No art critic, Kohler grinned and tried to make conversation. ‘Whoever painted that backdrop did a damned good job.’
‘He’s dead. The Fähnrich zur See Johannsen was a volunteer from Oslo, Herr Kohler. A draughtsman in his father’s firm. Midshipman Paintbrush went down with U-356 on the 30th December, just two days before the murder of that lousy shopkeeper who has caused us all so much trouble. Fourteen of the enemy’s convoy were sunk using a Rudeltaktik of eleven boats, fanned out in an arc to the south-west of Iceland and well beyond the range of the enemy’s air patrols but not, apparently, of their destroyers. He was a nice boy, full of fun and we shall sadly miss him. His photograph has not yet been hung on the wall but as you can see, space is so hard to find, we are now covering the opposite wall.’
Glenn Miller was playing ‘Moonlight Serenade’. The deep and mellow sounds of that fantastic trombone filled the place. Pretty, pink-cheeked Breton girls danced with pasty-faced U-boat ratings in dark blue sailor suits that did nothing to hide their jaundiced looks or overly large eyes. Close … close … cling, cling …
The Blitzmädels from home, apart from the one sitting beside him, were determined to have a good time. All ranks and branches of the services mingled, the boys from the band, the boys from the garrison. All ages from sixteen to fifty-six at least, this one included.
Due to the severity of the storm, Lorient would most likely be spared a visit from the RAF, so everyone who could possibly get leave had got here early. Men outnumbered girls by at least twenty to one. Starvation either drove the boys to hunger after the girls or to cluster in little groups round the tables and try to out-talk and outboast each other over beer, wine and cigarettes with brandy chasers. Slosh time was coming up.
There was still no sign of Louis. Verdammt, where was he?
‘Let’s dance. Come on, it won’t hurt you. It’ll help to keep the bees from swarming and you might even enjoy it.’
‘I can’t. I won’t. He … he isn’t coming.’
‘He’s in jail. Even Baumann wouldn’t take it upon himself to let the Captain out just for this.’
‘But it is a party, yes? Both for the homecoming boat and for … for U-297’s departure on Thursday.’
Ah merde, more tears. Kohler took her by the wrist and pulled her from the bar stool. Barging through the crowd, he swept her into his arms. ‘Relax. It’s only a dance. Hey, there’s a war on and even detectives get lonely.’
‘You’ve two women in Paris and a wife back home.’
When he didn’t say a thing, she gave up and let him hold her. Already he was caught up in the music. Already he was making her feel that if she shut her eyes and let her mind go, it could just as easily be the Captain. For a big man, with big shoes, Hen Kohler was very light on his feet, deceptively smooth and, though sensitive to her every move, very strong. Yes, strong. ‘Your wife must miss you,’ she said, finding her cheek pressed against his own.
‘She doesn’t. Not any more.’
‘Pennsylvania 6-5000’ was next and it was fast and really quite a lot of fun but suddenly the music stopped, suddenly there was cheering, such cheering …
Kohler felt her leave him. He felt her hesitate.
A space was cleared ahead of the Dollmaker and his entourage of Baumann, the boy Erich Fromm and the Second Engineer.
Préfet Kerjean, looking dismayed and unhappy, brought up the rear.
Men stepped back, their girls too. Kaestner acknowledged the homage with head held high. Grinning he clicked his heels lightly together as he bowed and brought her hand to his lips.
‘Fräulein Krüger, may I have the honour of this dance? Herr Hauptsturmfuhrer, you will not mind, yes? The Préfet Kerjean wishes a quiet word, I think.’
Already the command had gone ahead to the stack of records and a selection had been made. Already the trumpet of Harry James was playing ‘You Made Me Love You’.
‘He’s just too damned smooth,’ swore Kohler. ‘Now he’s going to mine that woman for all she’s worth and she’ll do anything he wants.’
‘Inspector, please. I … I had no choice but to give in to their request that the Captain be allowed to attend. My job, it is not always easy. The Admiral …’
‘You’re sweating, Préfet. Where’s Louis?’
‘Where is the pianist, that is what I want to know.’
Deep in the attic’s clutter, and far from the spyglass window, the child had made a place for her dolls, a house of last retreat. Black sheeting closed in the light from two megalithic stone lamps on the floor. A large and very floppy, red-rosed chapeau rested on her head as she sat quietly in her nightgown on a cream silk chaise-longue that was draped with intricately fine, antique black Breton lace. And all around her and behind and into the distance among the gathered mirrors of her imagination, the dolls stood or sat on ramparts of covered trunks, old suitcases, boxes, chairs and commodes.
Wire and bamboo birdcages had even been used — were the dolls inside them being incarcerated for minor misdemeanours or crimes like murder? he wondered.
Not one doll looked her way. All looked at him through the flickering light from the past as if with breath held, waiting to see what he would do. Blue eyes, brown eyes, large eyes … their pink cheeks stiff with stillness. Dolls with big hats and red roses like her own. Dolls in frilly bonnets, lace nightcaps and kerchiefs. Dolls without anything to hide their masses of blonde curls or waves of lustrous brown or black or blonde hair. Some wore night-gowns but these were far better than her own. Most wore extravagantly elaborate gowns of silk brocade, taffeta, lace, velvet or satin in shades of sapphire blue, soft pink, citrine yellow — even a bright orange, a burgundy, a crimson, a black — yes black silk. Draped necklaces of pearls were much in evidence, of amber too, and agate and coloured glass. Diamonds also.
There were about forty dolls. Some were obviously quite old, others much more recent but still perhaps turn of the century.
Directly behind her in the distance, on a bare wooden box before an oblong mirror, there was a row of heads with piled curls in waves and rosy cheeks. These dollheads were of Parian and among them the child had placed the head the Captain had modelled after herself.
‘Oh, it’s all right,’ she said at last. ‘I suppose you had better come in but don’t trip. Don’t touch anything. It wasn’t fair of you to cheat like that. I thought you were asleep.’
‘I apologize.’
‘It’s perfect, is it not? They are all waiting for you to tell them who killed the shopkeeper since you do not believe it was her.’
The doll that Kaestner had made of Hélène Charbonneau stood enclosed in gilded wire. The gown was of a deep brown velvet that glowed softly in the lamplight of lamps that could well be more than four thousand years old.
There was a diamond at her throat. A saucer of water lay behind her.
‘Well?’ said Angélique sharply. ‘Aren’t you coming in? You had better not keep them waiting.’
‘A moment, please, mademoiselle. The cameras of my mind refuse to rest.’
The dolls were exquisite, yet the more he searched among them, the more he realized they stood or sat not waiting for his verdict but in judgement of Hélène Charbonneau.
The lamplight was disturbing for it gave to the dolls and the child the aura of some mystic rite.