‘Your son, madame,’ said St-Cyr diffidently. ‘We would like to know where he is.’
She sucked in a breath. Her bosom rose. ‘My Julien? But at work, of course. He is the riding master in the Bois de Boulogne. Every day he starts so early, I … why, I hardly ever see him, the poor boy, although we’re very close.’
A shit-shoveller elevated to riding master! snorted Kohler inwardly, but Louis’s diffidence continued.
‘Yes, yes, madame. Apparently he did not come home last night?’
‘Nor has he been at his job today,’ breathed Kohler. Giselle would hate him for this.
Madame Rébé tossed her head a little but did not frown. ‘Not home? Not at work? But … but that is impossible, messieurs.’
‘It’s Inspectors,’ grumbled Kohler, hauling out his badge only to hear her sing, ‘Impossible. Julien is very conscientious. We barely make enough to keep this place. Both of us need to earn our way.’
Ah nom de Dieu, her composure was magnificent, thought St-Cyr, and cleared his throat, excusing himself. ‘A touch of the flu, I’m afraid-no, please, madame, do not concern yourself unduly. I will not sneeze. Your son?’
Consternation registered. ‘But he teaches les Allemands? He must take them riding every morning before the sun rises and guide the new ones along the trails. He has eight men working under him. Oh! you are mistaken. Please telephone his office at once. Apologize for interrupting him.’
Dried hydrangeas now had mushrooms tucked in among them-such a waste. These flowers were everywhere and they, too, needed a careful dusting. Had Julien once had the job? ‘There isn’t a telephone at the riding stables,’ grumbled Kohler, testily tossing his fedora on to a table.
‘No telephone? But … but that is just not possible. Jeanette … Jeanette, ma chère, please bring me the address book at once The Inspectors need Monsieur Julien’s number at work.’
‘Yes, madame.’ The kid ducked her head and all but ran.
They waited for her to return. They stood there, these two from the Sûreté and the Kripo, saying nothing, not even sitting in the chairs that had been prepared for them, and it was on the tip of her tongue to ask, What has he done this time? But Madame Rèbè knew she mustn’t.
‘He’s a good boy, Inspectors,’ she crooned.
‘But there is no telephone,’ sighed the one called St-Cyr.
‘Which café or bar is he using, Louis?’
‘The tearoom, I think.’
When the girl returned, Louis took the book from her but let her point out the number. ‘The tearoom,’ he said and sighed again. ‘I recognize the middle two numbers, a double seven. They’re sufficient for now.’
‘So whom did he sleep with last night?’ asked the one called Kohler, and he did have something about him, something very dangerous. The scar of a rawhide whip down the left cheek only proved it. The SS had done that, his Giselle had told her, because of a truth he would not ignore.
‘I … I don’t know,’ Madame Rébé said and shrugged hotly. ‘What is a mother to do, eh, my friends? I have only one son, one child. Shall I let les Allemands conscript him into forced labour in the Reich or …’ Ah, bon Dieu, why had she said it? ‘Or keep him gainfully employed in Paris?’
‘And on the list of those who can’t be taken,’ breathed Kohler. ‘Those whose jobs are far too important.’
They were making her very angry, but she would not give in, would not get up to pace about and demand a cigarette. Ah no-no, she would not let them see her like that. ‘I tell you I do not know which of them he slept with.’
Louis let her have it. ‘Then simply tell us about the Relève, madame. The “voluntary” labour service that is soon to become the Service de Travail Obligatoire, the forced labour. Antoine Vernet has influence. Madame Vernet is, it appears, a valued client. Or is it, Madame Rébé, that the industrialist’s wife comes not to consult the future but to lie naked in the arms of your son?’
Vipère! Cobra! Ah damn him … ‘I … I had nothing to do with their affair. If she wants to make love with my son, who am I to deny him the pleasure?’
‘But you did have a lot to do with it, madame,’ offered Louis. ‘You ran, in effect, a clandestin. How much did she pay you for the use of your son?’
An unlicenced brothel … The matter was serious. ‘Two hundred francs a visit. Three hundred if extended.’
No crystal ball was needed. ‘And a guarantee of your silence,’ grunted Kohler, ‘so long as she made sure your Julien was not taken by the S.T.O. to find himself working eighteen hours a day in Essen tapping blast furnaces the R.A.F. had targeted.’
‘Did Madame Vernet agree to see that your son’s name went on the preferred list?’ asked the Sûreté, hurling the words at her.
She wished they would leave but was a realist and knew they wouldn’t. ‘Yes! But he’s done nothing wrong. Pah! So what if the woman craves a lover’s arms when she is married to a cold fish? My Julien is good to her-ah yes, we have discussed her most intimate of needs. We’re very close, as I’ve said. She’s a Scorpio and very determined. She likes to have everything exactly right for her. The seat, the back, the mons, they are to be massaged both before and after the release of his little burden and hers, messieurs. Hers. The feet, the hands, the throat and forehead. If she is with child, it’s her affair, not ours.’
Ah merde …
‘Is that possible?’ managed Kohler.
She had them now. ‘Very! since she wanted the feel of him in her. The ejaculation, yes? Ah! don’t look so disconcerted, Inspectors. Some women do want to drink a man in and rob him of the life only he can give. She is one of them and insatiable. Always he has had to smother her cries of joy lest the clients be disturbed.’
They didn’t say a thing. They simply left the flat in a hurry and didn’t use the lift. She heard their car start up and, from the opened windows, watched in despair as they drove off towards the Seine.
‘Verdammt, Louis, what better way for Madame Vernet to get back at that husband of hers for fooling around with Liline Chambert!’
‘To be cuckolded by a stablehand and part-time mannequin … Ah nom de Dieu, mon vieux, our Madame Vernet must have acid in her veins!’
‘A gigolo. The shame of it,’ hooted Kohler. ‘If word gets out, Vernet’s associates will ridicule him into the grave!’
‘And beyond it for at least the next two hundred years!’
‘But is she pregnant by that stud, and if so, does she not want an heir of her own? Did she arrange to have her niece killed?’
Ah now, was it not time for the truth? ‘And a marriage, mon vieux, that would have to continue not only because Liline Chambert had been taken care of but because Antoine Vernet could never-I repeat never-claim this other child was not his own, lest his wife tell everyone who the father really was.’ He drew in a breath and sighed. ‘It’s perfect, Hermann. If true, she stands alone in infamy.’
A sobering thought.
Nénette Vernet had known she would be followed; Liline Chambert had gone to have her abortion.
Andrée Noireau had been killed, but that killing had been quite different from the others.
‘Where is that kid, Louis? Is she still hiding out in that synagogue? Is she hungry and cold?’
And still afraid to go home. ‘Or has Julian Rébé now dealt with her, if it was he who killed her little friend? A stableboy.’
A pack rat, a voyou, Sister Céline had called her. A petty thief of toy giraffes. An amateur sleuth who was convinced not only that she knew who the Sandman was but where and when he would strike next.