Sandman (23 page)

The jet-black hair was piled up so that the carefully arranged wisps fell to fringes that all but touched her dark eyes and framed an animated, smiling face whose strong brows and long lashes had been further strengthened by pencil and mascara. The chin was determined, the nose was long. Diamond pendants dangled from half-hidden ears.

Ah! it was such a scrutiny they gave her, these two detectives from Paris-Central, but it was, yes, nothing to the scrutiny she returned and they knew it. The big one fiddled self-consciously with his fedora—had his lover ever come to her for consultations? Giselle … was the girl's name Giselle le Roy? Of course it was. Kohler the lover; Kohler the husband-to-be—was it possible? The stars, they had strongly advised against it, but the girl, she had not wanted to hear such a thing. ‘He loves me,' she had said. ‘Ah, I think he might. I must come back again for another reading—yes, yes, madame. Would this be possible?'

The other one, the Sûreté, was bemused perhaps but curious, and she did not like the look of either of them, but for different reasons. ‘Inspectors, you flatter me with the urgency of your desire for a consultation, but, please, how may I help? So often I have prayed the police would come. I see things. I have powers.' She shrugged, but just the right amount … ‘It's a gift one treasures, isn't that so? But one always worries that some day such a gift, it will vanish.'

The fringe over the brow was given just the lightest of touches. The head was turned but a little.

‘Your son, madame,' said St-Cyr diffidently. ‘We would like to know where he is.'

She sucked in a breath. Her bosom rose. ‘My Julien? But at work, of course. He is the riding master in the Bois de Boulogne. Every day he starts so early, I … why, I hardly ever see him, the poor boy, although we're very close.'

A shit-shoveller elevated to riding master! snorted Kohler inwardly, but Louis's diffidence continued.

‘Yes, yes, madame. Apparently he did not come home last night?'

‘Nor has he been at his job today,' breathed Kohler. Giselle would hate him for this.

Madame Rébé tossed her head a little but did not frown. ‘Not home? Not at work? But … but that is impossible, messieurs.'

‘It's Inspectors,' grumbled Kohler, hauling out his badge only to hear her sing, ‘
Impossible
. Julien is very conscientious. We barely make enough to keep this place. Both of us need to earn our way.'

Ah
nom de Dieu
, her composure was magnificent, thought St-Cyr, and cleared his throat, excusing himself. ‘A touch of the flu, I'm afraid—no, please, madame, do not concern yourself unduly. I will not sneeze. Your son?'

Consternation registered. ‘But he teaches
les Allemands?
He must take them riding every morning before the sun rises and guide the new ones along the trails. He has eight men working under him. Oh! you are mistaken. Please telephone his office at once. Apologize for interrupting him.'

Dried hydrangeas now had mushrooms tucked in among them—such a waste. These flowers were everywhere and they, too, needed a careful dusting. Had Julien once had the job? ‘There isn't a telephone at the riding stables,' grumbled Kohler, testily tossing his fedora on to a table.

‘No telephone? But … but that is just not possible. Jeanette … Jeanette,
ma chère
, please bring me the address book at once The Inspectors need Monsieur Julien's number at work.'

‘Yes, madame.' The kid ducked her head and all but ran.

They waited for her to return. They stood there, these two from the Sûreté and the Kripo, saying nothing, not even sitting in the chairs that had been prepared for them, and it was on the tip of her tongue to ask, What has he done this time? But Madame Rèbè knew she mustn't.

‘He's a good boy, Inspectors,' she crooned.

‘But there is no telephone,' sighed the one called St-Cyr.

‘Which café or bar is he using, Louis?'

‘The tearoom, I think.'

When the girl returned, Louis took the book from her but let her point out the number. ‘The tearoom,' he said and sighed again. ‘I recognize the middle two numbers, a double seven. They're sufficient for now.'

‘So whom did he sleep with last night?' asked the one called Kohler, and he did have something about him, something very dangerous. The scar of a rawhide whip down the left cheek only proved it. The SS had done that, his Giselle had told her, because of a truth he would not ignore.

‘I … I don't know,' Madame Rébé said and shrugged hotly. ‘What is a mother to do, eh, my friends? I have only one son, one child. Shall I let
les Allemands
conscript him into forced labour in the Reich or …' Ah,
bon Dieu
, why had she said it? ‘Or keep him gainfully employed in Paris?'

‘And on the list of those who can't be taken,' breathed Kohler. ‘Those whose jobs are far too important.'

They were making her very angry, but she would not give in, would not get up to pace about and demand a cigarette. Ah no—no, she would not let them see her like that. ‘I tell you I do not know which of them he slept with.'

Louis let her have it. ‘Then simply tell us about the
Relève
, madame. The “voluntary” labour service that is soon to become the
Service de Travail Obligatoire
, the forced labour. Antoine Vernet has influence. Madame Vernet is, it appears, a valued client. Or is it, Madame Rébé, that the industrialist's wife comes not to consult the future but to lie naked in the arms of your son?'

Vipère! Cobra!
Ah damn him … ‘I … I had nothing to do with their affair. If she wants to make love with my son, who am I to deny him the pleasure?'

‘But you did have a lot to do with it, madame,' offered Louis. ‘You ran, in effect, a
clandestin
. How much did she pay you for the use of your son?'

An unlicenced brothel … The matter was serious. ‘Two hundred francs a visit. Three hundred if extended.'

No crystal ball was needed. ‘And a guarantee of your silence,' grunted Kohler, ‘so long as she made sure your Julien was not taken by the S.T.O. to find himself working eighteen hours a day in Essen tapping blast furnaces the R.A.F. had targeted.'

‘Did Madame Vernet agree to see that your son's name went on the preferred list?' asked the Sûreté, hurling the words at her.

She wished they would leave but was a realist and knew they wouldn't. ‘
Yes!
But he's done nothing wrong. Pah! So what if the woman craves a lover's arms when she is married to a cold fish? My Julien is good to her—ah yes, we have discussed her most intimate of needs. We're very close, as I've said. She's a Scorpio and very determined. She likes to have everything exactly right for her. The seat, the back, the mons, they are to be massaged both before
and
after the release of his little burden
and
hers, messieurs.
Hers
. The feet, the hands, the throat and forehead. If she is with child, it's her affair, not ours.'

Ah
merde
…

‘Is that possible?' managed Kohler.

She had them now. ‘
Very!
since she
wanted
the feel of him in her. The ejaculation, yes? Ah! don't look so disconcerted, Inspectors. Some women do want to drink a man in and rob him of the life only he can give. She is one of them and insatiable. Always he has had to smother her cries of joy lest the clients be disturbed.'

They didn't say a thing. They simply left the flat in a hurry and didn't use the lift. She heard their car start up and, from the opened windows, watched in despair as they drove off towards the Seine.

‘
Verdammt
, Louis, what better way for Madame Vernet to get back at that husband of hers for fooling around with Liline Chambert!'

‘To be cuckolded by a stablehand and part-time mannequin … Ah
nom de Dieu, mon vieux
, our Madame Vernet must have acid in her veins!'

‘A gigolo. The shame of it,' hooted Kohler. ‘If word gets out, Vernet's associates will ridicule him into the grave!'

‘And beyond it for at least the next two hundred years!'

‘But is she pregnant by that stud, and if so, does she not
want
an heir of her own? Did she
arrange
to have her niece killed?'

Ah now, was it not time for the truth? ‘And a marriage,
mon vieux
, that would have to continue not only because Liline Chambert had been taken care of but because Antoine Vernet could never—I repeat never—claim this other child was not his own, lest his wife tell everyone who the father really was.' He drew in a breath and sighed. ‘It's perfect, Hermann. If true, she stands alone in infamy.'

A sobering thought.

Nénette Vernet had known she would be followed; Liline Chambert had gone to have her abortion.

Andrée Noireau had been killed, but that killing had been quite different from the others.

‘Where is that kid, Louis? Is she still hiding out in that synagogue? Is she hungry and cold?'

And still afraid to go home. ‘Or has Julian Rébé now dealt with her, if it was he who killed her little friend? A stableboy.'

A pack rat, a
voyou
, Sister Céline had called her. A petty thief of toy giraffes. An amateur sleuth who was convinced not only that she knew who the Sandman was but where and when he would strike next.

A victim. A target.

Dawn had broken, and from the flat Hermann had rented on the rue Suger there was a splendid view across place Saint-André-des-Arts towards the river and the Notre-Dame. Sunlight touched the belfries, warming both pigeon and gargoyle. Shadows gave a bluish cast to copper-green roofs whose faded orange chimney pots were so much a part of the Paris St-Cyr loved. But what had that child found up there? he asked himself. The fob of a gold ear-ring, was that it?

Liline Chambert had been with her, the older girl distracted, afraid of the abortion to come, the sin of it, the danger … ah, so many things would have been going through her mind. Perhaps she had snapped at Nénette and had told her such searchings were crazy, perhaps she had simply waited and had looked out across the river as he did himself. But had that child really discovered who the Sandman was?

Both of them had known things were not right at the Villa Vernet. Both had seen that things could not go on as they had been.

Everything in the child's coat pockets had had meaning for her, but what, really, had she been up to? Tracking the Sandman or trying to trap that aunt of hers or both?

‘Jean-Louis, come and eat while it's hot.'

‘Ah! Oona. Forgive me. The flat is pleasant and tastefully furnished. My compliments. I should have paid you a visit long ago but …' He shrugged. There'd been no time.

‘The flea markets are helpful,' she said, knowing full well that things were not cheap there now and that Jean-Louis thought her the anchor that would keep Hermann from the storm when Giselle pulled out.

She was tall and blonde and blue-eyed, a pleasant—yes,
pleasant-looking
forty-year-old, she thought. Well, almost forty-one—but with a welcome bank account of common sense the Sûreté admired. And, yes, she could have had the pick of the Occupier—he knew this, too—but knew also she would settle for a
ménage à trois
that was not always easy. A patriot, an alien without proper papers. A woman who had fallen in love with his partner but was still too afraid to openly tell Hermann of it or give too many outward signs for fear of upsetting Giselle.

‘Tarot cards,' he said. ‘Let's have a reading.'

On the kitchen table she had placed the miserable loaf of grey bread that was their daily ration if they could get it. The bowl of muddied ersatz coffee had no sugar or milk. The flat was freezing, but it was home, and he saw her smile softly before raising her eyebrows in question and saying, ‘Tarot cards?'

‘Ah yes.' He fanned out the six of them and passed his fingers over them as a clairvoyant would. ‘The Star can mean abandonment,' he said. ‘We'll let it.'

‘And the Lover?' she asked. ‘It can mean just that if you wish.

‘I do. The Nine of Swords implies deception and despair, among other things.'

‘Shame, in the reverse, and imprisonment—Giselle has been teaching me.'

‘The Devil,' he said of yet another card. ‘It can mean violence—blindness if reversed. Those and other things.'

She set her coffee down and urged him to drink his. ‘And the Eight of Swords?' she said. ‘It shows a young woman bound and blindfolded under swords that are ready to plunge into her. Is she the girl who …'

‘That card is bad news, also sickness and other things, but in the reverse it can mean treachery, and that is what Nénette Vernet must have felt it meant for Liline Chambert and for herself.'

Treachery … They ate in silence, trying to savour each morsel while picking out the unmentionable and questionable sweepings that had found their way into the flour. ‘And this one?' asked Oona of another card.

‘The Ace of Swords. What would Madame R
ébé
have said of it?'

‘That it is a very powerful card both in love and in hatred and that it can mean, among other things, triumph or triumph by force.'

‘And in the reverse?' he asked.

Again he would seek only to have the card read as the child must have done. ‘Conception, Jean-Louis Childbirth and disaster.'

Swiftly he reached across the table to grip her by the hand. She had lost her children on the trek from Holland during the Blitzkrieg of 1940 and knew only too well the pain of their loss. They and her husband had gone to beg water at a farmer's well. The price had been far beyond their meager resources but they had been so thirsty they had hung around, begging. Then the Stukas had come, and then the Messerschmitts, and everyone had run for cover.

In the terror that had followed, she and her husband had been unable to find their children and now he, too, was dead—a month ago. Was it as long as that? The French Gestapo of the rue Lauriston, a carousel and yet another murder. ‘Forgive me,' he said. ‘One is constantly reminding oneself to be careful what one says and does, but even so … Oona, your children may still be alive. You must always hope that someday they will be returned to you.'