‘Madame Barrault must feel the need to confess,’ the concierge of her building had fluted. ‘That one comes and goes, Inspector, and often leaves the child alone.’
Had he been so wrong about this Drouant victim? wondered Kohler. He had had to wait for more from that concierge. ‘Many times my wife has had to calm the child whose refusal to unlock the door to that flat of theirs has always led to my having to use the spare key of this office.’
The shit! but had Madame Barrault refused the offer to look the other way when she went out alone if only she’d give him a bit on the side? Had she come here to confess?
Cop registered in made-up eyes, and as one they sat immobile, now wondering if there’d be a roundup and they’d all be taken for the swab and locked up if failing to have a proper licence.
Maybe one hundred and fifty sat about. All ages from sixteen to seventy. Fur coats and fur-trimmed hats on some, and money there; blankets made into overcoats on others, the church not large, its interior d’apres Louis-Philippe perhaps. Relax! he wanted to shout at them but knew it would only lead to an immediate exodus and that it would be best to say, ‘Stay put or I’ll blow my whistle.’
‘Vipere!’ muttered one under her breath, ‘Cobra!’ another, ‘Couillon!’ yet another, she hastily crossing herself as this ‘asshole’ searched over the lot of them, noting family medals on some: a bronze for five children, a silver for eight, a gold for ten and how the hell else were they to feed the kids these days?
Madame Marie-Leon Barrault, stepsister of Ciment Morel’s wife, was sitting at the far side nearest to the open door of the confessional. The woman had already had her turn. At a nudge, the daughter, a child of eight, rose to silently protest but was hurriedly given the firmest of shoves.
Reluctantly dragging off her toque and flinging her braids about in rebellion, she crossed the intervening space. Timidly the door to the confessional was drawn shut. A copy of this morning’s Le Matin was clenched in the mother’s fist. Tears were splashed, the head bowed, the woman blurting, ‘Why did that have to happen to Madame Guillaumet or to any woman, Inspector? I only did as she asked. The taxi I sent her to was then stolen. Stolen! She’s going to die, isn’t she? Her children have no father because he’s in a prisoner-of-war camp. Her children …’
Marie-Leon looked away towards the confessional and said, ‘Please, God, spare her.’
The child or the Trinite victim? one had to wonder.
‘Father Marescot knows the name of my husband, Inspector, as he does those of all of us here. Always he asks if I’ve done anything for which my husband would be ashamed. My Rene-Claude. My Claude!’
‘Allez-y doucement, madame.’ Go easy, eh? ‘Whisper.’
‘Haven’t I had enough of whispers? Une roulure, une salope-isn’t that what others are saying about me, Henriette most of all?’
A slut, Morel’s wife was calling her but … ‘Calm down and tell me where your husband is.’
‘In Poland. At Stablack.’
To the east of Danzig. A Stalag. A camp for common soldiers. ‘And Madame Guillaumet’s?’
‘The Oflag at Elsterhorst. It’s … I think she said it was near Dresden.’
‘That’s close enough but given your differences of home and address and husband’s rank, how is it that you …’
‘Our differences of class, Inspector? Of course we didn’t walk the same paths, but found ourselves with the same needs and social worker.’
And wouldn’t you know it, the parasite. ‘Denise Rouget?’
Was it so surprising? ‘Oui.’
Again she looked to the confessional, as others must now impatiently be doing. ‘Annette,’ she hissed. ‘Annette, God has listened long enough! Father, there are others waiting.’
‘Let them wait, my child. Please don’t interrupt!’
‘Annette, don’t you dare say anything you shouldn’t!’
‘Trust is sacrosanct, Madame Barrault, belief absolute.’
‘Father, please!’
They waited and they waited. And finally the child, subdued and ashen, emerged to look first at her mother and then at this Kripo.
It had to be said, but had best be given with a sigh. ‘Come on, then, and I’ll give the two of you a lift home.’ Louis would be certain to realize that his partner, being the gullible one, had made a mistake about the woman and would never let him live it down.
The Trinite victim was no better, no worse, and when this one from the Surete gave her a nod, Aurora Aumont switched off the light and softly closed and locked the door.
‘She has said nothing yet, Chief Inspector.’
‘But will she live, Matron?’
‘Only she can tell us. Now if you will excuse me, my shift has been over for some time and I must get home.’
‘A moment, please.’
Must he be insufferable? ‘Well, what is it?’
‘Noelle Jourdan.’
‘I’ve told your partner all I know.’
‘Of course, but we often work independently. What happened to that girl’s mother?’
Why was he asking such a thing? ‘She died when Noelle was five years old.’
‘And ever since then the father has raised her?’
‘It was that or the sisters. Ah! he was behind her letting the press in, wasn’t he?’
A nod would suffice.
‘Then it’s as I have thought. My one concern was always that the girl could be intolerant at times, particularly with those who had been attacked by these … these monsters of the streets and needed our every consideration. When cautioned, Noelle was careful, though not solicitously so, you understand, and as a result I was forced to have reservations, but only in that regard.’
‘And the mother?’
‘Noelle never spoke of her. “She’s dead,” was all she would say if asked. To have no memories, no photographs is not good, Inspector. There’s a vacuum in that girl’s life that desperately needs to be filled.’
‘And the father, did she say much about him?’
‘Only that he was constantly in pain and that she had to look after him. Always she was on about the cost of things and how difficult it was to find enough to continue, yet she always seemed to manage. Never late, usually here before six in the morning or six at night. A willing worker who not only knew she needed the job, but sincerely wanted to become a fully qualified nurse and did everything she could to demonstrate it.’
‘Except for that one mistake.’
‘Even now I ask myself why it had to happen and if she could have been forgiven. These times, this Occupation, they’re putting far too much stress on everyone, especially the young.’
‘Could the press have known she would let them in?’
‘Why, please, would they have been told such a thing and by whom?’
‘I’m only fishing for answers. Was she obligated to anyone?’
‘That I wouldn’t know. Now, please, I have my son’s two boys and their mother at home. If I’m not there on time, they’ll worry about me.’
‘Did Noelle Jourdan have any friends?’
‘Male or female?’
‘Either or both.’
‘That I wouldn’t know in any case. Because she was a trainee and had a father who was a grand mutile, the girl was allowed two hours off every other midday when she was on the day shift, you understand. It was little enough time in which to queue up for food and other necessities, but her circumstances would have been known to the shopkeepers she frequented, since most of us must shop only with those who have us on their lists. Sometimes Noelle could bypass the line-ups, so long as it was done on the quiet. Sometimes she would tell the other shoppers that she had to make a delivery. Her shopping bag would appear to be heavy and their hopes would rise so that they would let her go ahead. At other times she would say her dear papa was having one of his bad times and that she was desperately needed at home.’