Still she did not say a thing. He hated himself for depriving her of a most necessary meal. He wanted to cry out, I’m on your side. Why will you not please go in?
But she was not there and again, after much searching, he had to stand among the columns, though still asking, Are you with him? Has he now killed you? The one who murdered your little friend?
From the house a brief glimmer of light came, and then, among the ornamental box and yew, the darkened silhouette of a figure hurrying out with yet another plate of soup.
‘Nénette? Petite, you must come in, isn’t that so? We’re waiting for you. Liline, Nénette. Liline, she has not returned. Has something happened to her? Is this why you won’t come in?’
Soup plates were exchanged and only as this was done did the chef discover the first one had been drained and wiped clean with every last crumb of the bread.
‘Nénette,’ he said firmly. ‘Your aunt has still not returned from the hairdresser’s and another visit to that clairvoyant of hers. It’s safe, little one. Your uncle, he stays in Rouen.’
The chef waited for her to answer. Perhaps he sensed he was not alone, perhaps the cold simply made him irritable. ‘You always had a mind of your own,’ he hissed. ‘Ah! it’s not good for girls to be like that. Can you not think of us? No, not you, eh? In spite of the mother who gave birth to you in my kitchen-I still hear her cries-you are not a Vernet like her or your father. You are more like the monsieur, I think. Now come down from there at once. Attend to me, Nénette. This is a craziness that must stop. I, Léon Kalfou, am your godfather. Me, petite! No one is going to murder you when we who love you are there to keep you safe.’
No one. Ah merde … “Monsieur …”
The plate shattered. The chef shrilled, ‘Sadique, I am going to telephone the police!’ He bolted from the folly only to slip on the steps and leave blood in the snow as he lay there not even moaning.
A scarf was sacrificed, the man propped up and gently brought to. ‘A moment, monsieur,’ said the Sûreté, ‘and I will assist you to the house.’
More matches were struck and it was then that St-Cyr saw the error of his ways. Inside the folly, just under its roof, there was a gallery, and when he had climbed to it, he found a blue overcoat, a hand-me-down of Liline Chambert’s perhaps, its lining ripped open and crudely restitched in several places after first having been thoroughly stuffed with dried oak leaves for insulation.
There were sealskin boots and mittens, a hat, too, and extra scarves, even blankets, and all he could think of now was had he driven that child out into the Bois on a night like this? Had she been up here at all since the murders of her friends, had she even returned? Or after the chase in the Bois today, had there been only a death similar to that of her little friend?
The coat would be very warm and snug. He must remember her invention. These days one never knew what one might need. But when had she done it? Well before the murder-last Thursday or Friday perhaps, or even before that, in the late fall when dry leaves were possible and best collected?
The late fall. All things must have been prepared then for a long stay in the cold, a plan that predated the Sandman’s murders by at least several weeks.
But not, he thought, that of the placing of the crèche in Sister Céline’s classroom and the stealing of the toy giraffe and then the baby elephant. Nénette had taken the one, Andrée the other, on a dare, to be later exchanged as a bond of solidarity.
When he found another old overcoat also stuffed with leaves and rolled up under a stone bench, he knew the truth. Both of the girls had planned to leave the convent school and the house and take to the wilds.
Voyous, street urchins-runaways in a land that had no use for them and was under an Occupier who fiercely demanded that all such types be cleansed from the streets and sent by rail to unspoken destinations.
The Brasserie de Tout Bonheur was full but there was no sign of Giselle. The Café of the Turning Hour held only watchful sharks bent on sucking their girls in to rip them off and keep them on their backs until their days as charladies came.
Kohler hounded the darkened streets and cursed the black-out that, if he used the unblinkered torch in his pocket, would see the gendarmes pounce and scream and pound him into oblivion. Merde! Where was Giselle?
Panic struck. He had let Violette Belanger’s pimp get his talons into Giselle. One question of hers would lead to another until the bastard needed to know just why he was wanted by this detective.
So, he’d take her to a quiet place. He’d lead her on until she had no more to give …
A ‘priest’.
Knowing that he had no other choice, he returned to the Café of the Turning Hour to wipe the zinc with the fist of Madame Morelle’s husband and let the others slip away or crowd round with knives drawn.
‘Now I’ll ask you one more time. Where did he take her?’
Two more girls came in looking for their pimps only to find the place draughty. Morelle didn’t budge. The Savoyard must have come from a long line of hill climbers. The bulging dark brown eyes held the fierce hatred of a Corsican, and Kohler wondered if this, too, was not a part of his ancestry.
One of the girls, her back to the wall, sucked in a breath, and he knew then that trouble was about to break out.
Morelle’s nose ran freely, dampening the bushy grey handle-bars and webbing the hairs.
Ignoring it, the patron still waited. Vache! Cow! he shrilled silently. Cop!
‘Giselle,’ breathed Kohler and in that moment realized yet again that the kid really meant something to him, that life could never be the same without her and that Wasserburg and Gerda and the farm at home were now far behind him.
There’d be a butcher’s knife under the zinc counter or a leather sock filled with lead, but they wouldn’t want to cut him up or kill him here for fear of being accused of terrorism.
No, they’d knocked him out and drop him in the Seine. They’d have to.
He released the hand. He grinned and patted the shirt front, said, ‘Why not be reasonable? She’s just a kid. She doesn’t know this part of town. Give her a break. It wasn’t her fault.’
‘And Violette?’ hissed Morelle. ‘Will she also get a break?’
A real crowd pleaser. ‘Of course. Hey, I just asked her a few simple questions. My partner and me-he’s the one out on the street with the boys in blue and the panier à salade-we’re working on the Sandman thing. I thought Violette might have been able to help us.’
This one needed a shovel to finish digging his grave. ‘Violette? But … but, monsieur, is the sadist her maquereau, do you think?’ fluted Morelle, feeling firmly in charge, ‘or is it a man of the cloth perhaps?’
It was now or never. ‘Both pimp and priest.’
Death swiftly entered Morelle’s eyes. Now it was there and now it was gone. As the zinc was wiped with the patron, glasses shattered, shrieks tore the air, the sharks tumbling back or lunging only to stop.
Kohler held the bastard’s head bent back over the far end of the bar, strangling him until the Savoyard was plum-red in the face and choking.
Flat on his back with the neck of an upturned pastis bottle jammed into his mouth, Morelle could not talk but only swallow.