‘Sophie, I wanted to warn you that it might not be safe for Renee,’ said the bookseller reaching out to her only to have the gesture ignored. ‘When Renee told me she was going out to the Karneval, I tried to get Frau Oberkircher to mind the shop, only to remember that she was in France at her brother-in-law’s funeral. I knew Renee might be in danger, Inspector, but also that she was terribly despondent and suicidal. I … I wanted to tell you, Sophie, but … but couldn’t when you telephoned me from the Works to let me know Renee had gone out there instead of yourself. Alone, Sophie. You let her go out there alone!’
‘The lines are constantly being tapped, Inspector,’ said Sophie. ‘What one says out of kindness or duty, another hears and seldom can a person put a face to that listener.’
A hard response. ‘Then why were you being followed?’
‘Do they need a reason, those people?’
‘Please just answer.’
A shrug was given. ‘I’ve no idea. I’ve tried to find out-have asked myself countless times did I unintentionally cross someone in an audience, not praise their efforts enough, insult some dignitary’s wife by forgetting her contribution or making too little mention of it, but … but I still don’t know.’
‘And your father, Fraulein, what has he to say of it?’
‘Vati? That I am to let them shadow me as much as they want, that they’ll soon get tired of it.’
‘Then tell me, please, Fraulein, why the colonel’s secretary should have stayed out all night on her skis?’
And where she went, said Victoria silently. Could you not have seen this coming, Sophie?
The look the bookseller gave the chairman’s daughter was ignored.
‘She skied all night, simply to avoid them. They would have known from my call to the bookshop that the girl would be there. Since they must have discovered the photos of themselves were missing, they’-again there was a shrug-‘they must have put two and two together and gone after her.’
‘And tried to make it look like a suicide?’
‘Why else would Colonel Rasche have brought you and Herr Kohler in, had he not trusted one word of what those two had claimed?’
Rubber boots weren’t just for keeping water and caustic soda out, thought Kohler. The constant sound of splashing hoses and filling buckets made the carpenter want to piss, but of course, unlike a delinquent schoolboy, he couldn’t ask Dorsche to be excused.
The reedy slash of a self-conscious grin was flashed as Savard let go. Dorsche knew it too. Nervous … was the carpenter nervous? wondered Kohler. Of course the poor bastard was, for he knew only too well what could quite possibly happen to him.
‘Paulette a le diable au corps, Inspecteur. Eugene …’
The devil in her body …
‘Deutsch!’ shrieked Dorsche, the sound of him causing others to momentarily stop whatever they were doing.
‘Elle prenait plaisir a …’ She took pleasure in …
‘Und bist du nicht willig, so brauch ich Gewalt!’ shrieked Dorsche.
If you’re not willing, then I will use force!
‘She … she had …’
‘Ja, ja, I’ve heard all about it,’ sighed Kohler.
‘Eugene couldn’t take it any longer, Inspector. Lagerfeldwebel, forgive me, but some of your Greifer teased Eugene about his wife. They said that she couldn’t get enough of your good German boys, that they were real men and had cocks like pick handles.’
The guards, the ‘catchers’, would have said it too, but Dorsche was far from happy at being told. The ruddy Burgermeister cheeks were sucked in, the wire-rimmed specs mirroring the feeble light as he gave the carpenter the slightest of nods.
That didn’t stop Savard, though it should have.
‘One of the Postzensuren had it in for Eugene, Inspektor. She’s Alsatian and no doubt felt she was doing her bit to get back at us French, but no parcel at Christmas? None last month? It has to make you wonder if she didn’t …’
Was Savard bent on suicide himself?
‘All parcels are delivered,’ muttered Dorsche. ‘The Lagerfuhrung cannot be held responsible for postal delays due to the hostilities. Copies of the Wehrmacht ordinance pertaining to all prisoners of war have been posted in the dining hall for all to read.’
‘In each camp, cheap, mass-produced German dictionaries have been issued, Inspektor, to assist in one language for all, but here there are only three copies!’ swore Savard. ‘ “Our treatment must be firm but correct,” eh? Lieber Christus im Himmel, Lagerfeldwebel, I’m sick of having to translate that passage for the Russians!’
Lead-blue behind those specs of his, Dorsche’s gaze passed over the carpenter with a finality that made one shudder.
‘The Ostarbeiter don’t need to read that passage or any other, since they do not receive anything,’ grunted the Lagerfeldwebel.
Were the Eastern workers, the Poles, the Russians and others denied Red Cross parcels? wondered Kohler, sickened by the thought.
‘And mail from home, Inspektor, and are denied the freedom to write to their loved ones.’
Savard must have realized that the game was up, whatever that game was, but somehow it would be best to grin and try to make light of things. ‘Now look, let’s calm down, eh? Answers are needed, Lagerfeldwebel. Reports will have to be filed. Personally I’d like to …’
Cigarettes were found, one falling to be ruined, no small matter, but … ‘I’d like to tell Berlin that everything I saw here was being done correctly and that everyone went out of their way to assist the investigation and that nothing was done to punish anyone for anything said while under questioning. Ach, who needs trouble?’
Or a transfer to the Russian front.
They lit up, Herr Kohler’s offer of a light being held as still as death until that hand was gripped and withdrawn from Prisoner 220375, that one’s cigarette being confiscated. ‘Second-hand smoke is healthier for this one, Herr Detektiv Aufsichtsbeamter.’
How kind of him! ‘Herr Savard, all of your combine are still in mourning, I gather?’
‘Mourning?’ blurted Savard, throwing Dorsche a terrified look. ‘What is this, please? Lagerfeldwebel, the official three days are over, aren’t they?’
‘Definitely,’ snapped Dorsche.
Only then did the carpenter realize that he had been so afraid, he had forgotten what the combine had agreed to say.
‘Out of respect for those who died at Stalingrad, Herr Kohler,’ said Dorsche, ‘the prisoners decided to wear black armbands. I, of course, had the Russians make them.’
And never mind Martin Caroff’s claiming he’d worn his out of respect for Eugene Thomas!
At the far end of the shed, one man in a rubber suit had removed his hat and was looking uncertainly their way. The glazier …
‘The coffin,’ managed Kohler. ‘You would have had to measure that girl. Tell me everything you noticed about her. The knot, the position of her arms and hands, what she wore, her beret. All such things.’
‘Knots all look much the same to me, Inspektor, but forgive me for contradicting you. There was no beret. Renee wore a woollen toque. It was very cold, the night she was out. A beret would hardly have been suitable or legal.’
‘Mittens? Gloves?’ demanded Herr Kohler, trying his best to recover from what had just been revealed, but would Prisoner 220375 forget what he and the others had agreed to say and yield a little more? wondered Dorsche.
‘She wore mittens and gloves,’ said Savard warily. ‘Though I only saw the knitted cuff of one of her gloves, I knew them well enough. Renee often wore them when at the Karneval. She’d get so excited about something she had found, she would yank them off to touch it and then forget them, only to remember hours later where she had left them. She was like that. Days after she had found something, she could take you to the exact spot. It’s a shame she felt she had to leave us. She was a lovely girl, very gentle, very kind. Un ange, n’est-ce pas?’