Sandman (15 page)

He wasn't buying a thing. She went to take up her cup, only to realize that he had somehow signalled to the others, who now closed in behind and to the sides of her. As anger rushed into her cheeks and eyes, the buttons of her coat were undone, and when it was pulled down behind her back so that her arms were pinned behind her, the
patron
explored her breasts and, satisfied, ran a hand under her chin to feel the softness of her throat. ‘Just what's your game?' he asked.

‘LET ME GO!
COCHONS
—PIGS! HOW DARE YOU DO THIS TO ME?'

‘Henri, please. Enough is enough.'

‘Ah! Father, forgive me. I didn't see you come in. It's just a little game of our own. A new prospect for my wife to consider, but the engine of this one doesn't look as though it can take the hills. She doesn't even swear like a whore. Tender, yes, and succulent—a breeder perhaps or a schoolgirl but—'

‘Henri, I thought I said enough?'

‘Forgive me, Father. You're always welcome, but the tongue …'

Morelle shrugged and, seemingly gruff in embarrassment, turned away to serve the silent others.

‘My child, please allow me,' said the priest.

She felt her coat being lifted back over her shoulders. She turned and in that instant felt relief flooding through her as she looked into sincere and compassionate blue eyes. Grave, yes, and watery from the cold outside. A man of nearly sixty, she thought. Somewhat taller than herself and not unhandsome, though grey and ravaged by time. A real priest of the
quartiers
, a no-nonsense man, humble and kind.

‘Father Eugène Debauve at your service, Mademoiselle …?'

‘Le Roy. Giselle.'

‘Giselle, I like that. Come and I'll get you something decent to drink. This place is not for girls like yourself, but you must find it in your heart to forgive them. We're all God's sinners, only some more so than others.'

The house on the rue Chabanais stank to high heaven.

‘Monsieur, what is it you want? Be truthful.'

‘Me?' snorted Kohler, indoors at last but just. ‘Ah, I'm looking for something a little special.'

‘Yes, but all who come here seek the same,' said Madame Berthe Morelle, throwing him a sideways glance from behind her cage.

‘Something young—about twenty-three perhaps, but looking much younger.'

The black curls shook. The large and deep brown, heavily-kohled eyes widened. ‘Ah! that's just not possible. Experience is always an asset. Increase the years to sip the wine of success.'

Bravo! madame, he wanted to cry out, but business was business, and behind all that lace-clad ample flesh lay a heart of utter ice. ‘Then try Violette Belanger. She'll do.'

The apple cheeks tightened, the thick ruby lips were impatiently compressed. ‘Violette?' she shrilled. ‘But … but it's her little holiday,
mon pauvre garçon
. Ah, I know how disappointed you and many others are. You all ask for her and me, I am left to convey the sad truth.'

What a catastrophe, thought Kohler, pleased again. Both of her pudgy, capable hands had been tossing the words about.

‘Violette is in Marseille visiting her sister,' she said briskly. ‘A week, or was it ten days …?' she asked herself, and began to search for the schedule if such existed. Perhaps it was among the freshly laundered stacks of hand towels, perhaps among the boxes of condoms …

Kohler reached through the gilded bars to pluck her little black notebook from the counter, but she struck so swiftly with her fan his fingers stung. ‘Now, please, monsieur,' she hissed, sizing him up yet again. ‘Before I call the boys to throw you out, what is it you want of my Violette?'

He'd hate to meet her in a darkened alley. ‘A word, that's all. My partner and I are working on the Sandman thing. Violette may be able to help us.'

‘The Sandman …?' The woman clucked her tongue and, deep under the thick, jet-black curls and waves of a hairdo that did little to stay the years—fifty, was it? he wondered—her mind began to weigh the matter. Caution would be called for, of course—to help the police with such a matter, ah! could it bring credit or trouble?

Suspiciously she asked, ‘How could Violette provide you with information? In winter she never leaves the house except to visit with her
maquereau
or her parents. Her sister comes once in a while and causes much trouble.'

He struck, ‘The name of her
maquereau
, please?'

Ah, what was this? ‘Such things, they are difficult.'

‘
Difficult?
We have information that leads us to believe the most recent victim knew her killer. That information has directed me here.'

He could know nothing.
Nothing!
‘What information, please?' she asked slyly.

It would only go round and round and all the while Giselle was out there on the street or in that café. The line-up outside had stalled and the unoccupied whores, so undressed they lounged in virtually nothing but boredom, waited in the anteroom just off the hall. Smoking, exploring their nether regions, a breast, a crotch, a rump, an armpit …

‘We report directly to the General von Schaumburg, madame. If you like, I'll get him to inspect the house and condemn it.'

She tossed her curls. ‘Ah! that's an empty threat. He already does. Once a month, and always on the first Monday, so we have just passed the Blitzkrieg with flying colours, and the kettledrums, they are still banging. The doctor attends as well. Both are old friends.'

Her pudgy fingers strayed to the push-button bell that was mounted on the counter. The black lace glove that all but encased them hesitated. Was she of Spanish descent, he wondered, or did she just like to do the flamenco or simply wear the dress and dream of faraway places? ‘I wouldn't if I were you,' he said of the bell.

A
flic
, a detective, a Bavarian who spoke excellent French for such a one. A womanizer, a frequenter of brothels—ah yes, yes! Formidable also, a giant with a terrible slash down the left cheek. How had he got that thing? By duelling? she wondered. ‘Violette is occupied. If you would care to wait, I will see that she comes to you in …' She glanced at the gold pocket-watch that hung by a chain around her ample neck. ‘In about ten minutes.'

‘Just give me the floor and the room.'

‘And two towels?' she shot back.

He shook his head. ‘Not this time.'

‘Then how long do you require?'

‘Twenty minutes.'

‘Fifty francs—no, two hundred. She's special, and ah! I have forgotten you can well afford it.'

‘Then ring up Gestapo Boemelburg and tell him I require special dispensation of the funds. He'll send it right over, and I'll tell
them
to raid the place.'

‘Your threats are hollow. I push the bell.'

‘Now, wait …' he managed.

Her eyes snapped vengeance. ‘
Scoundrel, bloodsucker, ruffian
,' she shrilled. ‘I wait for no one.
Not
when I am insulted and the character of my house is called into disrepute!'

‘Five thousand.'

‘
Ten!
' she hissed, ‘and Violette comes to you to be questioned in my presence!'

Ah
merde
… Two burly Feldgendarmen in their shirtsleeves had come thundering up from the cellars where they had been toasting their heels beside the furnace. ‘All right, I'll wait.'

‘Then sit with the girls,' she said. ‘Find your place among them but please do not be tempted.
That
would cost you extra.'

Father Eugène Debauve placed his big, work-worn hands over Giselle's in friendship as his glasses winked in the pale light of oil lamps that had just been lighted. ‘I'm the Bishop's emissary among the
lorettes
of the brothels that are reserved for the Germans, my dear. I hold Masses for them, hear their prayers and confessions, providing help whenever I can.'

A big, strong man, a good man who had unerringly known his way in the dark and had known his restaurants, too. The Brasserie de Tout Bonheur (of All Good Luck) was a turn-of-the-century place with dark, gleaming wood, etched glass panels, minors and a spiral staircase at the back that led to the private rooms and tables above. There were other customers, Germans, yes, and as it was early yet, not so many.

‘If there is a word of advice I could give, my child,' he said, still warming her hands, ‘it would be that you do not throw your life away. Ah! I know what you're going to say. A shopgirl's life is ten or twelve hours of absolute drudgery for very little, but it is honest and your children would always be able to worship their dear mother.'

She hated to have lied about the children, but that had been said in the other place and he must have picked it up. She could not remember when she had said it, or even if he had only just come in.

‘My dear, women like Madame Morelle have only one goal and that is to accumulate as much money as possible no matter the cost to others. She takes the half of everything—I know. The girls, they have complained to me endlessly about it. It's all reinvested in real estate—Nice, Cannes, Bordeaux. That wretched woman even has property in Madrid and Barcelona and a fat bank account in each as well.'

Father Debauve waited while the waiter set the
soupe du jour
in front of them and placed a basket of bread and dish of butter near her—real butter and real bread, not the National stuff. Fresh and made with sifted white flour. No weevils, no rat shit, no ration tickets either, only a nod, and as good a black-market restaurant as she had been in. Better, perhaps, since the
patrons
wanted God on their side and treated the clergy with respect and kindness, for insurance purposes in the hereafter, of course.

‘Enjoy,' said the priest. ‘Warm your insides and think on what I've said. That husband of hers controls only the little
café-bar
she bought him. He's handy to have around, since he keeps track of the
maquereaux
her girls use. She's one who always has her ear to the ground, and he is often that ear.'

‘He's a bad one,' she said, breaking bread and realizing suddenly how famished she was.

‘A type,' acknowledged Father Debauve, not looking up.

‘A number,' she added, casting the
patron
of the Turning Hour down a bit further but not yet relegating him to the rank of an ‘individual'. The soup, a thick and fragrant purée of lentils, ham stock and onions, was magnificent.

‘I come here often,' acknowledged the priest. ‘They know me and do not question my not drinking alcohol of any kind like the others you see at this hour. Always the soup and a coffee perhaps; always a guest if suitably dressed. If not, why, I must use discretion and visit another of my places.'

Had he once been under the empire of alcohol? she wondered and decided that, yes perhaps the face so ravaged by time held memories of it. He was really very kind and again she felt guilty about the lie of two children, but such a thing had been necessary at the time and would be very difficult to retract. ‘Do you visit all the brothels?' she asked.

‘The forty or so, yes. I have a letter signed by the Kommandant von Gross-Paris, so have little trouble. He feels, as does the Bishop, that even the most depraved need to accept God into their hearts.'

And you, my dear? What of you? she could hear him asking and ducked her eyes away to her soup.

A bit of bread floated up, briefly resisting the clutch of the ground lentils until she had drowned it. ‘I go to Mass every Sunday, Father, and twice on all the holy days. I do say the Angelus in Latin—it's the only way, isn't that so?—and the Our Father.'

‘The Hail Mary?' he asked.

The Ave Maria. ‘Of course,' she said demurely and wondered why he had not used that other name since he was so concerned about the use of Latin. ‘I was raised in a convent school just … just as was that little girl who was murdered yesterday.'

He kissed his ring and bit a knuckle to stop the pain of such an anguish. Tears formed in his eyes. He said, ‘That poor child. Was she subjected to the indignities of a
lorette?
Did he do that to her first? The female body is a chalice, my dear. A chalice. Respect is its due. How could any man do such a thing to a …'

‘Father … Look, I'll be honest, shall I?

She had such lovely eyes, a skin so clear, and lips that would form each word of the Angelus with care and with but traces of timidity. ‘My dear,' he said, ‘feel free to take me into your confidence. It's why I'm here.'

It's my job, my
raison d'être
. ‘Hermann, my … my husband, is a detective.'

‘But … but you wear no ring, my child?'

‘I do, Father, but I had to remove it when I went into that café.' Another lie. Then why not put it on now—was he asking this? she wondered and said, ‘Hermann needs the name and address of the
maquereau
of Violette Belanger.'

He spooned his soup. ‘A mean one. A sponger, a depraver of young girls and innocent women. A good-for-nothing that wilful child dotes on.' He reached for more bread and tore it in half. ‘She has a sister in a convent, Sister Céline, much admired by the Reverend Mother, loved by her students and very devout. The good sister and I pray for Violette, but …' His eyes grew sad as he sought her out and shrugged at life. ‘But Violette will have none of it.'

‘And the
maquereau?
' she asked earnestly.

Debauve clucked his tongue in distaste and tossed his head. ‘Broken sugar is his weapon, the slash across the face that leaves a welt far crueler than the knife. A monster. Morelle will have the address. Tell your husband to ask him.'

She swallowed hard at the mention of such cruelty, and he noted she understood only too well what the ruin of a pretty face could do to a girl of the streets.

‘My dear, these things are harsh. You must forgive me. Please finish your soup. Here, put more bread in it. Break it up and let the soup soak into it. That's always best.'