Mornings were never Hermann’s best of times. If only he would open his eyes to the beauties around him. If only …
‘Louis, for Christ’s sake …’
‘Ah yes, then, Hermann, a realist but would that woman do the unmentionable to keep her lover?-that is the question. Has she taken steps to protect herself and the Sonderfuhrer?’
The first light was now at last among the most distant trees and for a moment the Surete’s little Frog insisted on remaining silent.
Then the hand that had gripped his partner’s arm fell. ‘Did the banker become aware of his daughter’s plans to leave, Hermann, and is this not why the engravers had to die?’
‘Or be arrested.’
‘Or did Kempf call the anti-Jewish squads but do so in French?’
‘Okay, so let’s not avoid it any longer. What about Marie-Claire de Brisson and Dijon?’
‘That is what concerns me most, Hermann. Is it that she plans to kill herself so that no one, not even Mademoiselle St. Onge, can stop her?’
‘Maybe Angelique Desthieux can tell us.’
‘That is my earnest hope but we will, of course, not ask her directly but feel our way so as to decide later.’
And Joanne? wondered Kohler. What of Joanne?
The street was narrow and crooked and right in the heart of old Dijon. Uniformly shuttered town houses presented nothing but massive, arched wooden doors that led to each courtyard, while smaller doors in these saved the muscles and the back when no carriages needed to enter. Number 22 was no different from all the others.
‘Though a city of nearly 90,000, Hermann, Dijon is stricdy provincial. Dank, cold, grey and eminendy respectable. If you thought Lyon was close, my friend, here you have things to learn.’
It was all so typically Burgundian, thought St-Cyr. Rich in its own right-the food and the wealth of humour had been superb-but confined and scornful of others. ‘To return here from a life in Paris, would be as it was for Napoleon at Elba. Stables downstairs all along one side of the courtyard, with an enclosed staircase zigzagging upwards to connect each part of the house. Living quarters at the front and back. Two storeys here, three at the back with garrets there as bad as any in Paris. No flowers, for it’s not a city of them. Shards of bottle glass sticking out of the top of every free-standing wall as if, down through the centuries there has been a legacy of acute distrust of one’s neighbours.’
Footprints in the snow revealed the single crosses that had been cut into the soles of the clergy. Wherever a foot was placed, a cross. It said something about the Dijonnais, thought Kohler uncomfortably.
‘This house is next to the Bishop’s, Hermann, but still the two courtyards abut along a wall whose crest of broken glass defies all but the foolish and is far too high for most to climb in any case. Our Mademoiselle Desthieux came back from the joys of Paris to gaze out on what could just as easily have been the prison yard of the Sante!’
End of lecture. ‘The street’s perfect for a rafle.’
A round-up and house-to-house search. Trust Hermann to think of it when they had so much else to concern them! But Hermann was really just mocking the Gestapo.
‘Bung the barrel at both ends, Louis, then stave it in with an axe and let the pickles pour out on to the paving stones.’
The stones, ah yes. They were treacherous beneath three centimetres of newly fallen snow.
There were sparrows in the courtyard, feeding in a circle that had been swept clear and sprinkled with millet. Far down the courtyard, the house rose to tall french windows whose shutters were open.
A well, a pump, was here even in the centre of the city, the house perhaps 300 years old …
‘She’s seen us, Louis. She was watching the sparrows. Our mannequin.’
A housekeeper soon appeared, a no-nonsense type, short, rotund, all red bluster, blue darting eyes and a tangled mop of grey and unruly hair. ‘Messieurs, out. Out! Hurry! Hurry! You cannot come in here.’
The richness of the accent was sauce to the air. Her breath billowed. An iron soup ladle was fiercely gripped in the left hand. Three leeks had been thrust into the generous waistband of her apron.
Kohler grinned-the French never ceased to delight and take his mind off other things. ‘Let me, Louis.’
‘Don’t be an idiot! When presented with such a firm resolve, go easy, eh? Madame, I am Jean-Louis St-Cyr of the Surete Nationale and this,’ he indicated Hermann, ‘is my partner from the Gestapo.’
She drew in her shrouded bosom. ‘I don’t care if you are two of the Bishop’s disciples from Galilee, monsieur. No visitors are allowed. All appointments are by letter and all are refused.’
Stubborn to the very bone. ‘Oh bien sur, we are aware of this, madame, but the prefet of Dijon, he has …’
‘That one should know better.’
Better of too many things was implied. Ah merde, must she be difficult? ‘It’s a matter of great urgency, madame. A young girl has been kidnapped. Your mistress may be able to help once she learns that the girl resembles herself at the same age and that she is the latest of fourteen such girls, all others of whom have been savagely violated and murdered.’
Her bosom was swifdy crossed. Dark droplets of soup or sauce stained the snow beneath the ladle. The sparrows had fled.
‘Murdered …?’
‘Yes,’ grunted Kohler. ‘Inform Mademoiselle Desthieux that it’s an order from Sturmbannfuhrer Boemelburg, Head of the Gestapo in France.’
The blue eyes beneath their shaggy mop gave Hermann a look of utter coldness, then turned to St-Cyr. ‘If it is as this one says, monsieur, I will advise Mademoiselle Desthieux. The father has been dead for some years. The mother wanders in the mind so much, Mademoiselle Desthieux must be careful she is not disturbed.’
‘And herself?’ asked the Surete.
The look was one of scorn but with interest in visitors from afar, especially detectives. ‘She alone will decide. Excuse me a moment. Please stay exactly where you are. The front half of the house is occupied by les Allemands, a captain and his orderly. Two corporals are in the rooms between. Had the snow not fallen last night, you would, I am sure, have seen the tyre marks of their motor cycles or those of the captain’s car.’
Meaning, if Hermann and he had been observant, as detectives should have been, they would have noticed them anyway.
A nod would suffice and was given. After the woman had left them, Kohler hissed, ‘Why didn’t the resident prefet warn us, Louis?’
St-Cyr surveyed the occupied parts of the house and shrugged. ‘To understand is to comprehend the Burgundian, mon vieux. Their character is not defined simply by their food or even by the manner of its eating. The prefet was certain the captain would stop us. Mademoiselle Desthieux is special and her privacy to be guarded not just by her housekeeper. No doubt the father was once mayor or one of Dijon’s other leading figures. That is why the daughter is sheltered, not only for her past and fame or infamy, but out of deference to the memory of her father.’
‘And that of her “guests”, her lodgers, eh?’ snorted Kohler. ‘Don’t try to fool yourself too much.’
The woman received them in the attic at the back of the house. The narrow staircase seemed never to end. A candle warmed the glazes she used to decorate the porcelain plates before her with a design of fillet lace. ‘It’s a living, Inspectors. A local works keeps me busy.’
The left eye was without lashes or eyebrow and permanently closed over its empty socket. From there down across the lips and chin, the scars were deep, red and glazed. There were others on her neck and no doubt her chest.
But the other eye and the hair … ah mon Dieu, thought St-Cyr, it was as if all those missing girls pleaded with him to confide their stories to her.