Louis hesitated at something else. Kohler could hear him gritting his teeth in dismay. ‘A death’s-head cap badge, Hermann. Two of the gold wound badges, the Polish Campaign medal and a silver tank battle badge.’
‘Shit!’ They both knew the mere presence of such things would implicate the SS in von Schaumburg’s mind-Old Shatter Hand hated the SS with a vengeance. ‘Let’s keep it quiet,’ said Kohler and, snapping his fingers, demanded the badges. ‘I’ll take charge of them. That’s an order. I’ll toss them in the Seine if I have to.’
The look in Louis’s sad brown eyes never left him-they’d been all through this sort of thing with the SS before and knew the consequences only too well, but still … ‘Then perhaps you might like to keep this also, Herr Hauptmann Detektiv Aufsichtsbeamter, since so many of your number are attracted to our fair city to play at being artists?’
‘Ah, don’t get so pissed off about being one of the conquered and having to take orders from your partner who can’t measure up to you in rank. Just tell me what it is.’
‘A crumpled, empty tube of oil paint. Mummy Brown and, yes, made well before this war from ground Egyptian mummies. There is a use for everything in this life, and the Egyptians, they had so many dried corpses some enterprising soul decided to export the dust to Paris to satisfy Renoir and Degas and the others, all of whom had insatiable appetites.’
‘Mummy Brown,’ breathed Kohler, filing it away.
‘Yes. It’s not overly dark, I think, but a deep, sandy brown, perhaps not unlike the desert at dusk.’
‘Since when did you ever see the desert?’
‘Never. Only in my imagination, on the silver screen, and in the adventure novels of Saint-Exupéry, the airmail pioneer and aviator.’
‘Ancient history. Then keep the tube and stick to the present eh, Chief? Six Tarot cards,’ he snorted, wanting to get it all ove with and gazing at a naked Brünnhilde emptying two stone jugs at a pond. ‘“The Star”, it says.’ He looked at the others. ‘“The Lovers; the Nine of Swords; the Devil”.’ Puzzled, he raised his eyebrows. ‘“The Eight of Swords”, and finally “the Ace” of the same suit.’
‘Will you be able to remember the order in which you found them?’
‘Hey, are you forgetting I was a Munich detective before Berlin and then Paris?’
‘Never. Absolutely not for one minute!’
‘Touché, eh? There’s also this. Lost, I guess, and found, or the other one is missing.’
‘Just let me see it.’
The storm-trooper’s stumpy middle left finger was wetted to stab the object and thrust it at him. ‘Gold. The fob of an ear-ring.
‘The Virgin with welcoming arms at her sides. On the reverse, the cross and the twelve equally spaced stars denoting the Apostles or the twelve tribes of Israel. A first-communion present, perhaps, or one for confirmation, but not our victim’s. Her ears, they are not pierced.’
Merde, it never bothered Louis to work so close to a corpset Never! He enjoyed it ‘Her chaim bracelet is of dogs, in silver. A dachshund, a spaniel a border terrier, but one is missing. It’s been purposely removed, I think The loop that held it is still here but has been squeezed to death with the pliers.’
‘Is there anything else?’
‘Lots. A handkerchief bearing the heiress’s initials. A small, gold-capped Lalique vial of perfume. Good stuff, too. And one turquoise-on-silver tiepin that’s been stepped on and has its shaft bent. No clutchback to it, though. That’s missing. And some chewing gum, the ersatz stuff. Pink and horrible and chewed to blazes before being wrapped in a scrap of newspaper.’
‘To be saved for a rainy day.’
‘Five forgotten raisins among the lint. No coins. Two elastic bands-extras for her braids, probably.’ And then, anticipating Louis’s question, ‘Ja, ja, mein brillant Detektiv Französisch, there are some tangled black hairs. Long ones.’
St-Cyr nodded grimly. ‘Then our victim wears the coat not of herself but of her friend, the heiress, who may, perhaps, wear this one’s.’
‘And that, mon fin, can only mean they planned to switch coats again and must have thought they could get away with whatever they were up to, only the Sandman stepped in.’
‘If it really was him. If, Hermann. This we really do not know.’
Were things not right? Kohler hesitated. He thought of the death’s-head cap badge, the medal and the wound badges … They’d have to go carefully. They couldn’t jump to conclusions. ‘Then let’s keep the identity switch to ourselves for the moment, eh? Let’s talk to the parents first and get a feel for what’s been going on?’
This was heresy, but had the identity switch been done so as to throw the killer off? Just why had he had to rip off her hat and check her identity papers?
Had a mistake been made and, if so, did he not now realize it? And where, please, was her hat? Now thrown away or hidden, never to be found?
‘First leave me alone with her. Go and talk to the sous-préfet. Find out where the custodian of this cage is and ask him why he was not around to prevent such a tragedy.’
‘At about three o’clock this afternoon, the new time. Berlin Time.’
And in winter an hour ahead, so four o’clock the old time and with the shadows quickly gathering. ‘He’ll have been flogging doves on the black market, Hermann. Pluck his feathers for us.’
Hermann needed little jobs like that. They brought out the best in him. Reaching over the corpse, St-Cyr said a whispered, ‘Forgive me, my child, but we have to talk a little, you and I, and I cannot stand to look at your eyes any longer.’
Closing them, he knelt a moment seemingly in quiet contemplation while the cameras of the mind filmed the body from every possible angle, noting near the end that horse manure had been smeared among the droppings on the floor beneath the snow-the boots of the police perhaps, the killer, the custodian or themselves, the child also. The stables and riding trails were near.
Only then did he find between the last of the bins of droppings beside her left shoulder a small and folded scrap of white notepaper. It had been hidden by the snow.
Opening it, he read, Je t’aime. I love you. It was signed Nénette.
Outside the ring of lights Kohler found no comfort.
‘Monsieur l’Inspecteur, the family … Please, someone must speak to them, yes? The aunt … Madame Vernet, is distraught. The uncle, Monsieur Vernet, he … he is a man of consequence. For us to …’ The sous-préfet in charge of Neuilly gave a helpless shrug. ‘For us to keep them from the body of their little niece is just not right and can only lead to trouble.’
An understanding nod would be best. ‘All the same, Sous-préfet, we have to stick to protocol and to orders. The Kommandant von Gross-Paris has specifically stated the relatives are not to see her yet.’ This was not true, but what the hell. ‘Who told them it was her?’
The lead-grey rheumy eyes that had sought him out ducked away to the lantern. ‘I did. Please, I have kept the news from them for as long as I could. Madame Vernet, she … she has torn her cheeks with her fingernails and is … is blaming herself.’