Though a man who would possess a black overcoat, Father Jouvand was far too old to be nimbly plucking a maker of little angels from a flea-bitten tenement after a botched abortion. And come to think of it, that wasn’t right, was it? wondered Kohler. A priest, a man of the cloth, rescuing an abortionist? The Pope would have a thing or two to say about it. Besides, Jouvand had been on duty all day Sunday, well into the evening, and could probably prove it a thousand times over, though the death of Liline Chambert had not even been mentioned.
With a parcel of nuns and schoolgirls to watch over, and a parish flock as well and no help but boys at the altar because of the war, he was a busy man and seventy if a day. But he did like tobacco. Chain-smoking U-boat cigarettes, the windy old bugger lit up again to taste the air of victory and deny the Occupier yet another cigarette.
‘You were asking about Sister Céline, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Ah! pay her no mind. The good sister believes each child has the devil in her body.’ He waved the cigarette perhaps to study its contrail. ‘Given the home she came from, it’s only natural, but she’s not unkind and has the best interests of our girls at heart. The Vernets have always supported us most handsomely. I’d pay particular attention to our need for funds if I were you. Yes. Yes, indeed I would. Go easy, for the sake of the Lord’s work.’
Was the bastard Irish? Had he studied in Ireland perhaps? Kohler heaved a troubled sigh. They’d been all through the grieving and the times of the Masses that would be said for Andrée Noireau. They’d been through countless other things, few of which had been of any use. ‘Father, just tell me where she was on Sunday at about two p.m.’
The grey and unruly thatches of his eyebrows lifted. ‘Is it that you think I set my clock by those nuns?’ A stray shred of tobacco was examined and carefully saved on the blotting paper for another day.
‘No. I’m merely trying to build a framework around the killing.’
‘Then let us ask God’s help. Down on your knees, my son. It’ll take but a moment.’
He heaved another sigh as Jouvand let his dark brown eyes sift over him in condemnation of all non-believers, the rugged countenance of the priest wise to the wages of sin and all too ready to pronounce against it even to a member of the Gestapo who was honest and decent, though Jouvand could not know of this and had assumed the exact opposite.
‘Look, we do need help, and quickly, Father. As you heard yourself while I was on the telephone, Nénette Vernet has still not returned home. Is that child afraid to do so?’
‘Afraid? Now why would she be afraid of her dear aunt and uncle?’
‘I don’t know, damn it.’
‘Please don’t blaspheme in the House of the Lord. The child could well be with the Sandman or already dead. My son, if I were you, I would seek your answers elsewhere.’
Ah nom de Jésus-Christ! they were getting nowhere. Kohler got up to tower over the bastard. He swept up the artillery-shell ashtray, a relic of the Troubles perhaps, and, plucking the cigarette butts from it, tucked them away in his own mégot tin for later use.
Dismayed, Father Jouvand acknowledged the atrocity with a curt nod and, ‘Now, if that is all, Inspector, I will gladly guide you to our front door and close it behind you.’
‘Just what the hell are you trying to hide? Soup kitchens in Suresnes and Aubervilliers? Sweaters knitted for prisoners of war-hey, mon fin, don’t you know those parcels are intercepted and sent on to Russia?’
‘No, I did not know.’
‘Then perhaps you’d tell me what those charts on the wall behind that thick head of yours mean, and while you’re at it, give me a detail of the soup-kitchen roster the good sisters help out at. That is it, on the wall, is it not?’
Ah merde, merde, had they not had enough trouble for one day? wondered Jouvand. ‘The soup kitchens are run by the Sisters of Charity to whom we give assistance on occasion. The sweaters are knitted by the good ladies of our parish and by some of the sisters. Mittens and scarves, woollen socks … ah! they turn their considerable talents to so many things when given the materials, which are in such short supply God Himself is doubtful of the venture, but no matter. Are you positive our relief parcels never reach their intended destinations?’
‘It’s only rumoured the things are sent to Russia, but sometimes the Wehrmacht’s censors do get lazy with the mail. A month before they were killed at Stalingrad, my two sons wrote to tell my wife-ah, my ex-wife-that they had received Red Cross parcels from France destined for French prisoners of war.’
Ever so slightly Jouvand gave the Gestapo a nod of understanding, indicating that from now on all courtesies such as being invited into the parish office had been cancelled for ever. ‘On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays the sisters, two by two, assist with the soup kitchens but not only in Suresnes and Aubervilliers, in other suburbs as well. The matter is decided by the Sisters of Charity, not by ourselves. On Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays six of them knit sweaters and other things in the parish hall, which is right below our feet and unheated, you understand, except for the closeness of the other parishioners, who are engaged in the same task out of charity. Two hours at a time, I believe. Now, if that will satisfy you, I will take you to the front door.’
So much for knitting needles and crucifixes. Kohler went to dump his mégot tin into the priest’s ashtray but was stopped by the hand of God.
‘Please don’t deny yourself on my account, Inspector. I would only throw them into the fire when we have one.’
‘And here I thought only Bavarians were stubborn? That would be a stupid waste and you know it. So tell me, how is it teaching sisters have time off to do other things?’
Those deep brown eyes sought him out again and held him fast.
‘Because not all of our nuns are teachers and some of those are spelled from time to time, and because God’s work is never done. Necessity demands our every effort. Would you have the children in those tenements starve when Monsieur Vernet sees that we have sufficient food and a little of it can be spared? Though we do not tell him this, I am certain he is aware of it.’
‘Then let’s make peace, eh, Father? We’re here to help, not to condemn, and we’ve got a very lonely, terrified little girl we have to find and yes, please God, let us find her.’
Two packets of U-boat cigarettes were dragged out and pressed into the priest’s hand, a temptation God Himself could not have resisted in these times of such terrible shortages.
‘Violette Belanger is une belle gamine, Inspector, a good-looking kid, but the ache in the Sister Céline’s heart is so great, God is very troubled. The one tries only to service the Occupier and make her fortune which her maquereau promptly pockets, while the other seeks constantly to change a heart that is granite-hard and content if only for spite’s sake. If it is someone in the guise of a nun that you are looking for, why not try the house on the rue Chabanais, since, much to our continued discomfort and dismay, Violette Belanger makes a mockery there of that same sister under whose very care she was raised.’
Ah nom de Dieu, de Dieu, a convent classroom in a whorehouse and if not a ‘nun’, then a ‘priest’, ah yes, a ‘priest’.
Kohler nodded his thanks, inwardly heaving a huge sigh of relief at finally getting somewhere, though he knew all such sighs could so often be premature.
‘Tread lightly, Inspector. That bordel is the largest of the houses that are reserved for your soldiers. It is large enough to cater to every indecent and shameful act. Its madam is a most formidable and impossible woman, a creature of the gutters herself who is sly and wilful and very wicked. If she gets wind of who you are, she may play along but only for a while. She absolutely detests the police and operates with complete impunity, having paid off the préfet himself but also having the sanction of the Wehrmacht, including that of the Kommandant von Gross-Paris himself. I give you fair warning. It is yours to have.’