One of the Blitzmädels from Base Kernével sat primly at the opposite end of the table from the Préfet with a pad and pencil in her lap and still wrinkling her nose distastefully. Blonde, curly, wavy hair, serious blue eyes, soft pink cheeks, lovely red lips, a trim, neat twenty-two-year-old in a snappy blue Kriegsmarine uniform. A telegraphist.
Everything was to be taken down in shorthand to be later transcribed and telexed to the Admiral at the U-boat Command Centre in Paris.
The cell was cramped. There was barely room to stretch one’s legs. The racket from the canneries intruded but would just have to be ignored. Kohler longed for a cigarette and coffee, even the ersatz garbage of ground, roasted acorns, barley and chicory, but none had been offered and no one was suggesting it. The generalities over, they’d now get down to business with the decisiveness of battle.
The Préfet launched into the coroner’s preliminary report.
‘Time of death approximately 4 p.m. the old time, 1700 hours Berlin Time on the afternoon of Friday, the 1st of January. The force of the blow strongly suggests the assailant was a man in his prime. Both hands grasped the switch-bar and this is evident from the smearing of soot and grease. Gloves were, however, used.’
He paused to look at each of them in turn, nodding finally at the Blitzmädel to signify he would continue. ‘These gloves were of black leather, probably of light weight, that is to say, not insulated with a thick cotton liner.’
‘A moment, Préfet,’ interjected St-Cyr. ‘How is it that the presence of such gloves was determined?’
‘Tiny shreds of leather were torn from the gloves by rasps of metal on the bar. These shreds were examined under the microscope, at a magnification of one hundred. I myself have witnessed them.’
It was Freisen who, rocking back in his chair, told him to continue. No diplomat when it came to the French, the C.-in-C. U-boats Kernével had allowed his impatience to show. He’d tolerate Kerjean’s presence only for so long.
Ignoring him, the Préfet laid the report on the table and decisively pressed it flat. ‘They were dress gloves similar to, if not the same as those worn by officers of the Freikorps Doenitz when ashore and in uniform at this time of year.’
Ah merde, thought St-Cyr, how could they possibly tell from so little?
‘I wasn’t wearing uniform,’ said the Dollmaker. ‘I was in my spare coveralls and sheepskin jacket. The watchman will confirm this. We shared a cigarette and a few words about the weather.’
‘I have already asked him,’ said Kerjean levelly. ‘He is not certain, Captain, if you wore gloves but thinks …’ The Préfet lifted a cautionary finger. ‘… that perhaps the gloves were in the pockets of your jacket.’
‘Then he is mistaken. I would not gather kaolin while wearing them, since I have to use them on parade, yes? Nor would I wear them afterwards without first washing my hands.’
Kerjean sat back to survey him. The girl’s pencil was poised. She hardly breathed. She was really very pretty but professionally intense like so many Germans. Did she have an interest in the Captain? he wondered and thought it likely. ‘But … but you did wash your hands? You apologized for the state of them? You grinned, Captain, and shrugged it all off, and Monsieur le Pennec, who speaks about as good French as you do yourself, poured water from his kettle over them and offered the use of his towel with apologies of his own, is that not so?’ The Préfet looked at Louis and shrugged open-handedly. ‘The towel, my friends, was filthy but what can one say since it was the only one the watchman had?’
Verdammt! thought Kohler. This thing …
Freisen turned to the Captain to confer earnestly and quietly. It was Kaestner who said, ‘I did not have my gloves with me. They were in my bag which was on the bed in my room at the hotel here.’
‘The gloves can then be examined,’ grunted the Préfet as if it really did not matter.
Freisen leapt in. ‘They’ll be torn. They’re not new. This is crazy, Préfet. Crazy! You’re mad.’
‘Mad or not, I aim to continue.’
Ah Nom de Dieu, thought St-Cyr, does Freisen also think the Captain guilty?
The Captain watched the Préfet with that same decisively piercing look as if through the periscope and Kerjean the enemy tanker.
‘The conclusion?’ asked Kohler.
Were the Bavarian’s eyes always so lifeless? ‘Ah yes, Inspector. The coroner concludes that as Monsieur le Trocquer stood near the inner rail of the spur, he was approached from behind and to his right. You yourselves found evidence of the Captain’s having left the railway for the nearby moor some distance towards the pits.’
Shit, thought Kohler, he means to pin it on the Dollmaker even if the Captain didn’t do it!
The Préfet continued. ‘The shopkeeper was challenged. He did not turn. He removed his glasses, isn’t that so, Chief Inspector St-Cyr?’
Louis nodded curtly. The girl was ready to pounce again on every word. Her whole being was focused on the end of her pencil.
Kohler thought her perfect. Naked, she’d be absolutely delightful but probably kept it all locked up for some lucky guy.
‘The victim whipped off his glasses,’ said Kerjean decisively. ‘No doubt he was planning to pocket them for safety’s sake but …’
Again the girl waited. When the pause grew, she glanced up, giving the Préfet the fullness of her eyes.
He met her gaze with an emptiness of his own that said so much about where he really stood with the Occupier. ‘But the blow came, the glasses flew out of his hand. He collapsed and was carried forward and down by the force, thus striking his forehead on the outer rail, something that would most certainly have killed him had the other not done so.’
Louis took out the cigarettes and offered the Captain one but if he knew of the package and the shed, the Dollmaker was far too clever to let on.
Freisen, apparently, didn’t even notice they were American cigarettes nor did the girl who refused with a shake of her pretty head and said a quiet, ‘Not when I am on duty.’
‘There is one other matter,’ said Kerjean, saving the cigarette for later but noting its origin. ‘The briefcase he was carrying is missing.’
‘What briefcase,’ demanded Kaestner swiftly. A rise at last? wondered Kohler.
There was a sigh from the Préfet. ‘That I think you know only too well. Of old brown leather and shabby, isn’t that so? Nothing special because not only had he been a man of little means all his life, Monsieur le Trocquer had not cared much about his appearance.’
‘A moment, Préfet. How is it that this matter of the briefcase came to light?’ asked St-Cyr.
It would not do to smile as the mackerel was pulled from the basket of sole to lie stinking on the cutting table. ‘The wife has said that before he left to catch the bus, her husband came upstairs to get the case. He was in a hurry and upset but did not say what was the matter or why he needed it.’
‘But you and the victim had only just had a violent argument?’
‘An argument? Ah no. A discussion perhaps. Yes, that’s the way it was. The money was missing, isn’t that correct? Monsieur le Trocquer was not forthcoming. I urged him to speak up so as to leave no suspicion in anyone’s mind.’
‘But the daughter has told me several things were broken?’
‘The daughter? Ah, a few bits of glassware. Monsieur le Trocquer got in a huff and threw out a hand. It was nothing.’
But now you are afraid, thought St-Cyr, glancing at the Dollmaker and the Bullet. ‘The value, please?’
Nom de Jésus-Christ, what did it mean, this attack? ‘A few francs.’