The girl at the desk behind the stand-up counter with its little bell in brass had wet herself. Embarrassment flushed the peaches-and-cream complexion under a delightfully made-up pair of the bluest eyes Kohler had ever seen.
‘Find your voice, mademoiselle, or I’ll find it for you.’
‘Louis …’
‘Colonel … Colonel Delaroche has gone to pick up Petit Bob. Monsieur Garnier is out on an investigation and not expected back until Monday at the earliest. Noontime, I think.’
A lie of course. Sweet of her though, to have tried, thought Kohler.
‘Messieurs Raymond and Quevillon are … are busy elsewhere.’
Another lie.
‘I’ll bet they are,’ breathed Louis. ‘I’ll just have a look around and then you can tell me everything I need to know. Hermann, put the lock on before going to find … What was his name, mademoiselle?’
‘Colonel Delaroche.’
‘Ah, bon, she’s recovered her voice, but before you go, I’d better ask her where this Petit Bob is?’
Blue eyes looked at what she’d been typing. She thought to take it out and hide it, then thought better of doing so. ‘The … the toilette pour chiens. Madame Mailloux. Chez Benedicte. It’s …’
‘Just up the avenue, Hermann. It’s been years since I last had to stop in there. Say hello for me. If that doesn’t open that one’s trap, use your Gestapo clout.’
‘Giselle, Louis.’
‘We’ll find her. Don’t worry. Just be yourself. That’s what we need.’
Petit Bob was magnificent. Though gentle, he made some of the other dogs nervous. He didn’t like having his nails clipped in front of them but understood that it was required. Dutifully he held the left forepaw absolutely motionless. Gazing up at his master who stood by but didn’t have a hand on him, he gave that one such a sorrowful look, another half carrot stick was warranted.
Tall, suave, handsome, fifty-five to sixty, with deep brown eyes and immaculately trimmed silvery-grey hair and sideburns that served to emphasize the burnished, cleanly shaven cheeks and aristocratic countenance, Colonel Delaroche wore a knotted, mustard-yellow scarf and charcoal-black woollen cloak with the air and confidence of a thirty-year-old on the hustle circa the seventeenth siecle, but his words when they came were something else again. ‘It’s all right, Bob,’ he said, the tone carefully modulated. ‘There’s my soldier. The hind paws will soon be done and then we’ll go for a walk and when we come back, I’ll take you in and you can say hello to all the girls. Benedicte loves you like I do. We’ll only be a moment more. Good, Bob. Brave, Bob. We can’t have nails curling in on themselves, now can we?’
The voice, definitely of the upper crust, patently ignored the fact they’d a visitor.
The ears were lovingly caressed, the jowls touched. Bag-drooped eyes, of exactly the same shade as his master’s, engendered an ever-mournful look. The short-haired coat, of black and tan, gleamed. The fine touches of white on Bob’s forepaws, chest and tip of the tail were the marks of an aristocrat. Four years old, maybe five, and absolutely b-e-a-utiful.
Hair dryers of the kind used by coiffeurs et coiffeuses were going full blast as two Schnauzers basked in post-bath warmth but eyed Bob with what could only be a cruel intent. A terrier, though being stripped and plucked, felt no differently. The poodle that was being given a designer hairdo watched them all, as girls in blue sarraux dutifully clipped, brushed, groomed and swept up the hair that even from here would have a market.
The blanket of a heavy cologne dampened everything but the sounds. ‘Kohler, Madame Mailloux. Kripo, Paris-Central.’
Copies of Pour Elle and L’Illustration were lowered out in the waiting room, for this … this Gestapo had deliberately left the curtained doorway open. ‘I’m too busy. Even such as yourself could not help but see this.’
The hair, dyed a wicked blonde, was piled in curls that might last the week out under the bedtime net if one didn’t toss and turn too much. The cheeks were of high colour under their rouge and powder, the lips vermillion, the eyes made up and of the swiftest, darkest grey.
‘Well?’ she demanded, tightening her grip on the clippers, a nail flying off.
‘Of course, but like yourself, time is short and the work just keeps piling up. We’ve another rape and murder to deal with.’
‘We?’ snapped Madame la patronne, heaving rounded shoulders as she gestured with both hands to indicate the crowd and stood as tall as himself and Delaroche. ‘Is it that you don’t know why there’s such a rush at this hour, Inspector? No girl or woman dares be out after dark, my clients, my girls and especially myself!’
‘Herr …’ began Delaroche only to think better of it as Bob questioningly lifted eyes to this intruder.
‘It’s Inspector.’
‘Certainly, but could you not hold off for a moment? Petit Bob is almost done.’
‘WE?’ demanded Madame Mailloux again while taking off a nail.
Empty Kripo eyes met hers. ‘My partner, Jean-Louis …’
‘St-Cyr.’ She let a breath escape. Had her number come up again? wondered Benedicte. The years had slipped by, as they will. The winter of 1937 had been and gone, with him barging in here just like this ‘partner’ of his to demand answers to his infernal questions, but that had been after too many other years had passed, the salaud having arrested her for not having had a licence to walk the streets. ‘I heard he was in Lyon,’ she said.
‘A case of arson.’
‘And then in Vichy, was it?’ she hazarded. Everyone was listening, of course.
‘We get all the easy ones but that was later.’
‘And Alsace?’ she asked, pleasantly enough. ‘Colmar, was it not?’
The gossip had reached here. ‘That too.’
‘What is it you want?’ Even Miya Sama, the Pekingese warlord in Madame Jesequel’s lap was listening.
‘A few small questions. Nothing difficult,’ said Kohler blithely. He’d fish about in his pockets and finally pull out the notebook detectives, Gestapo and otherwise, were supposed to fill with all those things that meant so much. ‘Ah, here it is. Registration number 375614.’
‘Lulu.’
The tears that welled up were genuine.
‘Madame de Brisac’s Lulu, Inspector. Have you found her? Never have I seen one so distressed. Every day the questions. Constant telephone calls to the Societe Protectrice des Animaux to beg them not to put any Irish terriers down, especially since it is now long past the one-week period of grace. The Cimetiere des Chiens has been contacted, a mausoleum designed by Lenoir, descendant of the architect Le Roman himself, the one who did the reconstructions at the Royal Abbey of Saint-Antoine-des-Champs in 1770. The stones have already been carved, the inscription done by a poet-I can’t remember which, but …’
‘No remains having been found, she waits in hope,’ said Herr Kohler. Petit Bob, Delaroche knew, was watching this Kripo with interest, having got his scent while licking detective fingers. Sugar … Had Kohler slipped Bob a few loose grains?
‘Oui, oui, it’s a tragedy,’ said Benedicte. ‘Bedridden, Madame de Brisac depended on Lulu to brighten each day. Denise Rouget and Germaine de Brisac, Madame’s daughter, are constantly on the lookout, but each day brings only its new disappointments and what is one to do when a love such as that is so deep no other dog could ever take her place?’
‘Bedridden?’
‘Cancer. The lungs. The cigarettes. Have you found … ?’
‘Rouget … ? Haven’t I heard that name before?’
‘You must have.’
‘And Germaine de Brisac? Is she also a social worker?’
‘That I wouldn’t know, Inspector.’
‘But you’re sure of it?’
No answer was needed and none would be given!
‘Then just tell me from where Lulu was snatched and when.’