Mannequin (40 page)

As if with open hands, their fingers claws, the pits stared up at him and he saw at once how difficult it would be to find a man down there. And even as he tried to see further into the maw of the place, the rain began and made the ground below run with milk. ‘It's slippery,' he said and turned uncomfortably away.

At 10 a.m. Berlin Time, 9 a.m. the old time, they left the place in the Préfet's little Renault, all crammed together and with the ambulance and the body behind. In the centre of Lorient, perhaps some ten kilometres from the clay pits, they let the Sous-Préfet and the photographers out at a bomb-damaged square, then dropped the coroner off at a shattered railway station. Devastation was everywhere. The homeless were on the road
en masse
to friends and relations in the countryside: hand-drawn carts, wagons and baby carriages heaped with belongings, children, old people and blank stares when confronted with the Préfet's incessant honking.

Then they took the road from Lorient to Quiberon and its peninsula, a distance of at least fifty kilometres through fog and rain and finally wet snow that did not hang about but melted instantly.

There were farms, salt marshes, bits of pine forest – other alignments, yes, and dolmens – along the way but nothing to alleviate the depressingly cold grey landscape.

‘You are booked into the Mégalithe,' said the Préfet. ‘I hope the accommodations are to your satisfaction.'

A twenty-five room hotel in which they were the only guests.

‘It's the off-season, Louis. We ought to be grateful they've opened the place up for us.'

‘Of course.'

*
The forerunner of Interpol.

2

When one single set of shutters was opened, a grey and dismal light washed into the massive dining-room of the Hotel Mégalithe whose legions of empty tables still held the white linen cloths and settings of the late summer of 1940. Every sound echoed. The place was freezing. Dust clung to the bread-and-butter plates and overturned coffee cups, the knives and forks and spoons.

Even the menu had to be blown off. St-Cyr threw the girl in black broadcloth and black velvet, with the white lace apron and the giant stovepipe coif of starched white lace, an uncertain glance. ‘A dozen oysters,' he said, his words crashing on timid ears that were all but hidden by curls. ‘A bottle of the Muscadet, the sole
meunière, pommes à l'anglaise
– ah, I know it is heresy to ask for English-style potatoes. Cauliflower and Brussels sprouts, I think. Cheese and dessert. Oh, and coffee. The real stuff if you have it.' He'd ask. These days one could only dream but Herr Doenitz might have interceded on their behalf. It was just possible, wasn't it?

The girl, no more than seventeen, blurted something unintelligible and, with moisture rushing into her stark blue eyes, turned and raced from the dining-room.

‘Can I do nothing right in this place?' he asked himself. All of the other windows were shuttered tightly. He had had a battle just to get this one open and had finally done it himself.

Sitting down with his back to the alcove's sombre panelling, he passed uncertain hands over the table-cloth which was not just cold but insufferably damp and likely mildewed.

‘
Inspector, what is the meaning of this?
'

The sharp voice of the owner's wife shattered the silence. St-Cyr picked up the menu and, gazing across the room, heaved a futile shrug. ‘Some oysters?' he winced.

‘Don't be absurd! You may have the
cotriade
' – the fish soup that was more like a poor man's stew – ‘and the bread if you have enough tickets.'

Shit! ‘I … We … that is, my partner and I have none, Madame Quevillon. Are this week's orange, lime or yellow? I can never remember which is which and am seldom home in Paris long enough to update my ration booklets.'

‘Paris, hmph! They are chartreuse and you must ask the Préfet to supply you. No food can be given without them. This is
not
Paris!'

Formidable in severe black, ankle-length voluminous skirts, and without the benefit of an apron but with a metre-high coif of stovepipe lace – was it that high? – she looked like the warder of a medieval prison for women. ‘A glass of the Muscadet, then?' Would it be possible?

‘Forget it,' she said tartly. ‘It is not a day for alcohol.'

‘Then please tell my partner I have gone for a walk to seek nourishment from the fog!'

‘As you wish. It's just as you please, monsieur.'

‘Inspector! It's Chief Inspector St-Cyr!'

‘Of course.'

He caught himself at the door, forced humility into his voice and begged the location of Monsieur le Trocquer's shop.

The woman drew herself up so that she towered over him with that ridiculous coif. Her shoulders were every bit as wide as his. ‘It is on the rue de Port-Haliguen not far from the cathedral. You cannot miss it, since the door will wear the wreath of black and the shutters will be closed.'

‘And the cathedral?' he asked. Was she always so forbidding?

‘Follow the promenade to the rue de Lille. Go up it to the cathedral, then rum right.'

‘
Merci
.'

‘Will you be taking supper?'

Carelessly he tossed the hand with the shabby, wet fedora. ‘I doubt it. The meals leave much to be desired. Please do
not
expect a tip!'

The fog didn't want to leave, and with the snow, it made more forlorn what had once been a thriving seaside town of three thousand in winter, some eighty thousand in summer.

All along the promenade behind that great, sweeping curve of sand, the grand hotels and boarding houses were shuttered and, if not empty, occupied only by their owners and/or perhaps an ancient retainer or two. Hardly a soul stirred. Beached sardine and tunny boats huddled as if so leaky they dared not put to sea and feared the highest tides. Flaking paint marred the wet, fine sand with its bits of shells, while here and there on weathered signboards frayed notices cried out the delights of former days.
Palms read and fortunes told. Young ladies and gentlemen need the truth about embarking on their futures before it is too late
.

Swimming lessons were given by a Professor Armand of Paris, who was also assistant instructor at the Lutétia Pool and the Cité des Sports. A busy man. Children under five had to be accompanied by a parent or guardian, those from five to ten and older would come themselves but all were to bring their butterfly floats. Strict obedience was imperative. Dismissals were not uncommon. There were no refunds. Absolutely none.

Ballroom dancing competed with moonlight cruises to Belle-Île and other places.
Boules
, croquet and tennis were by floodlight if one chose. There was gambling. There was even a cinema but the title of its last feature film in the spring of 1940 had been picked away by curious boys determined to undress its leading lady.

Excursions to view the megaliths – the ‘druidic' stones – were common and recommended the picnic lunch or moonlight supper. Bathing was not encouraged and most certainly not recommended except for those sites where the ruins entered the sea and the currents allowed of safety.

Marianne and himself had spent their honeymoon here. Her choice of location. He had looked forward to their exploring the megaliths. Four days between cases and hardly time to get to know each other better.

As he plodded up the rue de Lille, St-Cyr vowed not to tell Hermann how disastrous that honeymoon had been. He'd never hear the end of it if he did. Marianne had had a severe allergy to scallops, discovered on their very first night – God did things like that to detectives. Robbed them of simple pleasures. Her family's farm was inland near Ploërmel, well away from the fruits of the sea, so no one could have blamed her for not knowing. ‘Yet she tried her best to make our visit enjoyable,' he said. ‘The poor thing. Life isn't fair.'

She had been absolutely lovely and of a very quiet, gentle nature, with soft blonde hair and large blue eyes just like that young girl in the dining-room. A woman so lonely in Paris, she had succumbed to the attentions of the Hauptmann Steiner.

Love? Had it really been love? he asked himself and fortunately could not answer since the shop was now in view.

A nothing place – one could see it at a glance. Faded letters – second-hand goods. Teacups and teapots, probably. Bits of glassware and china, old lace, costume jewellery and dolls, yes, dolls. Yet the place had so little of the look of prosperity, he was forced to wonder why the Captain would have taken on such a partner.

When he rang the bell there was silence. When he rapped on the window of the door, he widened a crack that had been there for ages.

At last a figure appeared behind the wreath, a blurred shadow in black wool with a slim waist, flared hips and a left hand whose fingernails had just been painted.

‘Monsieur?'

The sill was warped. The door came unstuck … ‘Pardon, madame. I am the …'

‘It's Mademoiselle Paulette, monsieur. My father …'

The door began to close. ‘A moment, please!' He leaned on it. ‘I am the Chief Inspector Jean-Louis St-Cyr of the Sûreté Nationale. A few questions to help us with the investigation. Nothing difficult. I promise.'

‘The Sûreté? Was he so important? I … I never knew. He … he never said. What's he done then, eh? Come, come, Monsieur le Sûreté, let us have the evidence of it!'

‘Nothing that we know of but it's interesting his family should think he had been up to something.'

‘I
didn't
steal the money!'

‘Then you have nothing to worry about. Now, please, a few questions, that's all.' He'd leave the money for a little.

The shop was musty and cramped and not very tidy either. One by one the girl switched on a scattering of table lamps and the light within a tiny carousel which soon began to rotate with the convection and threw its shadows over an array of seated dolls who all seemed to be watching the proceedings intently from their shelf. Exquisite clothing on them. Perfect in every way and far, far better than anything else in the place.

‘Mademoiselle Paulette, may I …?' He took out his pipe and tobacco pouch, having opened his overcoat, and she saw that he was about fifty or so years of age and that he wore a light brown suede vest whose buttons looked as if ready to burst. An old vest, and much loved.

‘Mademoiselle Paulette, on the day your father was killed – please, I am sorry to have to mention it but …'

She trailed a fingertip across the glass countertop through the beads of summer and gave him such a disconcerting look, he was forced to rephrase his question. So, that was good, she thought, and she had put him on the defensive. It was marvellous what one could do to men if one was pretty.

‘When did your father leave the shop to find the Captain Kaestner? It's a long way to the clay pits, mademoiselle. One has to ask how he managed to get there.'

She would smile softly at this teddy bear of a detective and she would gaze frankly at him and choose her words most carefully. Yes, that would be best. ‘My father left the shop at just before noon, Inspector, so as to catch the
autobus au gazogène
to Lorient. He said he had business to attend to and that I was to mind the shop and see to mother. She's ill. She's been ill for years. She's in a wheelchair and can't get about. Someone always has to take care of her.'

As you should – he wanted so much to say, to chastise the impish look in those china blue eyes, to wipe the smart-assed cheekiness away. ‘Don't play with me, mademoiselle,' he said severely.

‘I'm not. He told me not to pay any attention to Préfet Kerjean, if that one should return.'

‘Pardon?'

Was the detective so caught off guard? ‘They had an argument, Inspector. Lots of shouting. The Préfet was very angry and threatened my father with all sorts of things including …' She paused to search him out and touch the beads again. ‘… including the asking of the tax officials to look into his accounts.'

Ah
merde
, the money …? Had she been ten leagues ahead of him? ‘They argued?'

‘Violently. Several things were broken. Mother heard them shouting and very nearly came down the stairs in her wheelchair. The brakes are broken.'

‘And yourself?'

‘I heard them too.'

The girl was no more than twenty years of age. The black woollen dress clung provocatively to every feature even though she was in mourning.

There was a Peter Pan collar of white cotton with a bit of pale blue embroidery. Nothing special. Practice needlework perhaps for a girl who obviously would care little about such skills.

‘Exactly what did they argue about?' he asked cautiously.

Again she would gaze frankly at him. Again she would run her fingertip through the beads, touching them one by one as if they were those of a fecundity meter. ‘Madame Charbonneau,' she said and shrugged. ‘That's all we heard.'

‘Madame Charbonneau?'

Was it so puzzling? ‘Yes. The big house that overlooks the sea near Kerouriec. She's a friend of the Captain's. Well, he … he fancies her but she's married and has a little girl.'

The urge to shake some manners into this … this budding
fille de joie
was almost too much to bear for St-Cyr. Sporting herself like this when she should be …

‘Are you certain that is all you overheard?' he asked harshly.

Her answer must be modest – shy like a schoolgirl whom a priest was instructing. ‘She's a friend of the Préfet's too, Inspector. A good friend, if you know what I mean.'

The bitch! ‘So, they argued. Where were you? In the shop, outside or upstairs?'

‘I was in the cellar at the back. That's where he puts me from time to time. At least, that is where he used to put me but no more, I guess. Is he really dead?'

‘Very much so.'