And you, my dear? What of you? she could hear him asking and ducked her eyes away to her soup.
A bit of bread floated up, briefly resisting the clutch of the ground lentils until she had drowned it. ‘I go to Mass every Sunday, Father, and twice on all the holy days. I do say the Angelus in Latin-it’s the only way, isn’t that so? — and the Our Father.’
‘The Hail Mary?’ he asked.
The Ave Maria. ‘Of course,’ she said demurely and wondered why he had not used that other name since he was so concerned about the use of Latin. ‘I was raised in a convent school just … just as was that little girl who was murdered yesterday.’
He kissed his ring and bit a knuckle to stop the pain of such an anguish. Tears formed in his eyes. He said, ‘That poor child. Was she subjected to the indignities of a lorette? Did he do that to her first? The female body is a chalice, my dear. A chalice. Respect is its due. How could any man do such a thing to a …’
‘Father … Look, I’ll be honest, shall I?
She had such lovely eyes, a skin so clear, and lips that would form each word of the Angelus with care and with but traces of timidity. ‘My dear,’ he said, ‘feel free to take me into your confidence. It’s why I’m here.’
It’s my job, my raison d’être. ‘Hermann, my … my husband, is a detective.’
‘But … but you wear no ring, my child?’
‘I do, Father, but I had to remove it when I went into that café.’ Another lie. Then why not put it on now-was he asking this? she wondered and said, ‘Hermann needs the name and address of the maquereau of Violette Belanger.’
He spooned his soup. ‘A mean one. A sponger, a depraver of young girls and innocent women. A good-for-nothing that wilful child dotes on.’ He reached for more bread and tore it in half. ‘She has a sister in a convent, Sister Céline, much admired by the Reverend Mother, loved by her students and very devout. The good sister and I pray for Violette, but …’ His eyes grew sad as he sought her out and shrugged at life. ‘But Violette will have none of it.’
‘And the maquereau?’ she asked earnestly.
Debauve clucked his tongue in distaste and tossed his head. ‘Broken sugar is his weapon, the slash across the face that leaves a welt far crueler than the knife. A monster. Morelle will have the address. Tell your husband to ask him.’
She swallowed hard at the mention of such cruelty, and he noted she understood only too well what the ruin of a pretty face could do to a girl of the streets.
‘My dear, these things are harsh. You must forgive me. Please finish your soup. Here, put more bread in it. Break it up and let the soup soak into it. That’s always best.’
And my Hermann, Father? she wondered. Why is it, please, that you do not ask where he is? Does your mind leap so far ahead of me you know he is at the house of Madame Morelle and have no need to ask?
Their coffee came, and it was the real thing and strong-ah! she wanted to drown herself in it and linger forever with the taste of it on her tongue. But gangsters used the chunks of sugar. These days, only in such places as the Café of the Turning Hour, for sugar was almost impossible to come by.
‘My dear,’ said Debauve earnestly, ‘you must leave all thought of that house behind you. You’re presentable-you’ve a fragile, very delicate beauty, if I may say so. Find some other type of work. Can you speak German?’
‘A little,’ she said softly.
He thought this excellent. ‘They’re always looking for people. Ah. I know of an escort service on the Champs-Élysées. Very classy, very aboveboard. Generals, lieutenants-they come to Paris and are lost without a little companionship. They simply do not know their way around and need guidance. The pay is, I believe, quite good. The Louvre, the Tuileries, the Tour Eiffel and such places.’
He searched his pockets and, finding pencil and scrap of paper, wrote the address down. ‘This one’s okay,’ he said. ‘The Germans won’t bother you if you’re stopped in the street and they find this slip of paper. Number 78. It’s in the building next to the Lido. There’s a Bavarian who has a restaurant across the street. Chez … Ah, what is it now?’
‘Chez Rudi’s,’ she said and saw him nod.
‘Ask for Mademoiselle Monique or Mademoiselle Claire. Tell either of them I sent you. They’ll both understand and will look after you. Dresses and evening gowns they can supply. Their wardrobes are at your disposal, so you need have no worries about such expenses.’
Monique or Claire. It was like a dream. One never knew these days, and what was it her horoscope had said? The one in Paris-Soir, not the one in Le Matin-it was never any good. You will meet someone new and exciting. Use caution at first-it’s only natural-but when the time is right, give yourself to him entirely.
A priest.
Kohler was intrigued and cried out inwardly, Louis, mon vieux, you should see this, but Louis wasn’t here.
The dark brown hair was dishevelled and fell thickly to hide all but the centre of the girl’s forehead, framing a soft oval whose deep brown eyes were shrewd and calculating.
Innocence sized him up and read him right to the core but did not smile or frown, though kept that hesitant stillness as if, knowing the worst, she waited only for it to happen.
‘Monsieur, what is it you want of me if not the use of my body?’
Ah merde, she even had the voice to go with it. Violette Belanger’s naturally red lips were lovely, her nose perfect, the set of the eyes neither too wide nor too narrow. And as for her age, he thought, she could be twenty-three all right but looked no more than seventeen.
‘Just a few questions. Nothing difficult,’ he said and heard his voice sounding uncomfortably strange above the general hubbub of the place, the constant comings and goings, the latest raft of whores lounging around in various states of undress but no longer boredom.
‘Violette, you may sit,’ said Madame Morelle.
The girl made no move to do so but stood demurely before them in her dark blue tunic with shoulder straps, white shirt-blouse and dark blue tie. Hands folded now in front of her as if waiting for the Mother Superior to begin, and why is it, he asked himself, that schoolgirls in uniform seem to drive most men crazy?
Grey smears and droplets of semen marred the pleated skirt and hem of the tunic. There were more of them on its upper part and some were still damp. ‘Well?’ she asked but not sharply.
He wished he could be alone with her. She was making him unsettled for even daring to look at her in a place like this, but the other girls were a damned nuisance. Some glared at the schoolgirl, pouting with jealousy. Others giggled and pointed hurriedly at her kneesocks or confided lewd whispers about him to each other. Then, too, there was the godawful heat of the place, the smell of soap and disinfectant, toilet water, cheap perfume, sweat, lye, semen, farts, talcum powder and hydrogen peroxide. Sloshed, watered wine, too, and cheap champagne, beer and cigarette and cigar smoke. Vomit also. The din was constant. So, too, the sound of boots on the bare planks of the staircase that did, indeed, go up and up.
‘Madame, has this one paid for the time he is taking to undress me with those empty eyes of his or will he not pay until I remove my clothes?’
‘Monsieur, please address your questions to our Violette.’
Kohler dragged out his notebook. ‘Your sister, mademoiselle. Sister Céline. Did she come to see you yesterday?’
The day that child was killed-she knew this was why he had asked, but were his eyes always so empty? ‘Céline did not come to see me, as was her custom. I waited-yes, of course. One cannot deny God’s little messenger, but …’ The girl shrugged.
‘How often does she come to visit you?’