After dark, then. ‘Some parsley, perhaps?’
The girl brightened. ‘Yes. Why yes, that’s it exactly!’
‘And did you call the matter of the movers to her attention?’
‘No. Ah, no. I …’ She would lower her eyes because he would not think well of her now. ‘I knew how upset she would have been, Inspector. Monsieur Verges has always been so very kind to her. Though he doesn’t come to his house any more, his presence is still felt. Flowers … flowers are still sent each year on her birthday.’
Then she has someone after all, but you’re afraid of him-was that it? he wondered, looking her over. The girl was no more than twenty-two years of age and had been with Madame Lemaire for the past five years. Though probably not entirely innocent, she was still a ‘good’ girl and had not put herself on the streets as had some. ‘The son of Monsieur Verges, Mademoiselle Nanette? The sender of the flowers perhaps. Did he ever come to the house next door?’
Stricken, she threw him a look of anguish. ‘No. Ah no, Inspector. Not that one. Not that I … I know of.’ Swiftly she crossed herself while dropping her eyes and saying inwardly, The drooler … the drooler …
He would have to be gentle and must soften his voice. ‘Then tell me what you heard from that house, Nanette. You were waiting for sleep perhaps. Madame had already …’
Her shoulders straightened. Her chin lifted. Her gaze was steady. ‘She goes to sleep very early, Inspector, but like a lot of old people, often awakens in the night and is sometimes up for hours.’
‘What did you hear?’
The Inspector would hate her for it. ‘A woman crying. My room … It’s in the attic at the back, you understand.’
Overlooking the balcony and the garden. ‘And did you tell Madame of this crying?’
His gaze demanded the truth. ‘No, I … I was afraid to. Madame has a heart murmur, Inspector. Sometimes things upset her and …’
‘And you were afraid she would be very upset since neither Monsieur Verges nor his son apparently ever came to the house.’
‘Yes.’
The tears were very real and many. The lovely lips quivered with remorse. He hated to do it to her but had to know. ‘How often did you hear this crying?’
She mustn’t tell him everything. She mustn’t! ‘Sometimes every night for days but … but then it would stop and … and there would be peace until …’
He couldn’t keep the sadness from his voice. ‘Until a few days or weeks had passed, or a month or two perhaps, when again there would be much weeping but not, am I right, from the same person?’
So much was registered in the girl’s eyes. Fear, doubt, anxiety, shame. ‘What has happened in that house, Inspector? Please, you must tell me.’
Ah damn, what was she hiding and why was she too afraid to tell him?
‘Nanette … Girl, has he gone?’ came the voice of Madame Lemaire.
‘Yes … yes, madame! I am just bringing the supper.’ Frantically the girl turned to him. ‘Please, Inspector, her heart.’
‘I’ll be back. Say nothing of this to anyone. Your life may well be in danger.’
After he had gone, she pressed her forehead against the door and wept. She hadn’t told him of her attempts to find out what had been going on in that house since the Defeat. The Defeat! She hadn’t told him what she had seen.
Taking the business card from her apron, she opened her blouse and slid it down under her brassiere until it nestled against the plump warmth of her left breast.
‘I will sew it into the lining,’ she whispered, ‘I will keep it with me always. And when I have to wash the brassiere?’ she asked herself, with all the practicality of her ancestors. ‘Then I will put it under my pillow at such times.’
He would hate her for what she had seen and said nothing of.
2
The boy was waiting in the freezing darkness of the rue Laurence-Savart beside the gate to number 3. He had been there for hours.
‘Dede, what is this?’ asked St-Cyr. ‘You’ll catch pneumonia.’
‘It’s nothing, Monsieur the Chief Inspector. Nothing.’
‘Of course, but you know I would have come up the street to visit with your dear mama and papa, and your brothers and sisters. We agreed, isn’t that so? A wash, a cup of bouillon and then the conference. That’s why I’m here. How are they bearing up?’
‘Terrible, Chief Inspector. Grand-mere is saying Joanne has been violated and murdered, and that her nude body has been left out in the cold for the crows to peck out her eyes and the rats to eat their way up her …’
‘Ah damn that old woman, she ought to know better! Come inside immediately. Is the gas still on?’
St-Cyr unlatched the gate and pushed it open. The Germans often turned the gas off for the stupidest of reasons and for others too: the acts of terrorism that were gradually becoming more frequent and bolder. Each day the gas was on for but a few hours and he had lost track of those times, for he was seldom home for long. ‘Dede, please answer me. Men must be brave at such times.’
Men … ‘It … it’s off, Chief Inspector, as is the electricity and the water, the full job, but … but I’ve brought you a thermos of soup and some bread.’
‘Ah bon, c’est bon. You must thank your mother for me. Now let’s go inside and I’ll fill you in on the latest developments.’
It was freezing in the house but fortunately the Organization Todt had stacked sufficient kindling and bits of board from the repairs for a decent fire. The stove was soon warm. The soup was excellent, a family sacrifice he appreciated.
But what did one say to a ten-year-old boy who adored his oldest sister because she loved him and made him feel special, since he was caught in the middle so to speak, having both older brothers and younger sisters to contend with?
Out of respect, the boy had pulled off his knitted hat and placed it on the table. St-Cyr took in the sallow cheeks and hollow eyes, the high forehead and narrow chin that would, in time, fill out if allowed.
It was the lack of milk, cheese, vitamins and minerals. No milk could get into the city from the farms of plenty, except for that sold on the black market or directly to the Germans. There were no potatoes in a land of them. They had all gone to the Reich.
But of such hardships there must be no mention. He grinned and threw his hands out, shrugging too. ‘So, progress, mon vieux. Great progress. Joanne was not killed in the house to which she went for the interview.’
Not killed … ‘But … but she has gone to the Theatre du Palais Royal for the interview?’
Why was it boys of this age always seemed to have such large eyes? Beseechingly they demanded absolute truth.
‘A letter was left there for her, Dede. Joanne then went to a house.’
‘Where?’
‘That I can’t say. For now it must remain confidential so as not to jeopardize the investigation.’
Confidential …
St-Cyr leaned over the table, pushing a small tin of age-old mints a little closer. ‘Go on. They help.’ He nodded towards the mints. ‘My partner proves his usefulness at times. Take two. One for each cheek. Don’t crush them up. They last longer.’
The mints were taken but one was dropped through nervousness, moving St-Cyr to say earnesdy, ‘Be brave. There’s still hope. After three days, she was taken from the house to another place last night. We’re working on it and I expect to have further answers when I meet my partner in an hour or so. We’re not sparing the clock on this one. Joanne was special.’
The Chief Inspector had not yet removed his overcoat and scarf or galoshes, hat and gloves. He ate the last of the soup with the thoroughness of the determined, and when it was gone, wiped the bowl and spoon with the last of the bread just as they did at home.