‘The stovepipes, yes,’ began St-Cyr. ‘The Bretons are Celtic but due to the absence of phosphates in the soil, most are not so tall – you will have noticed.’
He hacked off a chunk of sausage and examined it suspiciously. One never knew these days. Cat, rat, fishmeal, sawdust – edible seaweeds perhaps …
‘Eat it, Dummkopf!’
‘The Bretons, the Armoricans, Hermann, they wanted their women taller so they bound their heads with wire as the ancient Chinese did the feet of their princesses. When France took the region over, of course the practice was stopped, but …’
‘But the stovepipes remain,’ breathed Kohler. ‘I think, I’ve got it, Louis. The influence of Paris and of refinement.’
‘Yes, you’ve got it.’
‘Then it’s just like the Captain must have said. The dolls had to be dressed in Paris because only there would they know how to do things properly.’
The sauerkraut was salty. Beer was called for but it was deliberately thin and flat, and by the time Kohler had managed it, his sausage was cold.
They ate in silence. Not another soul ventured into the darkly panelled dining-room. Though there must be other U-boat crews on rest and recupe, there wasn’t a sound but that of the wind which had decided to bring more rain.
‘We’re being shut out, Louis.’
‘Ostracized is the word you want.’
‘No matter. U-297’s crew are convinced the Captain did it and that, my fine Sûreté, is not something they conveyed to the Admiral.’
‘What of Freisen? Wouldn’t he have informed the Admiral of this?’
‘We’ll find out later. He’ll be there at 1530 hours.’
The potatoes were without butter, margarine or even a sprinkling of parsley but when salt and ersatz pepper were liberally added, a tiny particle of taste crept forward to remind one of the past. Poor Marianne had not been able to keep even potatoes down. Four days of agony and then … why then Paris and life with a man who had seldom been home for more than a few days at most and had neglected to think his absence might have been troubling. Young and healthy women do need sex. When denied it, they crave it and who can blame them if they are tempted by another?
‘We have also the distinct possibility of a marriage of convenience, Hermann. A Madame Charbonneau is married to a Parisian concert pianist who has a ten-year-old daughter whose mother was machine-gunned to death during the blitzkrieg.’
Marriages of convenience these days were so often done to hide one’s identity or past. Verdammt! ‘Does the kid still have nightmares?’
It was spoken like a father. ‘Probably. Was the doll hers, Hermann? That is what I want to know since the Admiral insists the bisque was not the Captain’s.’
St-Cyr dragged out his pipe and tobacco pouch only to gaze ruefully at the few remaining shreds. Hermann mopped up the last of the juice with a bit of bread from the inside of the loaf. Like many who had once been in the front lines of that other war under intense bombardment, he ate stolidly.
He was really a very uncomplicated person, this former detective from Munich and Berlin, a man who had seen so much of death, his stomach had finally rebelled. A man who had two sons at Stalingrad … Ah merde, the telex Boemelburg gave me, thought St-Cyr guiltily. The boys were missing in action and presumed dead, and Boemelburg, being the Chief, had left the dirty work to Hermann’s partner who was a coward, yes, when it came to such things.
‘The Captain must have told Freisen the fragments weren’t from one of his dolls,’ said Kohler. ‘Bullet then passed it on to the Admiral.’
Did they all have nicknames? ‘Why don’t they simply let U-297 put to sea without the Dollmaker?’
Kohler found his mégot tin and made the supreme sacrifice of sliding it across the table. ‘Because, my fine friend, if you ask me, the men won’t sail without him. They must have had such a bad time on their last cruise, the Admiral is willing to humour them by asking for a couple of detectives to prove his boy is innocent.’
The tin contained Hermann’s collection of cigarette butts, most saved, some picked up from God knows where. Several had lipstick on them, that last case? wondered St-Cyr. A cache of butts in a Louis XVI-style concrete urn that would hold geraniums in season. The garden of the Palais Royal, a missing eighteen-year-old girl and a bank robbery …
He heaved a sigh. ‘More than two years of constant stress, never knowing if the next moment would be their last. Even Paulette le Trocquer was sympathetic to their plight and knew the odds.’
‘Obersteuermann Baumann wears the look of death, Louis. He knows he’s going to die no matter what, so it’s all to the good if the Captain’s case keeps them ashore for a little longer.’
Packing his pipe, St-Cyr lit up, coughed suddenly at the hot fire, and, wincing, tried to settle down. ‘Please clear the plates,’ he choked, and when this was done, laid out his little bits and pieces: the fragments of bisque, the clots of coarse black wool, one packet of American cigarettes, a crumpled white handkerchief and lastly, wrapped in paper, a small and much kneaded wad of kaolin no doubt taken from the Captain’s satchel.
Reluctantly he withheld the cigarettes, forcing Hermann to clumsily try to roll one from the contents of his tin. Mon Dieu, it was cruel. The Bavarian’s fingers, which could defuse even the most clever of tripwires or fuses, could not seem to control the cigarette paper or its tobacco. ‘Here, let me. To think that you, a former artilleryman and bomb disposal expert, never learned the art even in that French prisoner-of-war camp you managed to find refuge in.’
Deftly St-Cyr rolled the cigarette, licked the paper, smoothed the thing out, pinched off both ends, tapped them and returned the recovered tobacco to the tin.
‘We must offer a Lucky Strike to Freisen and the Captain,’ he said by way of apology. ‘It may be our only hope of driving a wedge between them.’
Kohler lit up and blew smoke towards the ceiling then indicated the handkerchief. ‘Things the Bullet wasn’t told, eh? A cosy ride in the hay and the woman forgetting a little something?’
The shed and the bicycle tracks … ‘Then why was the handkerchief crumpled so tightly unless she wanted only to resist but found she dared not do so.’
‘Did that belong to the piano player’s wife?’
‘And these?’ asked St-Cyr, plucking at the tufts of wool. ‘Is it that this Madame Charbonneau, who it is rumoured is both mistress of the Préfet and the Captain, witnessed the murder or committed it?’
‘Or were the shopkeeper’s wife and daughter simply lying to you about her being the mistress of anyone?’
‘The pianist spends all his time searching the megaliths for clues to the past. They would not have lied about that. It’s far too easy to check.’
‘Driven to it, is he, by the wife’s fooling around?’ shot Kohler.
‘Perhaps.’
‘Then he’d be out and about a good deal and that, my fine Sûreté, is what those two wanted you to think. Besides, clots of wool like that could have come from almost any female here, or hadn’t you noticed? The men even have black overcoats.’
‘But would a man have retreated? Would he have pushed himself away on his seat, or dropped the doll and then, yes then, returned to step on the victim’s glasses quite by accident?’
‘We’ll interview the Captain first, then borrow a set of wheels and pay the pianist and his wife a little visit.’
3
Kaestner’s look was piercing. It was as if the Dollmaker could not stop himself. Sharp grey-green eyes sought the absolute truth with a frankness that was disturbing.
A man of thirty-two, of medium height, he was slight, not unhandsome, though the face was narrow, the chin pointed, the lips thin and often tightly parted showing the crowns of clenched teeth, the ears prominent.
The thick brown hair had been cut short, boyishly parted on the left and given but the whisper of a hasty brush. When he spoke, he did so with clarity and pointedness. More intent on observing, he kept his own c
ounsel with good reason.
Préfet Kerjean had seen fit to be present.
On the other hand, the Kapitän zur See Freisen, the C.-in-C. U-boats Kernével, would always be the man in the background. Ever watchful of the Captain, he was suspicious of everyone, under orders from above and intense in his own way. A man of thirty-four perhaps, and with a short-cropped sandy beard, moustache, high forehead, prominent brows, blue eyes, large blunt nose and crinkly hair that was parted on the left and closely trimmed.
Somewhat taller than the Captain, the Bullet sat more stiffly, rocking back in his chair when the notion took him. Was he not a little impatient? wondered St-Cyr. Did he really mind so much the stench of sardines, sewage, iodine and lifeless air? If so, why hadn’t he insisted on moving the prisoner elsewhere?
Neither of the captains were in uniform except for their white Schirmmützes, their caps, which sat formally to one side of each of them on the table. Their dark blue turtle-neck sweaters, heavy dark blue corduroy trousers and boots were the essence of informality and comfort.
One of the Blitzmädels from Base Kernével sat primly at the opposite end of the table from the Préfet with a pad and pencil in her lap and still wrinkling her nose distastefully. Blonde, curly, wavy hair, serious blue eyes, soft pink cheeks, lovely red lips, a trim, neat twenty-two-year-old in a snappy blue Kriegsmarine uniform. A telegraphist.
Everything was to be taken down in shorthand to be later transcribed and telexed to the Admiral at the U-boat Command Centre in Paris.
The cell was cramped. There was barely room to stretch one’s legs. The racket from the canneries intruded but would just have to be ignored. Kohler longed for a cigarette and coffee, even the ersatz garbage of ground, roasted acorns, barley and chicory, but none had been offered and no one was suggesting it. The generalities over, they’d now get down to business with the decisiveness of battle.
The Préfet launched into the coroner’s preliminary report.
‘Time of death approximately 4 p.m. the old time, 1700 hours Berlin Time on the afternoon of Friday, the 1st of January. The force of the blow strongly suggests the assailant was a man in his prime. Both hands grasped the switch-bar and this is evident from the smearing of soot and grease. Gloves were, however, used.’
He paused to look at each of them in turn, nodding finally at the Blitzmädel to signify he would continue. ‘These gloves were of black leather, probably of light weight, that is to say, not insulated with a thick cotton liner.’
‘A moment, Préfet,’ interjected St-Cyr. ‘How is it that the presence of such gloves was determined?’
‘Tiny shreds of leather were torn from the gloves by rasps of metal on the bar. These shreds were examined under the microscope, at a magnification of one hundred. I myself have witnessed them.’
It was Freisen who, rocking back in his chair, told him to continue. No diplomat when it came to the French, the C.-in-C. U-boats Kernével had allowed his impatience to show. He’d tolerate Kerjean’s presence only for so long.
Ignoring him, the Préfet laid the report on the table and decisively pressed it flat. ‘They were dress gloves similar to, if not the same as those worn by officers of the Freikorps Doenitz when ashore and in uniform at this time of year.’
Ah merde, thought St-Cyr, how could they possibly tell from so little?
‘I wasn’t wearing uniform,’ said the Dollmaker. ‘I was in my spare coveralls and sheepskin jacket. The watchman will confirm this. We shared a cigarette and a few words about the weather.’
‘I have already asked him,’ said Kerjean levelly. ‘He is not certain, Captain, if you wore gloves but thinks …’ The Préfet lifted a cautionary finger. ‘… that perhaps the gloves were in the pockets of your jacket.’
‘Then he is mistaken. I would not gather kaolin while wearing them, since I have to use them on parade, yes? Nor would I wear them afterwards without first washing my hands.’
Kerjean sat back to survey him. The girl’s pencil was poised. She hardly breathed. She was really very pretty but professionally intense like so many Germans. Did she have an interest in the Captain? he wondered and thought it likely. ‘But … but you did wash your hands? You apologized for the state of them? You grinned, Captain, and shrugged it all off, and Monsieur le Pennec, who speaks about as good French as you do yourself, poured water from his kettle over them and offered the use of his towel with apologies of his own, is that not so?’ The Préfet looked at Louis and shrugged open-handedly. ‘The towel, my friends, was filthy but what can one say since it was the only one the watchman had?’
Verdammt! thought Kohler. This thing …
Freisen turned to the Captain to confer earnestly and quietly. It was Kaestner who said, ‘I did not have my gloves with me. They were in my bag which was on the bed in my room at the hotel here.’
‘The gloves can then be examined,’ grunted the Préfet as if it really did not matter.
Freisen leapt in. ‘They’ll be torn. They’re not new. This is crazy, Préfet. Crazy! You’re mad.’
‘Mad or not, I aim to continue.’
Ah Nom de Dieu, thought St-Cyr, does Freisen also think the Captain guilty?
The Captain watched the Préfet with that same decisively piercing look as if through the periscope and Kerjean the enemy tanker.
‘The conclusion?’ asked Kohler.
Were the Bavarian’s eyes always so lifeless? ‘Ah yes, Inspector. The coroner concludes that as Monsieur le Trocquer stood near the inner rail of the spur, he was approached from behind and to his right. You yourselves found evidence of the Captain’s having left the railway for the nearby moor some distance towards the pits.’
Shit, thought Kohler, he means to pin it on the Dollmaker even if the Captain didn’t do it!
The Préfet continued. ‘The shopkeeper was challenged. He did not turn. He removed his glasses, isn’t that so, Chief Inspector St-Cyr?’
Louis nodded curtly. The girl was ready to pounce again on every word. Her whole being was focused on the end of her pencil.
Kohler thought her perfect. Naked, she’d be absolutely delightful but probably kept it all locked up for some lucky guy.
‘The victim whipped off his glasses,’ said Kerjean decisively. ‘No doubt he was planning to pocket them for safety’s sake but …’
Again the girl waited. When the pause grew, she glanced up, giving the Préfet the fullness of her eyes.
He met her gaze with an emptiness of his own that said so much about where he really stood with the Occupier. ‘But the blow came, the glasses flew out of his hand. He collapsed and was carried forward and down by the force, thus striking his forehead on the outer rail, something that would most certainly have killed him had the other not done so.’
Louis took out the cigarettes and offered the Captain one but if he knew of the package and the shed, the Dollmaker was far too clever to let on.
Freisen, apparently, didn’t even notice they were American cigarettes nor did the girl who refused with a shake of her pretty head and said a quiet, ‘Not when I am on duty.’
‘There is one other matter,’ said Kerjean, saving the cigarette for later but noting its origin. ‘The briefcase he was carrying is missing.’
‘What briefcase,’ demanded Kaestner swiftly. A rise at last? wondered Kohler.
There was a sigh from the Préfet. ‘That I think you know only too well. Of old brown leather and shabby, isn’t that so? Nothing special because not only had he been a man of little means all his life, Monsieur le Trocquer had not cared much about his appearance.’
‘A moment, Préfet. How is it that this matter of the briefcase came to light?’ asked St-Cyr.
It would not do to smile as the mackerel was pulled from the basket of sole to lie stinking on the cutting table. ‘The wife has said that before he left to catch the bus, her husband came upstairs to get the case. He was in a hurry and upset but did not say what was the matter or why he needed it.’
‘But you and the victim
had only just had a violent argument?’
‘An argument? Ah no. A discussion perhaps. Yes, that’s the way it was. The money was missing, isn’t that correct? Monsieur le Trocquer was not forthcoming. I urged him to speak up so as to leave no suspicion in anyone’s mind.’
‘But the daughter has told me several things were broken?’
‘The daughter? Ah, a few bits of glassware. Monsieur le Trocquer got in a huff and threw out a hand. It was nothing.’
But now you are afraid, thought St-Cyr, glancing at the Dollmaker and the Bullet. ‘The value, please?’
Nom de Jésus-Christ, what did it mean, this attack? ‘A few francs.’
‘And the reason for his “getting in a huff”, Préfet?’
Jean-Louis was serious. ‘This I have already mentioned, Chief Inspector. The money, yes? Is time of so little value to you?’
‘Time is to murder what salt is to an open wound. One or both of you cried out the name of a Madame Charbonneau. This was heard by the daughter and the mother also, I believe, though that one steadfastly denies it.’
Exasperated, Kerjean blew out his cheeks and tossed the hand of inconsequence. ‘And the former, Jean-Louis? That little slut? Paulette le Trocquer would lie for the sheer pleasure of seeing if she could get you to believe her!’
‘What do you think was in the briefcase?’ asked Kohler.
Startled by this new direction of attack, the Préfet’s eyes narrowed swiftly. ‘The money? Is this what you two think?’
‘I’m asking.’
‘Then I do not know, Inspector. Since the Captain’s money has been missing for some time.’
‘How long, please?’ asked St-Cyr.
Would the two of them keep it up? wondered the Dollmaker. So far so good.
‘I … I can’t be sure, but at least eight weeks. Its absence was discovered by Monsieur le Trocquer just before U-297 returned to the Keroman bunkers on the 5th November. Privately he accused his daughter of the theft. The girl still denies it and did so then.’
Mannequin Page 33
