‘This killing was different, Coroner. What you are suggesting is that it was decidedly so.’
There was a curt nod of agreement. The recording came to an end. The needle scratched. The sleeve,’ breathed Belligueux, tersely tossing the warning aside to the attendant. And then, ‘With Andrée Noireau there are none of the bruises in those tenderest of places as with the others, all of whom had to suffer the harshness of the Sandman’s fingers and bore several scratches inflicted by his nails.’
‘Yet another difference,’ said St-Cyr sadly. ‘Is there more?’ The look Belligueux gave him was grim.
‘The attack in les Halles, Jean-Louis. In that one, sodomy failed, as did fellatio but not vaginal penetration. There it was complete and brutal with several tears. Please, I regret the unpleasantness, but you must have the truth. Semen was smeared on the face and buttocks and on the genitalia-a failed attempt at first and then completion but …’ He paused before saying it again. ‘… but with your Andrée Noireau we have none of this. No attempt at rape beyond the dishevelling of her clothes. Soldiers,’ he said of the les Halles attack and threw out his hands in despair. ‘Was it a soldier? Is our Sandman one of the Germans here on leave?’
Had the threat of this brought tears to the Sûreté’s eyes?
‘The assailant’s pubic hairs, Coroner? Can matches be made from victim to victim?’
Jean-Louis was desperate. ‘Ah! this I cannot tell you, for there were no such hairs reported on any of the victims and I found none on this one either. Of course, they would be expected unless purposely removed afterwards by the “assailant” or “assailants”’
An unpleasant thought, for, if true, it implied an iron-hard calmness, an absolutely ruthless determination to hide his identity. A battle-hardened soldier perhaps. ‘The semen stains?’
‘Blood Group A with the Suresnes and the Aubervilliers victims. Indeterminable with the other two. For myself, I wonder if such tests were really done on those two.’
‘Indeterminable …? But … but that could mean Group O or a non-secretor? Surely if his blood grouping is A, the others should be the same?’
‘This I cannot say, more than I already have.’
Ah damn. ‘And the dates, the times of the murders, please?’
‘All from one to three hours after the midday meal of soup. A Wednesday for the Suresnes killing, a Friday for that in Aubervilliers. The les Halles murder was done on a Saturday; that of the Notre-Dame on a Wednesday, after the crowds of “tourists” had left. And this latest on a Sunday.’
‘Had she eaten?’
‘Some bread, no butter. Two raw carrots and perhaps three of the vitaminic biscuits.’
‘Wool … were there threads of black wool?’
‘A few were caught under this one’s fingernails.’
‘But not in those of the others?’
‘No, not with them, though I must emphasize I personally did not conduct those autopsies and all were quickly buried.’
‘And with Liline Chambert, what have you for us?’
The finches sang, and for a moment Belligueux listened to them before sadly saying, ‘At least three and a half months pregnant, a boy. Massive embolism. A disinfectant and soap but not the National one. No, this soap produced a copious froth. The filthy stuff was injected forcibly into the uterus. Air bubbles penetrated the mural veins. Death was instantaneous. One could ask, Was it deliberate? What better way to remove an unwanted lover? But this I could never prove and you know it. May God crucify the one responsible before she kills another.’
‘My partner may have checked with Records. We may have fingerprints we can match with those of a known abortionist. He should have been here by now.’
‘He’s not. Ah! I’m forgetting myself. These things, they are never easy, are they?’ Opening the birdcage, he released a finch to let it fly about the room. ‘I find it helps. Their constant conviviality reminds me that life is what this world of ours is all about, not death. Mademoiselle Chambert was, I gather, the mistress of Antoine Vernet. This must be why Préfet Talbotte wishes me to dine with him tonight and why he is waiting for my telephone call and the confidences I shall not reveal to him if it will help your cause.’
Poised over the glacial crevasse of their times, the Sûreté was grateful to be pulled to safety.
‘If you could, I would appreciate your not mentioning the differences in the killing of Andrée Noireau. Simply attribute all of them to the Sandman for now.’
‘Of course.’ Belligueux fed the finch a few seeds before returning it to the cage. ‘Is it true you have the goods on our préfet? There are rumours.’
There were always those. ‘It is. That dossier grows thicker and it is my sincere hope that when this Occupation is over, the Resistance will see I am no collaborator but was forced, as so many of us are, to work with the enemy.’
‘Your partner is no enemy.’
‘Hermann is special. A worry, yes, when it is all over and the Germans have to pull out but, for now, my friend.’
St-Cyr watched as the birdcage was covered with its hood and then a blanket. The gramophone was closed. Belligueux gave a nod. He would take himself off to find his suit jacket and overcoat, then would telephone the préfet to send a car round. ‘I will give you ten minutes alone here if you wish,’ he said, ‘That way you will be gone before he arrives.’
‘Please have Madame Vernet sent in. We won’t be long.’ Hermann must have been delayed. Hermann …
The house on the rue Chabanais felt draughty. The child’s leather glove seemed to have a life of its own. As Herr Kohler gently smoothed it out on the counter of her little cage, Madame Morelle flicked a wary glance at the burly, grim-faced Feldgendarmen behind him and touched her heart.
The glove seemed to want to creep towards her, to rise up, its fingers spread to cry out, Answers, madame. You must provide him with answers.
‘The child,’ breathed Kohler. ‘The Sandman, madame.’
‘Ah! my heart.’
‘Fuck your heart.’
He must have explained things to the Feldgendarmen. They were with him in this.
‘Giselle le Roy, madame. Age twenty-two. Eugène Debauville, alias Father Debauve has her, and the child.’
‘That one, he is not here!’ she shrilled. Hurriedly she crossed herself, and the glossy black beads of jet she wore rattled. Again she looked to the Feldgendarmen for help, her big strong boys, her little boys, her friends to whom she had given so much. Free girls, free meals, free cigarettes, cognac and beer-much beer. Wireless sets, too, and lingerie, perfume and soap-good soap-to send home to their wives and mothers. Their grand-mothers also.
Pah! men who would desire to ravish whores dressed as schoolgirls now all but wept openly at the loss of a real one and oh, bien sûr, they had every right, herself also, but what had Father Eugène been up to? Violating little girls again? Ah nom de Dieu, de Dieu, was it possible?
She saw the pistol Herr Kohler fingered as he grinned. It was not a nice grin, and she knew he loved this Giselle le Roy and that Father Eugène, a friend, ah yes, of course-an associate also who had lent her money in the past to take this house; one must acknowledge the loan since it was not yet repaid with interest … Father Eugène would just have to take care of himself. Violette as well, but … but Violette was unique and haste was not wise in her regard.
‘He’s a strange one, Inspector. His needs, they … they are not those of a normal man.’
‘Just tell me where he is or might be.’
May God forgive her. ‘Numéro 78, Champs-Élysées, the fourth floor. He … he runs an escort service from there.’ She grabbed Kohler by the arm as he turned to leave. ‘Has he really taken the child?’ she demanded. ‘Is he the …’