Mannequin (10 page)

They went into an office that was spacious and once filled with Chinese porcelains, Japanese prints, ivory fans, chopsticks—little mementoes of colonial days years and years ago. Other things too, of course.

But now all chucked out in favour of the utilitarian. Maps detailed every nook and cranny of France with pins and flags. Telexes hammered. Telephones waited. From the office next door came the machine-gun sounds of four secretaries typing reports already at 0700 hours Berlin time, 0600 hours the old time, 0500 hours in summer, Christ!

As Head of SIPO-SD Section IV, the Gestapo in France, Boemelburg had the power of life and death over every living soul in the country. A giant, like Hermann, but well over sixty years of age and with an all-but-shaven grey bullet of a head, sagging jowls and puffy sad blue eyes, France's top cop had been a detective for much of his life, but had included some years in Paris as a salesman of heating and ventilating systems. He spoke excellent French, even to the slang of the
quartiers
and, what was far more important, could think like the French when needed.

Depending on his mood, however, it could either be French or
deutsch.
This time he chose the former. One never quite knew with him, and of course, to have known and worked with him before the war on the IKPK, the International Organization of Police, had been more of a detriment than an asset. Boemelburg had known only too well the capabilities of God's little detective and had put him to work but had given him Hermann as a watchdog.

The voice was gruff. ‘So, Louis, a matter of eighteen million and the disappearance of a neighbour?'

Turcotte in Records must have filled him in.

‘Walter …', began St-Cyr.

The lifeless eyes grew cold. The frame, big and big-boned, with flesh hanging under a dishevelled grey suit, straightened ponderously.

‘Herr Sturmbannführer,' said the Sûreté's little mouse, ‘we're not certain yet if there is a connection between the disappearance and the robbery.'

‘Then make certain of it. Otherwise you'll devote yourselves entirely to the robbery.'

‘And the préfet?' blurted the mouse.

‘You leave Talbotte to me, Louis. Kohler, how was the fucking last night? Did you bang the both of them? How dare you tread on such thin ice? A whore and a Dutch alien?'

‘I … I fell asleep before … Well, you know,' shrugged Kohler, managing to look foolish. ‘They were both disappointed.'

‘Then perhaps we have your undivided attention after all.'

Ah
nom de Jésus-Christ,
was it a warning of things to come? wondered St-Cyr. An old and much trusted friend of Gestapo Mueller in Berlin, it fell to Walter to send them on their way when need arose which was always these days. Alas, and with no extra pay, not even a mention of it. Just the blitzkrieg because that was the way the Germans wanted things done.

Boemelburg indicated a side table and said, ‘Kohler, go out to that car of Louis's and bring us a selection of your fourteen victims. Don't waste time.
Use
it!'

He waited for the Gestapo's Bavarian sore thumb to leave, then said, ‘Louis, this business mustn't be taken too close to the heart. There's a war on and I have my priorities. Though Talbotte says he's convinced there isn't a terrorist connection to the robbery, I want the matter fully cleared.'

Is that understood? One could read this in the Sturmbannführer's gaze.

‘Certainly, Walter.'

‘Can I count on you?
'

Ah
merde!
‘Yes. If …'

‘If I let you work on the girl, eh? Is it to be a bargain with the Devil, Jean-Louis? You, a patriot who must betray his own kind or find himself elsewhere?'

There could be no backing away from it this time. If there was a Resistance connection, he would have to be told. It was either that or forget about Joanne …

‘There can't be any in-betweens, Louis. Either you're one of us or you'll be kept on elsewhere only until such time as your usefulness ceases.'

The brown ox-eyes lifted to a ceiling sculpted in plaster. Doves and whorls, harps and cupids, a naked Venus with snakes in her hair or was it Medusa?

Moistening, the eyes asked God, why must You do this to me? Then they were lowered to Boemelburg, and he lied. ‘Yes. Yes, of course, Walter. Joanne first before France. You have my word on it.'

‘Gut!
Because if you don't inform on the
Banditen
in this matter and all others, I will personally make you eat those words, even though that same Resistance for the most part still hates your guts and still has you on their list!'

Ah no, their hit-list … There were cells and cells. Each was very small and seldom connected to more than one or two others at the most. Gabrielle would not be able to contact more than a few people to tell them the accusation of collaborator was totally false!

Boemelburg's rapid switch to
deutsch
hadn't been without its cruel effect. The Sturmbannführer was only too aware of her interest in this Sûreté. He would know only too well that Gestapo Central had bugged her dressing-room and probably her flat. But while they might have their suspicions, they were apparently content simply to watch her for the moment as they did so many others.

‘Now take a look at the photographs on that table, Louis. Records have spent the night digging them out for me as a favour to you for old times' sake.'

A favour. How nice …

In black and white, and corpse by corpse, were the grisly bodies of nearly forty women. Some were so badly decomposed only teeth and bones and shreds of flesh and clothing remained. Others were quite fresh. Some had been shot, others strangled, still others bound and gagged then knifed or smothered. Not all were naked—indeed, most were clothed or partially clothed and in only six were the dresses rucked up, the underwear and stockings yanked down, the blouses and brassières ripped open or otherwise dishevelled.

Long hair, short hair, curly and straight—all was spilled over muddy ground, wet grass, concrete, carpeting or floated among tendrils of weeds. Arms and legs slackly sprawled, heads that were crooked at odd angles, eyes that were open in some cases and blindfolded in others or simply closed.

No sign of Joanne as yet … None. ‘Are … are they all from after the Defeat?' he managed. Could Talbotte be shirking his duties as préfet so much?

‘They bracket the Conquest, Louis. Most are from afterwards but it's for you to decide exactly how long this affair has been going on. Ah, it's about time,
dummkopf!
' he shouted at Hermann.

Beneath each photograph on the table was the respective dossier. Some were barely a page or two, others quite thick. It was Kohler who said, ‘Most of these can be discarded, Sturmbannführer. We're looking for potential mannequins of the ages of eighteen to twenty-two.'

‘Then look. Spread out the ones you have from the house of Monsieur Vergès, and the next time you think to slap a
verboten
notice on a door whose lock you have smashed, remember to ask my permission.'

‘We were in a hurry.'

‘Don't backtalk your superior officer! Good
Gott im Himmel,
have you not had enough lessons for one lifetime?'

It was a sore point and nothing more needed to be said. Grumpily Boemelburg spread single photos of each of the fourteen girls out in a row below the others. Then the three of them began rapidly to search for the corresponding photographs or to dig into the files. From time to time there was a grunt, a, ‘Ah, there she is,' or, ‘No, it can't be this one.'

Eight of the fourteen girls were accounted for. All were naked. Though some had been left lying face up, others were face down. All had had their breasts removed but these were absent from the scene and had not, apparently, been recovered.

Four were still bound and gagged and had been butchered on the spot, their clothes scattered about the rain-soaked trampled grass of an abandoned field or vacant lot.

Renée Marteau had not been the first to die. At least three others had come before her—one as early as 7 October 1940 and missing since 15 August—fifty-three days and nights of terror.

A gap had then occurred until 21 December 1940.

‘Then 3 March 1941, Louis,' said Hermann, ‘and then another gap and Renée on 15 August 1941.'

‘The day that one went missing, Hermann, but a year later …?'

‘Some kind of anniversary?' asked Kohler.

‘Perhaps, but then … Ah, Walter, Walter, even if there is no connection to the robbery, is not the case of these girls and that of Joanne sufficient?'

Boemelburg reminded him of the robbery's priority.

‘Of course. How stupid of me to have forgotten.'

Kohler felt he had best say something before Louis hanged himself. ‘It looks like the kidnappings began after the fall of France.'

Not the conquest? Was Hermann trying to be kind? wondered St-Cyr, alarmed.

‘Point is, did their murderer figure he could get away with it now?' asked Hermann with all that such a question implied about the Occupation. Giselle had suggested it.

‘Or did he feel such women, and what they stood for, had betrayed France in her hour of greatest need and sought to punish them?' asked Boemelburg. There had been a legacy of bitterness after the Defeat of June 1940, the accusations of cowardice all too common. ‘There has to be a rationale, Louis. Violent hatred such as this must have its roots in a deep psychosis.'

Walter couldn't yet know of the son of Monsieur Vergès or of the boy's fiancée. ‘Have Ballistics come up with anything?' asked St-Cyr.

There was a nod. ‘A typical terrorist gun, just as Hermann said to Talbotte in that bank. An officer's gun that wasn't turned in. A Lebel Model 1873.'

And as common as dust.

‘But was it from the First or the Second War, Walter?' asked St-Cyr gravely. ‘That is the question, since the gun, as you well know, was used in both.'

‘But not with any of these,' grunted Boemelburg, indicating the eight of the fourteen victims.

With each of those whose bodies had been found, the hair had been cut off in fistfuls and disposed of elsewhere, with the breasts perhaps.

Four of the bodies had been moved after death, but only Renée Marteau's corpse been found in water, in the Seine.

Two of the girls had been strangled with silk stockings. An axe had been used with the two whose heads had been removed. A single blow in one case, three blows in the other.

One girl had been smothered by having her face pushed into mud. Another had been forcibly drowned, in a bathtub, perhaps and her body dumped elsewhere.

‘And one was so badly burned with acid, Louis, she must have died in agony,' said Hermann, ‘though not a drop was spilled on her face.'

Ah
nom de Dieu,
wondered St-Cyr, what was he to tell Joanne's parents? Acid … A drooler who hated young women …

‘Louis, I've had the dossiers and the photos copied for you as a gesture of our willingness to co-operate in this matter,' said Boemelburg.

The sad eyes lifted to him. ‘And that of the bank teller, Walter?'

‘That also. He had a wife and two children. Perhaps the wife can tell you something.'

A nod of thanks would suffice. ‘We'll go first to the warehouse of the mover to see what has happened to the furniture from that house, then we'll split up so as to get the work over as quickly as possible and cover more ground.'

‘Bon.
Keep me informed and remember our little agreement.' ‘Our agreement. Of course.'

‘What agreement? Louis, you'd better tell me.'

‘Then perhaps you'd best not drive so insanely. After all, it is
my
car!'

‘Piss off! Don't evade the issue. Boemelburg swore you to allegiance. Otherwise it was fuck Joanne and get on with the robbery.'

‘Please don't use such crudities. The girl has a mother and father.'

‘And
a grandmother!' They were shouting.

So Boemelburg had put it to Louis, the poor sap. ‘Hey,
mon vieux,
if you want it, I'm going to give you the last word to make you feel better!' Kohler tramped on the brakes, hit the accelerator and they rocketed up the hill of Montmartre. No traffic … Well, none of consequence.
Vélos, vélo-taxis,
one miserable horse-drawn carriage, a Wehrmacht lorry and …

‘Ah no!
'

Screech!

‘Ice … the roads are icy, Hermann. Please. God has just granted us a small miracle. Let us proceed more cautiously since the boy was not crushed under our wheels and is now weeping in his mother's arms.'

‘A ball, Louis. Why the hell was a ball rolling out on to the road like that in winter?'

‘The street is narrow. We're in an older part of the
quartier.
The people here have to make do. The boy is too little to play elsewhere. The mother …'

Kohler pulled on the handbrake. The car idled beautifully. ‘Hang on a minute. It's Christmas,' he said and, getting out, went over to the woman who immediately thought she was going to be arrested.

As St-Cyr watched, the Gestapo's Bavarian protector dragged out, from God knows where, a handful of sweets.

The woman was so rigid with fear, he had to take off the boy's hat and leave them in it.

Backing away with the palms of both hands upraised in caution, and looking ridiculous in greatcoat, scarf and fedora, he got back into the car. Breath steaming. Fog on the windscreen.

‘Gimme a fag, Louis.'

‘I haven't got any, Father Christmas.'

‘A
fag, damn it!
Light one for me.'

Hermann was shaking.

The cigarette, retrieved from one of the Gestapo's inner pockets and lighted, began to do its work. At last the giant confessed. ‘I don't ever want to have killed a child, Louis. I could never live with that on my conscience. Two wars and I swear I haven't yet. No women either.'