Sandman (20 page)

‘My partner may have checked with Records. We may have fingerprints we can match with those of a known abortionist. He should have been here by now.'

‘He's not. Ah! I'm forgetting myself. These things, they are never easy, are they?' Opening the birdcage, he released a finch to let it fly about the room. ‘I find it helps. Their constant conviviality reminds me that life is what this world of ours is all about, not death. Mademoiselle Chambert was, I gather, the mistress of Antoine Vernet. This must be why Préfet Talbotte wishes me to dine with him tonight and why he is waiting for my telephone call and the confidences I shall not reveal to him if it will help your cause.'

Poised over the glacial crevasse of their times, the Sûreté was grateful to be pulled to safety.

‘If you could, I would appreciate your not mentioning the differences in the killing of Andrée Noireau. Simply attribute all of them to the Sandman for now.'

‘Of course.' Belligueux fed the finch a few seeds before returning it to the cage. ‘Is it true you have the goods on our préfet? There are rumours.'

There were always those. ‘It is. That dossier grows thicker and it is my sincere hope that when this Occupation is over, the Resistance will see I am no collaborator but was forced, as so many of us are, to work with the enemy.'

‘Your partner is no enemy.'

‘Hermann is special. A worry, yes, when it is all over and the Germans have to pull out but, for now, my friend.'

St-Cyr watched as the birdcage was covered with its hood and then a blanket. The gramophone was closed. Belligueux gave a nod. He would take himself off to find his suit jacket and overcoat, then would telephone the préfet to send a car round. ‘I will give you ten minutes alone here if you wish,' he said, ‘That way you will be gone before he arrives.'

‘Please have Madame Vernet sent in. We won't be long.' Hermann must have been delayed. Hermann …

The house on the rue Chabanais felt draughty. The child's leather glove seemed to have a life of its own. As Herr Kohler gently smoothed it out on the counter of her little cage, Madame Morelle flicked a wary glance at the burly, grim-faced Feldgendarmen behind him and touched her heart.

The glove seemed to want to creep towards her, to rise up, its fingers spread to cry out,
Answers, madame. You must provide him with answers
.

‘The child,' breathed Kohler. ‘The Sandman, madame.'

‘Ah! my heart.'

‘Fuck your heart.'

He must have explained things to the Feldgendarmen. They were with him in this.

‘Giselle le Roy, madame. Age twenty-two. Eugène Debauville, alias Father Debauve has her, and the child.'

‘
That one, he is not here!
' she shrilled. Hurriedly she crossed herself, and the glossy black beads of jet she wore rattled. Again she looked to the Feldgendarmen for help, her big strong boys, her little
boys, her friends
to whom she had given so much. Free girls, free meals, free cigarettes, cognac and beer—much beer. Wireless sets, too, and lingerie, perfume and soap—good soap—to send home to their wives and mothers. Their grand-mothers also.

Pah! men who would desire to ravish whores dressed as schoolgirls now all but wept openly at the loss of a real one and oh,
bien sûr
, they had every right, herself also, but
what
had Father Eugène been up to? Violating little girls again? Ah
nom de Dieu, de Dieu
, was it possible?

She saw the pistol Herr Kohler fingered as he grinned. It was not a nice grin, and she knew he loved this Giselle le Roy and that Father Eugène, a friend, ah yes, of course—an associate also who had lent her money in the past to take this house; one must acknowledge the loan since it was not yet repaid with interest … Father Eugène would just have to take care of himself. Violette as well, but … but Violette was unique and haste was not wise in her regard.

‘He's a strange one, Inspector. His needs, they … they are not those of a normal man.'

‘Just tell me where he is or might be.'

May God forgive her. ‘
Numéro
78, Champs-Élysées, the fourth floor. He … he runs an escort service from there.' She grabbed Kohler by the arm as he turned to leave. ‘Has he really taken the child?' she demanded. ‘Is he the …'

For one who had seen everything, did she still have a tender spot, or was it simply concern for her purse?

Kohler lifted her pudgy, beringed fingers from his arm and dropped them. ‘Is he the Sandman, eh, madame? A black overcoat, a man who gets his kicks out of little girls? You tell me, and while you're at it, understand that being an accomplice to the murders of six girls puts you in trouble so please don't attempt to leave town.'

‘
Six?
' she croaked. The whores, the customers were watchful.

‘Five victims and Liline Chambert, eh? And now also Giselle and Nénette Vernet. That's what we're dealing with until it's all clear and those responsible await the blade and the basket.'

The morgue was not pleasant, and as she walked out across the concrete floor in her mink coat and boots past drains that conducted fluids to the sewers, Madame Vernet felt the skin tense up over her spine, causing her to shiver.

She clutched the coat more tightly about herself, ‘Inspector; what has happened? There are two shrouds. One is longer than the other. Why is this, please?'

‘Why are there not two of equal length? Is this what you are wondering, madame?'

‘
No!
I …'

‘Please take a moment to steady yourself,' cautioned the Sûreté, watching her so closely she cringed and could not understand why he was looking at her in that way.

The smell of the place came to her, that of disinfectant, formaldehyde, rubbing alcohol, old blood, death and dampness. The sewers … ‘I have nothing to say. I
don't
know why you have brought me here. I shall have to complain to the Chief Magistrate.'

‘Please do so, but before you do, madame, I would consult your clairvoyant. Madame Rébé, was it?'

Ah, damn him. ‘If … if that is … is Liline, you had better talk to my husband, not to me.'

‘I will, I assure you.'

‘
Then remove the shroud, damn you!
'

Behind closed doors, between walls of stone and cold storage lockers, there was nowhere for the sound of her voice to travel but back to her.

‘Please,' she begged, and he saw tears again and he asked, ‘What have you done, madame?'

‘
Nothing!
I … All right, I knew she was having an affair with my husband.
There
, is that sufficient for your appetite, Inspector?'

‘It's Chief Inspector, and let us not just have the hors d'oeuvres but the main courses.'

‘Pompon is mine. I … I don't know what made me lie about it Fear perhaps. Nénette out there and dead, I thought. Antoine telling me to watch what I said, that I had no right to question him.'

‘A tiepin, madame. Where, please, did you step on it?'

‘I
don't
know. How could I? Ah, damn that child. Damn her for picking things up and thinking they were important. Perhaps it … it came from … from the
métro
. Yes … yes,
that's
where it happened. I felt a leak in my boot. I knew I would have to get the puncture mended.'

‘Please remove the boot and let me see if it is wet inside.'

‘How dare you doubt my word?'

‘The hole I fitted that pin into did not go through the sole.'

‘It
did
!'

He sighea He let sadness register deeply in his eyes. ‘Very well, let us uncover this one and you can confirm its identity so that the parents can be notified.'

He did it slowly, this Sûreté. There was about his every action a deep-felt sincerity and respect for the dead.

Uncovered, the pale and softly bluish face of Liline Chambert in slumber brought a shudder, a gasp, a sudden turning away to place her hands on the other pallet, only to lift them instantly and drop them to her sides. ‘It's her. Please tell me how it happened. Was she trying to protect Nénette and … and Andrée? Is
that
how it was?'

She heard him take a step and then another. She thought that perhaps he was coming to comfort her after all, but no, he … he had drawn the shroud back a little more.

‘It was a boy,' he said, and she saw that … that
thing
washed and dried and lying all curled up on a clean white towel upon its mother's breast.

Ashen, Madame Vernet tried to retreat by gazing at the concrete floor. At last she said, ‘I … I didn't know she was pregnant. Please, you must believe me,' and when he gave no sign of this, her anger leapt. ‘Where is Nénette, then, idiot?' she shouted. ‘
Nénette can tell you everything
.'

‘Then let us hope she does.' Hermann … where the hell was Hermann?

Gold letters on a brass-framed, frosted glass panel met the eye, the soft image of a smiling, bright-eyed young woman with bouffant-styled dark auburn hair ghosting through from behind
Les Liaisons enchantées. Numéro
78, Champs-Élysées, fourth floor, suite seven.

Kohler paused. An escort service, a
clandestin
, eh? He wanted to shout and pounce. An illegal brothel, but this logo of a member of the
petite noblesse
gazing at him said only, This is class. Let no others enter.

It was nearly 11.00 p.m. The place should be closed by now but wasn't.

‘Monsieur, what can we do for you?'

There were two women in their mid-thirties behind the gilded Louis XVI desk, one sitting, the second standing with a hand on the other one's shoulder. They'd been going over the accounts …

‘Giselle and the child. They're all I want.'

‘Pardon?' said the blue-eyed blonde who was standing.

‘Ah! Monique, the monsieur, he means Mademoiselle le Roy. Please,' said the raven-haired one, indicating that he was to enter another room. ‘She is waiting for you, monsieur. She will explain everything, I think.'

‘It's a pity he's not a general,' confided the blonde to the other one. ‘He has the height and the duelling scar but not the clothes, the uniform, too, of course.'

‘Mademoiselle Irène would be perfect for him, and there are still two tickets to the opera for tomorrow evening.'

Kohler stepped past them to enter a drawing room fit for kings. Shades of gold were nearly everywhere in the swirls and oak-leafed pattern of a black, Savonnerie carpet, in the herring-bone fabric that covered the settees and
fauteuils
and ran up the walls with darker gold bands between. Row on row of gold blending softly in with the painted ceiling and the portraits—all of men of distinction. The tall french doors were of white enamel with gilded mouldings.

Giselle was dressed as he had never seen her before, the soft crimson cashmere sheath worn off the left shoulder, with a diamond-studded clasp, black velvet choker, bracelet and ring to match. Red leather high heels, too.

‘Kid, what the hell is going on?'

Are you jealous? she wondered. Red is my colour but this … this is something far, far different. Silk stockings, too, and silk elsewhere also. ‘He's not what you think. He's good and kind—of course we prayed a little. He's a priest.'

‘He isn't.'

‘Oh yes he is. Did you think we would not hear you pounding on the doors of the Saint-Roch? He knew you would not understand why he had taken me there, so he brought me here. It's all very proper, Hermann. The girls are escorts. Nothing else.'

‘What is the matter with you?'

‘Has he hypnotized me? Is this what you are wondering?'

‘Where's the child?'

‘The glove … Ah! you thought she was here and he had taken us both prisoner.'

‘Well?'

Hermann was jealous—she was certain of it, so maybe she would take the job and dine with a general or two just to see that he behaved himself in future. ‘The child is not with him. He found the glove in the rue Chabanais this afternoon. She dropped it and ran and he could not catch up with her to return it. That is all.'

‘She's alive?'

‘Yes. And free.'

‘At exactly what time did he see her?'

‘In the last of the daylight and just before you left me to find the name of Violette Belanger's
maquereau
from those … those
salauds
in that Café of the Turning Hour where you should
never
have left me alone, Hermann.
Never!
If you valued me at all.'

Hesitantly he reached out to touch the softness of her cheek and press the backs of two fingers gently against her lips. ‘I've been through hell,' he confessed. ‘I feel as though I could sleep for a thousand years.'

‘But there are no beds in this place, are there, my Hermann? Only
les liaisons enchantées
for those who do not wish to go with whores, even the very high-class ones.'

6

I
N THE PRE-DAWN BITTER COLD AND DAMPNESS OF
the Bois de Boulogne, the warmest place was next to the manure piles just outside the riding stables.

‘Did you sleep at all?' grumbled Kohler, unable to light a cigarette. ‘Christ,
why
does it always have to be us, Louis? Couldn't that God of yours smile on us just once?'

‘He's too busy. He expects us to simply get on with the job.'

‘Giselle is convinced Debauville is still a priest, but me, I have to tell you that little pigeon of mine is not the same. When we got home to the flat, she prayed on her knees for a good hour—Oona told me all about it. Tears and entreaties to the Blessed Virgin to save her from a life of “consorting with the enemy and having unclean and lurid thoughts,” begging Our Father to forgive her for “engaging in
wanton
sexual activities of a depraved nature with a member of the Gestapo, a
detective
. A man old enough to be her grandfather”!'