2

BEYOND THE TALL IRON FENCE, AND IN DARKNESS, the softly falling snow gave to the Villa Vernet the caress of a moth. Beech, oak and plane trees graced an open parkland which, with formal gardens, overlooked the Bois and were but a kilometre and a half from the cage of doves, and right in the northwestern corner of the city, quite close to the Seine.

‘It is perhaps the most prestigious address in Paris,’ said St-Cyr, his voice hushed and uneasy, for they were not going to reveal the mistake in the identity of the victim right away and could not know where such a lack of forthrightness would lead. ‘There will be no communal soup kitchens here, Hermann. The route du Champs d’Entraînement is home to but a chosen few.’

The powerful and the useful. Those who’d been allowed to keep their wealth and position. Those the Occupier hadn’t kicked out so as to requisition their villas. It was money, one hell of a lot of money, that kid had inherited. The house, built in the style of Louis XVI, of Chantilly limestone blocks that softly glowed and sharpened shadows, was of two storeys. A narrow balcony, recessed around the upper storey, made access to the roof and chimneys easy. Here, too, the ceilings were much lower than on the ground and first floor. ‘The servants’ quarters.’ Kohler nodded uncomfortably. ‘A couple probably, or a cook, maid and housekeeper. A governess, too, perhaps, even though the kid goes out to school. Louis, maybe we had better tell Vernet the truth and get it over with. He’ll have connections other than von Schaumburg.’

The SS perhaps.

‘Let’s take a little look around first. If we ask, we will not be given the chance. Indeed, it may be our only opportunity.’

‘And the other?’

‘We keep silent for now, no matter what.’

‘Then don’t blame me if we get our asses in a sling!’

‘Hermann, this killing was different. Don’t be an idiot! Something must be very wrong. There were two girls, not one, and the victim could not have been randomly chosen.’

Leaving the car some distance away, they headed up the circular drive and were soon standing behind the house Footprints that would have been made less than fifteen minutes ago were now all but buried.

‘A dog,’ breathed Kohler, puzzled. ‘A poodle probably, and the one who came out with it. A woman in her bare feet, I’m afraid.’ He indicated a far corner of the garden where Doric columns stood beyond the dark grey granite edges of a snow-covered pond. ‘You or me?’

‘Me, I think. Check the coach house. See if there are living quarters above it—the groundskeeper perhaps.’

They parted without another word, and when he neared the folly, St-Cyr realized that it was in the style of the Parthenon. Steps led down to the pond where water lilies would bloom in summer beneath the shimmering wings of dragonflies as they hovered above the lurking shadows of the carp.

He could barely see the woman, so deep was she among the shadows. ‘Madame, I regret very much this sudden intrusion into your solitude. My name is Jean-Louis St-Cyr of the Sûreté Nationale.’

‘was she naked? Did she suffer a lot?’

‘Naked …? Ah no. No, madame,’ he said, conscious of the tremor in her voice, its shrillness. ‘She suffered, yes, but … but perhaps not too much, if one can say such a thing was possible.’

‘I loved her as my own. We were very close. We confided things to each other. She … she trusted me absolutely. I blame myself for what has happened.’

He had not moved, this detective from the Sûreté. He stood at the foot of the steps looking up at her through the columns into darkness. Was he wondering why she had come out here to this place? Would he question why she was wearing only this?

She plucked at the flimsiness of her peignoir. She said, ‘Pompon has run off again. I … I should not have let him off the lead, but … but it was her dog, not mine. Actually, I have no love of dogs. Even the best of them are dirty and do disgusting things, but … but for a child’s sake one has to make sacrifices, isn’t that so? Do you have children, Inspector? Girls perhaps? Girls who might someday be …’

She felt his hands take her firmly by the shoulders. Cursing the flimsiness of the peignoir under his breath, he pulled off his overcoat and wrapped it around her. ‘The house,’ he said determinedly. ‘Indoors, I think.’

‘Not yet! Please! I … I have to tell you how it was. He … he won’t let me say a thing. He’ll see that he does all the talking. He’ll send me to bed.’

Ah merde … ‘Then come and sit on that bench out there. Let me warm your feet.’

‘Give me a cigarette first. Let me fill my lungs.’

Kohler eased himself through the side door of the coach house to stand in the light as he let his gaze sift over the place. There was room for six autos but it held only two. A maroon Citroën coupé was up on blocks for the Duration and hadn’t been requisitioned by the Luftwaffe for a favoured squadron leader. The forest-green, four-door sedan with excellent tyres, including a spare, was big, powerful and handsome.

Both cars shone, but this last was getting yet another going-over at about 1.15 a.m. The chauffeur, his back to him, was polishing the leather of the front seat. Sleeves rolled up and held by grey elastic bands, jacket carefully set aside in spite of the cold. Vest and tie to complete the attire, with gold pocket-watch and chain probably. One of the old school. Floor swept and washed—not even an oil stain was evident The stiff black high leather boots glowed; the grey herringbone breeches were creased by the welding iron of determination and discipline.

One had to be impressed. The S.P. sticker was just visible beyond the left shoulder and was exactly where it ought to be, bang up front inside the left lower corner of the windscreen. The Service Publique, that much-coveted mark of distinction that allowed a private set of wheels in this gas-thirsty world, to say nothing of a chauffeur.

Ten jerry cans were ranked in a corner, so there was no problem in that department. If you made classified items for the Führer’s war machine, a little petrol was your reward, among other things, ah yes.

Still with his back to Kohler, the chauffeur straightened. He set the tin of saddle soap lightly on the roof, gave the seat a final wipe, a thorough scrutiny, then softly closed the door and did the chrome-plated handle. A man of sixty years of age perhaps and of medium height. Iron-grey, well-trimmed hair, thick, big ears, a swarthy neck and broad shoulders that now slumped as he stood in silence with head bowed and forearms resting against the car’s rain-gutter.

‘Captain, it cannot be true,’ came the bitter lament, not to Kohler, for he had yet to be noticed. ‘Our little Nénette gone from us? Our treasure? Our constant reminder of you and your dear wife?’

The fists were clenched, tears splashed the car and in that moment a shudder ran visibly through the chauffeur. ‘I warned you not to go to England. I begged you not to leave us like that, and what did I receive but the lash of silence from the tongue of a man who had always listened to his sergeant. Always, especially in times of strife when the battle, it did not go well.’

The eyes were wiped, the nose was blown. The tears were removed and the car polished so as so leave no evidence of them. The tyre pressures had to be checked all round and only then did he notice he had a visitor. ‘Monsieur …’

The rugged countenance was marked by four years of war—an idiot could have seen it at a glance. The eyes were grave and deeply set, dark brown and ever watchful. Sun blotches and shrapnel scars, one of which had nicked off the tip of his nose, served only to emphasize a quiet determination and intense loyalty.

‘She’s a beauty. A thirty-seven Delage, am I right?’

All thought of tears vanished. The shoulders were squared. ‘Monsieur, please state your business. If you have none, I suggest you leave.’

A ball-peen hammer lay to hand on the workbench. ‘Kohler, Paris-Central, and yours?’

‘Honoré Deloitte, sergeant to the child’s father. Chauffeur to the Vernet family for the past twenty-four years since my repatriation and, before that other war, for six of the finest years of my life.’

The look seemed to say, I have killed far better Boches than you in my time but will gladly oblige another. There was a scar across the back of Deloitte’s left hand, the slash of a bayonet that had missed its mark as his had gone home.

‘Can we talk?’

‘Talk if you wish. For myself, I will, I assure you, listen.’

It would be best to tell him something. ‘Look, we can delay the investigation until all the staff are assembled, but we think there may have been two eleven-year-old girls involved and we’d like to know what’s happened to the other one before it’s too late for her as well.’

‘Too late …? Two girls …? But … but that is not possible. Mademoiselle Nénette, she was most distressed to find that her little friend had at last gone to join her parents in Chamonix. The mother had had a crisis of the nerves and had not been able to invite the child to be with them for the holiday.’

How nice. The poor kid. ‘And the name of this friend?’ he asked, all business now, the black leather notebook flipped open, pencil ready.

A sigh of resignation was released. ‘Andrée Noireau. She was staying at the convent school but … but had left for …’

‘Chamonix.’ Kohler gave a nod. ‘So who accompanied Mademoiselle Vernet on her Sunday outing?’

‘Why, the Mademoiselle Chamber. She is a student at the university, the daughter of one of Monsieur Vernet’s accountants.’

‘A nanny.’

‘Ah no, no, monsieur,’ countered Deloitte. ‘A member of the family since now nearly two and a half years, since the parents of our little Nénette went to England to die by the bombs of your Führer. Die, monsieur, in Coventry on the night of the fourteenth to fifteenth of November 1940.’ He paused. He realized he had been incautious. ‘Mademoiselle Chambert always accompanied the girls so as to … to give a little supervision yet allow them to assess each new situation and … and decide how best to handle things. Is that not the wisest way for one to ensure that young girls learn how to take care of themselves?’

But they hadn’t, had they? said Kohler sadly to himself, his gaze one of emptiness. Mademoiselle Chambert had not been with them and Deloitte had suddenly realized this. He’d have to be loyal to the aunt and uncle. He couldn’t jeopardize his future, not in these troubled times, even though he might well want to.

‘Just tell it to me plainly.’

What has happened to Liline? wondered Deloitte anxiously. Why was she not there with Nénette? ‘I … I drove the two of them to Mass at the Notre-Dame this time, as they liked to experience other churches than our own when possible. Then I delivered them to the Jardin d’Acclimatation. Though they wished to take the métro, Monsieur Vernet had issued strict instructions they were not to do so because of … of this sadist.’

‘Vernet had their safety in mind, so, okay, we’ll try to remember that,’ said Kohler bluntly. ‘And where, exactly, did you drop them off?’

Had this one been a Hauptmann in the last war? wondered Deloitte uneasily, ‘I dropped them off at the puppet theatres and the giant doll’s house. They were to spend a little time there and then were to have tea in the children’s restaurant. Nénette was fond of taking tea. Her mother was British. The child used to say it made her feel closer to her dead mother.’

The doll’s house might have suited the switching of the coats, but as for the rest of the outing, it had probably never happened. ‘At about what time did you drop them off?’

‘At thirteen-ten hours—it’s in my log, in the glove compartment. Monsieur Vernet requires that I keep an accurate record of all trips just in case the authorities might wish to question his using his own car.’

‘Don’t be blaming me for what’s happened, eh? Just stick to the matter at hand.’

‘I will.’

‘The eleven o’clock Mass?’

‘The ten o’clock.’

‘Two hours, then. What the hell did they do, Sergeant? Pray for that long?’

Sergeant … ‘Mademoiselle Nénette wished to visit the belfries of the Notre-Dame, and one of the good fathers was prevailed upon to allow her to do so, since it was not a regularly scheduled time for such a visit.’

‘Okay, so why the interest?’

‘Look, monsieur …’

‘It’s Inspector.’

A fist was clenched only to be relaxed in defeat. ‘Inspector, the master did not want Mademoiselle Nénette doing such a thing but … ah, the child, she has pleaded with me and I … Please, I … I could seldom say no to her, especially not after the deaths of her dear father and mother. It is to my discredit and shame that I let her and Mademoiselle Chambert disobey her uncle’s wishes and now … now … all those trips I let them take on the métro, all that freedom, it has come back to …’

‘Easy. I know how you must feel. The ten o’clock Mass, the belfries, and then the doll’s house? That’s fine, were it not for one thing I’m certain you’re as aware of as I am. The Sandman has killed four others, and one of those murders was up in the belfries of the Notre-Dame.’

The chauffeur’s head was bowed in defeat. Had the man a rifle and helmet, they would have hung at his sides, and how many times had he himself seen such things? wondered Kohler, remembering past battlefields and war-weary men.

‘The belfry?’ he asked gently.

There was a nod. ‘Nénette had read all the newspaper reports. She and her little friend were both much concerned and wishing they could do something to … to put a stop to … to the killings.’

Amateur sleuths, then. Ah nom de Jésus-Christ, what had the two of them stumbled upon? ‘Look, I won’t say anything of this side trip to the belfries unless I absolutely have to. Just tell me where I can find Mademoiselle Chambert. I presume she went off somewhere because I don’t think she was with the girls when it happened. Did she go home? Is she now under sedation?’

His expression was grim. ‘Ah no, Inspector. You see, she has … has not yet returned.’

‘Not returned.’

‘No, and that is most unlike her.’

The snow continued, and all about the garden was a hush, that of the city, too, and one could never quite adjust to the silence where once there had been traffic and commotion at nearly all hours.

‘Madame …’ said St-Cyr. ‘You mentioned a companion?’

‘Yes, Liline Chambert.’ The women drew on the cigarette and snuggled her toes deeper into the warmth of his hands. ‘Liline and Nénette were always very close. Like two sisters, though one is much older, of course. Eighteen, I think, or is it nineteen now? Antoine … my husband, he gave the girl a part-time job to help fill the void that was created by the tragic deaths of the child’s parents.’

‘The bombing,’ he sighed, for she had told him of it. ‘Escape to England only to find no escape at all.’

Not escape, please. We … we do not say such things. My brother-in-law went to England on business and to try to calm the fears of those people, and since my sister-in-law was British, she went along to visit her family.’

The detective indicated that he understood the delicacy of using such words as ‘escape,’ but made no comment about calming ‘the fears of those people’. His hands had long since lost timidity and now gently massaged her feet. Had he a wife? she wondered. A woman? Certainly he seemed to understand her need to be calmed, yet he sat so like a priest in his suit and fedora, with the snow dusting his shoulders and sleeves, she had to wonder about him. Her long legs were stretched out; her back rested against an arm of the bench. She was cosily wrapped in his overcoat, but was it that he was worried she might explore the pockets of his coat? Was that what was troubling him? If so, he need not have worried, no, not at all.

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?

Softly he closed the door behind him. The room was spacious but seemingly cluttered. It had been done in white, with white lace throws on the bed, but there was gold, too. Gold in gilt-framed mirrors and mirrored trumeaux that threw the winter’s-night light from the windows back and forth, laying detail upon detail until the whole was repetition of shape and form and it took the breath away.

‘Ah merde,’ he said. ‘This can’t be the child’s room. It must be Liline Chambert’s.’

Not a thing was out of place. All had been set exactly where it should be to ensure the total effect. Tall, branching, Gothic wrought-iron standards held candles on either side of a fireplace whose mantelpiece had been removed, though the curved supports remained and now held matching bronze sculptures with single candles in them. Roosters perhaps—very modern in any case, and with their beaks turned back to peck at their tails and one leg lifted straight overhead like ballet dancers.

Ivory candelabra were draped with beads of clear crystal. A sculptress’s three-legged stand held the curly-bearded, curly-headed grey plaster bust of an ancient seer who impassively looked on so that one saw his head from four or five angles and these views were superimposed on and mingled with those of a Greek torso, beautifully hung, the waist, the hips, the genitals complete, the candles, too, and the white, white of old lace and of chair and bed.

There wasn’t a sound. The staff downstairs would all be listening for him, yet he had not taken another step.

Draped across a beautifully carved walnut blanket box at the foot of the bed, there was a fine white woollen, short-sleeved dress, very Greek-looking, very stylish yet simple. Borders at the neck, hem and sleeves were of bands of grey-blue perhaps—the light wasn’t very good. A mid-calf-length thing, he thought, making no noise at all crossing the floor. It was not the sort of dress to wear in the dead of winter, not when most places these days weren’t heated.

Right below the neckline, caught in the light from the windows, there was a cheap brass curtain ring. Nothing else. Just that.

He paused. He picked the ring up and asked himself, Was she about to go off for a little tryst? Young couples did that sometimes, though there weren’t too many young Frenchmen around these days. They took the curtain rings and wore them, fooling no one, least of all the patron of some hide-away auberge in the countryside.

A photograph showed a haunting image of her in a moment of reflection, holding a teacup in both hands. The dark hair was worn loose, down over the front of the right shoulder of the dress, the wide-brimmed hat made the look in her eyes so very tragic.

A kid of eighteen or so. Nice … really nice-looking. Had she lighted the candles before getting into bed to sit watching their reflections and those of the torso and the head? Did she play games in here, was that it, and was Nénette Vernet now with her? Just what the hell had the three of them been up to, the two girls and this one?

Try as he might, he could not help but feel uneasy.

As the chauffeur drove through the darkness and the softly falling snow, St-Cyr sat in silence. All down the Champs-Élysées, and then along the rue de Rivoli, there didn’t appear to be another soul. The city’s streets revealed only blue-washed pinpricks of light from isolated lamp standards that seemed to cry out, See what you have done to me, messieurs. Ended freedom, instilled deceit and fear, made cheats and liars out of honest citizens.

Those who did not have some petty fiddle were desperate. With ten degrees of frost there was no coal except in those places the Germans and their friends occupied. Having even one roomer from among the Occupier guaranteed an element of supply but engendered suspicion, jealousy and hatred from one’s neighbours if they didn’t have the same or better.

In a land of officially-sanctioned favouritism, denunciations were rife. But slowly an opposition was growing from within. Brother now hated brother, children now told tales on their parents, and not to the Occupier, to the Resistance. The bloodbath of retribution was gathering day by day. When it came, it would be terrible.

They had arrived at Place Mazas. ‘The morgue is over there,’ he said gruffly to the chauffeur. ‘Near the river so that the drains can easily take the blood and things.’

‘Inspector, are you attempting to unsettle me further?’ asked Vernet who, having insisted upon it, had ridden alone in the back seat while he, a Chief Inspector of the Sûreté, had been told to sit up front.

‘Monsieur, I am merely commenting on the practicality of our city fathers. The old morgue on the Île de la Cité was also close to the river. Corpses are always hosed down and often opened.’

‘Surely my niece does not require an autopsy and an ice-cold douche?’

Ah, damn you, St-Cyr could hear him saying. ‘That is for the coroner to decide, monsieur. I have asked for Belligueux. He’s very reliable, exceedingly thorough, and always does exactly what he feels is needed, since he cannot possibly be bribed.’

Was it a warning? wondered Vernet and, giving an audible sigh, decided that it was but could not understand the reason for it. Not yet. Ah merde … ‘I really do wish you would try to realize I am entirely on your side.’

A dismissive hand was tossed. ‘Of course you are. You are her uncle, her guardian. You have taken over the business interests and fortune of her father.’

‘My brother, Inspector.’

‘Are you the older or the younger?’

‘Meaning that the oldest nearly always inherits the estate? How cheap and utterly mediocre of you. Henri-Claude was a brilliant designer. Not that it is any of your business, my talents lie in finance and in bringing the interested parties together. It was decided he should inherit and lead the company and I graciously acquiesced to our father’s wishes and agreed to remain its vice-chairman and chief adviser until my brother’s unfortunate and untimely death. He was nearly fifteen years my junior.’

That little loss of promotion could not have gone down well, family rivalries being what they usually were, but … ah, but one would have to wait and see and hadn’t the wife said he had been yanked out of semi-retirement and put to work on the death of his brother? ‘Why didn’t they take your niece with them to England? To leave without her at such a time of crisis seems most callous.’

Just what had Bernadette said to this one to make him so suspicious? wondered Vernet. Damn her for meddling. ‘All civilian flights had long since been cancelled, so they had to have permission from the military. Children were, of course, not allowed. The danger was simply too great, things far too tense. My sister-in-law’s mother was gravely ill and not expected to last, but, yes, compassion would never have swayed the minds of our military. My brother went over to try to calm the British. We were, alas, convinced the Führer would never attack. They flew over on the twentieth of April, 1940, planning only the briefest of visits, but one thing led to another and they soon found it impossible to return.’

Norway had fallen to the Germans, Denmark’s army had been demobilized. The Blitzkrieg in the West had been about to begin … ‘A designer of what, exactly?’

‘You know I cannot tell you that. Why, then, do you ask if not to further upset me? Impatiently Vernet indicated the morgue where only one lonely goosenecked lamp produced a paltry wash of blue. ‘This place is closed.’

‘Death never stops. Invariably the small hours of the night are the busiest. Monsieur,’ he said to the chauffeur, ‘please inform the Feldwebel on patrol that he has only to check with me if he questions your being out after curfew. Or is it that your employer has clearance?’

‘He has,’ said Deloitte flatly.

‘Good, then there is absolutely no problem.’

The floor was wet, the drainboard pallets shrouded except where an attendant was sewing up a full-length incision while another, a damp cigarette butt clinging to his lower lip, prepared a female for burial and was scrubbing her down before hosing her off a last time.

Talbotte, the préfet, must have warned everyone to cooperate. Without hassle they were taken straight through to the storage lockers at the back where the appropriate drawer was pulled out.

‘Death also is the great leveller, Inspector,’ said Vernet, exhibiting a humanity so hidden it surprised. ‘Of late Nénette had become very fond of the ancien Cimetière de Neuilly. Liline … Mademoiselle Chambert often found her there among the Jewish graves, of all places, consoling the spirits of the departed. The child used to say it was the quietest place on earth next to the Bibliothèque Nationale, but I wonder if she would say it now? Mon Dieu, I hate to think of what has happened. My brother and his wife … Now the three of them gone, and who is to carry on when I join them? Everything will pass into other hands to be broken up and sold. An empire.’

Was there no thought of Vernet’s producing an heir of his own? wondered St-Cyr. Were such things so out of the question with his wife? ‘Monsieur, I could give you a moment alone before uncovering her, if you wish?’

‘No. No, I’m quite all right. Let’s get it over with. Then there will be absolutely no question of identity.’

Ah! it was so hard to gauge him. His expression was grave, but would Vernet really regret the loss of his niece, since he would then most probably inherit everything? Would the mistake in identity cause him to panic?

The attendant stood ready. ‘Leave us,’ said St-Cyr with a curt toss of his head. ‘Wait in the outer office.’

‘Inspector, what is this?’ demanded Vernet.

‘A moment,’ came the hushed command, as they watched the attendant reluctantly depart. The préfet would be furious with the man for not having listened in. Too bad.

‘Inspector, am I some sort of suspect?’

Vernet had removed the wide-brimmed, dark grey velour trilby some well-placed Berliner must have presented to him. He stood immaculate in his Hermès grey-blue scarf, overcoat and black kidskin gloves, and the years of dealing with such people at more than infrequent intervals came tumbling in on St-Cyr, telling him not to judge too harshly, that wealth and power were not always corrupt. ‘If you have anything to hide, monsieur, might I suggest you tell me of it now. Things are not quite right with this one, and that is why I have asked for privacy.’

‘Then remove the shroud at once, idiot!’

‘Of course.’

A breath was sucked in. The voice was blunt. ‘That’s not her. That is her friend from school. Now do you mind telling me just how such a mistake could have been made? I’ll make you sweat for this. I’ll have your badge.’

‘Perhaps, but then … ah then, monsieur, perhaps it is that you can offer some explanation for the change your niece and this one made in their identity papers.’

‘Pardon?’

Was it such a surprise? ‘The photograph …’ St-Cyr handed the papers over. Vernet looked from them to the child several times and at last swore under his breath. ‘The silly little bitches. What the hell did they think they were playing at? Trapping this Sandman? Was that it, Inspector? The knitting needle, the …’

He thrust the papers back and turned away to hide his discomposure. ‘Not dead,’ he murmured. ‘Not dead!’ And then, loudly, ‘Bâtards! You flics …’ He turned, a fist clenched. ‘How dare you do this to me? To me?’

And now, monsieur, is that the moisture of perplexity and remorse in your eyes, wondered St-Cyr, or that of relief and concern for your niece?

Vernet tossed the hand with the fedora in defeat. ‘I had to put a stop to Nénette’s nonsense. That is why I obtained a laissez-passer for this one to go to Chamonix to join her parents. I could not have my niece making such preposterous claims and saying she knew who the Sandman was and that if I did not summon the préfet to speak to her alone and at once, she would take the matter into her own hands.’

A stubborn child. The préfet no less and at once, and in private. ‘And do you still believe she spoke nonsense?’

‘How dare you ask me that? Would you humiliate me further? She’s dead. Look at her yourself. A child. Innocence left to languish with the sisters while her … her no-good parents partied at Chamonix. Ah, damn that stupid, stupid mother of hers. I shall have to see that the couple are notified. There will have to be a funeral. As few as possible—we can’t have the press getting wind of this. Those vultures would only feast on the carrion.’

‘A funeral—yes, yes, of course, but burial where? In the ancien Cimetière de Neuilly?’

Vernet threw him a startled, questioning look. ‘Burial wherever her parents choose. It’s customary.’

He was still visibly shaken by the mistake in identity, but even as they looked at each other, St-Cyr could see the mask begin to descend.

‘And what about your niece, monsieur? Is there anything you can tell us?’

Caution entered. ‘Only that you had best find her before it is too late. I need not remind you, Inspector, that police bungling cannot possibly sit well with the Kommandant von Gross-Paris.’

‘Then let us pay Mademoiselle Chambert and her lover a little visit. Perhaps it is that she can clear the matter up.’

‘Liline …? Ah! yes. Yes, of course. I had forgotten. The flat is in Montpamasse, on the rue d’Assas. Number eighty-four. The fifth floor, apartment two, facing the street. We will have to awaken the concierge, but fortunately that one is a light sleeper.’

Good, nodded St-Cyr inwardly. Your response is just as I have suspected. It is not only your chauffeur who knows of the address. The death here has rattled you.

A cube of sponge, a tangled white thread, a hope, a prayer, a silk chemise no student with a part-time job could ever have purchased. Not at any time and certainly not on the black market.

Kohler let the dried cube of self-preservation dangle from its braided umbilical cord. He saw himself in the mirrors starkly juxtaposed with the plaster head of the seer and the torso, grey on white and white on gold, the single candle he had lighted in contravention of the black-out regulations fluttering in some sudden draught.

When he found the address, it was on a folded scrap of paper tucked into the toe of a brown leather pump—memorized, since people could not walk around with such things in their pockets for fear of arrest.

‘Forty-seven quai du Président Paul Doumer, room thirteen, Sunday at two p.m.,’ he breathed, and in that one breath was all of a detective’s dismay, a hope, a prayer of its own.

‘Inspector, what is the meaning of this? Surely my husband gave permission for no such thing?’

Madame Vernet stood framed in the doorway and he saw her in the girl’s mirrors, tall and statuesque, her dark brown hair a thick mop of curls, the image of her impinging on and overlapping the others, his own included.

Spaghetti straps held the full-length nightdress up. Laces criss-crossed the chest, leaving gaps between and glimpses of lots of cleavage. The scratches had been treated with iodine. ‘Madame, we have five murders and the disappearance of this one. Was Mademoiselle Chambert pregnant?’

‘Pardon? Surely you’re not …’

‘Look, I’ll put it to you straight. Did she go to see a maker of little angels?’

‘An abortionist …? But … but why? Liline gave us no cause to think such a thing. She was distressed. Yes, of course. She and Nénette were very close about things but we … we just thought it was this … this business of the Sandman and that she was worried about Nénette taking it far too seriously.’

‘Then why an assignation in a room in a flea-bitten tenement across the river in Courbevoie? Why something within easy walking distance of the Jardin d’Acclimatation? She was supposed to be with your niece, having tea. Your chauffeur had dropped them off after their climb up into the belfries of the Notre-Dame.’

‘Exercise … Ah merde, I … Ah no, no, you must be mistaken.’

‘Exercise before an abortion, eh?’

Damn him! ‘Liline is too pure. A virgin. A sculptress—these things are her own. She studies and perfects. But a man, a lover … Please don’t be so foolish. The boy she has been seeing will not have slept with her. This I can assure you.’

‘Good. Then what about your husband?’

‘Antoine …? With Liline …? Oh mon Dieu, you’re serious. He’s like a father to her. No, it’s impossible. He’s far too astute. I would have got wind of it. The girl would have been out on her ear.’

‘Then tell me why she laid out that dress and dropped a curtain ring on it.’

‘What dress?’ She arched, quivering.

Moving swiftly across the room, she came to the foot of the bed. She felt the wool. She dropped it and grated, ‘Antoine, you bastard. I didn’t know. I didn’t!’

‘He was fucking her, wasn’t he?’ said Kohler harshly. ‘That husband of yours had made her pregnant. A houseguest, eh? A visitor and companion to your niece? A girl in his care.’

She tore her hair and slapped herself in anguish, could not turn to face him but held her mouth to stop herself from vomiting and said, ‘Sweet Jesus, what am I to do?’

It was now nearly 4.30 a.m. and St-Cyr was anxious. Painstakingly the burly Feldwebel with the Schmeisser shone his torch over the permit, billowing fifteen degrees of frost while his men, armed with Mauser rifles, inspected the black-out tape on the headlamps or stood about and coughed.

A pug-nosed, wart-faced Pomeranian dockworker with sad, boozer’s eyes that looked so lifeless in the fringe of the torchlight, the sergeant grunted dispassionately, ‘You are out when you shouldn’t be.’

Ah merde, he couldn’t read French! ‘Mein Herr …’ began St-Cyr, only to feel the touch of Vernet’s hand on his shoulder.

‘Herr Hauptmann, I realize it is late and you and your men have had a long and miserable night. We are on a little business for the Kommandant von Gross-Paris, yes? The matter is discreet, you understand. My permit, you will see, is stamped and signed by the General von Schaumburg himself, a personal friend. We will only be a few minutes and then we will be gone, so you need not make a note of the visit.’

Vernet’s Deutsch hadn’t just been flawless, he had used Low German so as not to distance himself too much.

‘It is highly irregular, mein Herr,’ grunted the Feldwebel.

‘Yes, yes, I know, but these things, they can be so delicate. Honoré, my good man, is there not a little something we could offer the captain for his trouble?’

As if on cue, Deloitte found a bottle of brandy in the map pocket of the door next to himself.

‘Warm yourselves,’ enthused Vernet. ‘Yours is not an easy but a most essential task.’ Perhaps five thousand francs were handed over. ‘Coffee and croissants for the boys and a little something for yourself.’

Perhaps another ten thousand francs changed hands, the torch going out so swiftly the men on patrol knew they would get only a taste of the bottle. But that was something more than they usually got, and the night was indeed cold.

They moved off, the sound of their jackboots and hobnails squeaking painfully in the snow.

‘There, that’s done,’ sighed Vernet. ‘Now let us find the flat.’

Only then did St-Cyr realize Vernet and his driver had known exactly where to intercept the patrol at 4.30 a.m. At a snail’s pace Deloitte followed the patrol until, at last, he was able to turn on to the rue d’Assas unencumbered.

Awakened, the concierge, a portly, pasty-faced man of sixty in shawl, blanket and nightshirt over his everyday clothes, deferentially ducked his head and sleepily mumbled, ‘Monsieur,’ before retreating to his cage. Again largesse was spread, Vernet taking another five thousand francs from his wallet to set them on the counter.

As if by magic, the bills vanished and the slot was silently closed to leave them alone in the corridor under a forty-watt electric light bulb that would soon be switched off out of frugality.

A frequent visitor, ah yes, and well known to the concierge.

‘Inspector,’ confided Vernet as they took the lift and the night was filled with the sounds of it. ‘Inspector, these things …’ he said of the girl. ‘You do understand.’

‘Of course.’

Letting himself into the flat, Vernet first closed the curtains before switching on a light. The sitting room was a tasteful jumble from the twenties, the bedroom hadn’t been slept in and there was no sign of anyone.

‘So?’ said the Sûreté, giving him the open-handed gesture of It’s-your-turn again.

‘The boy is usually here,’ said Vernet, not liking it. ‘Liline …’

He went over to an armoire to search it. He opened another in the narrow hallway and went through to the kitchen to stand in its emptiness and say, ‘They’ve left. They’ve cleared out. The boy is a homosexual she had befriended. He was afraid of the Relève, of what our friends are going to do in February. Turn it into the Service de Travail Obligatoire, the forced labour in the Reich. She must have told him his name was bound to come up, so he buggered off.’

‘And the girl, monsieur?’

‘Liline must have gone with him. His rucksack, it’s missing. Look, he was too timid for his own good. Though she didn’t live here, she was always having to put the muscle into him. They’ll have gone south like so many these days. He’ll try to join the maquis of the Auvergne perhaps. Liline has relatives in Clermont-Ferrand.’

Ah yes, the maquis was growing and its young and not so young men were living in the wilds as fugitives, supplied by some and hated by others. A Resistance without arms unless stolen from the Occupier. But what about suitable laissez-passer, eh, and was Vernet so desperate he would fabricate? ‘Monsieur, if the boy was in danger of this … this new Service, surely with your contacts you could have found a way of keeping him in Paris?’

‘Don’t be silly. I was fucking Liline. Would you have had me broadcast that little piece of information by placing his name on one of my lists of those who are to remain in France?’

The SS and the Gestapo would have known of the affair in any case and perhaps that, really, was why he had done nothing.

‘Now we had best find Nénette, Inspector, or is it that you still want more from me about this?’

‘No. For the moment we have sufficient, but I must ask, is Madame Vernet aware Mademoiselle Chambert is your mistress?’

‘Bernadette? Of course not.’

‘And Mademoiselle Chambert, monsieur, what of her? Did she come to you willingly or did you—’

‘How dare you?’

‘I dare because I have at the moment two lives to concern me. That of your mistress and that of your niece.’

Kohler followed Madame Vernet into the child’s room, which was in a far corner of the house next to the staircase to the servants’ quarters and the kitchens. He noted the amber and gold dragonflies on the stained-glass shade of the lamp she had switched on, the porcelain frog below it with walking stick, orange waistcoat, silk scarf and cream knitted trousers and silver-buckled shoes.

Above the mantelpiece there was a Meissen clock in white and gilded porcelain with a turbaned potentate riding atop the clock face, which rested on the back of an elephant. The bed was superb, a Louis XV canopied affair whose gold brocade rose to ostrich plumes at all four corners.

‘This was her room. Nénette loved it. She used to say having privacy was next to being with God.’

There were more tears, more tearing of the hair and tugging at the laces across the chest of her nightdress. It was bad enough her niece being murdered by the Sandman, but to have her husband fooling around right under her nose was too much. Ah yes.

She broke down completely and he let her weep in a chair, didn’t give her another thought. Christ, what had the kid discovered? A map of the city gave the locations of every one of the killings. Press clippings had been pinned to it. The tenement in Aubervilliers, the one near the Terrot bicycle works in Suresnes, the murders in les Halles and in the Notre-Dame …

Even the Jardin d’Acclimatation had been noted. This one is next. Sunday afternoon, 10 January. I am certain of it.

Bang on. Ah merde …

A Louis-Philippe secrétaire held pigeonholes and drawers the kid had stuffed and locked, some of them. School exercise books—French composition, Latin, Greek, religious studies, the catechism, et cetera, et cetera, and then … then, as he flipped quickly through them, a scribbled note. Sister Céline hates us. We are the cabbages she feeds to her pigs after first giving them the names of each of us. We are her droppings.

Trash overflowed the child’s waste-paper basket. Things picked up in the gutters and on the métro filled several drawers. Where … where the hell to begin?

Using her letter-opener, he jammed it into the gap near the lock of the pencil drawer and snapped the blade in haste.

The pocket-knife the Kaiser had given him and countless others in 1914 did the task and the drawer popped open. No pencils. A simple crucifix of black wrought iron with the Christ pinned up by nails stared back at him, looking so like the top of a coffin, nestled as it was in that long, thin drawer, he had to wonder at the careful placing of it. The thing was heavy and about eight centimetres in length by four in width at the arms. Beside it there was a Number Four knitting needle of grey steel, flexible and yet stiff.

He sucked in a breath. He felt the tremors within himself, heard the sobbing of Madame Vernet behind him.

Louis, he said to himself of the knitting needle. Louis, I think I need you here.

‘Madame,’ he said.

Tears streaked her cheeks. Blood ran from reopened scratches he was certain the poodle had never inflicted. ‘Madame, would your niece have sought refuge with the sisters?’

‘Sought refuge …? But she’s dead? He killed her. He used one of those to …’

She threw up, coughed, bent double and vomited again before hurrying from the room to stagger in the hall and turn. ‘Dead … She is dead, isn’t she? It was her, wasn’t it?’

Ah merde … Sadly he shook his head and watched as she crumpled to the floor. Out like a light.