Had it been a warning, wondered Girandoux and if so, was it but an affair of foolishness then, this matter of the girl? The affectation of one who had adopted the position of surrogate father or ‘uncle’. ‘The girl was afraid, Inspector. I noticed the coat, the scarf and gloves, yes. She was quite handsome but …’
‘When … At about what time? Please be as precise as possible.’
‘At … at about 1.15 or 1.20 perhaps.’
About half an hour after the robbery. ‘And she was afraid?’
‘Yes. A frown, the constant looking back over her shoulder. Once a pause beneath the trees to watch the gate for a few minutes. Five, I think. Then again under one of the arches, and once more from the arcade in front of the shop of Monsieur Meunier, the engraver.’
‘Please, this shop, which is it?’
A Pétainiste through and through, a man who liked order above all else, Girandoux removed a black leather glove to place a forefinger on the plan of the garden that was tacked to the wall precisely in front of the plain wooden table and chair that were the sole furnishings of his office, apart from a calendar whose days had been meticulously X’d.
‘It’s at number 27, Inspector.’
Directly across the gardens from the house …
Perhaps the frost was the cause of the moisture in the detective’s eyes, thought Girandoux, perhaps the knowledge that the girl had quite possibly been followed and most certainly must have known of this.
‘Was she with the Resistance, Inspector?’ he hazarded. One never knew quite what to say in these times.
A copy of the Paris weekly Je Suis Partout was sticking out of the worn leather briefcase on the floor. The lunch packet was empty.
Pro-Nazi and violently anti-Third Republic, the weekly reflected the views of such fascists as this one, thought St-Cyr. The lighted candle would give the illusion of warmth. The black-out curtain was drawn.
‘Inspector …’
‘Yes, I understand perfectly, Monsieur Girandoux, custodian of the gates to the garden of the Palais Royal. Is it that you’ve missed out on the reward of 100,000 francs by not notifying our German friends of such a suspicious character? If she had been apprehended, and if forced to confess, then of course the money would have been paid and you could rest a good deal easier knowing you had rid the world of such a terrorist. But, ah but, you see, monsieur, she wasn’t of the Resistance, was not even suspected of such of thing.’
The man heaved a grateful sigh. St-Cyr thought to ask further questions—they desperately needed to know what had happened— but he couldn’t bring himself to do so and was angry his feelings should intrude so harshly.
Without another word, he snuffed out the candle and left the bastard in the dark.
Meunier, the engraver, was more co-operative and with good reason. To the quiet, steady trade of engraving cigarette cases and bits of silver and gold for German officers, had been added the engraving of embossed and gilded notices for official receptions and calling cards. ‘Beautiful paper, tireless and exquisite workmanship,’ said St-Cyr. ‘I commend you, m’sieur, and your son. That is your son in the workshop, is it not?’
It was. ‘His chest, Inspector. The lungs are not very good.’
‘So, free of the call-ups of ’39 and ’40, and free of the forced labour in the Reich.’ There would be an exemplary doctor’s certificate stating absolutely that the boy’s health wouldn’t for a moment allow such activities.
The speckled, grey-black, neatly trimmed aristocratic beard didn’t move. The dark eyes behind the gold-rimmed glasses were limpid.
‘I’ve nothing to hide, Inspector. This,’ Meunier indicated the displays, ‘is but a living. Were I to have shut up the shop of my great-grandfather and gone south into the Free Zone, I would simply have forfeited everything. Is that not so?’
It was, for the Germans would have taken over and sold what they could or rented the shop to someone else and pocketed the rent, since that had been one of the first ordinances of the Occupier. Get back to work or else.
Meunier had been bent over his desk patiently working on a copper plate, with an array of wooden-handled engraving tools before him and a jeweller’s glass to one eye. Now he reached for his jacket and, putting it on, buttoned it up over a grey vest and waited. The shop was warm, a rarity in these days of so little coal. A bad sign, since it implied outright collaboration.
The son tried to continue to operate a small hand-press. A notice in heavy bond for the Kommandantur perhaps, or the SS over on the avenue Foch since it was the holiday season.
‘A small matter, monsieur,’ said St-Cyr. ‘Did either of you see this girl on Thursday last at about 1.20 p.m?’
The engraver didn’t even look at the snapshot.
‘Is it about the house of Monsieur Vergès, Inspector?’
‘Monsieur Vergès?’
‘Yes. Directly across from us. The girl studied the house for some time, then entered the shop to ask whose it was. Monsieur Vergès hasn’t been back since the exodus of June 1940. I told the girl there couldn’t possibly be anyone there and that she must have the wrong address.’
To offer information so readily was just not usual, especially not in these desperate times. ‘And how did she react to what you said?’ asked St-Cyr cautiously.
‘Distressed. Flustered. At first certain that I hadn’t told her the truth, then casting anxious looks through the windows towards the house. This … this morning when Paul arrived to open the shop, he … he noticed the curtains had been removed. Has something …?’
‘Ah yes, the curtains. The house is empty.’
‘Empty, but …’
‘But what, m’sieur?’
‘But … but Monsieur Vergès can’t have sold it, Inspector? The house has been in his family for generations. He swore he would never do so even though his only son is one of the droolers and was never allowed to show his face here.’
One of the droolers … les baveux. A special branch of the gueules cassées, the broken mugs of World War I whose faces had been horribly mutilated by shrapnel and the bullets of snipers and machine guns.
Without a lower jaw, or only a part of it and often no lips, one drooled constantly and wore always a towel around the neck to catch the saliva.
‘Surely Paris and the garden could have been allowed the son, monsieur?’
The detective had obviously been a soldier himself.
Reading the engraver’s mind was easy. ‘A sergeant in the Signals Corps,’ said St-Cyr guardedly. ‘I’ve seen so many of them, monsieur. Begging in the streets. Shut up because … ah because one’s family and friends soon became so ashamed of the gah-gahing, they turned their backs on those heroes and loved ones in revulsion.’
And you’re still bitter about it, thought Meunier, warning himself to go carefully. ‘Monsieur Vergès is the kindest of men, Inspector. The boy was to have been married but when his fiancée saw what had happened to his face, she screamed in terror and ran from him, refusing absolutely to have anything more to do with him.’
A quite common response and quite understandable though regrettable. ‘So, let us proceed to the matter of the house and the girl in this snapshot. Did she stay with you long?’
Meunier hesitated, but immediately regretted doing so and was flustered. ‘Ah, not long, Inspector. She asked again about the owner of the house and left in a hurry.’
‘But … but she thought she was being followed?’
‘Followed? Pardon?’
Was it such a catastrophe?
Swiftly Meunier went to close the door to the workshop and shut out his son. Then he came back to stand on the other side of the counter. ‘She said nothing of being followed, Inspector. Nothing!’ he hissed.
‘And did you not sense this?’
‘No, I did not. I saw a girl who didn’t belong in a place like this and had obviously been given an incorrect address, a girl who couldn’t understand that such a mistake had been made. When I told her the owner wasn
’t there, she showed me a letter she had received in answer to an advertisement she had found in Le Matin.’
So, the fish is fresh, thought St-Cyr. Now for the sauce. ‘And what did the letter say? Come, come, monsieur, an answer is required.’
‘That … that she was indeed to go to that address. This I cannot understand, Inspector, but at the time, I said there still must be some mistake as I hadn’t seen Monsieur Vergès in over two-and-a-half years.’
‘And do you think she went to the house?’
As if the confrontation were over, Meunier began to relax. ‘Of that I have no idea. She left without thanking me and I paid not the slightest attention until …’
‘Ah yes. Until your son told you the curtains had been taken down.’
‘Yes, not until then,’ came the testy reply.
‘And were the curtains there yesterday?’ asked St-Cyr cautiously.
‘It was Sunday, Inspector. Though we’re very busy, the Lord’s Day is sacred.’
‘Saturday then?’
What has happened in that house? wondered Meunier. ‘Yes, the curtains were there on Saturday. I myself saw them and can swear to this.’
Then there’s no need for me to speak to your son, is that it? thought St-Cyr. ‘Tell me about this Monsieur Vergès, monsieur. Where does he live?’
‘Near Provins. He has a house there which has been in his family for over two hundred years.’
‘A house. A château?’
Meunier thought a pause would be best. He would draw himself up. ‘I really wouldn’t know, Inspector. One never asks.’
‘Come, come, m’sieur. Monsieur Vergès would have used your services on a number of occasions, especially to announce the engagement of a son.’
Ah damn the Sûreté and their meddling! ‘Le Château des belles fleurs bleues.’ The Château of the Beautiful Blue Flowers.
Lupins probably, or violets along the wooded banks of the Seine. ‘And the name of the fiancée who ran away?’
‘Angèlique Desthieux, but surely that business happened so long ago, it’s of no consequence?’
It would be best to give the engraver a moment and then to quietly tell him, ‘In crime everything is of consequence. The announcement, please. You will still have a copy of it.’
Desthieux … It rang no bells until Meunier just happened to say, ‘She was a mannequin for one of the top fashion houses. Freelance also.’
A mannequin … Starded, the detective threw him a look of savage puzzlement. ‘She was what?’ he demanded.
Unsettled, Meunier thought to shrug the matter off. ‘Oh, she was from before that other war, Inspector. Very beautiful, very elegant. Tall and slender, with long chestnut hair and large dark brown eyes … Monsieur Vergès’s son was very much in love with her. I used to see them strolling in the garden from time to time. It was the young Monsieur Gaetan who, at his father’s wish, asked us to do the announcement.’
A drooler … a girl with long chestnut hair and deep brown eyes … ‘May I keep this for a little?’ asked St-Cyr of the gilded announcement. ‘Please, I’ll take good care of it.’
‘Certainly. I have two others. We always keep three or four and always I seem to be thinking I ought to throw them out but can never bring myself to do so.’
‘Bon. Now, please, m’sieur, a word with your son for I greatly fear you have tried to mislead me and that he’s the one who really let the girl into the shop and spoke with her.’
Crestfallen that the information he had sacrificed had not accomplished what he had intended, the engraver sadly nodded in defeat. ‘He’s a good boy. Lonely—aren’t all such boys lonely when everyone says he should have done his duty and he can’t find the will to forgive a father’s love? He’s the only son I have, Inspector. No one else can carry on the name.’
‘Then let me speak to him. It will do no harm and go no further than the three of us.’
Reluctantly Meunier opened the door to the workshop. The boy had removed his glasses and apron and, though brushing tears from sensitive eyes, stood proudly waiting to be carted off to prison.
Ah maudit, what have we now? wondered St-Cyr, not liking it at all.
Dumbfounded, the father stood in silence gazing at his son as if for the first time.
The boy whispered, ‘Papa, forgive me.’
‘For what? For talking to that girl?’
St-Cyr nudged the father out of the workshop and closed the door. He thought to say to the boy, You fool, he thought to say so many things but a sad weariness had overcome him and all he said was, ‘I’m Chief Inspector Jean-Louis St-Cyr of the Sûreté. My partner is from the Gestapo.’
‘The Gestapo …?’
The boy blanched. For perhaps ten seconds the pale grey eyes in that thin, angular face met his as the ghastly reality of those two words sank in.
Paul Meunier was delicate, thin and tall. A boy, a young man—one always spoke of both in the same breath—of about twenty-six years of age.
‘My family,’ he blurted. ‘My father, my mother and my sister …’
‘They will all be shot, as will yourself,’ said St-Cyr, not sparing him but hating himself for having to adopt the guise of the Occupier, ‘unless, of course, we can come to some agreement.’
‘Agreement?’ It was a yelp. The boy wet his pale lips and, at a loss as to what to do with his right hand, pushed back the silky light brown hair that had fallen over his brow.
‘Look, my interest is in the missing girl, Joanne Labelle.’
‘Not in the papers?’
‘Don’t be an idiot! Don’t offer information like that!’ Merde alors, must God do this to him, a simple detective? ‘Listen, mon ami, one can read your mind so clearly! Forging papers. Making a hero out of yourself so that the girls will think more highly of you. Hey, do you know something, my fine martyr? I don’t want to know who you forged them for.’
He doesn’t want to know …? ‘My father, he … he forbade me to go into the army.’
An impatient hand was tossed. ‘Forgive him. That’s the only thing you can do. Now listen, I want you to shut up about these forgeries. Sure I know the Resistance must be using you, but I have to walk the knife edge always, so the less said the better.’
Was the inspector involved in something himself? wondered Meunier. Was it best to let him go on thinking that it was the Resistance he had done the forgeries for and not Mademoiselle Marie-Claire de Brisson, the banker’s daughter? The nights and nights of patient practice and experimentation until she was satisfied and it was done. Three sets of documents with laissez-passers for Provins and Dijon. The travel papers had been the hardest to forge, the others not so bad, and in time, perhaps, the Resistance would be able to use him once a suitable contact was made.
‘Your partner …’ began the boy.
St-Cyr told himself the Resistance should never have used this one, that the boy would drag them all down, himself as well if mentioned. ‘My partner, yes. Hermann Kohler of the Gestapo.’
‘Will you … will you be telling him that I …’
‘That you are a forger for the Resistance? Perhaps I will, perhaps I won’t. I leave you to worry about it, eh? So watch yourself and don’t try to leave the city. Now tell me about Joanne Labelle. Tell me everything. Try to forget about my partner.’
Kohler let a breath escape slowly as he compared the head-and-shoulders photo in one of the card-index drums of missing persons with a photo from the house, then moved on to the dossier Émile Turcotte had pulled for him.
On Thursday, 3 July 1941, a girl named Reneé Marteau had answered an advertisement in Paris-Soir. She had been an out-of-work mannequin with nearly two years’ experience and had, apparently, seized on the advertisement as a means of getting herself back onto the circuit.
Long chestnut hair and deep brown eyes all right. A bit small in the bust, but what the hell, that wasn’t everything when you had smashing legs, a nice smile and a gorgeous posterior.
He turned a page and fou
nd the first of six grainy black-and-white police prints that made him turn away and nearly lose his lunch, though that had been eaten hours ago.
On 15 August 1941 her nude and badly battered body had been found washed up downriver in St-Cloud just past the Citroën works. It had caught against the mooring cable of a refuse barge that had been machine-gunned during the blitzkrieg and had sat on the bottom ever since. Weeds were in her mouth and nostrils. Mud was smeared in streaks over pale white skin that looked cold.
She hadn’t been in the water long. Perhaps twenty-four hours at the most. A vagrant had found her. Hair all chopped off so that only tufts remained. Throat cut. ‘A slice from the right and savagely,’ hissed Turcotte who had never been at the discovery of this corpse or any other, and not even at the morgue. ‘The breasts removed for good measure but we feel this was done before the killing.’
Verdammt! swore Kohler. What the hell was he to tell Louis?
Records occupied the whole of the sixth and top floor of what had formerly been the Head Offices of the Sûreté Nationale but was now that of the Gestapo in France. Screams in the cellars, dread on the rue des Saussaies and the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré right in the very heart of the city, only whispers and dark looks up here where seventy or so French detective-clerks in grey smocks foraged round the clock in shifts for news or filed away another bit.
The Sûreté had never thrown a thing out. Second only to the records of the Gestapo in Berlin, the whole damned place had been taken over lock, stock and barrel in June 1940. A treasure trove of criminals and their crimes to which, as a measure of Germanic efficiency and consolidation, had been added the files of the Prefecture of Paris. Talbotte had seen fit to keep copies for himself but had been reluctant to object. He had known his place and still did only too well.
In addition to the ten or fifteen million dossiers and cards dealing with outright crime, there were the millions of other bits and pieces that might eventually prove useful. One never knew. Apply for a passport or a visa in pre-war days, or even now, or a new set of papers, and you got a card here. Apply for a hunting licence in days past when such a thing was possible, and you got a special card, complete with registration number. Nice for the Occupier. No problem in finding stray rifles and shotguns that should have been turned in. Apply for a marriage licence, birth certificate or divorce—yes, here divorce had been legal before the war, though now Pétain and the government in Vichy frowned on it, the hypocrites. Age, date of birth, sex, race, colour of eyes, nose, height, weight, religion, address and those of the closest relatives, place of residence, job, education … it was all here, locked up in silence until the wheel was spun, a drawer opened or the pen taken up.
Mannequin Page 3
