There were schoolgirls and schoolgirls and then … ‘That snapshot of Andrée and Nénette, Inspectors. It was taken in the early fall in the jardin. Liline saw me take it, and it was then that I asked if she could bring the girls to pose for me.’
Kohler had no longing for a cigarette. Hasse electrified the air with unspoken accusations and denials: I KNOW YOU THINK I DID IT, BUT I DIDN’T!
It was Louis who tidied the photographs and searched among the faces. Were the Sandman’s other victims there? he wondered. ‘You must have made preliminary sketches of Nénette and Andrée, Herr Hasse,’ he said. ‘If it would not be too much trouble, we would like a look at them.’
Anger rose in his gullet. Hasse waited until it had abated. ‘They’re in the room I use for storage. Is this necessary?’
He could be cold when he wanted, still brutal, too, perhaps, but could he then calm himself, as the Sandman must have done, pausing long enough to remove all traces of pubic hair?
There was that little nod Kohler knew so well, a sadness to Louis’s voice. ‘As necessary as it is for you to tell us where you were last Sunday between two and four p.m. Several of these photographs are of children at soup kitchens, Herr Hasse. Poor children. Children bundled in rags. Several are also of the Notre-Dame and its belfries. Please, you do understand? We’re only doing our job.’
Like police the world over, they were unwilling to give respite until satisfied.
‘Well?’ asked Louis of that Sunday.
Again that coldness came. ‘I was not in Paris. I was in Saint-Germain-en-Laye staying with a friend.’
When Hasse came back with three sketches, Kohler asked if he would allow them to borrow the snapshots. ‘Just for a little. They’ll be returned. No problem.’
Ah, damn them. ‘I could refuse, but I won’t. You see, I want you to find the person responsible for the killings, especially those of Liline and Andrée.’
The sketches were good but showed two very subdued and uncertain girls who didn’t really want to pose or be anywhere near the studio or the artist.
He would have to tell them. ‘I paid Liline to bring the girls. Two hundred francs a sitting. They knew she needed the money and that it was a lot, so suffered through, but I couldn’t change their opinions of me. They dreaded being near. That’s why I have to use the camera.’
‘Did they know she was pregnant?’ asked the Sûreté.
‘I think they must have, but we never discussed it. I thought, and said so each time, that the money would assist Liline in finding accommodations of her own.’
‘But it was for the abortion?’
‘Apparently so. A total of a thousand francs. Five visits. Even then the girls could not get used to being here. They thought it a prison, I suppose. Certainly a place of the dead, and they were afraid.’
Louis set one of the sketches aside and took up another. He preferred now to stand-so did Hasse.
The cat found its saucer of milk. In a city where there was virtually none to be had, here there was plenty.
‘Herr Hasse, something is puzzling me,’ said Louis, setting the thing aside. ‘A girl like Liline Chambert would not have readily known how to find an abortionist. Fellow students might have suggested a name, but …’
The stork tossed its head. ‘I didn’t, if that is what you are wondering. Indeed, had I but known, I would have seen she at least had proper medical care and …’ Hasse paused to search him out. ‘I would not have sent her to one of the Führer’s baby farms in the Reich.’
‘I’m sorry I asked, but one has to.’
‘Then I’ll tell you again, I am completely innocent.’
‘That is what they all say. Please do not leave the city. We may need to question you further.’
Ah merde, Louis, go easy. He’s SS, thought Kohler, but then caught a glimpse of the butt of a Mauser pistol jutting out from beneath a pile of rubbish. The cat scooted off, and he watched as it raced down the corridor to enter the room the Attack Leader used to store canvases. The room must be full of them. All of young girls, all of them with happy faces because that was the only way he could stand to see them.
‘Saint-Germain-en-Laye,’ mused Louis at the door. ‘Please, the name of the party you were with.’
Verdammt, the insolence! ‘A Mademoiselle Monique Reynard. She’s from an escort service I use. A bit of company. Two single rooms, dinner and long walks. All very innocent, I assure you. A drive in the countryside she knows well. A short visit to the house of her parents. A failure, if an affair is what you are wondering about, Inspector. We never seemed to get to it. One tries to forget, but one can never do so.’
‘And the name of this escort service?’
‘Must you?’
‘Please, it is necessary.’
‘Les Liaisons enchantées. It’s on the Champs-Élysées, at Number 78.’
‘Did Liline Chambert know you used this escort service?’
Liline … Liline … why must they always come back to her? Why could they not concentrate on Andrée? ‘Yes. Yes, we discussed it once or twice. I really can’t remember. She had some notion she might be able to find work with them. On several occasions she offered to show me around Paris if I wished.’
How nice. ‘And was this your first weekend in the country-side with this Mademoiselle Reynard?’
It was all one could do to resist giving the Sûreté the back of a hand. ‘The fifth in the past four months. She’s been assigned to me by the Generalmajor und Höherer-SS Oberg, Inspector. She’s really very good. She’s a qualified psychotherapist. One has to learn to live again, that’s what they tell people like myself. Personally, I think it’s a waste of time.’
‘He’ll kill himself, Louis, Let’s hope to God the Butcher of Poland doesn’t blame us!’
It hadn’t been for nothing that Karl Albrecht Oberg had earned that nickname. ‘Merde, what are we to do?’
‘Run for the Swiss border and try to get across it before nightfall, eh? One thing is certain. Our Father Debauve or Debauville must have SS clearance for his escort service and that, my fine Sûreté, means he’s also under their protection and we can’t touch him either, but what has he told the SS about our Attack Leader, eh? That the son of a bitch desires young girls and has to kill them, too? Ah piss!’
So many criminals had been released from prison to work with impunity for the SS and others. ‘We have to find the child, and quickly, Hermann. Hasse didn’t ask where Nénette was or express any concern for her well-being. He should have.’
‘Maybe he has her. Maybe he knows she’s already dead and can’t tell us a thing.’
A search of the synagogue and cemetery was fruitless. At this hour, the Bois de Boulogne was all but deserted. Julien Rébé had still not shown up for work at the riding stables. The Jardin d’Acclimatation was shuttered, cold and empty, its signs for the puppet theatres, the miniature railway, Norman farm and zoo as bleak as the frozen breath of a solitary camel who peered out at the snow and ice from within the fake desert dune of its unheated stable.
Telephone calls to the convent school and the Villa Vernet revealed only that the child had not returned. Was she riding the métro endlessly, as some did these days until the curfew stopped it, or was she wandering the streets in search of the glove she had dropped in the rue Chabanais-if she had really dropped it? Where … where the hell was she?