Stonekiller (41 page)

She heaved an inward sigh and said silently, It was my duty, to examine those things Nénette had in her pockets. I had to make myself aware of what the child had discovered.

‘Antoine,' she said. ‘
Bien sûr
, he … he has done everything possible to make things right for Nénette. He gave up his beautiful house near Rambouillet, the house his father had given us at our marriage, and moved us in here. He kept all the servants. He
wanted
the child to feel at home in the house she had always loved.'

‘And had inherited.'

‘Yes. Yes, that is so, of course. The factories, too, when she comes of age—everything, you understand. Just everything. But … but now …'

She gave a ragged sob and burst into tears—flung the cigarette away and cried, ‘Ah
merde, merde
, why did I not force Antoine to listen to her?' She sucked in a breath. ‘Forgive me, I … I had best go in. I might say things I shouldn't. He … he's not to be blamed for what happened, is he?'

Passing her the clean handkerchief he always kept for such occasions and others, St-Cyr gave her a moment. He took out his pipe and tobacco pouch and began that pleasant task of preparing to settle down.

A spare few, careless crumbs of tobacco fell on her bare feet, a waste, a sacrifice he would normally never have made had he not wished to unsettle her—yes, yes. And she felt them as if they were grains of silicon carbide or the hot turnings of metal from a lathe in one of the factories, even to catching in her imagination the pungent odour of burnt cutting oil. ‘Inspector … Antoine just doesn't understand children. He's far too busy now, since the death of his brother. He's been dragged in from semi-retirement and forced, yes forced, to work for a living. Children have their little games, isn't that so? It was just a game, wasn't it? But … but,' she blurted in tears again, ‘it
wasn't
a game! It
wasn't!
'

Her feet began to leave his lap. He clamped a hand down on them and said, ‘No, we will stay. A child has been murdered, madame.
Murdered
.' He softened his voice. ‘Now, please, what game?'

‘She … she had been following the killings. She was convinced the … the Sandman would strike again and … ah, may God forgive me, and in the Bois, in or near the Jardin d'Acclimatation.'

He gave her another moment and at last, when he made no comment, she said, ‘Antoine, he … he dominates everything. He issues directives as the Occupier does ordinances. He believes I talk nonsense when really I spoke the truth and warned him the child was on to something.'

Snow was brushed from the detective's sleeve. A match was struck and then another and another. At last his pipe was lit and savoured in that first moment, and she knew then that he was delighting in the pause, that he was relishing the time to reflect on what she had said.

‘They … they went to Mass, Inspector. Liline and Nénette. Liline, she was like Antoine in that she didn't believe the child either but would humour her all the same. They … I know they visited the belfries of the Notre-Dame. Nénette, she confided this desire to me the other day. She … she has said she had to see where one of the schoolgirls had been murdered.'

Again he waited. Again she saw his priestlike silhouette against the ghostly light of darkness and snow, the sharp angularity and curvature of box and yew. ‘Nénette was a pack rat, Inspector. A magpie. She was always picking things up—a button in the gutter or on the
méto
, a tooth-brush or pocket comb she would then sell on the black market, a pin, a badge, a medal, a toy … She had found something she said and was convinced the police, they were not looking hard enough.'

They always got it in the neck, the cops. The poor, the wealthy … all held the same antipathy, even children. But was it the fob of an ear-ring she had found? Had it belonged to the Notre-Dame victim, and had Madame Vernet yet to realize exactly where the rubbish in his pockets had come from?

She must have realized it by now, for both hands were deep in those pockets. ‘Had she any other friends?' he asked cautiously.

‘Friends?' she shrilled. ‘Only Andrée from school. Inseparable, those two, and both picking their noses at the same time at the dinner table!
I
caught them. The … the poor child's mother is a disaster. Very wealthy, very pampered. The parents left her at the convent school for the holiday but … but at last reluctantly requested to see her. She took the train to Chamonix three days ago. Antoine had to help the child obtain a
laissez-passer
. Nénette was devastated when she discovered what he'd done, and cried for hours. “
Right when we were so close to trapping the Sandman!
” she said. She hated Antoine for doing it.
Hated
him who has done so much for her.'

The detective made no comment. He simply drew on that pipe of his, and when the bowl touched her left foot, she felt the warmth of it seep slowly into her.

‘The
laissez-passer
, madame?' he asked quietly, and she knew then that she had best be careful with him, that too much said in a moment of grief could so easily be misunderstood.

‘Antoine meets regularly with the Kommandant von Gross-Paris, who is a frequent dinner guest. A call to General von Schaumburg was all that it took. Andrée got her pass and … and went off to see her parents.'

‘So it was only Mademoiselle Chambert who accompanied your niece to the Notre-Dame?'

‘Yes. Yes, of course. Why do you ask?'

Had there been alarm in her voice? he wondered. ‘Ah, no reason but clarity, madame. Things are always hazy. One always has to brush the snow or the cobwebs away. I take it they went on from there to the Jardin d'Acclimatation?'

‘Yes, to tea in the children's restaurant.
Tea!
'

He waited. She said, ‘Forgive me. Nénette had forced herself into liking tea because it … it reminded her of her mother, not that the tea they serve in such places in any way resembles the real thing!'

The tears were interrupted. Having finished its nocturnal wanderings, the poodle, on seeing them, rejoiced. It tore across the fish-pond, slipped, went down hard, crashed into the edge, yelped, yapped and threw its dark shape at madame, who gathered it in and said ‘
Darling!
' only to drop the creature in horror and kick at it. ‘
Get away from me, you filthy little beast!
'

The dog's head was quizzically cocked to one side. The ears flopped. Pompon thought it a new game and dashed away, only to race back in and up again.

‘We'd best go in,' she said, suffering the licking, the cold wet nose. ‘You can see how lonely he is, how he is missing her. He'll have to be put down now. Maybe we can bury him with her—are such things possible?'

He really didn't know if under-the-coffin money would help, but reached far back into himself for a suitable answer, and said at last, ‘Perhaps … but then … ah
mais alors, alors
, with murders, madame, the authorities can be so very difficult.'

One look at Antoine Vernet was enough to tell them they were dealing with fire. Tall and trim, he stood before them in the entrance hall with arms lightly folded across his chest, and the look he gave was not cold or angry at the flagrant intrusion upon his privacy but merely so calm he could just as well have been cutting throats at a board meeting.

The dark grey suit was immaculate. The black leather shoes, pale blue dress shirt and dark blue silk tie allowed nothing in excess. Even the gold signet ring on the little finger of the left hand and the wrist-watch dovetailed perfectly into the image of wealth and success.

The face was broad, the forehead high, the fine grey-white hair not parted but brushed straight back and perfectly trimmed. The burnish of a slight windburn suggested he had recently been outdoors on holiday—had he been skiing at Chamonix?

A banker, an industrialist—a man not just of money and power but one who, as with every new situation, had already assessed this one and leapt ahead to the successful conclusion he wanted.

The eyes were a North Sea blue, the lips compressed, the expression, though calm, the merest touch quizzical.

‘Gentlemen, I see you have met my wife. Bernadette,
ma chére
, give the inspector his coat and go upstairs. You will be freezing.'

He was leaning slightly back against a magnificently gilded ebony Boulle commode, and the Savonnerie carpet of the marble staircase swept upwards behind him beneath a gorgeous Flemish tapestry that must date from the twelfth century.

Dutifully she set the dog down and handed the leash to Kohler, who took Louis's fedora as well, while the Sûreté politely removed the coat from her and shrugged himself back into it.

Her bare toes formed crimson islands in the tiny puddles the dog began voraciously to lick.

‘Bernadette,' said Vernet, with a nod so slight she bowed her head and whispered, Yes, of course, Antoine. It's … it's only that my heart is broken. I …
Pompon, don't do that!
Ah, you naughty boy. My legs, my snuffie, my little forest—'

‘My dear, we are waiting.'

‘Madame, a moment,' cautioned the Sûreté, holding the flat of a restraining hand up at the industrialist. ‘Your face … the scratches.' Hermann had reined in the dog.

Hesitantly she touched the scratches. Inflamed, they ran from high on a prominent cheekbone right down the narrow face to the lower left jaw. There were four of them.

‘I … I did it in anguish. I tore my hair, I slapped myself, too.' She turned her right cheek towards him. ‘As I said, Inspector, I am so distressed. Nénette was … was very dear to me.'

If Vernet thought anything of it, he gave no indication. Was he content to let her hang herself? wondered St-Cyr. Things were certainly not quite right. She was tall, a brunette with a fine, high chin, nice lips, a sharp and very aquiline nose, but eyes … eyes that pleaded for understanding and said, from the depths of their moist brown irises, You warmed my feet. You listened to me. Please remember what I said.

A woman of thirty-five, a man of sixty-four.

A maid came to take the dog away. Vernet didn't even glance at her but the girl, pale and badly shaken by the death, instinctively felt the master was watching her and avoided looking up.

Bernadette Vernet took the stairs with dignity and only at the curve of the staircase let the peignoir fall to the carpet to expose bare arms and squared, fine shoulders, the nightdress of silk.

Hermann was impressed and St-Cyr could hear him giving her credit for a perfect exit. A handsome woman and proud of it, but not entirely a happy wife. Ah no.

‘Gentlemen, please state your business.'

‘Our business is murder, monsieur,' said St-Cyr, swiftly turning towards him. ‘Perhaps you would be good enough to accompany me to the morgue. There is some question of identity. A simple glance from yourself should be enough.'

Not a flicker of unease registered. ‘What do you mean, some question …?'

Ah! was he a glacier? ‘Please, that is best settled with the victim before us.'

‘And your partner?' asked Vernet, still unruffled and giving the tiniest glance at Hermann.

One must be affable. ‘Detective-Inspector Kohler will question the staff, with your permission. Nothing formal. There is the absence of Mademoiselle Chambert, you understand. We are concerned that …'

Still there was no sign of anything, not even the flash of a more quizzical smile as between men who know of such things as Vernet was now about to impart.

‘The girl had taken a lover, Inspector. A fellow student. She often stayed out beyond the curfew, and for her sake as well as ours, I had advised her to remain where she was. It's normal, I understand, for people to do such things.'

Even the clubs and bars would close and lock their doors, keeping the patrons in until the curfew ended at 5.00 a.m. It was that or have them risk arrest with all its consequences.

‘A lover,' said Kohler. The cap and wound badges in that kid's pockets, eh? ‘Can you put a name to him?'

‘Alas, I considered the matter private.'

‘But she was the last to see the child alive, monsieur,' urged Louis. ‘Surely you must realize how important it is for us to talk to her?'

General von Schaumburg had said nothing of these two detectives, nor had Gestapo Boemelburg. Had their silence been a warning in itself? wondered Vernet, and decided that it must have been. ‘My chauffeur will have the address and perhaps the name. Deloitte occasionally dropped the girl off on the way.'

‘I'll ask him, then, shall I?' shot Kohler.

‘Yes, of course, Inspector. Now if you will excuse me a moment, I will get my hat and coat.'

‘Ah, monsieur,' interjected Louis, ‘could I ask that your driver take us to the morgue? Monsieur Deloitte can then fill me in on the way while Detective-Inspector Kohler talks to the rest of the staff.'

‘Very well, if that is what you wish, but I must caution your assistant to limit his activities to the kitchens.'

‘
Sein Assistent …?
' blustered Kohler. ‘
Ah Gott im Himmel, mein Herr, Gestapo Mueller ist mein Vetter!
' This was not true, of course.

‘Herr Mueller's cousin or not,' said Vernet in unruffled French, ‘you will confine yourself to the kitchens and leave the bedrooms of Mademoiselle Chambert and my niece alone until such time as the Kommandant von Gross-Paris decides a search warrant is necessary.'

Verdammt …!

‘Inspectors, my only wish is for you to find the killer swiftly, but because of my position, I must insist all formalities be observed.'

Left to himself, Kohler pointed a stiffened forefinger at the housekeeper to rivet her into silence, and went up the stairs like a rocket to open the first door on his right and catch a breath. Ah
nom de Jésus-Christ
, what was this? A flea market? A sorcerer's enchantment?