In turn, this could only mean he had known Yvon Charbonneau had buried the briefcase and the pianist would make damned certain the doll was never found.
‘And Kerjean knows it too,’ he said, a whispered sigh. ‘He was so anxious to go after the pianist tonight. The doll is the key to everything. Its absence is crucial to the Captain but does Kerjean want it found so as to prove Herr Kaestner killed the shopkeeper, or does Victor want to be absolutely certain it is never seen again?
‘And what of Paulette?’ he asked. ‘Paulette either saw her father pick up the doll Angélique left in that shop or she brought it to his attention.
‘The Captain was to return from Paris on the following day. He would go straight to the clay pits. What better place to confront him, especially as he would then pay the house by the sea a visit?’
Kaestner had waited a full twelve hours before reporting the murder, a long enough delay to clearly indicate he was protecting someone.
Madame Charbonneau had been there at the time of the murder, as had her husband.
When Hélène Charbonneau found him, the Chief Inspector was lost in thought and tobacco smoke, poring over the pages of her husband’s scrapbooks. There were news photographs of Adèle and herself with Yvon, and others of just the two of them sightseeing, shopping, buying dolls. She had not been able to destroy the clippings. Angélique had needed all the records of her mother and father she could accumulate. And myself? she asked. I could not bring myself to burn them even though Yvon wanted me to, but left the task to me as a reminder.
‘Vienna in the autumn of 1938,’ said the detective. ‘I wonder what it must be like there now. It was the city that, next to Paris, I loved and admired the most.’
She waited, not knowing what to do or say. The long dark hair fell loosely over the shoulders of the heavy white flannel nightgown. The lovely hazel eyes were full of despair.
‘Salzburg,’ he went on, ‘the 24th and 28th of October. Then Munich on the 30th, Kâln on the 3rd November and Berlin, ah Berlin, on the 9th.’
She clutched the throat of her nightgown and held it close. She must say something to him. She could not go down in defeat so easily. ‘Yvon would not travel without us. Like many artistic people, he was often insecure. He always needed the reassurance only the two of us could bring.’
Several pages were turned. ‘Yet he went back to the Reich the following spring but only with Adèle, madame? Three concerts. One at the Opera House in Köln, another in Berlin and then Frankfurt.’
‘Things were very tense. Visas were so hard to get. I was ill. I had my shop to look after. I had to earn a living and make my own way in life. I could not go with them. If you will read the reviews, you will note that they were less than favourable. Yvon needed me as much as he needed Adèle.’
‘But you were never sexually intimate with him.’
The crooked smile was brief, embarrassed and sad — ah, so many things.
‘I’m not denying he tried, nor am I denying I didn’t want it to happen. But Adèle — you had to have known her, Inspector. She and I were the dearest of friends. Inseparable, yes? Ah mon Dieu, men are such imbeciles sometimes. We had shared everything for so long, had been schoolgirls together. She was like a sister to me, the sister I had lost so tragically I can still remember how it was the day she drowned. Yvette … her name was Yvette and she was only ten years old at the time. Ten, the same age as Angélique.’
Hélène Charbonneau tossed her head to indicate the attic roost. ‘I had my troubles, Inspector — a failed marriage, the shop that was always facing such terrible competition and needing something always. Fabric design is very demanding. Clients seem always to be needing reassurance and new and exciting things — at least they used to when I had the shop, but I left all that in Paris of course. We shared so much. I could go to her at any time with my troubles and she to me. I always put her between Yvon and myself and that is all there was to it.’
‘Until the blitzkrieg.’
‘Yes. Yvon fell completely to pieces. Somehow — God only knows how I managed it — I got the three of us here but he had sunk into such a deep depression. Ah, you’ve no idea what it was like. He would not touch the piano but spoke increasingly of a symphony only he could hear among the standing stones and tumuli. My God how I hate those things. They’ve got to me too.’
‘You were married.’
‘Yes, in the fall of 1940. Yvon wanted it that way. I was quite willing to simply look after him and Angélique for the … the Duration of this lousy war the Nazis have thrust upon us. He wouldn’t go back to Paris. He blamed himself for having panicked like everyone else. He blamed himself for having taken the road and caused her death.’
The reviewers had been unkind. A last concert had not gone well.
St-Cyr closed the scrapbook and ran smoothing hands over its cover. She asked how his head was and offered two aspirins from her emergency supplies. ‘They are impossible to get now but …’
She placed them between his hands. ‘I will make us some tea. Camomile, I think. I can’t sleep. I am so worried Yvon will … will do something stupid out there or catch pneumonia. I’ve taken a couple of blankets up to Angélique. She’ll be warm enough. You needn’t worry.’
‘You’ve always been very kind to her.’
‘It’s what a mother does, isn’t that so? Besides, every time I see her, Angélique reminds me of Adèle and of my sister.’
Her eyes pleaded with him for compassion, and to tell her what the girl had said but he could not yield. She hadn’t liked his going through the scrapbooks. No, of course not. When one hides, one must be so careful.
‘The palm of your left hand, madame? A moment, please.’ He got up quickly and turned towards her. ‘It has been recently hurt?’
‘It … it was only a scratch. A few simple stitches — didn’t Angélique tell you about them?’
He shook his head. ‘She told me about the ones you had sewn in your husband’s hand on the evening of the day of the murder. The palm … the ham of the thumb and a deep puncture. One much bigger than your own and still quite swollen.’
‘Yes … why, yes. I’m getting rather good at mending people. It’s what I do best these days, isn’t that so? At least it is what I try to do best.’
If tapped, he felt she would shatter. Moisture had collected in her eyes. She fought to stop herself from breaking down and only succeeded through a supreme effort of will he had to admire.
‘I’ll make the tea, shall I?’ she said.
He could not punish her by asking any more. ‘Please go into the kitchen, madame. I will join you in a moment.’
On the night of 9th/10th November 1938, black-shirted and brown-shirted Nazi hoodlums had ransacked property throughout the Reich. Burning, looting, raping and arresting. Smashing so many windows, the sound of breaking glass could still be heard by all those of conscience.
For a visitor such as herself it must have been an especially terrifying experience. Some said over twenty thousand had been arrested without cause on that one night alone. Innocent people taken from their homes and beaten in the streets. Looting, arson and murder. It had gone on for a week.
All border crossings had been sealed. Her passport and visa would have been left with the hotel’s management. She, like so many, would not have known what was about to happen. They might even have had to drive through the streets.
When St-Cyr rejoined her, Hélène Charbonneau was standing in front of the stove with the kettle still in her hand. She could not speak or even turn to look at him. She could only bow her head and let the tears fall freely knowing that they, too, would betray her.
On the 16th of July 1942 in Paris alone, twelve thousand Jews had been rounded up. Others had quickly followed. They had poured in from all over the Occupied Zone. Now perhaps as many as forty thousand had been arrested. It was a number one could not yet put a finger on or completely comprehend the tragedy. Most didn’t want to think about it. Subsequently they had all been deported, even the youngest of children and separated from the parents. He had had no part in it. He had been out of touch on a case with Hermann, though he could not have done much except resign and go with them, yet he still felt guilty at not having done a thing. He had since taken steps to gather evidence against the perpetrators, particularly the Préfet of Paris, a dangerous thing especially as Talbotte now knew of it. A last case, a left fist that had exploded under the Préfet of Paris’s jaw when it should have minded its own business. A case of missing persons, of fourteen girls whose only crime had been a desire to become mannequins.