‘Her name is Mademoiselle Marie-Claire de Brisson, Inspector. We … we were at the university together. The … the Sorbonne, of course.’
The banker’s daughter … Jesus, merde alors! ‘Don’t leave the city. I may want to talk to you again.’
Without another word he showed himself out and only after he had gone and she was replacing the photograph, did she notice the invitation and realize he would have seen it.
Hurrying over to the windows, she watched the street and saw him think better of getting into his car. He looked both up and down the street, then chose the direction which offered the most potential, and went after her maid. Ah no.
Kohler found the girl shivering in the Jardins du Ranelagh, but over on the avenue Chemin de la Muette. She was looking off down the avenue past an old man and his dog, straight towards the Bois de Boulogne in the near distance.
She didn’t turn when he came up behind her. Christ, it was bleak. Normally quite lovely in summer, the gardens reminded him of Siberia, though he had never been there.
‘Mademoiselle …’
The girl was shattered. She thought it was the end for her. ‘I know nothing, monsieur. She tells me nothing!’
He turned her towards him. She wasn’t any more than eighteen. The face was thin, the eyes afraid. ‘Look, Mademoiselle Jeanne, I’m not going to hurt you. I only want the answer to one question. Does your mistress loan things from that shop of hers to a friend?’
‘Sometimes.’
Kohler gently lifted her chin so that their eyes met. ‘Which friend? Mademoiselle Marie-Claire de Brisson?’
‘Yes.’
He nodded curtly. He took her by the arm and walked with her the short distance to the tearoom on the avenue Raphael but he had no money or time for such things.
She saw that his thoughts were far away but then, having decided, he said, ‘Jeanne, go in and have a cup of that stuff they call tea. Take your time, then go back and swear to that mistress of yours that we never met. Never, do you understand? It’s very important. I’ll do my act for her if she’s still watching my partner’s car. I’ll help you out, kid, so don’t forget.’
Louis, he said to himself. Louis, I think I know where Joanne is. If I need help, you’d better come running. Mein Gott, mon vieux, I only hope I’m not too late because I’m going to have to take the time to walk up to that car of yours as though I couldn’t find her maid. I’m going to have to drive slowly away even though I know I haven’t a moment to lose. The banker’s daughter, Louis. I can’t have Mademoiselle St. Onge telephoning the woman to warn her. I can’t.
From time to time as he moved about the empty house, St-Cyr looked out on to the rue de Valois to see the austere facade of the Bank of France. It was there as if to remind him of the robbery, yet was that event but a distraction hiding what they needed most to know?
‘Two men and a woman,’ he said aloud but softly to himself. ‘It doesn’t fit with what we know must have happened here. Bank robbers don’t fool around taking pictures of kidnapped girls. In any case, why the delay of three days? Why wait until then to leave? Why clean out everything?’
As always these days, crime had to be viewed through the Occupation’s prism, warped though that was most certainly. A crime such as the robbery could have been perpetrated by the Germans for their own ends but they could have used French gangsters so as to disguise the fact.
It could, of course, have been done by those same gangsters for their own ends but without them letting their German masters in on things.
It could have been a straight crime unconnected to either of these parties, in which case each would want to know who had done it.
Then, too, the Resistance which, a year or even six months ago, need not have been factored in simply because they were such a very, very tiny element, had now to be considered since the war in Russia had driven the Communists in France to actively resist the Germans. Though not all of the Resistance was Communist, a good part of it was to the shame of everyone else.
In any case, the Resistance now could well have learned of that shipment and robbed the bank out of necessity or to teach someone a lesson. Monsieur Andre-Philippe de Brisson perhaps.
Uncomfortable at the thought of the Resistance teaching people lessons, he took out his pipe but elected to ration himself after all.
‘Something’s bothering me,’ he said. ‘Ah merde, why can’t I put my finger on it?’
He felt the thing was so simple, it was staring him right in the face, yet when he looked at the walls all he saw was the wallpaper and then …
Faintly the outlines on the walls revealed where the owner had hung his paintings. In room by room they showed so clearly. Some had been larger than others, some of moderate size and some really quite small-had these last been photographs? he wondered and thought they must have been, but had the paintings been of value? Would Monsieur Verges have left such things here, knowing the Germans, if they should discover the house without occupants, would requisition the premises and use it for their own?
Somehow Monsieur Verges must have taken measures to see that the house remained unoccupied even by his German masters.
But had the paintings been of value and was this why the house had been emptied?
Then why scatter the photographs of those poor unfortunate girls? Why not simply take them away with everything else?
Again he was forced to admit that the finger of suspicion pointed at the drooler, at the son.
With a decisive thoroughness that pleased him, St-Cyr measured and recorded the size of each of the outlines, stopping only at the smaller of them.
Then he stood in what had been the grand salon, willing himself into Joanne’s shoes.
She had lived in her imagination as a little girl. Oh bien sur she had always been very interested in the goings-on around her, a most curious and analytical nature, but right in the middle of something, she would be a shop-girl taking orders over the counter of the local patisserie, a dancer suddenly or a sword-fighting pirate, a waiter. This last recollection was vivid.
Joanne had tilted her little head to one side while holding a small pad and pencil and, while she could not then read or write, had asked what they would like to order and had written it all down with quick, deft strokes and had made suggestions as to the more expensive items, particularly the wine. She could only have picked this up by watching some big pavement cafe from the wings The family had had no money to sit in such places and order such things.
‘She ought to have been an actress,’ he said. ‘I had forgotten how well she could drop into any part she chose to play.’
She would have seen the paintings-indeed everything else in this … this lovely house. She would have marvelled at the furniture, have hesitated at first to touch a thing. It was all so far removed from the life she had known.
She would have been submissive, shy, hesitant always-worried, oh my yes. Could she do it? Would they find her unsatisfactory?
He would have to force that little maid next door to tell him what she knew. He must question the neighbours on the other side of the house-no one had been in when he had rung the bells. He would have to question the banker’s daughter about the cat, ah yes.
Suddenly furious with himself for not making faster progress, St-Cyr dug out the smattering of photographs he had gleaned from the heap in the car and realized he ought to have had the complete sequence.
The clothes Joanne had modelled had been very good. Tres chic for these times and quite classy but things … ah what could he say about them? The styles …? Skirts, blouses and sweaters, suits that were really very good but did not quite fit perfectly. Trousers, evening gowns, sequined sheaths, peignoirs and lingerie then … why then, nothing.