‘But all the same, I will do as he suggests, Préfet. Hermann, see that the photographers capture all the footprints and give us a shot or two of the bicycle tracks.’
‘What bicycle?’ demanded Kerjean swiftly. ‘There was no bicycle.’
‘Oh but there was, Préfet. Show him, Hermann. Let him see this one thing the gumshoes from Paris have discovered. Nothing else. Keep him in suspense. Let him worry about the rest. It’ll be good for him.’
The light was now a pearl grey, with everywhere the fog so close it was not until St-Cyr was almost at them, that he saw the standing stones and sucked in a breath before hastily crossing himself. Then he left the railway spur and went among them to touch their clammy surfaces and say to no one but himself, ‘How many murders have you witnessed down through the ages?’
Like Hermann, he came upon the edge of the clay pits quite unexpectedly and, leaning back, for the precipice at his feet was sheer, gazed dizzily down and then out into the fog.
As if with open hands, their fingers claws, the pits stared up at him and he saw at once how difficult it would be to find a man down there. And even as he tried to see further into the maw of the place, the rain began and made the ground below run with milk. ‘It’s slippery,’ he said and turned uncomfortably away.
At 10 a.m. Berlin Time, 9 a.m. the old time, they left the place in the Préfet’s little Renault, all crammed together and with the ambulance and the body behind. In the centre of Lorient, perhaps some ten kilometres from the clay pits, they let the Sous-Préfet and the photographers out at a bomb-damaged square, then dropped the coroner off at a shattered railway station. Devastation was everywhere. The homeless were on the road en masse to friends and relations in the countryside: hand-drawn carts, wagons and baby carriages heaped with belongings, children, old people and blank stares when confronted with the Préfet’s incessant honking.
Then they took the road from Lorient to Quiberon and its peninsula, a distance of at least fifty kilometres through fog and rain and finally wet snow that did not hang about but melted instantly.
There were farms, salt marshes, bits of pine forest — other alignments, yes, and dolmens — along the way but nothing to alleviate the depressingly cold grey landscape.
‘You are booked into the Mégalithe,’ said the Préfet. ‘I hope the accommodations are to your satisfaction.’
A twenty-five room hotel in which they were the only guests.
‘It’s the off-season, Louis. We ought to be grateful they’ve opened the place up for us.’
‘Of course.’
* The forerunner of Interpol.
2
When one single set of shutters was opened, a grey and dismal light washed into the massive dining-room of the Hotel Mégalithe whose legions of empty tables still held the white linen cloths and settings of the late summer of 1940. Every sound echoed. The place was freezing. Dust clung to the bread-and-butter plates and overturned coffee cups, the knives and forks and spoons.
Even the menu had to be blown off. St-Cyr threw the girl in black broadcloth and black velvet, with the white lace apron and the giant stovepipe coif of starched white lace, an uncertain glance. ‘A dozen oysters,’ he said, his words crashing on timid ears that were all but hidden by curls. ‘A bottle of the Muscadet, the sole meunière, pommes à l’anglaise — ah, I know it is heresy to ask for English-style potatoes. Cauliflower and Brussels sprouts, I think. Cheese and dessert. Oh, and coffee. The real stuff if you have it.’ He’d ask. These days one could only dream but Herr Doenitz might have interceded on their behalf. It was just possible, wasn’t it?
The girl, no more than seventeen, blurted something unintelligible and, with moisture rushing into her stark blue eyes, turned and raced from the dining-room.
‘Can I do nothing right in this place?’ he asked himself. All of the other windows were shuttered tightly. He had had a battle just to get this one open and had finally done it himself.
Sitting down with his back to the alcove’s sombre panelling, he passed uncertain hands over the table-cloth which was not just cold but insufferably damp and likely mildewed.
‘Inspector, what is the meaning of this?’
The sharp voice of the owner’s wife shattered the silence. St-Cyr picked up the menu and, gazing across the room, heaved a futile shrug. ‘Some oysters?’ he winced.
‘Don’t be absurd! You may have the cotriade’ — the fish soup that was more like a poor man’s stew — ‘and the bread if you have enough tickets.’
Shit! ‘I … We … that is, my partner and I have none, Madame Quevillon. Are this week’s orange, lime or yellow? I can never remember which is which and am seldom home in Paris long enough to update my ration booklets.’
‘Paris, hmph! They are chartreuse and you must ask the Préfet to supply you. No food can be given without them. This is not Paris!’
Formidable in severe black, ankle-length voluminous skirts, and without the benefit of an apron but with a metre-high coif of stovepipe lace — was it that high? — she looked like the warder of a medieval prison for women. ‘A glass of the Muscadet, then?’ Would it be possible?
‘Forget it,’ she said tartly. ‘It is not a day for alcohol.’
‘Then please tell my partner I have gone for a walk to seek nourishment from the fog!’
‘As you wish. It’s just as you please, monsieur.’
‘Inspector! It’s Chief Inspector St-Cyr!’
‘Of course.’
He caught himself at the door, forced humility into his voice and begged the location of Monsieur le Trocquer’s shop.
The woman drew herself up so that she towered over him with that ridiculous coif. Her shoulders were every bit as wide as his. ‘It is on the rue de Port-Haliguen not far from the cathedral. You cannot miss it, since the door will wear the wreath of black and the shutters will be closed.’
‘And the cathedral?’ he asked. Was she always so forbidding?
‘Follow the promenade to the rue de Lille. Go up it to the cathedral, then rum right.’
‘Merci.’
‘Will you be taking supper?’
Carelessly he tossed the hand with the shabby, wet fedora. ‘I doubt it. The meals leave much to be desired. Please do not expect a tip!’
The fog didn’t want to leave, and with the snow, it made more forlorn what had once been a thriving seaside town of three thousand in winter, some eighty thousand in summer.
All along the promenade behind that great, sweeping curve of sand, the grand hotels and boarding houses were shuttered and, if not empty, occupied only by their owners and/or perhaps an ancient retainer or two. Hardly a soul stirred. Beached sardine and tunny boats huddled as if so leaky they dared not put to sea and feared the highest tides. Flaking paint marred the wet, fine sand with its bits of shells, while here and there on weathered signboards frayed notices cried out the delights of former days. Palms read and fortunes told. Young ladies and gentlemen need the truth about embarking on their futures before it is too late.
Swimming lessons were given by a Professor Armand of Paris, who was also assistant instructor at the Lutétia Pool and the Cité des Sports. A busy man. Children under five had to be accompanied by a parent or guardian, those from five to ten and older would come themselves but all were to bring their butterfly floats. Strict obedience was imperative. Dismissals were not uncommon. There were no refunds. Absolutely none.
Ballroom dancing competed with moonlight cruises to Belle-Île and other places. Boules, croquet and tennis were by floodlight if one chose. There was gambling. There was even a cinema but the title of its last feature film in the spring of 1940 had been picked away by curious boys determined to undress its leading lady.