‘What did he do for a living?’
‘He had a little money. He did not work any more, not that I knew of. He was past this. Some of us are.’
‘Lonely?’
Yvode was quick to catch the drift. ‘Self-contained. Absolute. Just him and the granddaughter.’
‘And the girl?’
‘She was a student, an artist and an artist’s model. She posed in the nude. M Charles was very much of the old school, Inspector, but Christabelle said she had to, and that one knew he’d have to let her but he did not like it. Ah no, that was most evident. Monsieur Charles was very strict, very possessive.’
‘Unnaturally so?’
The Surete, always the filth! ‘They did not have much money, monsieur. She had to work so as to get enough for her share of the rent and the food. I sometimes wondered how they managed but these days we’re all in the same bucket, except for those who have become friends of the Boches, eh?’
‘I’m not one of them, Monsieur Yvode. I am merely a detective who is trying against formidable odds to do his job.’
‘Did she die in agony?’
How was the body, eh? Parisian to the core, the man wanted to know the most intimate of details and he hated to rob him of these, but he gave only a curt nod. ‘She knew her killer. At least, we think she did.’
‘We?’ asked Yvode, only to hear the Surete say he had a partner, a German, a Nazi, a Gestapo.
‘I’m forced to work under him. It will pass in time but for now I must tell you that I know the rules and that my partner has been only too forceful in telling them to me.’
Don’t forget anything then. Ah merde, Monsieur Charles would never forgive him. ‘He had a friend, a Corsican. One of the durs, monsieur. I myself did not see him here, you understand. There were never any visitors. But I have a sister in Belleville, near the Parcdes Buttes-Chaumont. Quite by accident I saw them in a pavement cafe last summer. I -’
‘Excuse me, monsieur, the name of this cafe, its location? Everything … we need to know everything. It’s important.’
‘The Cafe Noir, it is on the avenue de Laumiere, not far from the park. A little place much frequented by those I would not wish to know. I was surprised to see him in such a place and when later I have mentioned that I saw him, Monsieur Charles he has denied it most emphatically and offered instead ticket stubs to the races at Longchamp as proof. The granddaughter has held her breath, Inspector, and given the grandfather the quick and doubtful glance. Me, I think she was afraid.’
‘Did the girl and her grandfather come in together that day?’
‘Yes, as I’ve just said, she …’
‘Would she have met the two of them at that cafe?’
Yvode gave a shrug. ‘I really do not know, monsieur. She might have, but then again she might not have and he could just as easily have told her of the meeting later on when they met up some place else.’
Matching the register with Madame Minou’s would be an almost impossible task, given that Lafont had taken this one. ‘Tell me what Monsieur Charles looked like.’
‘A swarthy man of some muscular strength. A man of medium height like yourself but strong, you understand, like the Greek peasant I once had as a lodger in the old house. A labourer. The black beret, the thick grey-white hair over the tops of the ears, the narrow eyebrows, not bushy, the sad grey-blue eyes deep in thought, the pipe – a long, black-stemmed thing, something from the old days, I think. A favourite in any case.’
‘Yes, yes, I know the feeling well. The face, monsieur? Please, it is very important. We have photographs of him when he was much younger.’
‘Then that one will have changed a great deal. There are crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes and these have made their criss-crossing inroads well on to the grizzled cheeks. Always a morning’s shave followed by two or three days of respite. A creature of long habit, perhaps, but myself, I think he didn’t care much for barbers. Perhaps he was just saving money, perhaps he wanted the stubble to shade him from the sun but now, of course, there is so little of that, it would not matter.’
‘A man of sixty-seven?’
‘A grey man, monsieur, so sad at times he didn’t realize others might notice. But sometimes a twinkle of laughter. A man who understood a great deal about life and accepted the sins and desires of others with a certain resignation and … yes, yes, compassion. His face not round but a little longer, the chin fleshy, with creases curving up on either side from the round line of his jaw. A nose that was wide and flared, with large nostrils from which unclipped hairs would sprout until his granddaughter got at them with the clippers.’
The concierge was a treasure. The darkness had worked its miracle, the absence of light negating distraction and offering its own sharp illumination to memory. ‘Anything else?’ asked St-Cyr pleasantly.
‘A red polka-dot kerchief knotted at the throat, an open corduroy jacket of a deep plush black, much worn, much loved for its comfort. The blue denim shirt, faded like most. Corduroy trousers and the shoes …? Sometimes the leather sandals, sometimes the tennis shoes. Monsieur Charles always maintained that canvas breathed and was good for the feet. Sometimes the leather shoes but these he tended to save and me, I think he had grown accustomed to the others.’
Again St-Cyr asked if there was anything else.
‘A flowered carpet-bag, dark wine-purple and very shabby. Monsieur Charles often used it when going to and from the shops – a bottle of wine, a stick of bread, though now there is so little. He … he has taken this bag with him when he went to see his brother on Tuesday.’
‘And the other one, the man he met, the Corsican?’
‘One of the durs, as I have said. It’s not too hard to tell with those, is it? Younger by a few years, swarthy too, and very tough. Me, I don’t remember anything else about him, monsieur.’
A killer then. ‘One last question, Monsieur Yvode. Did Charles Audit frequent the house next door?’
Ah merde, could there be no secrets from this one? ‘Yes. Yes, sometimes he went there. He used to laugh about it. He used to say it’s always wisest for a man to live next to a bordello, then he can see when the doctor comes to screen the girls and will have the first crack at the cleanest. His granddaughter would only smile sweetly at this, monsieur, a puzzle in one so pure.’
They went down to the entrance. The rue Benard was pitch-dark. The bicycle, though badly damaged and unridable, had been stolen. So much for the curfew, for the lateness of the hour. Paris had become a city of the hidden.
There were no air raids, no sirens. From the roof of the house overlooking the quai Jemmapes, the city lay in darkness. Unearthly because there were so few sounds, and yet the depth of its silence could be broken at any moment by the tramp of hobnailed boots, the screech of brakes or scream of burning rubber.
Kohler chanced a cigarette. He’d fallen asleep. Lafont and Bonny could think what they liked.
When Madame Van der Lynn came up to him in her nightgown, he saw her clutch her shoulders for warmth. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.
He drew on the cigarette then passed it to her. ‘Nothing. I just couldn’t sleep any more.’
‘You were worried about your partner. You cried out “Louis, don’t!” Is he out there some place?’ She indicated the darkness of the city.
‘In my dream Louis was being followed. He hasn’t got his gun, madame. I’ve got it in the car, under the front seat.’
‘Won’t someone steal it?’
‘They’d better not. Neither of us have had the time even to think. I forgot about the shooters. I’m the one who’s supposed to keep track of them. He’s French and not to be trusted. It’s an order from above.’