‘We will want some photographs,’ said St-Cyr, ‘even though the light is poor.’
‘Photographs!’ You’d think he’d asked for the moon.
The Prefet of Barbizon motioned officiously for one of his men to go and fetch Herme Thibault on his bicycle, a two-hour jaunt!
‘We’re old friends,’ said St-Cyr, not bothering to explain or raise objection to the delay.
Kohler began to walk slowly around the girl, eyes glued to the ground. Each circle was enlarged. ‘You bastards,’ he said at one point. ‘Fucking slobs. Don’t you know anything?’
‘The Resistance …’ began Cartier. It all seemed so evident.
St-Cyr looked up at him. ‘The Resistance from where?’
‘Melun. Those bastards have been stirring up the shit with the local farmers.’
Who supply the Reich and the black market in Paris, thought St-Cyr. ‘This girl had nothing to do with them.’
‘Oh, and how can you be so sure, my friend? She has no ID. The bastards emptied her pockets and took everything.’
‘She’s the one who killed the boy on the roadside near Barbizon.’
‘Ah! Why didn’t you say so?’
‘You didn’t ask.’
Someone used a bit of sense and stretched a piece of canvas between the trees to keep the rain off her.
She was, of course, soaked through. The brown beret had been flung off by the hand that had swept her hair forward and had forced her head down.
The pistol had been crammed against the base of her skull, the shot fired upwards into the brain. She would have been no trouble for a man.
The flat-soled pumps were of a dark blue leather, the argyle stockings of greys and blues to match both the plain blue skirt and the shoes. Had she been wearing them last night? he asked, but couldn’t remember. It would come to him in time.
‘I should have stopped you,’ he said, having been given a moment’s privacy. ‘Did you know this might happen, Yvette? Is that why you were so upset, or was it simply that you’d committed murder and known the Church would condemn you for it?’
‘She can’t answer, Louis. Maybe the slug that killed her will.’
Kohler had come to have a look. When St-Cyr raised questioning eyebrows, the Bavarian said, ‘Nothing, Louis. They’ve buggered it all up. No tracks but their own flat feet. Not a thing.’
‘Why would the Resistance send this girl a black coffin after they’d executed her?’
It was a good question. ‘Maybe the post got delayed.’
‘Those little parcels were mailed this morning in Paris, Hermann.’
‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid I am.’
‘The pond gets deeper and deeper.’
‘And at the bottom there is only a mirage.’
Dr Emile Dandelin squeezed the last bit of good out of a soggy fag before pinching it out and pocketing the butt. ‘So, my friends, another crime of passion, eh?’ Fontainebleau Woods was famous for them. The things one found … Twice now, three naked couples …
When he saw the ropes, he cocked a pale blue, wary eye at Kohler who blithely said, ‘Looks like it, doc. That brandy I smell?’
‘Armagnac, please. It helps to keep out the weather.’ A Resistance killing … an execution in the grand manner.
Dandelin dropped his little black bag and crouched to thumb the girl’s eyelids and flex her fingers. Cold … she was so cold. A pretty little thing. A virgin? he wondered.
‘Eight hours into rigor,’ said Kohler curtly.
The bushy, rain-plastered head was tossed. ‘An expert, eh?’ snorted Dandelin. ‘Not even the decency to examine her pretty toes.’
‘We know she’s dead, doc. We only want to know when it happened.’
A hustler. A typical German. ‘Since when was Fontainebleau Woods on the Surete’s beat?’ he asked of St-Cyr.
‘Just tell us the time, Emile. Don’t kibitz.’
‘So, okay, nine, maybe ten hours.’
‘That would put the time of death at between 5 and 6 a.m.,’ said Cartier, the Prefet of Fontainebleau. ‘A dawn killing. It’s typical of them.’
‘The dawn comes a little later, Commissioner,’ commented St-Cyr drily. ‘We’re almost at the winter solstice.’
Ah, Mon Dieu, the Surete … such big words … ‘the winter solstice’, as if the killing had been some sacred rite.
‘You want an autopsy done?’ asked Dandelin.
Kohler roared, ‘We already know what killed her, doc. There’s no need to examine the contents of the chicken’s stomach!’
‘She’s a girl, a person …’ began St-Cyr, only to shut up, shrug briefly and give an apologetic smile.
Herme Thibault arrived, all arms and legs and gun-shy. Real lightning today. Two of the flics were delegated to hold a tarpaulin over him and the box camera on its tripod. In spite of the protection, he fussed, dropped things, forgot to wind the film, and in the end St-Cyr cornered him. ‘So, where is that negative, my friend?’ he asked.
Thibault’s eyes darted away. ‘The Resistance …’
‘What do you mean, the Resistance …?’
‘They came. They smashed all our billboards – my backdrops – and cut off my wife’s hair. She …’
‘She what?’ demanded St-Cyr. Hermann was watching them.
‘They asked if we knew the names of any collaborators in important positions and she gave them that negative of you and him.’
‘Thanks … thanks a lot, my friend!’ swore St-Cyr. As if they didn’t have enough trouble already!
To make it a full house, Talbotte, the Prefet of Paris, arrived in a fresh downpour. A man of around sixty, square of build and of medium height, he had Basque blood in him somewhere, the swift, hard eyes of a gangster and a voice that carried.
Everyone present knew why he had come. The Ile-de-France* was his turf and the Surete had the rest of the country to forage.
Barging through the assembly, he strode up to the corpse, took one look around, then snorted, ‘As they say at the track, St-Cyr, step into the shit and let us get on with the race.’
‘We only wanted the time of death and a few photographs for Berlin,’ offered Kohler, enjoying himself.
The Prefet scoffed. ‘Since when would Berlin be interested in such a death?’
‘That’s what we’d like to answer,’ offered St-Cyr evenly.
‘You’d like to answer,’ mimicked Talbotte, clucking his tongue. ‘Well suck lemons, my old one. This little thing is ours.’
‘Come on, Louis,’ urged Kohler. ‘We’ll let the brass sort it out.’
‘Me, I am the brass, my friend,’ challenged Talbotte.
Then he asked the one question no one had asked. ‘Who notified you of the killing?’
It was Beauchamp, the Prefet of Barbizon, who answered, ‘A woman, Commissioner. By telephone, this morning at about eleven o’clock.’
‘From where?’ demanded Talbotte.
‘From the Jardin des Lapins Petits, that little restaurant in the woods on the outskirts of Arbonne.’
‘Half-way between Fontainebleau town and Milly-la-Foret,’ said St-Cyr. ‘Perhaps four kilometres to the north of us, Hermann. A little more by road.’
‘How did she sound?’ asked Talbotte. ‘Distressed?’ he all but shouted.
‘Ah yes, Monsieur the Commissioner. Very distressed.’
‘And her name?’
The Prefet of Barbizon was apologetic. ‘She gave none – she refused to do so when asked.’
‘Then go to that restaurant and find out, idiot! St-Cyr, leave it. I’m warning you. This little pigeon is ours.’
‘Then put her to bed beside the other one in your morgue, Commissioner, and tag her toe with the name Yvette Noel.’
He and Kohler had reached the clearing before Talbotte caught up with them, and it was obvious from the delay that the Commissioner wanted a word in private.
‘So, my friends, what’s really going on, eh?’
You ingratiating bastard, thought St-Cyr. ‘We only wish we knew, Commissioner. Berlin are very interested.’
Talbotte threw a level gaze at the two of them, relishing the moment. ‘As are the General Oberg and his deputy at number 72, the avenue Foch.’