Beyond the produce shelving, a wide doorway led to the post office and it was from there, most likely, that the stench of rotting meat and rancid butter came.
‘Madame,’ hazarded St-Cyr, not realizing the four of them were in a cluster. ‘How is it that for almost a week now the village has gone without service?’
‘Monsieur Auger usually fills in when mother is away. He delivers the mail throughout the commune. He’s very good, very reliable – she would not have employed him otherwise – but.…’
‘But he has not filled in.’
‘Louis, I’ll check upstairs.’
The stench was everywhere. ‘Hermann, you know I’m better at it. Madame, does the sous-facteur live alone?’
‘Alone …? Why, yes. Yes, he lives on his farm and … and comes in each day.’
‘And the garde champetre?’ The village constable.
‘There … there isn’t one.’
Ah merde, no flic and two murders, was that it then? St-Cyr looked questioningly up at the ceiling but could see no stains. Could they leave it for a little? A half-hour, an hour, would it matter?
Franz Oelmann’s clipped voice broke the thoughts. ‘I’ll go. Madame, please accompany me.’
The Surete threw out a hand. ‘Not if he’s lying up there. No.… No, she will stay with us,’ he said sharply. ‘We’ll leave the upstairs until later. We will take things as they come and that is final.’
‘Then get on with it. We haven’t all day. The Baroness and the others will soon be here with the trunk.’
‘Ah yes, the trunk.’
Juliette felt Herr Oelmann brush against her left arm. She knew he wanted to be alone with her. The one called Kohler grinned and said, ‘Will we need a key to the cage?’ He missed nothing, even to seeing how flustered she was.
‘It … it will be in the drawer under the counter. Please, I will get it for you.’
She moved away but when she went to pull out the drawer, Herr Oelmann’s hand closed over hers. ‘Let me,’ he said.
Kohler saw her wince. Oelmann held her that way a moment. The drawer came open. She could not take her eyes from its contents. Old ledgers, tidy bundles of receipts bound with elastic bands or bits of string.… A tin of dress pins, another of drawing pins … a stamp pad, ink, pens and pencils, a carving knife.…
‘Mother … mother always kept that handy in case of robbers. The key is there, at the back, on its little hook.’
Herr Oelmann nodded, forcing her to awkwardly bend down while he stood over her so closely his left leg was pressed against her hip. Kohler watched from the other side of the counter – she knew this. And when he rained a handful of beans onto the wood, this startled her and she found him grinning like a small boy who knew there was mischief afoot. ‘The key,’ she said, colouring rapidly as she thrust it into his hand.
Behind the cramped cage, whose wire mesh would have withstood a battering ram, the parcels in stained brown paper wrappings, string and cancelled postage stamps filled one narrow set of shelves to the ceiling. Big, small, what did it matter? Most oozed rancid butter, dribbled maggots, leaked and stank to high heaven.
She didn’t know what to do.
‘Parcels for the zone occupee, Hermann. Food, warm clothing, thread, black pepper, salt, sugar perhaps and potatoes.’
‘Hams and geese, foie gras, two chickens by their look, a roast of lamb, a side of bacon – verdammt, three trout! Their tail fins have broken through.’
‘Walnuts and walnut oil. Some sweet cherries that should have been dried and would have been mouldy on arrival even if the service had been excellent!’
‘The French,’ said Oelmann sarcastically.
‘The shortages, including that of the railway rolling stock that has gone to the Reich,’ breathed Kohler. ‘Not all are for Paris, but like them, Paris has no milk, no cheese for Louis’s little boy, no flour, sugar, meat and bread or too little of them. Potatoes also.’
‘And it’s all our fault, is it?’ shot Oelmann.
St-Cyr knew he had best intercede. ‘Hermann, please check the postmistress’s parcel book. All parcels are listed with their destinations, weights and postage paid. See if one of the family’s addresses crops up. It’s just a thought.’
A thought … Le numero 26 boulevard Richard Wallace, messieurs? she cried inwardly. Again the one from the Surete looked questioningly up at the ceiling. Again she shuddered inwardly at what they might find.
Herr Oelmann examined the malleted rubber stamp with which her mother had cancelled the postage stamps. He fingered the little silver lever of the telephone and she saw maman firmly thrusting it in to ring a distant operator and urgendy call into the speaker. But now the crowd was no longer present. Now, but for the probings of the detectives and Herr Oelmann, the place could give up its ghosts and she could hear the hubbub of each girlhood day, the exhortations, the complaints about the long line-ups, the pleas for credit justly refused.
Bang, bang – she heard the stamps being furiously cancelled. Maman had been at the very centre of village life. The one called St-Cyr would be only too aware of this. He would know her mother had kept a secret drawer, a hidden cache that, like so many others in her position, was for a rainy day or for memory’s sake.
A handful of louis d’or, the little diamond pin father had given maman, the thin silver necklace whose links were so delicately interwoven they were like a spider’s web.
The letters from the battlefields… letters she had later used as proof of his undying love. Had the things been stolen? Had the murderer found them? Had he killed Monsieur Auger who could not possibly have known of that little hiding-place?
Blank identity cards were purchasable from each PTT but still Herr Oelmann fingered these.
When he found a bundle of postcards – the ones with the printed messages whose blanks were to be filled in that were no longer in use – her heart stopped.
She heard the dry sound as he riffled through them. From time to time he paused as if suspicious of something and she knew he was watching her out of a corner of his eye. ‘Madame,’ he began, and she heard his voice against the clamour of the past. ‘Madame, these cards.…’
A car horn sounded. Someone leaned impatiently on it. The detectives stopped their searching, Herr Oelmann swore beneath his breath, ‘Marina.…’
He left them then and she went to close the drawer only to see that the postcards did not contain those urgent pleas for help her mother had received from Paris. Pleas that had been steadfastly refused. Yes, refused!
St-Cyr noticed her furtively glance up at them. Four greasy, putrid parcels had been selected to lie waiting on the sorting table. ‘All are for the parents’ address in Paris, madame. Two fat geese, a loin of pork, some butter and cheese.’
‘Ah no …’
‘Did your mother not tell you she was sending food to your father’s family?’ he demanded.
‘No! No, she didn’t!’
And now there are tears and you feel betrayed, he said silently to himself, because she didn’t tell you everything.
The stamps had been cancelled on Saturday, the 15th of June, two days before the murder. A last gesture of reconciliation?