Commit the ‘film’ of it to memory, then make the traverse in reverse. Photos, cutouts, maps, and such covered whatever wall space had been free. There was a lacrosse stick, two tennis rackets, an American football, quite worn and obviously used by male hands and boots, but. . . ‘Mein Gott, the room’s tidy. What more do we need?’
That, too, could not be allowed to pass. ‘What did the years in Munich and Berlin teach you? To concentrate only on the obvious and ignore the significant?’
‘Temper, temper. Don’t let all those missing girls unsettle you.’
‘Ah, mon Dieu, is it not evident I want us to use the opportunity they have unwittingly provided? It’s curious, isn’t it, that only one of the occupants was sitting on her bed just prior to their leaving?’
The beds were ex–French Army portable iron cots with straw mattresses, and there was a dent in the one Louis had noted. A game of solitaire had been in progress there, the cards laid out with a precision that defied reason.
‘An evident reason, Hermann, for this one couldn’t have been watching at any of the windows in use, could she?’
Since the windows here wouldn’t overlook those sections of the park they’d had to cross. ‘These ones face north and northeast.’
‘Ah, bon, Inspector. You’ve already learned something significant.’
‘And since she once played lacrosse, no one, and I mean no one, has dared to cut away any of that stick’s leather webbing no matter the need, or to borrow the hard rubber ball that is nestled in its crotch.’
Two of the beds, one on either side of the door, were against that innermost wall. End to end, sets of two others occupied opposing walls, the area immediately in front of the floor-to-ceiling French windows being left as a sort of common space, replete with three fold-up, portable wooden-slatted café chairs and an upturned half-barrel as a table and reminder of what they’d once been allowed to partake of with pleasure.
French and German magazines and newspapers were there—collaborationist and Nazi and obviously weeks and weeks old and cartoon-decorated in ridicule; an ashtray, too, but no cigarette butts.
Storage was under the beds and in armoires that had been scavenged and to which shelving had been added. A pantry, a little kitchen. . .
‘That stove to the right of the window is French, Louis, a Godin. Asbestos paper has been stuffed around its pipe to seal it in and keep out the wind, but at night the blackout drapes would have to be helped when drawn.’
‘But of what date is the stove?’
Ach, must he! ‘Eighteen-ninety, I think.’
‘Try 1916 to 1919.’
‘And that other war?’
‘You’re learning. Didn’t I say you would? Vittel’s Parc Thermal and its hotels became a giant hospital camp for les Américains when the French cases were moved out in 1917, myself among them. Perhaps this indicates the origin of that football you noticed.’
The things one didn’t know. Louis had been wounded twice in that other war but had never said where he’d been sent for treatment.
A chipped, enamelled metal stew pot, something kept from the Reich’s inevitable scrap drives and left over from those doughboys, no doubt, sat atop a small, electric ring whose cord, by the look, was dangerously frayed. ‘Are they able to call in an electrician now and then, do you think?’
‘Perhaps but then. . . The meal, Inspector?’
Steam was rising from the pot. Kohler started forward only to be held back. ‘There is no need. The aroma,’ said St-Cyr.
Louis would have separated that one smell from all the others that had been coming at them like those of tennis shoes no amount of washing could cure, given the sachets of lavender that had been tucked into them. ‘A rabbit stew, I think.’
‘Un garenne, mais bouilli à l’anglaise, and without its stuffing of veal, egg, lard, or fat and bread.’
Boiled wild rabbit, in the English way.
‘The flesh is firmer and has a better flavour, Hermann, than the domesticated. Perhaps that is why there are two string snares now washed and ready to be used again and waiting under one of the beds I was preparing to thoroughly scan.’
With the cameras of his mind, and the nearest of the two against one side wall, the same as had the game of solitaire, the dent, and the lacrosse stick. ‘A loner, is she? Those pelts have been cleaned and stretched.’
‘And there are two rabbits in that pot. Are moccasins in the offing?’
Since a pair of the same were already neatly side by side next to the latest Red Cross parcel whose string had been carefully coiled for use in other snares and such like. . .
‘That curtain line next to the ceiling on your side, Hermann? Were the two who slept there accustomed to shutting themselves off from the others?’
And trust Louis to have noticed it first! ‘That vase of silk chrysanthemums, the arrangement of them, that portrait of Pétain. . . A Tricolour pinned to the wall above a map of France which shows absolutely nothing to signify the country’s defeat and partition into a zone occupée, eh, and a zone non occupée?’
‘And the catches on the suitcase beneath that bed, Hermann? It’s from Goyard Aîné at 1233 rue Saint-Honoré.’
‘And the catches are considerably different in style than on those of the others.’
‘Ah, bon, mon vieux, you really are learning.’
European-style catches: a French occupant, then, and the Americans.
A pair of pink satin ballet slippers hung from a corner of the armoire between those two beds. ‘And right above our second victim’s,’ said Kohler. ‘And if I check the Red Cross parcel will I find chocolate bars and chewing gum absent but present in all the others?’
‘Or is it that the occupants of Room 3–38 pool such resources for the common good?’
That pantry and merde again! ‘Did they not always get along, the French one here and the Americans?’
‘Of those two beds, Hermann, is the one closest to the window that of our victim’s guardian?’
‘Was Caroline Lacy her ward?’
‘Was the girl the daughter of the woman’s benefactor, Hermann?’
Everyone knew that before this lousy war a lot of the French had been damned poor due to a constantly devalued franc until opportunity had come along from across the sea.
Whereas there were photographs of ballerinas and ballets of note that had been cut from magazines and pasted up on that wall, and one of a villa in Provence and a few of family members, above the other beds there were the brightly coloured, large-lettered pennants college students would madly wave at football matches: ‘Marquette University in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, Louis. Michigan Tech at Houghton, Michigan, the U of Wisconsin at Madison, and. . . ’
‘St. Olaf College, in Northfield, Minnesota.’
A map of America had pins to locate both college and home. There were photos, too, of pet dogs, of fishing expeditions with father, grandfather, and brothers; of a fiancé, too, in uniform; a sister, an aunt and uncle. Candy floss and candy apples at a fair.
‘Louis, why the hell did they have to stick around and get caught up in this lousy Occupation?’
‘Perhaps they’ll tell us, but since each went to a university that was reasonably close to those of the others, is it that they met here quite by accident and sorted themselves out that way?’
A common bond. ‘Except for Madame Whatever-Her-Name-Is and our victim, Caroline Lacy.’
‘Who might, quite possibly, have been foisted upon them.’
‘They didn’t get along—is this what you’re saying?’
‘Madame’s sympathies are obviously not those of the others.’
That photo of Maréchal Pétain. Loyalty, then, even now when increasingly the country was turning against the Victor of Verdun; Pierre Laval, the premier, being in charge anyway.
‘Each has a little library, Louis. Detective novels, romances, historical fiction. . . and most probably borrowed from the camp’s or hotel’s communal library.’
‘But textb
ooks in mineralogy, geology, biology, and zoology? Our moccasin maker values them.’
‘Houghton. . . is there a school of mines at Michigan Tech?’
‘Or one of trapping.’
‘I still say it’s a tidy room,’ muttered Hermann.
‘And are there not degrees of tidiness? This is a utilitarian tidiness given of necessity. It is not that of our killer, who, unless I am very mistaken, is compulsive.’
The Americans were down in the cellars and there were a lot of them, Louis having stayed upstairs. Under the dim light from parsimoniously spaced forty-watt bulbs, the corridor was standing-room only and must have run the full length of the hotel. Others strained to look over or past still others, and not a one of them moved or made a sound.
Kohler was transfixed by the hush, the stillness, the watchfulness of the middle-aged, the young, the old, the tall, the short, the faces round, thin, angular, the hair straight, curled, waved, cut short, worn long, with and without colourful ribbons, some even in abandoned masses of curls like Shirley Temple in Curly Top. Others like Garbo in Grand Hotel, and wasn’t that a coincidence; others still, like Mae West in Klondike Annie or Ginger Rogers in A Fine Romance; and still others in the many, many hairstyles of America’s Sweetheart, Mary Pickford.
Curiosity was everywhere, interest evident, anxiety rampant, the fear that there was a killer among them, but also the hope that there wasn’t.
‘Inspektor, mein Name ist Mrs. Eleanor Parker, and I have been chosen to speak with you. If you like, I am house mother to them, though such a title was never sought nor has it ever been abused. From time to time a spokesperson is required to take matters to the Kommandant.’
They hadn’t chosen the oldest or the youngest, nor the most attractive or sophisticated. Instead, they had picked a real ramrod fluent in Deutsch and complete with heavy black horn-rimmed specs and a look that would defy the Führer himself.
‘And now?’ asked Kohler.
That was better, thought Eleanor. ‘I think you will find that some ground rules had best be established. This unfortunate incident. . . ’
‘There were two of them.’
Ach, a Bavarian, and wasn’t it typical of them! ‘Please have the courtesy not to interrupt me. This unfortunate incident has made everyone nervous. That, in itself, is understandable, but clearly there is no cause in house for such alarm. The girl in question. . . ’
The flat of a firm right hand was held up to stop further interruption.
‘As I was saying, Inspector, the girl in question suffered from a terrible delusion and had few, if any, friends here. Certainly others amongst us have delusions but that guardian of hers, that governess. . . The poor child dreamt of becoming a prima donna. She would dance with Serge Lifar? Boris Kniaseff was to feature her in his Triomphe de Neptune? I urged patience on the part of the others, caution, understanding—after all, she was very young and her career had been nipped in the bud. I told them all that ridicule was something that would not help the collective psyche, shunning not being any way to treat another no matter how difficult.’
‘But it did no good?’
‘She simply sought out others who encouraged her, and it is amongst those that I am certain you will find her killer.’
The British of the Hôtel Grand. ‘Shunning. . . ?’
‘When two or more are talking and another comes along, the first keep on as if that person doesn’t even exist, or immediately cease all conversation.’
‘And break up with but a knowing glance or nod to each other?’
‘Inspector, if you persist in interrupting me, your investigation won’t even get off the ground!’
‘Ach, du liebe Zeit, forgive me.’
‘Certainly, but only if you will listen. A week ago there was a terrible accident. One of our girls fell, and her body has still not been removed, but ever since then our ballerina has claimed it was no accident and that she, herself, was the intended victim. Given her habit of persistently badgering any who would listen about her career, is it any wonder none would?’
‘Yet someone must have, and that someone, in turn, felt threatened.’
‘Precisely! Now, if you have any further questions you will bring them first to myself, who will then be present at all times when you interview any of the others. Is that understood?’
Mein Gott, had she Prussian ancestors? ‘Perfectly, Frau. . . ’
‘Mrs. Parker, if you please! It’s tragic enough that you people have chosen to crowd us all into such a hovel behind barbed wire. What on earth were you thinking? These girls, these women. . . of what danger to the Reich or to anyone else could they possibly have been?’
‘And yet. . . ’
‘That is not what I meant. Hers is a special case. No doubt, when the current state of emotional devastation has passed, Madame de Vernon will vehemently accuse those who were forced to share Room 3–38 with her and her ward and will then, at random, target others amongst us, myself especially.’
‘French, is this guardian?’
‘She claims a lineage to the Sun King, but if you ask me, her family was nothing more than of les hobereaux.’
The country squires, and the ultimate put-down—the lesser aristocracy, the little hawks the Paris Establishment had always derided. And hadn’t there been a well-thumbed photo of a villa on that one’s bit of wall space? ‘Another dreamer was she?’
Had she broken through at last? wondered Eleanor. Detectives could be so difficult. ‘The more we speak, the more I come to see that we understand each other. Now, may I tell the others they can return to their rooms and their tasks?’
‘Parker. . . I seem to have heard that name before.’
‘The fountain pens. My father. . . The family. . . ’
She was actually blushing over the recognition! ‘Single out the other occupants of Room 3–38. Keep Madame de Vernon here and three of the others, but send the one from Michigan Tech up to talk to my partner, Louis. The others can stay here as well until I’m satisfied.’
Had she not succeeded with him at all? ‘Madame de Vernon is in the hospital under sedation.’
‘Good. Simply hold back the three and send on the other.’
‘Then I shall have to go with her.’
‘Unless you want to stay down here with me.’
To be singled out and sent upstairs alone was not good. Nora knew she had done everything she could to have stopped it from happening. In alarm, she had made eye contact with Mrs. Parker, who, knowing full well the implications of being singled out, had simply shrugged, having had to make a decision of her own.
Surely though, even a Nazi detective would know how difficult life could then become for that person? Had this Kohler and his French partner wanted this to happen, and if so, why? Had they realized that she had wanted to remain alone in the room while the others had rushed away to crowd the windows and watch them?
The urge to scan her bed for the reason was resisted, she remaining in the doorway and unseen as yet, for the one called “Louis,” having gone through everything he could easily search, had taken to fingering things in Madame de Vernon’s suitcase. Letters, money—jewellery—were they so blatantly dishonest they would rob defenceless women who had little enough?
Quickly he emptied a thin envelope of its photos and, holding one up next to that of Madame’s former villa in Provence, muttered to himself, ‘The year 1910, madame. It’s curious, n’est-ce pas? Firstly, because there is no more recent photo and, secondly, why keep a dog-eared photo from the past pasted to the wall beside your pillow when you have similar and far better ones tucked away? Was it so that each night before sleep you would be reminded not just of the house but of something else?’
While saying her prayers, Inspector, thought Nora. While begging God to forgive and release her from this place, but do you always speak to an empty room as if the person were right there beside you?
He still hadn’t sensed her presence, was not nearly as tall as the Bavarian, was
of medium height but as broad across the shoulders and with the hands, the fists, and lightness on his feet of a former boxeur.
He moved easily, fluidly, thoroughly and carefully. Fifty. . . fifty-two. . . Was he three years younger than that ‘partner’ of his?
There was a wedding ring, though the shabby overcoat showed no sign of such a one’s attention. It being open, buttons hung by their threads or bits of string, and the right pocket, crammed with the things he’d already found and taken, was torn.
One strap of Caroline’s spare brassiere dangled from that very pocket. The grey fedora he wore was pushed well back of what must be a broad forehead. Had he a mustache? He looked the type—would smoke a pipe, too, when he could get fuel for that little furnace.
Quickly he replaced the photos. Now he felt along the back edge of the suitcase and when he had what he wanted, drew that little cedar box out and held it up by its tie of braided parcel string.
But instead of opening it, he set it down and, turning his attention to Caroline’s shelf, ran a forefinger quickly over the little bottles with their labels. ‘Borage,’ he said en français. ‘Marshmallow, thyme, and the ground, dried leaves and stems of the Datura stramonium, the thorn apple, though being une Américaine, Mademoiselle Lacy wouldn’t have known it by that name, would she?’
Ah, merde! ‘She suffered terribly from asthma, Inspector. Night after night she’d be up, wheezing, trying to catch a breath while Madame patted her on the back, as if that would have done her any good! “Steam,” I would hiss at them. “Boil a little water.”’
‘And?’
He had taken the datura bottle from that shelf and pocketed it. ‘Brother Étienne reluctantly prescribed the jimsonweed. We call it that because the settlers who first found it in America lived near Jamestown, Virginia. The name then became a contraction of that. It can, of course, cause terrible highs. Everyone knows of this and has been warned of it by him.’
He reached for the little white porcelain mortar and pestle Madame had also kept in her suitcase, and brought it up to a nose that was full and robust, his dark brown ox-eyes never once leaving her. He did have a mustache, full and thick and dark brown, but didn’t look so frightening after all, which could only cause her to worry all the more.
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