‘That girl should know better,’ grumbled Kerjean testily. ‘No respect for the dead. None either for convention and morality.’
The stump of a grimy forefinger stabbed at the map he had spread between them on the zinc. ‘I went first to the alignments nearest Yvon’s house but without success. As I expanded the search towards Plouharnel, I began to see more and more that Yvon must go to one of his special places. Locations where I had often found him in the past.’
The girl’s tight black leather skirt was far too short. Her legs … silk stockings … there was only one way she could have got them, thought Kerjean. ‘He had hurt your friend quite badly. Indeed, he might well believe he had killed him.’
‘What was in the briefcase?’
‘That I do not know. Papers of agreement for the Captain to sign, perhaps a portion of the missing money — a show of good faith.’
‘But le Trocquer definitely went to the clay pits to see the Captain?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course. Why do you ask? Is there something I have missed?’
‘No. No, I just wondered. Verdammt, I wish Louis was here. No partner and I need to talk.’ And you’re still sweating, said Kohler to himself. ‘Another fine à l’eau?’ he asked, indicating the empty glass. Another house brandy with water.
‘One for the road and then I must go. Yvon … Yvon Charbonneau is a very difficult man to fathom, Inspector. Please appreciate that he is not in his right mind. He is also a demon on that bicycle of his. Eighty, ninety kilometres. Nothing stops him, especially not the weather.’
‘Get to the point, Préfet. You’re making it sound like you’re building yourself an alibi.’
Kohler was of the Gestapo and whether he was one of their ‘best’ or ‘worst’ members would not matter. ‘I did not kill le Trocquer, Inspector. I had no reason to. I am a police officer.’
‘Since when did belonging to the law stop anyone?’
Nom du ciel, must he be so difficult? ‘As I was just saying, increasingly I came to believe — and still do — that Yvon, in fear and great anxiety, would retreat to one of his very special places. Of those nearest Carnac, the tumulus of Saint-Michel, which is on the north-eastern edge of the town, seemed the most promising. Yvon could have hitched a ride part way in a lorry — there were plenty of them heading here, isn’t that so?’
‘And?’
‘It is a place in which I have found him many times. There are two entrances and he has ways of getting in there no one else knows. A hill some twelve metres high and one hundred and twenty long beneath which there are the passages which are lined with large upright stones and massive cap rocks, and the graves, of course, the firepits. The entrances to the tumulus are at the base of the hill. Long passages go to the right and left. There are rooms and other, lesser passages — turnings. One has to have a light — ah, it is so dark in there. One also has to duck the head and crouch or crawl. It is not easy particularly if you are dealing with someone who is deranged.’
‘But he wasn’t there?’
It would be best to shrug. ‘What can I say? I was only one man looking for another. He has no fear of such places. Indeed, he is so steeped in them, he is of them and knows them far better than anyone else. My trousers, the palms of my hands — you can see for yourself the state I am in. Soaked to the skin from the clay pits, worn to a frazzle.’
‘And you’re certain he tried to kill Louis?’
‘No, I did not say that. I said he might well think he had. This might …’
‘Might make him do something foolish?’
‘Yes.’
‘Such as?’
There was much sadness in Kerjean’s dark blue eyes and for a moment the Préfet found he could say nothing. ‘He might kill himself, Inspector. Hélène … Madame Charbonneau would never forgive me, so you see, I must find him not just so that we can settle this matter but that another tragedy will not happen.’
Kohler reached over the zinc to find the brandy bottle. Refilling the Préfet’s glass, he nodded curtly at it and waited while it was downed. ‘Now another and that’s an order. You’ve done what you can for tonight. Go home, get some sleep. We’ll pick up the pieces tomorrow.’
Did he really believe such a delay was possible? ‘Then do us all a favour and watch that girl. Paulette may well be enjoying herself but freedom always has its price. I am certain she either knows where the money is or who stole it. They,’ he indicated the men and particularly the table where Kaestner sat with Baumann and the others, ‘may not be so patient with her as we would wish.’
As Kerjean reached for his cap and gloves, Kohler asked if he had seen the autopsy report on the shopkeeper and saw him shake his head. ‘My assistant will have done so. I am sorry, but I had no time.’
‘Didn’t Louis say anything about it?’
There was that shrug. ‘He was freezing, wet to the skin and had received several terrible blows to the back of the head. He was dazed and in a great deal of pain. We must get him to a doctor. Another of the pieces we must pick up, Inspector. Stubborn like our peasants and refusing absolutely to let me take him straight to the hospital here, but the concussion all the same, I think.’
Kohler watched him leave then looked the place over. There was now no sign of the Captain or of Baumann and the boy or the Second Engineer. They had somehow left the party unnoticed and quickly. Even Death’s-head Schultz had vacated the table and others now crowded round it.
When Paulette le Trocquer, breathless and radiant, came towards him, he had to grin and take her by the hand. Someone called Kay Kyser was singing something called ‘Playmates’. Then there was ‘Marie’ and then there was ‘I’m Getting Sentimental Over You’.
But still there was no further sign of the Dollmaker and the others. None at all.
It was now nearly 1 a.m. Berlin Time, Tuesday the 5th of January and some fifty-two hours since they had arrived in the area to begin the investigation. Parting the heavy green brocade drapes in Yvon Charbonneau’s study, St-Cyr looked out into darkness and rain. The clay pits would be awash. Another hour and where would he have been? Drowned by swallowing that thick, creamy milk of clay? Buried in it perhaps for ever. Yet it was not easy to be released from one trouble only to fall into another.
‘K and R,’ he muttered grimly. ‘Kämmer and Reinhardt.’
He turned away but stood looking across the cluttered refuse, the hints at former lives so distant from his own. ‘The bits and pieces of lost millennia,’ he murmured, ‘and those of a doll.’
In need of tobacco, he found a tin Charbonneau had used as a makeshift ashtray, and dumping it out, toasted the remaining contents of the Obersteuermann Baumann’s tobacco pouch over the fire. That everything should boil down to a doll was frightening. Emotionally exhausted by her fear that he would discover what she had done, the child had dropped off to sleep. The chaise-longue with its black lace and cream silk had become her bier. The finely chiselled face, with its large eyes closed, had become the face of innocence, but behind that innocence lay a hardness that deeply troubled.
He stood a moment more trying to fathom exactly what she had done. The dolls up there in the attic had waited too, with breath seemingly held. All of them had watched her from the mirrors. Image after image had been repeated. Some had even overlapped themselves.
They had watched him too, so much so that for a moment there he had been afraid to move for fear of frightening them. They were so lifelike.
The Dollmaker, who could identify each maker’s bisque with his eyes closed, must have been all too aware that the fragments were not from a Jumeau, a Steiner or a Bru. He had given up the pieces readily enough during the interrogation which could only mean he had been satisfied they no longer posed a threat.
‘Then he must have known the doll would not be discovered.’