have found this out in your work, I expect?’


  ‘Just answer. Never mind playing around with my career.’

  ‘Of course. Sorry, but I wasn’t “playing around”, Inspector. Yvon Charbonneau spoke of the passage he was working on in his symphony – a major interlude, I gather. One needs always patience with people like that. I was in a hurry. I hope I didn’t upset him.’

  The hypocrite.

  Friesen handed cigarettes around to interrupt things and head off trouble. All but Elizabeth Krüger took one. ‘U-boat rations,’ grinned Kohler. ‘I always knew you fellows were being treated as well if not better than Goering’s fly-boys. The symphony?’ he asked, giving Kaestner a nod.

  ‘“The main theme had to be broken”, he said, “so as to give structure and attain greatness. The druids had not yet gathered among the standing stones.”’

  ‘The druids?’

  ‘Yes. Look, I can’t explain it any better. The symphony is Celtic, druidic, very brooding and like Wagner’s Tannhauser, I should think. Very of the Morbihan and the megaliths. Very bleak, uncomfortable, and unfriendly, if you ask me. Joyless because, poor fellow that he is, he is taking life far too seriously at the moment. The passage graves and dolmens are a daily thing with him, the alignments and even the single standing stones, the menhirs.’

  Kohler set his cigarette aside and studied the smoke curling up from it as a chief druid might when about to explore a virgin’s womb or stab her in the heart. ‘Has he got a name for this “symphony” of his?’

  Kaestner grinned inwardly as he sat back to survey this Gestapo gumshoe from Paris. ‘Veneti, what else? The last great tribe, yes? The one Caesar defeated in 56 BC and led into slavery.’

  Louis hadn’t been the only one to hear the child’s tale. ‘But the stones are thousands of years older?’

  ‘As are most of the artefacts and bits of charred bone he finds but the Veneti worshipped at those stones as well, and if not, at least held them in awe and were respectful of them.’

  The Dollmaker and the child must have talked it over several times. ‘And when you left the clay pits?’ he asked.

  ‘Did I see him then?’ countered Kaestner. ‘No. Of course not. He …’

  ‘He what, Captain?’

  Kaestner drew on his cigarette and took his time, then tried to make apologies for accusing someone perhaps unjustly. ‘Look, Yvon, he … ah, he could have been out on the moor. Yes, of course. Hidden among the stones of that alignment. There are seven of them and they are all quite tall and big around. I didn’t see him when I came back along the tracks. I thought he had left but …’

  Freisen noted the Captain’s shrug but said nothing and kept a weather eye on the Fräulein Krüger. Was he upset with her for telling the Captain something? wondered Kohler. She would definitely not have told her boss a certain detective had been reading a certain psychiatric analysis. ‘Would the pianist have had any reason to kill that shopkeeper?’

  The thin lips were tightly parted in a grimace of thought. ‘He hardly knew him. Hélène … Madame Charbonneau never went into that shop. Yvon is … well the husband isn’t wealthy. In fact they’re very hard up these days. It’s a tremendous strain on him of course. He’s also very secretive and fanatically possessive of his finds until he has completed excavating them.’

  ‘And has finished listening to the music they give him?’

  ‘Yes, of course, if you want to put it that way.’ Why wouldn’t Kohler accept that the pianist had done it?

  ‘He has a map of the locations,’ muttered the Gestapo, lost in thought. ‘My partner saw it in his study. I gather it’s quite like the Führer’s map in that newspaper out there. “Hits”.’

  ‘But not all of them,’ came the wary answer.

  And the pianist didn’t object to your ‘intruding’ on his find? thought Kohler. Well, we’ll see, shall we? ‘So you saw and heard no one. Is that right?’

  Freisen was trying to signal the woman to get her to ask for a break, but she was having none of it. Too worried to even look up.

  ‘I heard shouting, Inspector, as you well know from our previous session. An altercation in French. Then the sound of iron hitting iron – yes, the switch-bar. Now I remember it. The bar must have been flung aside in disgust at what he had done.’

  ‘The pianist?’

  ‘Who else?’

  Kohler looked at each of them in turn. ‘Who else? Yes, of course. The person who was either sitting on the railway bed between the rails or standing. The person who dropped the doll, perhaps just as that switch-bar came down, Captain. The person who must have been between you and the victim if what you say is true. The person who then stepped on the shopkeeper’s glasses.’

  ‘Please, I … I must go to the toilet, yes? A moment.’

  Kohler threw out a hand and gripped her by the wrist. ‘Sit down. Hold on. I’m not quite finished.’

  ‘This meeting is concluded,’ snapped Freisen, getting to his feet. ‘We’re late as it is, Fräulein Krüger. The reception, yes? and then the party for the Kapitän Hahn and his crew or had you forgotten?’

  The submarine that had returned to base this morning.

  ‘No one leaves,’ said Kohler. ‘Not yet. If you do, Herr Freisen, I will ask your secretary here to telex my objections to Gestapo Mueller in Berlin.’

  Freisen didn’t like it. ‘Very well. Elizabeth, you may leave us. I’ll take over the notes.’

  ‘It … it is all right. I can wait.’

  Knees pressed together now, was that it? snorted Kohler inwardly. Well, prepare yourself, Liebchen. Hang on.

  He dragged out the small black notebook he liked to use on such occasions and flipped it open. ‘Apparently early on the afternoon in question, the Unteroffizier Jacob Dorst and the Feldwebel Helmut Ruediger gave a lift to Lorient and well beyond it out of courtesy to a pretty Frenchwoman in her late thirties with dark brown almost black hair underneath her kerchief and dark hazel eyes. She had a bicycle with Wehrmacht issue tyres and she was in a hurry.’

  Involuntarily Elizabeth Krüger gripped her stomach. Freisen remained in the background silently watching the Dollmaker who hadn’t moved a hair and hadn’t liked that little bit about the free tyres with, no doubt, the healthy inner tubes.

  ‘There was a packet of American cigarettes in that railway shed, Captain. A woman’s crumpled handkerchief had been shoved well down in the straw. You and Yvon Charbonneau’s wife are, to put it discreetly, on very intimate terms. On more than one occasion the pianist’s daughter saw you with her stepmother on the beach.’

  ‘Walking. Just talking. There is no harm in that.’

  Was Kaestner so cool he could treat it all as if waiting for a convoy to pass on either side of him before opening fire? ‘Yes, but you also came to stay the night, Captain, when Angélique Charbonneau’s father was away’ – it was just a shot in the dark. ‘The child apparently wanders but not in her sleep. From what my partner could gather, the kid is a regular one hundred per cent night owl and we both know kids of that age have ears.’

  Anger flared so suddenly, Kohler was taken aback. ‘Kerjean is crazy. He has put this … this idiocy into your heads! Did she see us making love?’ The Dollmaker slammed a hand down hard on the table. ‘Of course she didn’t because it never happened! We’d have been speaking Deutsch anyway and that, my fine imbecile from the Gestapo, Angélique does not understand. Not yet anyway. Christ, the interfering bastard! And he calls himself a Préfet!’

  Calmness would be best. ‘Then why the cigarettes and the handkerchief in that shed?’

  ‘Why indeed? Yvon left his bicycle there and yes, I might have left a package of cigarettes or some tobacco for him now and then as a gesture of kindness, but not there, Inspector. Never there. Hélène and I never used that shed or any other. Never once. The child is lying and so is Préfet Kerjean.’

  A shoe tipped over and Kohler felt it do so as a tender reassuring foot was stretched out to touch the Captain’s leg. She’d stay in this … this pigeon-hole with him all night if she cou
ld. The constant racket and the stench of sardines wouldn’t matter a damn to her. Nothing would. Not even the presence of Baumann and the others or their relief.

  ‘So, okay you weren’t having an affair but she still came to see you that afternoon or to …’

  Kaestner didn’t smile. Every particle of him was focused on the target. ‘Or to stop her husband from killing the shopkeeper, Herr Kohler? Is that how it was?’

  Ach! The bastard had him by the balls. ‘The doll?’ bleated Kohler. ‘Where would it have come from?’

  ‘The shop. Someone must have either left it in trade or simply forgotten it. Le Trocquer never buys – at least, he never did if he could avoid it.’

  ‘In trade for what?’

  ‘Some of his rubbish. A sweet dish, an ashtray – who’s to say, Inspector? It was …’

  ‘The morning of the murder or the day before it, Captain?’

  ‘I really wouldn’t know. How could I? I was in Paris, or on my way back and then out to the clay pits.’

  A Steiner or a Bru doll but most probably a Jumeau. Louis might have something more on what had gone on in that shop but Louis had yet to show up. Verdammt! Where is he? wondered Kohler. ‘Why did you choose le Trocquer as a partner?’

  ‘Our cook found him for me. The men went there to buy things to send home to their girlfriends and families. The dolls do sell but only at certain times of the year.’

  ‘And at other times?’

  Kohler was like a heavily laden ship that simply would not go down. Not yet. ‘A few here and there. Surprisingly le Trocquer did have good contacts – people he hadn’t yet tried to cheat. An uncle, due soon to retire, is part owner of the faience works we use and want to purchase and improve. There are also his wife’s sister and brother. One has a shop in Quimper and the other in Quimperle. That wife of his comes from a long line of shopkeepers. Little people but effective when one needs them. Most of the dolls stay in Paris at the Galeries Lafayette, two very exclusive shops on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré and another on the Place Vendome, near the Ritz. I didn’t trust everything to him, Inspector. I’m not so foolish.’