‘I loved her as my own. We were very close. We confided things to each other. She … she trusted me absolutely. I blame myself for what has happened.’
He had not moved, this detective from the Sûreté. He stood at the foot of the steps looking up at her through the columns into darkness. Was he wondering why she had come out here to this place? Would he question why she was wearing only this?
She plucked at the flimsiness of her peignoir. She said, ‘Pompon has run off again. I … I should not have let him off the lead, but … but it was her dog, not mine. Actually, I have no love of dogs. Even the best of them are dirty and do disgusting things, but … but for a child’s sake one has to make sacrifices, isn’t that so? Do you have children, Inspector? Girls perhaps? Girls who might someday be …’
She felt his hands take her firmly by the shoulders. Cursing the flimsiness of the peignoir under his breath, he pulled off his overcoat and wrapped it around her. ‘The house,’ he said determinedly. ‘Indoors, I think.’
‘Not yet! Please! I … I have to tell you how it was. He … he won’t let me say a thing. He’ll see that he does all the talking. He’ll send me to bed.’
Ah merde … ‘Then come and sit on that bench out there. Let me warm your feet.’
‘Give me a cigarette first. Let me fill my lungs.’
Kohler eased himself through the side door of the coach house to stand in the light as he let his gaze sift over the place. There was room for six autos but it held only two. A maroon Citroën coupé was up on blocks for the Duration and hadn’t been requisitioned by the Luftwaffe for a favoured squadron leader. The forest-green, four-door sedan with excellent tyres, including a spare, was big, powerful and handsome.
Both cars shone, but this last was getting yet another going-over at about 1.15 a.m. The chauffeur, his back to him, was polishing the leather of the front seat. Sleeves rolled up and held by grey elastic bands, jacket carefully set aside in spite of the cold. Vest and tie to complete the attire, with gold pocket-watch and chain probably. One of the old school. Floor swept and washed-not even an oil stain was evident The stiff black high leather boots glowed; the grey herringbone breeches were creased by the welding iron of determination and discipline.
One had to be impressed. The S.P. sticker was just visible beyond the left shoulder and was exactly where it ought to be, bang up front inside the left lower corner of the windscreen. The Service Publique, that much-coveted mark of distinction that allowed a private set of wheels in this gas-thirsty world, to say nothing of a chauffeur.
Ten jerry cans were ranked in a corner, so there was no problem in that department. If you made classified items for the Führer’s war machine, a little petrol was your reward, among other things, ah yes.
Still with his back to Kohler, the chauffeur straightened. He set the tin of saddle soap lightly on the roof, gave the seat a final wipe, a thorough scrutiny, then softly closed the door and did the chrome-plated handle. A man of sixty years of age perhaps and of medium height. Iron-grey, well-trimmed hair, thick, big ears, a swarthy neck and broad shoulders that now slumped as he stood in silence with head bowed and forearms resting against the car’s rain-gutter.
‘Captain, it cannot be true,’ came the bitter lament, not to Kohler, for he had yet to be noticed. ‘Our little Nénette gone from us? Our treasure? Our constant reminder of you and your dear wife?’
The fists were clenched, tears splashed the car and in that moment a shudder ran visibly through the chauffeur. ‘I warned you not to go to England. I begged you not to leave us like that, and what did I receive but the lash of silence from the tongue of a man who had always listened to his sergeant. Always, especially in times of strife when the battle, it did not go well.’
The eyes were wiped, the nose was blown. The tears were removed and the car polished so as so leave no evidence of them. The tyre pressures had to be checked all round and only then did he notice he had a visitor. ‘Monsieur …’
The rugged countenance was marked by four years of war-an idiot could have seen it at a glance. The eyes were grave and deeply set, dark brown and ever watchful. Sun blotches and shrapnel scars, one of which had nicked off the tip of his nose, served only to emphasize a quiet determination and intense loyalty.
‘She’s a beauty. A thirty-seven Delage, am I right?’
All thought of tears vanished. The shoulders were squared. ‘Monsieur, please state your business. If you have none, I suggest you leave.’
A ball-peen hammer lay to hand on the workbench. ‘Kohler, Paris-Central, and yours?’
‘Honoré Deloitte, sergeant to the child’s father. Chauffeur to the Vernet family for the past twenty-four years since my repatriation and, before that other war, for six of the finest years of my life.’
The look seemed to say, I have killed far better Boches than you in my time but will gladly oblige another. There was a scar across the back of Deloitte’s left hand, the slash of a bayonet that had missed its mark as his had gone home.
‘Can we talk?’
‘Talk if you wish. For myself, I will, I assure you, listen.’
It would be best to tell him something. ‘Look, we can delay the investigation until all the staff are assembled, but we think there may have been two eleven-year-old girls involved and we’d like to know what’s happened to the other one before it’s too late for her as well.’
‘Too late …? Two girls …? But … but that is not possible. Mademoiselle Nénette, she was most distressed to find that her little friend had at last gone to join her parents in Chamonix. The mother had had a crisis of the nerves and had not been able to invite the child to be with them for the holiday.’
How nice. The poor kid. ‘And the name of this friend?’ he asked, all business now, the black leather notebook flipped open, pencil ready.
A sigh of resignation was released. ‘Andrée Noireau. She was staying at the convent school but … but had left for …’
‘Chamonix.’ Kohler gave a nod. ‘So who accompanied Mademoiselle Vernet on her Sunday outing?’
‘Why, the Mademoiselle Chamber. She is a student at the university, the daughter of one of Monsieur Vernet’s accountants.’
‘A nanny.’
‘Ah no, no, monsieur,’ countered Deloitte. ‘A member of the family since now nearly two and a half years, since the parents of our little Nénette went to England to die by the bombs of your Führer. Die, monsieur, in Coventry on the night of the fourteenth to fifteenth of November 1940.’ He paused. He realized he had been incautious. ‘Mademoiselle Chambert always accompanied the girls so as to … to give a little supervision yet allow them to assess each new situation and … and decide how best to handle things. Is that not the wisest way for one to ensure that young girls learn how to take care of themselves?’
But they hadn’t, had they? said Kohler sadly to himself, his gaze one of emptiness. Mademoiselle Chambert had not been with them and Deloitte had suddenly realized this. He’d have to be loyal to the aunt and uncle. He couldn’t jeopardize his future, not in these troubled times, even though he might well want to.
‘Just tell it to me plainly.’
What has happened to Liline? wondered Deloitte anxiously. Why was she not there with Nénette? ‘I … I drove the two of them to Mass at the Notre-Dame this time, as they liked to experience other churches than our own when possible. Then I delivered them to the Jardin d’Acclimatation. Though they wished to take the métro, Monsieur Vernet had issued strict instructions they were not to do so because of … of this sadist.’
‘Vernet had their safety in mind, so, okay, we’ll try to remember that,’ said Kohler bluntly. ‘And where, exactly, did you drop them off?’