But first they had to find the heiress.
4
‘Blegelmann,’ said St-cyr sadly, ‘Aron Jacob. Kahn, Adèle. Rosenthal, Marcel. Radetski, Leah …’
Vernet had said Liline Chambert had often of late found his niece here in the Jewish section of the ancien Cimetière de Neuilly and, yes, Nénette had been absolutely right, thought Kohler grimly. It was indeed the quietest place on earth next to the Bibliothèque Nationale. It was not two blocks from the Jardin d’Acclimatation and well within easy walking distance of the villa, school and church. But there was a problem. The Jews of Paris had all been taken. The Grande Rafle of 16 July 1942 had just been the start of it-the sealing off of five arrondissements by over nine thousand French police, not a German among them. More than twelve thousand terrified men, women and children, taken in the dark of that night alone, had been crammed into the cycling arena of the Vélodrome d’Hiver without sufficient water or toilet facilities. Eight days. From there they, and still others, had been bused to Drancy, and then the mothers and fathers had been sent by rail in cattle trucks to unspoken destinations, the children held for a time and then sent on themselves to God knows where.
When Louis and he had returned to Paris, Louis had patiently started piecing it all together. Talbotte, the préfet, had made money on the deal. Along with the SS, the Gestapo and the French Gestapo of the rue Lauriston, he had robbed the safe-deposit boxes, et cetera, et cetera, of those taken. They had really cleaned up, but the trouble was Talbotte now knew Louis had the goods on him. Apart from open hatred and outright threats to Louis’s life, the préfet’s cooperation would not be forthcoming. They were living on borrowed time.
‘Well, do we ask von Schaumburg to call out the troops to do a sweep of Neuilly and the rest of the city, Louis, or do we wait and hope the kid goes home?’
St-Cyr gestured impatiently. There were so many questions, so few answers as yet. Hermann and he had not been in the city more than fifteen hours, had not stopped since they had got off the train.
‘Is she out here freezing, Louis? Is she terrified and crying her eyes out-hiding from us, too? Is she in that synagogue down the street where the windows are all broken and the slogans scream from battered doors?’
Hermann was ashamed of what had happened to that synagogue and to so many. ‘Is she too afraid to go home, mon vieux,’ asked St-Cyr, ‘and if so, why is she afraid?’
‘Is she even alive?’ breathed Kohler sadly.
They began to search. They looked everywhere among the standing stones. There were no footprints in the snow … ah! too much had fallen, yet if sanctuary was needed, had the child not chosen well?
The thought brought only a silence of its own. Across the street, swastikas fluttered from several of the houses.
Andrée Noireau had written in her diary and Sister Céline had destroyed the thing. A knitting needle had been used in each of the four other murders and the child had had one in her desk at home.
All of the victims had been of about the same age, all schoolgirls but not all from convent schools, or had they been?
They simply did not know. They had yet to see the files on the other murders. When boiled down to its essence, did not everything hang on the contents of that child’s coat pockets? wondered St-Cyr. Could he not find the time to examine them thoroughly?
The girls had stolen a toy giraffe, but that had been during the first week of November, time enough for a crisis to build in anyone, let alone Sister Céline. None of the class had informed on the thief. But why had the child had it in her hand when attacked?
Nénette must have given it to her after they had switched coats, the class secret revealed at last, perhaps. But had they then used it to taunt the killer, and if so, was that person Sister Céline?
‘It can’t be her. It’s not possible,’ he said aloud to himself as he searched.
A ‘priest’ had called to take the abortionist away, and that could not have been possible either unless … unless perhaps he was someone connected to the brothel.
‘The child isn’t here, Louis. Shouldn’t we check the synagogue?’
Some crows took wing and they watched them fly to better pastures beyond the stone wall that surrounded the cemetery and shut it off from all else.
Hermann was always so impatient. The child seemed nowhere near. Could they leave things here and come back again? ‘I’ll do it now. Go and check the house on the rue Chabanais. See if Violette Belanger can tell us anything, eh? Perhaps Giselle can be of assistance.’
Giselle … Why must Louis continually remind him the girl would return to her ‘profession’? Always it was the same.
‘I’ll have to call home. Maybe she isn’t there. Maybe Oona can tell me where she is. Shall we meet at Chez Rudi’s later, or the Villa Vernet?’
‘Ah, I’ve done it again, haven’t I? Forgive me. Giselle is okay. Old habits and opinions simply die hard. Meet me at the morgue, I think. If I can, I will have Madame Vernet and that husband of hers on either side of Liline Chambert when I pull back the shroud. We will let the girl’s nakedness get us to the bottom of things.’
The children’s restaurant in the Jardin d’Acclimatanion overlooked a frozen lake and pond, where adults took advantage of the cold weather to skate alone, since the children were in school. It was getting on to 4.00 p.m. and the light was fast fading.
‘A tisane of rose hips, please,’ said St-Cyr. ‘No saccharin is necessary, but if you have a little honey …?’ Would it be possible?
‘Impossible, monsieur. I’m sorry but …’ The girl shrugged. ‘So many ask, it’s become a way of objecting. It’s like the croissant stickers the children secretly paste to the tables and chairs. A symbol of what we are missing.’
‘Please be careful what you say, mademoiselle. Ah no, I’m not one of them, but …’ He indicated the scattered clientele, many of whom were in uniform.
Her smile was grateful, and when she brought his tea, a tiny sugar-spoon of dark honey was tucked to one side. ‘It’s buckwheat,’ she said. ‘A soldier from Normandy gave me a small jar this morning even though I refused to go to the cinema with him.’
A larger than usual tip would be in order, and he wondered if he would have sufficient. Hermann was their banker, a position he had automatically assumed in September 1940, a keeper of their guns as well, until needed. The driver of their car also, of course. By now he would have paid a brief visit to the two loves of his life, both of whom shared the same flat with him. Ah! it was one of the Occupation’s little miracles that they got on so well. Giselle was a beauty of twenty-two, a fiercely independent and intelligent girl with a mind of her own, a girl Hermann had rescued from the profession, if only temporarily; Oona was a Dutch alien of about forty, a sensible and far more suitable woman, a realist whose husband the French Gestapo had questioned and had then buried in the Vélodrome d’Hiver to teach them a lesson, herself included, since the marriage had been mixed.
When his tea came, he filled the cup only halfway so as to keep the heat in the pot for as long as possible. Then he took out his pipe and began to stoke the bowl, the ‘furnace’, and when that was done, didn’t stop until he had laid out everything from the dustbin of that child’s pockets.
Two further items were set in the midst of the rubbish. A toy baby elephant from that same crèche, no doubt, and a child’s pair of glasses.