It has to be him, he said to himself, dreading the thought, but then … then why did that child get into his car today, as Rébé has claimed?
Had she been that desperate? Had she not thought him the Sandman? And why, please, had Liline Chambert agreed to let those girls pose for him? Why? Why?
Hasse had told them the girl had found it hard to reconcile him as an artist with his killing of children, but by then he had known Liline was dead and could simply have said it to protect himself.
He had felt it necessary to be forthright. He had admitted the killings in Poland, the clandestine taking of photographs in Paris, the Lycée Fénelon. A soup kitchen in its cellars. Bare knees, bare thighs, skirts flying as they skipped and played hopscotch and other games. Soup kitchens elsewhere …
‘The artist seeks only the absolute truth of each moment,’ he had said.
In snapshot after snapshot he had captured young schoolgirls of the same age as Nénette and her little friend. ‘I want you to find the person responsible for the killings, especially those of Liline and Andrée.’
Had he a death wish, then, a need to be found out? He had paid Liline a total of one thousand francs in return for convincing the girls to pose for him. She had not seen his sketches from Poland, the nightmares. She couldn’t have.
But had Nénette found her way to that storeroom unnoticed? Was that not why she had taken the badges, the pencil case, the crumpled empty tube of paint? Then why, please, had she got into his car today? He had drawn a map of the Bois … a map!
‘Louis, we’re here. His car’s parked just ahead of us.’
So it was, and when they shone their unblinkered torches in on the front seat, they saw the dust of crumbled oak leaves where the child had sat. Her sealskin hat was on the floor. There were breadcrumbs, even a curled shred of ham. A half-eaten biscuit lay there, too, a forgotten stick of chewing gum. ‘Banana,’ breathed Hermann sadly. ‘Ah nom de Jésus-Christ, Louis, I had hoped and even prayed it wouldn’t be him.’
‘We can’t touch him if it is.’
‘We’re going to have to.’
Hasse was waiting for them. He had run to his psychotherapist and now stood behind Monique Reynard, who sat at the desk in the foyer, all business, all seriousness. A woman of thirty-four, thought St-Cyr, the cinematographer in him recording detail after detail, her manner, her straight back, hands folded on the bulging dossier of her patient, the nails beautifully manicured and clear-lacquered, the eyes so blue, the hair so blonde, a wave of it successfully hid from all but the most careful scrutiny the birthmark on her brow she must have hated as a child and probably still did.
‘Messieurs,’ she said, and he noted the Alsatian accent. ‘Messieurs, what you think is so very wrong. Herr Hasse would not have harmed that child, nor has he killed anyone in Paris, in France even. Indeed, he is most distressed and wants only to assist your endeavours.’
A man of conscience, was that it, eh? snorted Kohler inwardly. Rouge and powder hid the scars on her pleasantly plump cheeks-burns there, he thought. Were they cigarette burns? Ah merde … Those on her throat were all but hidden by the soft blue scarf that went with the clean-cut, very stylish business suit.
She would choose her words most carefully, she thought. ‘If you persist, it can only destroy all we’ve accomplished. Is this what you wish?’
‘He must answer some questions, mademoiselle,’ said Louis gruffly.
‘It’s “Doctor”, please. Dr Reynard. You may examine my certificates if you wish, Inspector.’
‘It’s Chief Inspector,’ said Kohler. ‘He’s the Chief, I’m the Inspector.’
‘My degrees are Swiss and from Berlin. Jung and Freud, with extensive research into the theories and the work of von Krafft-Ebing.’
This was not easy ground, and it must have been hard for her to admit to such tainted learning even though the Nazis had found a use for her. ‘The child was in his car today, Doctor. Where is she now? What has he done with her?’
Hasse took out a cigarette, but his fingers shook so much he had to say, ‘Monique …’
She turned. She tossed her hair back a little as she looked up at him and smiled so softly it had an automatic calming effect. ‘It’s all right, Gerhardt,’ she said in German. ‘Everything will be fine, you will see.’ And taking the cigarette from him, she lit it and blew smoke up at the ceiling before handing the thing back to him. ‘Tell them, Liebling. You must,’ she said earnestly. ‘Go on. You’ve nothing to hide, nothing to fear. Not any more.’
The stork took a nervous drag on the cigarette and then another. ‘Nénette complained of her scalp itching. I took her to the convent school-she refused to go to her house and said she mustn’t do that. I left her in the care of the Mother Superior. They will have bathed her and put her to sleep in the infirmary.’
‘But … but did the child not also object to being taken to the sisters?’ managed Louis.
‘Very much so, but it was for her own good.’
Ah damn, the stork was too wary. ‘Then why, please, did you draw that sketch of her at the Grande-Chaumière?’
The woman stiffened. ‘What sketch, please?’ she asked, alarmed.
‘Yes, what sketch?’ asked Hasse, forgetting that his cigarette was telegraphing agitation.
‘Oh, come now, Herr Hasse,’ enthused the Sûreté as if they were old friends, ‘a sketch of Nénette Vernet in her leaf-padded overcoat but without the sealskin hat we found in your car.’
‘Ah no … What hat?’ demanded the woman, sickened perhaps by the thought of what might have happened.
‘The child was terrified,’ breathed Kohler. ‘She was screaming her heart out in that sketch.’
‘You’ve killed her, haven’t you?’ said Louis sadly.
‘Easy,’ cautioned Kohler.
‘Herr Hasse has killed no one. He was only trying to help the child.’
But what had Hasse really done with that child? Disgruntled, St-Cyr tossed his fedora into the empty chair that sat between himself and Hermann. ‘Did you take her to your studio first?’ he asked, his voice deliberately harsh and accusing.
They had been there, then, thought Hasse. They had found the sketches of the Lodz affair. Somehow he must try to calm himself, somehow Monique must guide the discussion on to more even ground. ‘Why yes, I did. She was hungry, but I had little to offer. Some chewing gum. She said she needed a tooth-brush and asked had I an extra one.’ He would try to smile now, thought Hasse. He would draw on his cigarette and give them a moment. Yes … yes, that would be best. Monique would agree. He was certain she would. ‘I … I found one for her and apologized for its being so used. You see, I’d come across it in Poland. I’d lost mine then and felt the same as she did. The teeth are so important, aren’t they?’
Ah merde, he really has killed her. ‘The tooth-brush?’ hazarded St-Cyr, a reminder the woman noted only too well.
Hasse was bitter, the grin he gave, sardonic. ‘She said it didn’t matter that it had been used so much, that anything was better than nothing and that by first melting the snow in her mouth, she would then have the water necessary to clean her teeth. She was very grateful.’
‘I’ll bet she was,’ seethed Kohler. ‘So grateful she left the thing behind. I have it here.’
He tossed it on to her desk. The woman’s eyes flicked anxiously from it to himself and back again. Warily she glanced at Louis. ‘Tooth-brushes …’ she began, only to stop herself and bite her lower lip. Louis let a breath escape.
‘The tooth-brush of a raped and murdered Polish schoolgirl. mademoiselle,’ he said flatly.
‘It’s Doctor.’