‘Where?’
It was such a gently given question. Was the detective so sensitive a man? ‘Off Lorient, on their final approach after being nearly two and a half months at sea. The men now call the Bay of Biscay the RAF’s playground. U-297 was already very badly damaged. They … they didn’t think they could dare to go so deep but the Captain, he … he insisted it was their only chance.’
A man of steel then. A Dollmaker.
‘The money, madame. The 6,000,000 francs.’
Must they come back to that? ‘It was to be used in large part to purchase and improve one of the faience works. My husband kept it in one of the cardboard shipping boxes they use for the dolls. He refused to let the Crédit Municipal keep it. Taxes … he was worried about their having to pay taxes on it.’
‘And the Préfet threatened to bring the tax collectors.’
‘If she says so,’ the woman indicated the daughter. ‘For myself, I heard nothing, as I have said.’
‘Yes, but what do you think became of the money?’
Fiercely she darted a look at him. ‘How should I know? I can never leave my bed or chair. Never! Perhaps someone broke into the shop and stole it, perhaps my husband took it to Quimper on one of his so-called “business” trips and lost it there. Who’s to say?’
‘Quimper?’
‘Yes. That is where the dolls are made. The faience works. Did you not listen to me? They are then sent to Paris to be clothed.’
‘But … but I thought the Captain made them?’
‘Only the first ones, the prototypes. He makes the head and then the mould, isn’t that so? And from the mould, fifty or so copies are made and fired. One of the faience works in Quimper allows the use of a kiln. The heads are then painted, given hair and eyes and attached to their bodies before being shipped to Paris for completion. In time, the Captain hoped it could all be done here in Brittany but, though we are good at making lace, we apparently lack the necessary imagination for fancy clothes.’
Whores was what she meant, and loose women.
St-Cyr glanced over his notes. Visits to Quimper and Paris would most probably be necessary but would there be time, and would they turn up any answers?
‘The child of Madame Charbonneau …’ he began.
‘It’s not hers, it’s the pianist’s. A girl of ten. Her mother died when she was seven and a half.’
‘In the blitzkrieg?’
Was it so terrible? ‘Yes. A Messerschmitt took her.’
Ah Nom de Dieu, the poor thing. ‘Would the child have a doll perhaps?’
Did the Inspector think she was such a fool as not to realize which doll he meant? ‘All girls of such an age have dolls they used to play with when little.’
‘Yes, of course. How stupid of me. Did the child and her stepmother ever visit the shop?’
‘And leave behind a doll that was not like one of the Captain’s? If they did, I heard nothing of it, Inspector. She was of money but has fallen on hard times, though still for such a one to visit our shop … Ah, that one would not do so even if reduced to her last centime.’
For a woman who was bedridden, Madame le Trocquer was exceedingly well informed. The town gossip perhaps or certainly included among them.
Paulette looked as if wanting to say something about Madame Charbonneau and the child but at a glance from the mother, held her tongue.
‘Inspector, I do not know why my poor husband was killed nor who would do such a horrible thing. He was a good man, the soul of consideration. I never wanted for anything, did I, Paulette?’
The girl stood like a pillar of salt with head bowed.
‘Paulette?’ said the mother sharply. ‘Please answer me.’
They broke down then and hugged each other with a show of wet kisses, much weeping and protestations of loss and everlasting love. Heaving an impatient sigh, St-Cyr muttered, ‘I will show myself out and will put the lock on, have no fear.’
The girl’s bedroom door was tightly closed and as he passed it, he thought to duck in for a little look. Clearly she knew far more than she was letting on and just as clearly things in the household had been far from what they should have been.
The door was locked. Alarmed, he threw a look back along the all but barren corridor, then gave it up and went down into the shop. They would have to get a magistrate’s order to search the place. Days … it could take weeks!
A last glance about revealed the row of dolls all looking at him with the widened eyes of innocence betrayed.
Reaching up, he took down one of them and, shutting his eyes to better concentrate, ran a fingertip delicately over a cheek.
‘The bisque is very fleshlike, very lifelike,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Hard and yet soft feeling, finely porous like skin and cool, and that is why the Captain sought only the finest kaolin.’
Taking out the shards he had picked up from the railway bed, he was saddened to find them too small to compare, or the one too smeared with blood.
It wasn’t hard to find the Hotel of the Sunbathing Mermaid who gave her favours to lonely sailors and tourists who might well lose their wallets. Her pale blue tail fin, voluptuous body, bright blue eyes and extra long lashes, sparkles and ravishingly long blonde hair added that little touch of whimsy to the stark facade of a fifty-room hotel that had been built in 1890 out of granite and given Gothic spires to make it interesting.
Like Madame Quévillon had said, all the shutters were open.
Kohler grinned appreciatively. The mermaid was at least five metres tall and had, before the war, been neon-lighted so as to make her visible from well out to sea. ‘I like it, Louis. Yes, I can see why the Freikorps Doenitz chose the place.’
‘A few oysters, a bottle of the Muscadet, some lobster perhaps and the fillet of sole or turbot.’
‘Stop whining like a collaborator! Hey, I’ll see what I can do.’
The plate was heaped with sauerkraut around whose soggy, steaming nest a curve of coarse, thick, boiled sausage huddled.
Boiled potatoes lay pathetically to one side, a sort of horsd’oeuvre perhaps. No one else was in the mess, the former dining-room. They were to be fed a submariner’s standard fare after thirty days at sea. There was even black bread with a suspiciously thick crust of mould.
Kohler took up his knife and fork then reached decisively for the mustard.
‘Your stomach, idiot!’ shot St-Cyr testily. ‘Don’t scorch it and bellyache to me.’
‘I’ll see if there’s any tomato sauce.’
Sacré nom de nom!
‘So, Louis, what’s with the stovepipe coifs?’
It was too good an opportunity to miss. Besides, Hermann would file the information away. His curiosity about the French was like that of a man in a flea market. Everything of interest was a bargain to him.
‘The stovepipes, yes,’ began St-Cyr. ‘The Bretons are Celtic but due to the absence of phosphates in the soil, most are not so tall — you will have noticed.’
He hacked off a chunk of sausage and examined it suspiciously. One never knew these days. Cat, rat, fishmeal, sawdust — edible seaweeds perhaps …
‘Eat it, Dummkopf!’
‘The Bretons, the Armoricans, Hermann, they wanted their women taller so they bound their heads with wire as the ancient Chinese did the feet of their princesses. When France took the region over, of course the practice was stopped, but …’
‘But the stovepipes remain,’ breathed Kohler. ‘I think, I’ve got it, Louis. The influence of Paris and of refinement.’
‘Yes, you’ve got it.’
‘Then it’s just like the Captain must have said. The dolls had to be dressed in Paris because only there would they know how to do things properly.’
The sauerkraut was salty. Beer was called for but it was deliberately thin and flat, and by the time Kohler had managed it, his sausage was cold.
They ate in silence. Not another soul ventured into the darkly panelled dining-room. Though there must be other U-boat crews on rest and recupe, there wasn’t a sound but that of the wind which had decided to bring more rain.