‘The Bibliothèque Nationale,’ muttered Louis. ‘The number on the right hind leg of the giraffe. That is what it means. I knew I recognized it, but …’
The book was one of a collection of several hundred volumes that had been hastily stored in a corridor off the Reading Room and forgotten. Apparently, the American Embassy had donated the books just prior to 11 November 1942, the day the Reich had finally occupied the whole country and had forced the embassy, then in the South, to close its doors in a hurry and leave what had formerly been the Free Zone. The number was a Dewey decimal classification. ‘A history of Arizona.’
One could not just walk in and take a book from the shelf. Tours were given; subterfuge had been necessary. A distraction perhaps.
When riffled through, the book yielded a note. It was dated Saturday, 9 January 1943.
Andrée, we will escape. I promise. We’ll go to this place and never ever have to eat dog. Beefsteaks, Andrée. Real steaks grilled over an open fire of mesquite to whose perfume the coyotes will come at night so that we can shoot them.
It was signed, Ninette, your dearest friend in despair and now blood sister. We will each have a horse just like Silver but must be careful when shooting the coyotes not to stampede the herd. Otherwise, the owner of the ranch will have to dismiss us.
As promised, your extra reward for helping me in my time of deepest despair will be the crystal of clear quartz, the polished pebble of amethyst from Brazil, the braided ring of gold wire, the roulette wheel, the tiny Lone Ranger on his Silver and, yes, my charm bracelet of dogs. The perfume I have already presented to you, but as a Christmas gift.
How utterly French and practical of her even in the face of despair, thought Kohler sadly. The child had written the number of the book on the giraffe and had given the toy to Andrée on the following day, perhaps even as they had hurried from whoever had been following them.
Andrée Noireau had been the timid one but had given Nénette the little elephant she had stolen from that same crèche.
Records occupied the whole of the top and fifth floor of the Sûreté’s former headquarters at 11 rue des Saussaies, now that of the Gestapo in France. None of the fingerprints from the tenement room on the quai du Président Paul Doumer had so far matched those of any known abortionist. No match could be made with those of Father Eugène Debauville either, but he had not stayed long in that room-if, indeed, it had been he-and would have kept his gloves on.
Julien Rébé had had several convictions for petty theft-bicycles, and the chairs from streetside cafés, which he had then sold back to their owners. Both were common enough rackets.
From among Liline Chambert’s things, apparently only her underpants had been taken from that room. Nothing else.
‘Madame Vernet, I think,’ said Louis giving that curt little nod Kohler knew so well. ‘Perhaps she’ll be kind enough to answer a few more questions.’
The dog was dead. Whoever had slit its throat had held it down until the jerking had stopped. Blood was everywhere on the snow beneath an oak behind the Villa Vernet … Blood and urine. Frozen now, and disembowelled, the poodle was hanging from a branch, not turning at all in the wind because its entrails formed an icy column fast to the ground.
There were footprints everywhere, some bloodied, some not. Those of the one who had done it-oh, bien sûr, he hadn’t cared. He’d been desperate. Those of the chef and the housekeeper. Neither of them had wanted to cut the dog down. Both had rebelled and refused. Both had felt the Sûreté and the Kripo had best see this, that things had long since gone too far.
It was the chef who pointed out the lesser footprints-toeprints mostly-and then the crushed remains of the silver poodle-charm Nénette Vernet had removed some time ago from her bracelet but had now chosen to leave.
Louis thanked him. Kohler told both of them to wait in the kitchens, that Madame might be needing sustenance.
‘Julien Rébé,’ he breathed as they watched the two leave. ‘A warning to Madame to keep her mouth shut.’
‘Yes, but is the child still free or has Rébé taken her? Is it that the child witnessed the killing of the dog in secret last night, having run from him for hours perhaps, or is it that she came upon it later, at dawn?’
The leaf-padded overcoat, sealskin mittens and boots were gone from the gallery of the folly, so, too, the hat. On the table below, as at a Last Supper, the soup plate held nothing, not even a stray crumb. It had been smashed.
There was a note among the shards. I am alive and I will haunt you. Nothing else but the wrought-iron crucifix from her bedroom desk and the knitting needle.
A housebreaker, too, then. An unlocked door and easy access to her room. The chef no doubt. ‘Does she really know who the Sandman is, Louis?’
That was the question. ‘Two killers. The one who follows her and intends to kill her but makes a mistake, and the other who strikes at random and pierces the heart but not the brain. Or is it simply the first of these and this whole business really has little to do with the Sandman except that she used those killings to try to trap the one who wanted to kill her?’
Madame Vernet did not look up or turn from the windows through which she continued to stare out at her dog. Ashen, unmade-up and still in her nightdress, gown, shawl and slippers, she waited for them to come closer. ‘I know nothing, Inspectors. I did nothing.’
Her voice was so remote.
It was Louis who said, ‘But you have an enemy out there, madame. Perhaps you should tell us where you were last Sunday afternoon while your niece and her little friend were in the Bois.’
‘Antoine is on his way. He telephoned from Mantes. He’ll be here in another hour unless there are delays. Always there are delays. It’s the bombing, the bombing. Honoré is at the Gare Saint-Lazare with the car, waiting to bring him home as soon as he arrives.’
‘Sunday afternoon, madame?’ reminded the Sûreté. ‘Please, it is necessary.’
‘I was restless. I went for a walk.’
‘To where?’ asked the one called Kohler, hauling out a notebook and swinging a chair round so that he could straddle it and rest his arms on its back. He was so close to her she felt the coldness of his overcoat and saw nothing but emptiness in his eyes.
She shrugged. ‘Antoine wanted me to do something for him. A small errand. An envelope for the Reverend Mother. Don’t ask me what was in it. Ten thousand francs probably. He’s really very generous. Perhaps he feels it’s his duty to help them assist in the feeding of the unfortunate.’
She glanced doubtfully at each of them and watched as Louis took out his pipe and tobacco pouch and began that ritual Kohler knew so well of silently sizing up a suspect. Not until he was done and had taken those first few puffs and waved out the match did the Sûreté say, ‘But on Sunday, when you met with her, the Reverend Mother must have told you Andrée Noireau had not gone to Chamonix as you believed, madame, but had left the infirmary just before dawn. You did tell us you thought Andrée was in Chamonix.’
Ah why must he do this to her, why? ‘I … I didn’t see the Reverend Mother. I … I left the envelope with Sister Céline. Yes, she’s the one. She’ll tell you I did.’
‘But that’s just not possible. Please, I am sorry to be so upsetting. Sister Céline and Sister Dominique were out searching for the child.’
‘The little vixen should have gone to Chamonix! Why didn’t she?’
They ignored her outburst. The one called St-Cyr was still standing but turned from her to gaze at Pompon as though he had all day. The one called Kohler scribbled something in his notebook and then waited for more. Did they always go at a person like this?