Sandman (7 page)

Softly he closed the door behind him. The room was spacious but seemingly cluttered. It had been done in white, with white lace throws on the bed, but there was gold, too. Gold in gilt-framed mirrors and mirrored trumeaux that threw the winter's-night light from the windows back and forth, laying detail upon detail until the whole was repetition of shape and form and it took the breath away.

‘Ah
merde
,' he said. ‘This can't be the child's room. It must be Liline Chambert's.'

Not a thing was out of place. All had been set exactly where it should be to ensure the total effect. Tall, branching, Gothic wrought-iron standards held candles on either side of a fireplace whose mantelpiece had been removed, though the curved supports remained and now held matching bronze sculptures with single candles in them. Roosters perhaps—very modern in any case, and with their beaks turned back to peck at their tails and one leg lifted straight overhead like ballet dancers.

Ivory candelabra were draped with beads of clear crystal. A sculptress's three-legged stand held the curly-bearded, curly-headed grey plaster bust of an ancient seer who impassively looked on so that one saw his head from four or five angles and these views were superimposed on and mingled with those of a Greek torso, beautifully hung, the waist, the hips, the genitals complete, the candles, too, and the white, white of old lace and of chair and bed.

There wasn't a sound. The staff downstairs would all be listening for him, yet he had not taken another step.

Draped across a beautifully carved walnut blanket box at the foot of the bed, there was a fine white woollen, short-sleeved dress, very Greek-looking, very stylish yet simple. Borders at the neck, hem and sleeves were of bands of grey-blue perhaps—the light wasn't very good. A mid-calf-length thing, he thought, making no noise at all crossing the floor. It was not the sort of dress to wear in the dead of winter, not when most places these days weren't heated.

Right below the neckline, caught in the light from the windows, there was a cheap brass curtain ring. Nothing else. Just that.

He paused. He picked the ring up and asked himself, Was she about to go off for a little tryst? Young couples did that sometimes, though there weren't too many young Frenchmen around these days. They took the curtain rings and wore them, fooling no one, least of all the
patron
of some hide-away
auberge
in the countryside.

A photograph showed a haunting image of her in a moment of reflection, holding a teacup in both hands. The dark hair was worn loose, down over the front of the right shoulder of the dress, the wide-brimmed hat made the look in her eyes so very tragic.

A kid of eighteen or so. Nice … really nice-looking. Had she lighted the candles before getting into bed to sit watching their reflections and those of the torso and the head? Did she play games in here, was that it, and was Nénette Vernet now with her? Just what the hell had the three of them been up to, the two girls and this one?

Try as he might, he could not help but feel uneasy.

As the chauffeur drove through the darkness and the softly falling snow, St-Cyr sat in silence. All down the Champs-Élysées, and then along the rue de Rivoli, there didn't appear to be another soul. The city's streets revealed only blue-washed pinpricks of light from isolated lamp standards that seemed to cry out, See what you have done to me, messieurs. Ended freedom, instilled deceit and fear, made cheats and liars out of honest citizens.

Those who did not have some petty fiddle were desperate. With ten degrees of frost there was no coal except in those places the Germans and their friends occupied. Having even one roomer from among the Occupier guaranteed an element of supply but engendered suspicion, jealousy and hatred from one's neighbours if they didn't have the same or better.

In a land of officially-sanctioned favouritism, denunciations were rife. But slowly an opposition was growing from within. Brother now hated brother, children now told tales on their parents, and not to the Occupier, to the Resistance. The bloodbath of retribution was gathering day by day. When it came, it would be terrible.

They had arrived at Place Mazas. ‘The morgue is over there,' he said gruffly to the chauffeur. ‘Near the river so that the drains can easily take the blood and things.'

‘Inspector, are you attempting to unsettle me further?' asked Vernet who, having insisted upon it, had ridden alone in the back seat while he, a Chief Inspector of the Sûreté, had been told to sit up front.

‘Monsieur, I am merely commenting on the practicality of our city fathers. The old morgue on the Île de la Cité was also close to the river. Corpses are always hosed down and often opened.'

‘Surely my niece does not require an autopsy and an ice-cold douche?'

Ah, damn you, St-Cyr could hear him saying. ‘That is for the coroner to decide, monsieur. I have asked for Belligueux. He's very reliable, exceedingly thorough, and always does exactly what he feels is needed, since he cannot possibly be bribed.'

Was it a warning? wondered Vernet and, giving an audible sigh, decided that it was but could not understand the reason for it. Not yet. Ah
merde
… ‘I really do wish you would try to realize I am entirely on your side.'

A dismissive hand was tossed. ‘Of course you are. You are her uncle, her guardian. You have taken over the business interests and fortune of her father.'

‘My brother, Inspector.'

‘Are you the older or the younger?'

‘Meaning that the oldest nearly always inherits the estate? How cheap and utterly mediocre of you. Henri-Claude was a brilliant designer. Not that it is any of your business, my talents lie in finance and in bringing the interested parties together. It was decided he should inherit and lead the company and I graciously acquiesced to our father's wishes and agreed to remain its vice-chairman and chief adviser until my brother's unfortunate and untimely death. He was nearly fifteen years my junior.'

That little loss of promotion could not have gone down well, family rivalries being what they usually were, but … ah, but one would have to wait and see and hadn't the wife said he had been yanked out of semi-retirement and put to work on the death of his brother? ‘Why didn't they take your niece with them to England? To leave without her at such a time of crisis seems most callous.'

Just
what
had Bernadette said to this one to make him so suspicious? wondered Vernet. Damn her for meddling. ‘All civilian flights had long since been cancelled, so they had to have permission from the military. Children were, of course, not allowed. The danger was simply too great, things far too tense. My sister-in-law's mother was gravely ill and not expected to last, but, yes, compassion would never have swayed the minds of our military. My brother went over to try to calm the British. We were, alas, convinced the Führer would never attack. They flew over on the twentieth of April, 1940, planning only the briefest of visits, but one thing led to another and they soon found it impossible to return.'

Norway had fallen to the Germans, Denmark's army had been demobilized. The Blitzkrieg in the West had been about to begin … ‘A designer of what, exactly?'

‘You know I cannot tell you that. Why, then, do you ask if not to further upset me? Impatiently Vernet indicated the morgue where only one lonely goosenecked lamp produced a paltry wash of blue. ‘This place is closed.'

‘Death never stops. Invariably the small hours of the night are the busiest. Monsieur,' he said to the chauffeur, ‘please inform the Feldwebel on patrol that he has only to check with me if he questions your being out after curfew. Or is it that your employer has clearance?'

‘He has,' said Deloitte flatly.

‘Good, then there is absolutely no problem.'

The floor was wet, the drainboard pallets shrouded except where an attendant was sewing up a full-length incision while another, a damp cigarette butt clinging to his lower lip, prepared a female for burial and was scrubbing her down before hosing her off a last time.

Talbotte, the préfet, must have warned everyone to cooperate. Without hassle they were taken straight through to the storage lockers at the back where the appropriate drawer was pulled out.

‘Death also is the great leveller, Inspector,' said Vernet, exhibiting a humanity so hidden it surprised. ‘Of late Nénette had become very fond of the
ancien
Cimetière de Neuilly. Liline … Mademoiselle Chambert often found her there among the Jewish graves, of all places, consoling the spirits of the departed. The child used to say it was the quietest place on earth next to the Bibliothèque Nationale, but I wonder if she would say it now?
Mon Dieu
, I hate to think of what has happened. My brother and his wife … Now the three of them gone, and who is to carry on when I join them? Everything will pass into other hands to be broken up and sold. An empire.'

Was there no thought of Vernet's producing an heir of his own? wondered St-Cyr. Were such things so out of the question with his wife? ‘Monsieur, I could give you a moment alone before uncovering her, if you wish?'

‘No. No, I'm quite all right. Let's get it over with. Then there will be absolutely no question of identity.'

Ah! it was so hard to gauge him. His expression was grave, but would Vernet really regret the loss of his niece, since he would then most probably inherit everything? Would the mistake in identity cause him to panic?

The attendant stood ready. ‘Leave us,' said St-Cyr with a curt toss of his head. ‘Wait in the outer office.'

‘Inspector, what is this?' demanded Vernet.

‘A moment,' came the hushed command, as they watched the attendant reluctantly depart. The préfet would be furious with the man for not having listened in. Too bad.

‘Inspector, am I some sort of suspect?'

Vernet had removed the wide-brimmed, dark grey velour trilby some well-placed Berliner must have presented to him. He stood immaculate in his Hermès grey-blue scarf, overcoat and black kidskin gloves, and the years of dealing with such people at more than infrequent intervals came tumbling in on St-Cyr, telling him not to judge too harshly, that wealth and power were not always corrupt. ‘If you have anything to hide, monsieur, might I suggest you tell me of it now. Things are not quite right with this one, and that is why I have asked for privacy.'

‘Then remove the shroud at once,
idiot!
'

‘Of course.'

A breath was sucked in. The voice was blunt. ‘That's not her. That is her friend from school. Now do you mind telling me just how such a mistake could have been made? I'll make you sweat for this. I'll have your badge.'

‘Perhaps, but then … ah then, monsieur, perhaps it is that you can offer some explanation for the change your niece and this one made in their identity papers.'

‘Pardon?'

Was it such a surprise? ‘The photograph …' St-Cyr handed the papers over. Vernet looked from them to the child several times and at last swore under his breath. ‘The silly little bitches. What the hell did they think they were playing at? Trapping this Sandman? Was that it, Inspector? The knitting needle, the …'

He thrust the papers back and turned away to hide his discomposure. ‘Not dead,' he murmured. ‘
Not dead!
' And then, loudly, ‘
Bâtards
! You
flics
…' He turned, a fist clenched. ‘How
dare
you do this to me? To
me?
'

And now, monsieur, is that the moisture of perplexity and remorse in your eyes, wondered St-Cyr, or that of relief and concern for your niece?

Vernet tossed the hand with the fedora in defeat. ‘I had to put a stop to Nénette's nonsense. That is why I obtained a
laissez-passer
for this one to go to Chamonix to join her parents. I could not have my niece making such preposterous claims and saying she knew who the Sandman was and that if I did not summon the préfet to speak to her alone and at once, she would take the matter into her own hands.'

A stubborn child. The préfet no less and at once, and in private. ‘And do you still believe she spoke nonsense?'

‘How dare you ask me that? Would you humiliate me further? She's dead. Look at her yourself. A child. Innocence left to languish with the sisters while her … her no-good parents partied at Chamonix. Ah, damn that stupid, stupid mother of hers. I shall have to see that the couple are notified. There will have to be a funeral. As few as possible—we can't have the press getting wind of this. Those vultures would only feast on the carrion.'

‘A funeral—yes, yes, of course, but burial where? In the
ancien
Cimetière de Neuilly?'

Vernet threw him a startled, questioning look. ‘Burial wherever her parents choose. It's customary.'

He was still visibly shaken by the mistake in identity, but even as they looked at each other, St-Cyr could see the mask begin to descend.

‘And what about your niece, monsieur? Is there anything you can tell us?'

Caution entered. ‘Only that you had best find her before it is too late. I need not remind you, Inspector, that police bungling cannot possibly sit well with the Kommandant von Gross-Paris.'

‘Then let us pay Mademoiselle Chambert and her lover a little visit. Perhaps it is that she can clear the matter up.'

‘Liline …? Ah! yes. Yes, of course. I had forgotten. The flat is in Montpamasse, on the rue d'Assas. Number eighty-four. The fifth floor, apartment two, facing the street. We will have to awaken the concierge, but fortunately that one is a light sleeper.'

Good, nodded St-Cyr inwardly. Your response is just as I have suspected. It is not only your chauffeur who knows of the address. The death here has rattled you.

A cube of sponge, a tangled white thread, a hope, a prayer, a silk chemise no student with a part-time job could ever have purchased. Not at any time and certainly not on the black market.