‘The investigation is continuing?’
‘I … I think so, yes. I …’
He’d say nothing of the rue La Boetie killing, decided St-Cyr. He’d try to calm her but only a little. ‘You really don’t know what it’s all about, do you? Ah, bon, relax. Forgive me, too. You see, my partner and myself are desperately trying to put an end to this plague of blackout crime but now have yet another savage killing to deal with-the passage de l’Hirondelle, mademoiselle. A girl a little older than yourself whose face was kicked in and trod on so hard all the bones were smashed, both eyes as well. Bruises … never have I seen such bruises.’
He would give her a moment to digest this. He would watch her like God did a sinner. When he said, ‘The passage de la Trinite’s victim is still in hospital,’ he let the words sink in and only then added, ‘That one is not expected to live.’
‘La toilette, s’il vous plait, Inspector. I know nothing of these. NOTHING, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?’
A handkerchief was found and pressed into her hand. ‘The De Roussy investigation, mademoiselle?’
‘A … a round-the-clock.’
‘On Monsieur de Roussy?’
‘Oui.’
‘The file, then. Where is it? Which drawer?’
There were banks and banks of oak filing cabinets, most of which were empty and only for show and not like those the colonel kept locked up in his office, but if the inspector should look, he’d find this out. ‘There … there isn’t one. The investigation’s progress reports are given by …’
‘Word of mouth,’ came the sigh. ‘It’s a puzzle, though, that there’s even an invoice.’
‘Taxes must be paid; income must be reported.’
‘Sometimes.’
Again he gave that sigh. Undoing the shabby overcoat with its buttons that hung by their threads and understandably gave no evidence of a woman’s touch-what woman would ever put up with such a one?-the chief inspector dumped his fedora on to her desk and took off his coat, preparing to stay for as long as he wished.
‘We’ll see that you get home safely,’ he said, the trace of fatherly shy; concern bringing a sickness of its own, for he’d soon add, and he did, ‘Where is that?’
‘A flat. It’s not far. I’ll be perfectly safe so you don’t have to worry.’
And given bravely, but a flat, not a room. Had Colonel Delaroche set her up or had someone else since the rents in this quartier were prohibitive? Probably one or the other but best to leave it for now. ‘Madame de Roussy’s husband, mademoiselle. Bien sur, Alexandre de Roussy is on the board of directors of the Renault car company and important, since they supply the Occupier with all sorts of things, but …’
Again there was that pause!
‘But it always takes two to commit adultery, doesn’t it?’
‘The wife of another, yes.’
‘That of a prisoner of war?’
The girl bowed her head and crushed the handkerchief. Tears were splashed on the desk, her voice like that of France on the day of Defeat. ‘Oui, the … the mother of three young children. Monsieur de Roussy sees her twice a week, sometimes more if … if necessary.’
‘And pays her how much a visit?’
‘Five hundred. I … I really don’t know. It’s …’
‘Only a rumour, that five hundred, isn’t it?’
‘Oui.’
Steep, dark and narrow, the side staircase from the Lido’s stage plunged to the dressing rooms, bare flesh and bare of privacy, the girls fabulous, thought Kohler. Gott sei Dank, the colonel had hustled him right past the Agence Vidocq, right into the restaurant and down the stairs to the club.
Gold and tinsel were everywhere, see-through pearly water wings on some. High heels, of course, headbands or tiaras, bracelets and earrings, and there was the toddler of one sucking on his soother and looking up at his dear maman who was changing too and just as naked as he. Joy in her heavily made-up eyes, ostrich plumes still on her head and Bob having a hell of a time resisting the impulse.
Background noise from the club above them filtered down. The colonel didn’t say a thing. Bob waited, watching the girls and hearing the babble of them as, in single file, a robe or some other flimsy bit of costume tossed over a shoulder, they came down the stairs ready to change for the next act but were momentarily more worried about taking a tumble and crashing into the others. Legs … beautiful legs …
Pungent on the air came the scent of talcum powder and cigarette smoke, eau de Javel and chlorine, too, for didn’t the Lido have a bathing pool up there? Of course it did, with nymphs en costume d’Eve who swung back and forth on swings above the audience before throwing their arms straight out or up to take the plunge.
Perfume, the cheap and the expensive, was on the air with body odours of all kinds, those of clogged drains, too, and of blocks of limestone, for these last made up the cellar walls. Garlic, Louis would have said. Onions, mon vieux, and the vin d’ordinaire, the rouge, n’est-ce pas? The sulphur of freshly struck matches as cigarettes are lit and quick drags taken.
‘Bob!’ shouted one. ‘Ah, mon Dieu, mon petit brave, you’ve come back to see us again.’
‘No more worries, eh, Bob?’ shouted another. ‘No more thoughts of Lulu?’
Bob didn’t bark. Bob didn’t wag his tail. Bob waited.
‘Come to Martine,’ urged one with open arms, bare breasts, bare everything. ‘Colonel, let him come. You know how he likes to see us. You’ve been keeping him away too long.’
A smile was given, not a grin, for a man like Delaroche never grinned. Bob’s lead was unclipped but still he stayed until the colonel softly said, ‘All right. Go and say hello.’
Still he didn’t bark or bay. Nose to the floor, he went into the lights, to mirrors upon mirrors and gowns and scattered or unscattered female underthings and lots and lots of loving.
Bob said hello to every one of the thirty or more that were crowded into the two long rooms. He didn’t play favourites. They laughed, whistled, clapped, called, cuddled, told each other not to be greedy and urged him to come to them, competing totally for his affection.
He didn’t run and knock the children over. He was careful. The baby, nestled in its bassinet and asleep after a quick snack, was given but the gentlest touch of his muzzle, not even a lick; the four-year-old who had constantly sucked her thumb, had to pull it out to timidly pet and then hug him dearly. A hero.
But then, puzzled, he looked around for someone else and couldn’t understand why they weren’t also present. He started to hunt, and no amount of the colonel’s calling him back, not even a muted curse, could stop him. He went out into the foyer at the base of that staircase. He sniffed at two or three of the steps, went right up them and came back. Satisfied, he hurried along the dimly lit corridor that led, probably, to one of the club’s many storage rooms, only to stop when he reached the wall telephone. Standing, he got a whiff of that too, then headed right back and into the dressing rooms to look about and try to decide what was still missing.
Under the chintz skirt of one of the dressing tables-bare knees had to be quickly swung aside-he worried over something, gave a throaty growl, angry at first, the hindquarters up and tail ready.
‘Lulu’s b …’ said one, only to stop herself as Bob dragged it out, worried at it with a paw, then laid it at his master’s feet.
An India rubber bone. Well chewed by the look and a constant comfort, but no comfort at all? wondered Kohler. Delaroche had thought it best to distract this Kripo with female flesh and keep him from going to the agence but was now thinking better of it.
Back Bob went for more, and when he had that item, he dragged it out by its handle and the one who had swung her legs aside blurted, ‘Elene’s case.’