Was it a warning? wondered Vernet and, giving an audible sigh, decided that it was but could not understand the reason for it. Not yet. Ah merde … ‘I really do wish you would try to realize I am entirely on your side.’
A dismissive hand was tossed. ‘Of course you are. You are her uncle, her guardian. You have taken over the business interests and fortune of her father.’
‘My brother, Inspector.’
‘Are you the older or the younger?’
‘Meaning that the oldest nearly always inherits the estate? How cheap and utterly mediocre of you. Henri-Claude was a brilliant designer. Not that it is any of your business, my talents lie in finance and in bringing the interested parties together. It was decided he should inherit and lead the company and I graciously acquiesced to our father’s wishes and agreed to remain its vice-chairman and chief adviser until my brother’s unfortunate and untimely death. He was nearly fifteen years my junior.’
That little loss of promotion could not have gone down well, family rivalries being what they usually were, but … ah, but one would have to wait and see and hadn’t the wife said he had been yanked out of semi-retirement and put to work on the death of his brother? ‘Why didn’t they take your niece with them to England? To leave without her at such a time of crisis seems most callous.’
Just what had Bernadette said to this one to make him so suspicious? wondered Vernet. Damn her for meddling. ‘All civilian flights had long since been cancelled, so they had to have permission from the military. Children were, of course, not allowed. The danger was simply too great, things far too tense. My sister-in-law’s mother was gravely ill and not expected to last, but, yes, compassion would never have swayed the minds of our military. My brother went over to try to calm the British. We were, alas, convinced the Führer would never attack. They flew over on the twentieth of April, 1940, planning only the briefest of visits, but one thing led to another and they soon found it impossible to return.’
Norway had fallen to the Germans, Denmark’s army had been demobilized. The Blitzkrieg in the West had been about to begin … ‘A designer of what, exactly?’
‘You know I cannot tell you that. Why, then, do you ask if not to further upset me? Impatiently Vernet indicated the morgue where only one lonely goosenecked lamp produced a paltry wash of blue. ‘This place is closed.’
‘Death never stops. Invariably the small hours of the night are the busiest. Monsieur,’ he said to the chauffeur, ‘please inform the Feldwebel on patrol that he has only to check with me if he questions your being out after curfew. Or is it that your employer has clearance?’
‘He has,’ said Deloitte flatly.
‘Good, then there is absolutely no problem.’
The floor was wet, the drainboard pallets shrouded except where an attendant was sewing up a full-length incision while another, a damp cigarette butt clinging to his lower lip, prepared a female for burial and was scrubbing her down before hosing her off a last time.
Talbotte, the préfet, must have warned everyone to cooperate. Without hassle they were taken straight through to the storage lockers at the back where the appropriate drawer was pulled out.
‘Death also is the great leveller, Inspector,’ said Vernet, exhibiting a humanity so hidden it surprised. ‘Of late Nénette had become very fond of the ancien Cimetière de Neuilly. Liline … Mademoiselle Chambert often found her there among the Jewish graves, of all places, consoling the spirits of the departed. The child used to say it was the quietest place on earth next to the Bibliothèque Nationale, but I wonder if she would say it now? Mon Dieu, I hate to think of what has happened. My brother and his wife … Now the three of them gone, and who is to carry on when I join them? Everything will pass into other hands to be broken up and sold. An empire.’
Was there no thought of Vernet’s producing an heir of his own? wondered St-Cyr. Were such things so out of the question with his wife? ‘Monsieur, I could give you a moment alone before uncovering her, if you wish?’
‘No. No, I’m quite all right. Let’s get it over with. Then there will be absolutely no question of identity.’
Ah! it was so hard to gauge him. His expression was grave, but would Vernet really regret the loss of his niece, since he would then most probably inherit everything? Would the mistake in identity cause him to panic?
The attendant stood ready. ‘Leave us,’ said St-Cyr with a curt toss of his head. ‘Wait in the outer office.’
‘Inspector, what is this?’ demanded Vernet.
‘A moment,’ came the hushed command, as they watched the attendant reluctantly depart. The préfet would be furious with the man for not having listened in. Too bad.
‘Inspector, am I some sort of suspect?’
Vernet had removed the wide-brimmed, dark grey velour trilby some well-placed Berliner must have presented to him. He stood immaculate in his Hermès grey-blue scarf, overcoat and black kidskin gloves, and the years of dealing with such people at more than infrequent intervals came tumbling in on St-Cyr, telling him not to judge too harshly, that wealth and power were not always corrupt. ‘If you have anything to hide, monsieur, might I suggest you tell me of it now. Things are not quite right with this one, and that is why I have asked for privacy.’
‘Then remove the shroud at once, idiot!’
‘Of course.’
A breath was sucked in. The voice was blunt. ‘That’s not her. That is her friend from school. Now do you mind telling me just how such a mistake could have been made? I’ll make you sweat for this. I’ll have your badge.’
‘Perhaps, but then … ah then, monsieur, perhaps it is that you can offer some explanation for the change your niece and this one made in their identity papers.’
‘Pardon?’
Was it such a surprise? ‘The photograph …’ St-Cyr handed the papers over. Vernet looked from them to the child several times and at last swore under his breath. ‘The silly little bitches. What the hell did they think they were playing at? Trapping this Sandman? Was that it, Inspector? The knitting needle, the …’
He thrust the papers back and turned away to hide his discomposure. ‘Not dead,’ he murmured. ‘Not dead!’ And then, loudly, ‘Bâtards! You flics …’ He turned, a fist clenched. ‘How dare you do this to me? To me?’
And now, monsieur, is that the moisture of perplexity and remorse in your eyes, wondered St-Cyr, or that of relief and concern for your niece?
Vernet tossed the hand with the fedora in defeat. ‘I had to put a stop to Nénette’s nonsense. That is why I obtained a laissez-passer for this one to go to Chamonix to join her parents. I could not have my niece making such preposterous claims and saying she knew who the Sandman was and that if I did not summon the préfet to speak to her alone and at once, she would take the matter into her own hands.’
A stubborn child. The préfet no less and at once, and in private. ‘And do you still believe she spoke nonsense?’
‘How dare you ask me that? Would you humiliate me further? She’s dead. Look at her yourself. A child. Innocence left to languish with the sisters while her … her no-good parents partied at Chamonix. Ah, damn that stupid, stupid mother of hers. I shall have to see that the couple are notified. There will have to be a funeral. As few as possible-we can’t have the press getting wind of this. Those vultures would only feast on the carrion.’
‘A funeral-yes, yes, of course, but burial where? In the ancien Cimetière de Neuilly?’
Vernet threw him a startled, questioning look. ‘Burial wherever her parents choose. It’s customary.’