There were no lights. God had even seen fit to shut out the stars and moon, perhaps to emphasize that at any moment an alerte aérienne could sound and drive everyone underground.
Everyone.
The steps had ceased. He was certain of it but their sound had come so tenderly on the wind he had to wait a little longer. Reaching deeply into his overcoat pocket, St-Cyr found and held the pomander. He thought of that other Mireille. Rivaille had said she’d thrown herself from the Bell Tower but had that been the truth? Had there not, perhaps, been far more to it and sufficient, yes, for the present Mireille to insist on appearing before her judges dressed exactly as this first Mireille might well have been?
Though partially covered under opened manuscripts and letters from the past in the bishop’s study, there’d been recent newspapers. L’Oeuvre, the mouthpiece of Marcel Déat’s pro-Nazi party, L’Oeuvre rassemblement national populaire, also the weekly, Je suis partout, that of L’Action Française since 1930. Monarchist, violently anti-Semitic, anti-Communist and profascist, Je suis had promoted outright hatred and fear of the foreigners who had increasingly sought refuge in France.
A new and far brighter Renaissance, Rivaille had called life under the Nazis. Fascist and ultrafascist sentiments had always been present, a little stronger in the south perhaps, but one had to be fair. Equally there were, and had been in the past, strongly opposing views.
But what of La Cagoule, he asked himself. The ‘action’ squads of the Comité secret d’action révolutionnaire — were the bishop and the others leaders of Avignon’s branch of that organization?
In the thirties there’d been so many far-right splinter parties. The Croix de feu (the Cross of Fire), the Camelots du Roi, and the Voluntaires nationaux. All in some manner had looked forward to the downfall of the Third Republic and the rise of a new era.
A new Renaissance.
When the steps started up again, he moved into the deeper darkness of a nearby house and waited.
Les Fleurs du Petit Enfant was full of surprises, thought Kohler. Right at the back of the shop, and hidden completely from all but the closest scrutiny, was a curtained doorway to a tiny alcove.
Knitting needles stopped. A woollen scarf began to settle into a copious lap. Dark brown, narrowly spaced eyes under heavily kohled lids looked up at him and blinked in alarm.
In row after row, and on thin shelves that climbed on either side of the alcove and ran to the sheet-iron comfort of an oil-drum sawdust burner, were postcards of naked breasts.
Other things too.
Curls of female hair — black, brown, blonde, reddish blonde and red — male erections, scrotums, small clutches of pubic hair, peephole views of unmentionable female parts. Close-ups of copulating couples, of bare asses, of girls on their hands and knees and grinning as they looked over a shoulder, the fellows too, and often not with the girls. ‘Hey, I think I get the picture,’ he quipped. ‘If there is no sin, what is there to confess?’
‘It’s all quite legal,’ shot the woman fiercely.
‘Inspector, Dénise and I share the duties of the shop.’
‘And the profits?’
Her expression emptied. ‘I am my brother’s keeper, Inspector. As for these,’ she indicated the merchandise. ‘Even God must make a living in such hard times.’
Sainte Mère! They were a pair, thought Kohler. Corbeau was sweating; the sister, as cold as ice.
He took out the postcard of Adrienne de Langlade’s breasts and said flatly, ‘Who sold this photo to you?’
Dénise Corbeau didn’t even bother to throw a warning glance at her brother. She just started up, all gestures and spittle. ‘Quelle folie! How could we possibly know? Who shouts the name for the few sous that are paid? We buy from those who sell and no names are given.’
‘What a pity,’ he breathed. ‘You see, the Kommandant isn’t aware of this little service his soldier boys have been frequenting along with your other customers. Oh bien sûr, the man who has needs must go to where they can be satisfied best, the woman also, but-’
‘Armand, pay him off and get the fucker out of here. You people. You cows. You think you can constantly put the squeeze on us? Pour I’amour du del, we pay off the préfet, idiot! Now fous-moi la paix!’ Bugger off! She tossed a hand.
Her ample bosom heaved. A knitting needle fell and as it hit the floor, the bell above the shop entrance rang.
‘Mort aux vaches, eh?’ breathed Kohler. Death to cows, the cops.
‘Dénise, he’s Gestapo,’ blurted the brother.
‘Couillon, ferme-la?’ Asshole, shut your trap!
They listened to the shop, these two. ‘Hey, it’s probably my partner,’ said Kohler. ‘Now there’s more than one of us and he’s the religious one. A fanatic. His sisters are both Mother Superiors.’ Louis had been an only child, but what the hell.
‘Armand, go and see who it is. Don’t stand there looking as if I had caught you with your trousers down. Do it!
‘Monsieur …’ she crooned and snapped her fingers. ‘The card, if you please.’
Kohler handed it over and watched as she fondled the curl and studied the breasts before drawing in a breath. ‘A musician brought us the negative and some samples of the hair. He said she was a student and needed the money but was too embarrassed to come herself.’
‘You can do better.’
‘His name?’ she asked, frowning now as he waited. ‘That I don’t know and didn’t ask but I think he was a singer.’
‘You’re lying. I think you know exactly who sold that negative to you and when. You’d seen and heard that person singing often enough in the Cathedral. Even such as yourself must go to Mass.’
‘The baritone, Norman Galiteau.’
‘Ah bon. Now was more than one copy made?’
‘One only.’
‘That’s not true. How come I’ve got one?’
‘Ten … no, twenty.’
‘Fifty.’
‘Perhaps. Some were sent to … to other shops.’
‘Where?’
Maudit salaud! ‘Marseille … Aix … We often swap so as to meet demand.’
‘Okay, now who bought this one from you and for whom?’ Each card carried a number and he had noticed this.
‘It was stolen.’
‘When?’
She shrugged. Her painted lips opened up with a torrent of langue d’oc, the last of which suggested the theft might quite possibly have taken place during the first week of December. ‘After the flooding. Yes. Yes, I am positive.’
‘By whom?’
She had him now but wouldn’t rejoice. ‘Two girls, one of whom was a nun.’
Sister Marie-Madeleine …
‘Armand had gone out, Inspector, so I was tending the shop myself, you understand. So many customers, Christmas approaching … Those little thoughtfulnesses that mean so much. The-’
‘Ja, ja, get to the point.’
‘She was with a girl of about her age. Twenty, I think.’
‘The petite lingère who was murdered?’
‘The one who was married to God purchased some things, while … while the other one entered here to steal. To steal!’
But took only what she must have known exactly to look for.
Kohler found a cigarette and paused to light it before placing it between her lips. ‘Now I’m going to ask you once, and then it’s up against the post for you.’
The firing squad …
He gave her a moment. ‘Who did you sell copies of this to?’