‘He knew of my visits, Jean-Louis. He … he misinterpreted them as did others, the local gossips.’
‘Ah, yes, but did he not use those visits and then the real reason for them to force Madame Charbonneau to continue in his company? Did he know, Victor, and in knowing, keep that knowledge to himself and use it for his own ends? When he finally learned of the missing money, he was not overly concerned, yet it had supposedly been missing for at least eight weeks, though the loss was not revealed to him until the 5th of November when U-297 returned from duty.’
‘One of the sardiniers did not return on the 3rd of November,’ said Hélène Charbonneau. ‘Johann would have learned of this on the 5th — everyone knew by then. Victor, you yourself had to investigate. The German authorities wanted arrests. You had to pacify them as best you could.’
‘And Kaestner simply put two and two together,’ breathed St-Cyr, ‘and added your little tête-à-têtes on the beach or at the house. But,’ he paused to search her out, ‘did he know of it right from the start? Your stepdaughter, madame. Please, I realize it is very difficult for you to answer, but would she have told Herr Kaestner of Préfet Kerjean’s interest in that telescope?’
‘If she did, I … I cannot hold it against her.’
‘What will he do, Jean-Louis?’ asked Kerjean, aghast at what lay before them.
‘He will take everything in, Victor. He will coolly analyse the situation and then he will make his move but, please, the sardines migrate north and the season here is late. In summer there would have been a few fishing boats — yes, of course — but not the fleet of twenty-six you wanted to watch so closely. You were worried about Herr Kaestner and his relationship to Madame Charbonneau. Too much was at stake and you could not afford to have anything go wrong. You called, you walked, you talked and finally you realized you had best take her into your confidence since she was already indebted to you and could be trusted.’
‘I needed to watch the patrol boats and how they checked the fishing boats. I could not depend on others. There were also the comings and goings of the submarines. Their routine was constantly being altered. They were always met and guided in but I could never find exactly where it would happen or how many boats would go out to them. If he knew of the security leak then Herr Kaestner is as guilty as myself of its breach, though I doubt very much he realized the full extent of things until after the 5th of November. Now, please, a moment yourself.’
Kerjean took out the Lebel Model 1873 six-shot revolver the Germans had allowed him with only six cartridges. ‘One for me,’ he said. ‘For you the cyanide, Hélène. It … it is the only thing left.’
‘Then let it keep for a little, eh?’ said St-Cyr.
Sadly the Préfet shook his head. ‘Others depend on me not to tell the Germans what I know, Jean-Louis. As a section head in the Resistance, I must take this final responsibility.’
‘Victor, don’t, please,’ begged the woman.
The beam of the torch faltered. The gun wavered, now towards the floor, now towards them but to one side and then … ‘A moment, Victor,’ said St-Cyr. ‘Let her step outside. I’ll tell the Germans she and I went along the tracks to the alignment to look for her husband — perhaps he called out to us. Yes… yes, that will suit. You were checking the shed. We heard a shot …’
‘People will think I killed le Trocquer,’ said Kerjean sadly. ‘They will not understand that the Dollmaker has simply won another victory. He has chosen to sacrifice security so as to trap me into revealing everything I know to their SS and Gestapo.’
‘A moment! Let her step outside.’
‘Yes … yes, of course. Forgive me.’
She turned and stopped and bowed her head in grief and said, ‘Victor, bless you for trying to help us. May you be with God.’
The sound of the hammer as it was placed on the half-cock came to St-Cyr. ‘The torch, Victor.’
‘The torch …?’
St-Cyr took a step. The gun went up, a fist came in and up hard … hard under the chin. The shot shattered the confines of the shed. The woman shrieked and ducked her head.
Out cold and flat on his back, Kerjean lay on the straw. ‘I must not make a habit of this,’ said St-Cyr ruefully. ‘Please, I am really very sorry, but I simply could not let him kill himself.’
‘I did not want him dead.’
She was frantic. ‘But you must admit his death would have helped you greatly.’
‘I … I don’t know what you mean?’
‘Madame, I think you do. Now let us find my partner and get this business settled before someone really gets hurt. There still may be a chance, slim though that is.’
Just beyond the turn-off to the house, the standing stones of Kerzerho were close, grey-green and drenched, tall and damned unfriendly. No more than two or three metres apart, and some just as high, they had been set out in awesome rows perhaps four thousand years ago. The stones cut across the main road to Plouharnel — there were 1,129 of them — and the noise roared up from among them like the chant of ancient savages.
‘Turmluk ist frei. Boot ist raus!’ Hatch is free. Boat is up! ‘Ich hatt’ einen Kämmeraden.’ I once had a comrade.
The shouting and the singing fell off at last and the two lorries stared at each other through the rainswept darkness of the lonely road where history watched and engines throbbed.
‘Ah merde,’ breathed Kohler. It was Death’s-head and the others, and for all he knew, the tarpaulined back of the lorry held the rest of the crew.
‘It must,’ he said to himself. ‘The noise was too loud to have been coming just from those four in the cab.’
Without taking his eyes from the driver, he reached across the seat to drag towards himself the string bag of skulls he had gathered from the pianist’s study. He had searched the house for Louis, for a sign of anyone, and finding none, had taken the skulls but was now not so sure it had been a good idea. ‘The stones won’t like it,’ he said. He was not superstitious, not really but …
‘All right, you bastard,’ he said, finding the cook grinning at him from behind the other windscreen, ‘I’ll defy the gods and their druids and give you my little present. I’ll see what you do.’
Perhaps three metres separated the two lorries. A door opened and one of them got out into the rain to hang on and steady himself. Dishevelled, and doubtlessly stinking of puke, piss and beer, the boy Erich Fromm wavered, then drew himself up and took a step towards the other lights. He paused to wipe the rain from his face and to stare myopically at the Gestapo who had come to arrest him for his part in the rape and murder of Paulette le Trocquer, to say nothing of her invalided mother.
Taking another step, he threw a hand forward to steady himself. ‘I didn’t want to do it!’ he cried out, or something like that, and, fountaining up his guts, clutched his stomach and bowed his head in shame.
The rain parted the pale, short-cropped blond hair and coursed down the raw-boned, pimpled face. ‘You’re just a kid,’ swore Kohler. ‘Hey, you’re not the one I want.’
Getting out into the rain, he went to the boy. ‘Look, I understand how it must have been. They held you. They brought you up to her and put it in, so okay. What’s done is done. Now go and get into the back of my lorry. Try to get some sleep while I sort this out.’
He had to help the boy. The bed of the lorry was too high and the kid, though he tried, couldn’t possibly climb up.
When he had finally pushed him in and had tied the tarpaulin down, Kohler heard the others coming forward. They met between the headlamps. Thirty to one … were the odds that high? Ach! Did he really have to take on the whole crew?