Quickly he opened a drawer and found the red, moroccobound booklet that was no bigger than one for listing telephone numbers.
The detective accepted the proffered evidence. He would note the precision of the penmanship and that, in each entry, the sum was the same. Ah yes. ‘Two thousand francs to the total of one hundred and sixty-eight thousand?’ he said.
‘Over the past ten years, Inspector. Ever since my grandfather died and Claudine went to work for Ange-Marie at La Belle Epoque.’
‘She would have been twenty-two at the time; Ange-Marie twenty-four and yourself, monsieur?’
‘Twenty-six but it’s of no consequence.’
Though the detective kept his thoughts to himself, he would not leave things so simply defined. Ah no, he was too persistent, too dedicated, thought Martine. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘but then … ah then, Monsieur Charlebois, age so often has its meaning. One is older, another is much younger, and one is in between.’
Had it been wise to tell him of the money, of loans that could never be repaid?
Henri said nothing. What could he have said about those days when the three of them were young and so much had happened?
An interruption at the door brought the impasse to its close. She would let Henri do the answering. Yes, yes, it would be best to get him away from the detective.
It was Jean-Pierre and Fernand and Lorraine, her three zazous in dark glasses, and they had come with a little gift for their teacher. Henri was irritated and upset on seeing them at his door. He did not like their grins or constantly erratic motion. He did not value the attentions they paid his little sister and thought such an extracurricular association undignified and unprofessional of her. Yet he could be very nice to them when he wanted. Had they startled him for some other reason? she wondered. Had their presence alarmed him? He was afraid.
With difficulty and muttered apologies, he allowed them to come in and called her from the kitchen.
She would throw on an apron and seize a tea towel-would pretend to wipe her hands as she went toward them. Each removed the dark glasses and the huge cock-hate, the earmuffs of gold and orange and livid green. Ear-rings on the boys no shirts this evening but leather jackets open to the navel in spite of the freezing cold. And pegged trousers that exposed bare ankles and sockless feet that were tucked into laceless shoes which had not a trace of polish. Lorraine was opening the umbrella that was always carried closed in the rain to infuriate passing adults who had none. There was long, greasy hair on all three of them. Lorraine’s pleated skirt was so short her shapely thighs half exposed their pinkish blush of frost. They’d all get pneumonia. They were rebellious youth unleashed and wanting to show the Occupiers and everyone else exactly what they thought of them. But ah mon Dieu, mon Dieu, they were so lovely! Her two heroes and her little heroine.
St-Cyr watched the greetings of the sister with interest. While the brother remained aloof and uncomfortable, the sister hugged each of them, kissed their cheeks and made a fuss.
‘Come in … come into the kitchen and warm yourselves. A little gift … Ah, you shouldn’t have. What is it?’ And so the chatter went until the three of them clutched mugs of herbal tea that had been sweetened with a puree of chestnuts.
‘Inspector …’ began Charlebois, hoping to get him back into the salon.
‘Ah no, monsieur. For me, the kitchen is fine.’
The teenagers were ebullient. They threw themselves around in states of sloppiness but were grateful for their teacher’s warmth and admiration. ‘A detective,’ said the one called Jean-Pierre with awe. ‘Paris … Monsieur, permit me, please, to ask are we …’
‘Are we like the zazous of the clubs on the Champs-Elysees? The Ledoyen?’ asked Lorraine with a seriousness one found disconcerting.
He would take them all in with a sweeping glance. He would exercise caution and preach patience to himself. ‘Very,’ he said, finding the will to grin. ‘Exactly as those I’ve seen at the Colisee, the Bar Select and other places.’
This set them to talking rapidly amongst themselves while their teacher basked in the praise and fluttered around with ersatz biscuits of some sort. Fig perhaps.
Fernand, a pimply-faced youth of fifteen, produced Swiss chocolate with a flourish. Jean-Pierre ignored the loot and offered real coffee and cigarettes.
Lorraine had several tubes of lipstick to display. All the items were offered for sale and this was quietly understood.
‘Inspector …’ began Mademoiselle Charlebois. ‘It’s Christmas Day. Please do not be too hard on them. These are little things, isn’t that so? Lyon, it … it is not under your … your … well, you know. The prefer, he …’
‘My jurisdiction, is that what you mean, mademoiselle?’
‘Martine, how could you?’
‘Henri, the coffee was to be for you, the chocolate also.’
‘And the lipstick?’ asked the brother sharply. ‘You know how much I hate the sight of your wearing such things. It cheapens you.’
‘And the present?’ asked the Surete, for it still lay on the table. Clearly the students were working the ‘System D’*, making do and taking care of themselves by playing the black market. Every lycee had its System Ds and the zazous were a part of it. A chicken for the pot, a roast of veal perhaps or packet of salt-clothes, the leather jackets, the girl’s skirt … all were products of the system.
‘The present …?’ he said again, seeing them look questioningly at each other while the brother watched them with alarm.
‘Open it, please,’ breathed the detective, ‘or would you prefer I did?’
It was the girl who kept her eyes focused on the thing while Monsieur Charlebois stood across the table from her, frantically trying to get her to give him a hint as to what it contained. She refused to raise her lovely blue eyes to meet his gaze but whispered, ‘Mademoiselle Charlebois, our Assistant Professor of Germanic studies, must open it, Monsieur the Detective from Paris. It is just a little something. It is nothing much.’
‘Henri, you open it,’ said his sister but the brother refused and went into the other room saying, ‘You should be ashamed. They should not have come here.’
Upset by his words, her pale lips quivered, and her fingers shook as she undid the wrapping and tried not to damage the paper.
There was a small cardboard box and, inside this in tissue, a ring of keys that made her gasp and burst into tears of relief and gratitude. ‘My keys!’ she blurted, fondly touching each of her students and hugging them. ‘The keys to the Lycee du Parc, Inspector. I dropped them some place. I never lose a thing-I’ve never lost anything until … Ah, I was so upset and distracted-the examinations, their grades. My Director, le Docteur Taillander, he … he would have dismissed me, had he known of my carelessness.’
She clutched the keys in her left hand, held them to her lips and, shutting her eyes with relief, bowed her head to steady herself.
The zazous reached out to her comfortingly. They were distressed and embarrassed at the depths of her relief. Perhaps they had not known she would have been dismissed. Perhaps one of them had taken the keys and now all three were united in the shame of returning them.
It would be some moments before she recovered. St-Cyr signailed to them to leave and went with them to the front door. ‘Who found the keys and where?’ he asked. ‘When were they lost and when was their absence first discovered? Come, come, answer truthfully.’
It was Jean-Pierre who reluctantly confessed. ‘I found the keys last Tuesday, Inspector, beside the lake in the park. There is a pavilion which is used for the band concerts. It …’
‘It is one of our meeting-places, Inspector,’ said Lorraine, not looking up. ‘The keys were lying in the snow below the railing.’