Dollmaker (10 page)

Louis laid his pipe aside in the ashtray the girl had slid his way. Kohler could hear him saying to himself, Men like you never stop thinking, Captain. Even your C.-in-C. questions your saying such a thing.

He gave another sigh and let his fingers trickle away from the fragments. ‘Not unless you were trying to protect someone, Captain.'

‘Who?'

Préfet Kerjean did not look up. Freisen silently swore and then finally said, ‘Out with it, Johann. That is an order.'

The Captain shrugged. ‘There was no one with the fragments when I came along the tracks from the pits. I was hurrying. I did hear someone up ahead but could not see who it was. An argument. Two men … in French.' He looked at the Préfet and said. ‘Why not ask him?'

Kohler thought Louis would ignore the inference and nodded inwardly when he did.

‘French? What did they say, please?' asked the Sûreté.

‘I couldn't tell. A challenge perhaps.'

‘And then you found the body, Captain, yet you did not immediately go for help? You waited almost twelve hours?'

The table-edged Morse stopped. Suddenly there was a brief pause and then a decisive tap. ‘Chief Inspector, I knew I would be blamed. I hadn't done it. Indeed, if I wanted to recover our money why, please, would I kill the one man who could help us get it back?'

‘“Our money?” Please explain this, Captain.'

Fräulein Krüger hesitated. Kohler knew the point of her pencil had just stabbed itself through the paper.

The Captain heaved an impatient sigh. ‘Very well, if that is what you wish. I'm not alone in this venture. I myself put up …'

‘Is this necessary?' demanded Freisen. ‘It really has no bearing …'

‘Everything has bearing, Herr Freisen. That doll's head, those fragments – blood not on them. Twelve hours of delay you yourself were a party to.'

‘
Verdammt
, the French! How dare you?'

Louis paused, Kohler could see him impatiently debating whether to answer. ‘I dare because in murder, Herr Freisen, that is so often the only way to uncover the truth. Now, please, allow the Kapitän zur See Kaestner to explain since he is the one we are here to interview.'

And you have set them at each other's throats by down-grading the C.-in-C. to Mister and using the Captain's full rank, thought Kohler, pleased.

Kaestner budgeted a tiny smile of understanding and threw the girl the briefest glance as if to say, Relax, Elizabeth. Everything will be all right. You will see.

‘As Captain and Managing Director, I invested 100,000 marks. Each of my officers came in for 25,000 of their hard-earned savings. That makes 200,000 except for …' He paused. ‘… my Obersteuermann who sees in the venture a place for 50,000 of his carefully hoarded savings. You must remember, gentlemen, that none of us can send our pay home. It all has to be spent in France, yes? so the venture offered not only an avenue of investment we could control but also a very good chance to multiply that investment many times over. No one is making dolls at present, and certainly none of such high quality.'

‘That is a total of 250,000, Captain,' said Louis.

‘The rest is in shares among the crew. The men of U-297 are solidly behind reviving a business that up to the Great War made
the
most perfect dolls in Europe. The Royal Kaestners.'

‘And after the Great War?' asked Kohler, breaking his silence.

‘It was soon all destroyed but for myself, Inspector, who listened to the pleas of an old man and chose instead to go to sea.'

‘Did you kill that shopkeeper?' asked St-Cyr.

‘I most certainly did not. I found le Trocquer lying on the tracks. I waited, yes, both there and then at HQ Kernével with my C.-in-C. with whom I had, as one of his captains, to confer.'

‘And I had to notify the Admiral,' said Freisen tightly. ‘My advice was to go carefully. Johann felt that since he was the only one the watchman would have seen, he would be blamed. Now if you don't mind, it is getting late. I must make out the daily dispatch to the Admiral. Fräulein Krüger, if you would be so good as to join me. I am afraid we must hurry, yes? I'll dictate on the way. You can then transcribe and bring it to me for signing. Gentlemen.' He indicated the cell door with an extended hand as he stood up.

‘The fragments and the head, Herr Freisen, might I keep them?' asked St-Cyr.

‘Yes. Yes, of course. There can't be any harm in that, can there?' The C.-in-C. flicked a glance at the Captain, whose expression told him nothing. ‘For the moment,' stammered Freisen uncomfortably. ‘Yes, that will be all right. Please do not lose them.'

‘Of that you may be sure,' said St-Cyr. Hermann would have to find them a set of wheels. The Freikorps Doenitz would be unlikely to offer help of any kind; the Préfet even less.

‘Until tomorrow then,' he said in his finest Sûreté voice.

‘At the same time, if the war does not interfere.'

‘And if it does?'

It was Freisen's opportunity for revenge. ‘We will let you know.'

‘Monsieur, this bus is finished for the day.'

Vehemently the driver pointed to the
Défense de monter
and indicated the door. Kohler took in the pancaked Basque beret with its bird droppings on black wool and the cold, wet remains of a hand-rolled cigarette. The lips were thin, the face pinched. Stiff, grey whiskers emphasized a belligerent chin. The dark eyes were fierce. Acid exuded. So be it then.

‘Get out. That's an order. Kohler, Gestapo Central, Paris.
Don't
switch it off.'

The scar on the giant's face was terrible. ‘But…' began the man.

St-Cyr tried to squeeze past and only succeeded in getting his head round his partner. ‘Hermann, must you? Monsieur, we need it only for a little, yes? Transport. An important case. The murder of …'

They meant it. There was no hope. Well, okay then. Good! ‘Le Trocquer,' hissed the man. ‘
That bastard deserved everything he got and you two deserve what you are taking!
'

He coughed and spat fiercely to one side, hitting the side window. Grabbing a filthy jacket, he tucked it under an arm, swept up the cancelled tickets, drained the fare money from its steel tubes, and squeezed past the two of them in a heated rush. ‘I fart at you!' he shouted angrily. ‘I
hope
you obtain the king-sized headaches too
and
the influenza!'

‘Ah
merde …
' began St-Cyr, suddenly worried they might catch it.

‘What was that all about?' asked the new driver.

The only passenger threw his eyes up to God in question and alarm. ‘I think we will find out soon enough.'

It was twenty-five kilometres to the house near Kerouriec and the sun had all but set. Kohler tried to slam the thing into gear.

‘Double clutch it!' seethed the passenger. ‘It's like a woman, idiot. It
needs
to be caressed before being driven.'

‘Since when were you an expert on women?'

St-Cyr shuddered as the gearbox complained. With a jolt, the unwieldy bus yielded. ‘We'll take the road along the Côte Sauvage, eh?' shouted the driver. ‘It'll be shorter.'

‘There … there are no headlamps. The cliffs …'

‘Don't panic. I know what I'm doing. Sit back and relax.'

Nom de Jésus-Christ
! Must God do this to them? Like all
gazogènes
, this one's firebox would have to be fed and must nearly be out of fuel. Ruefully the passenger hung on and looked around at the slatted wooden seats that had seen decades of use. Rubbish was everywhere. Old vegetables lay on the floor, squashed beneath careless clogs. There were bits of paper – even a shawl of black lace that had been torn so many times, it had been left in silent tribute to public transport.

During the day, cages full of chickens, ducks and piglets, destined only for the Occupier, would crowd the roof up in front of the tank that stored the wood-gas which powered the engine when it wanted to. Bicycles would be tied up there too, if they weren't very good and the Occupier was certain not to steal them. Suitcases, bags of potatoes and seaweed, ah so many things. But the mess, the refuse? How low have we descended? he asked of the Occupation. Cruelly blatant posters cried out for silence. One never knew who might be listening. Spies were everywhere.

Out over the sea towards Lorient the night was fast hurrying while down below them at occasional intervals, the land fell sickeningly to angry breakers and rocks that were anything but friendly. Oh for sure there were little coves, tiny fishing ports and bits of secluded beach where in summer one could perhaps have bathed in the nude with one's new wife but …

‘How long has Baumann been with the Captain?' he shouted – one could not talk normally.

‘I wish I knew. Death approaches yet he invests in a hopeless scheme. I've seen that look before,' sang out Kohler.

‘In the trenches, yes, so have I. Did he kill le Trocquer?'

‘Was he even near the clay pits?'

‘He guards the Captain as one would a brother but is there a spare key to that cell?'

‘A spare key …?'

‘That stenographer-telegraphist, idiot. The one with the moon eyes for the Captain.'

‘Oh her. Perhaps. But Baumann and that Second Engineer guard the boy too, or hadn't you noticed?'

Kohler glanced questioningly into the rear-view but found he had to adjust the damned thing. For a moment the bus was left to navigate on its own. St-Cyr caught his heart as they headed for the cliffs. ‘Hermann …' he began.

‘Hey, it's okay, eh? It's all in the driver, Louis. You should take lessons.'

‘If only you would let me,' muttered the Sûreté's little Frog under his breath.

Kohler could see him scowling at the thought of having lost his great big beautiful Citroën to the Occupier. The car was, of course, parked in a locked garage nowhere near the courtyard of the rue des Saussaies in Paris, formerly headquarters of the Sûreté but now that of the Gestapo in France. No way would he leave it there and yes, a private lock-up too and the keys right where they belonged in a certain partner's pocket. Keys … there it was again, the possibility of a spare key and the Captain locked up tighter than a drum, or was he? Ah
merde …

‘You can drive us back,' he shouted encouragingly. ‘Hey, I'm going to let you.'

‘Be quiet. Let me think in peace. I will close the eyes, so as to shut out the infamy of darkness that has found us on the road without headlamps, or had you forgotten the Wehrmacht must have removed them for security's sake?'

‘
Verdammt
, this old girl is throwing enough sparks out behind to let the whole world know!'

So she was.

Just outside the tiny hamlet of Kerhostin, on the spit of sand that joined the once-severed island of Quiberon to the mainland, they ran out of fuel and were forced to smash up several of the seats. Chilled by sweat, St-Cyr cursed the blitzkrieg pace the Germans always demanded. No time for an apéritif and simple contemplation, no time even for a piss.

‘Don't even think of it!' snapped the driver. ‘I'm not stopping.'

Kerjean's evasiveness was troubling, but did it stem from guilt or worry over something else? Something between himself and the shopkeeper – the contents of that missing briefcase perhaps? Or was it something Paulette le Trocquer and/or her mother could well have overheard and might at any time reveal to others?

Victor had a son in the army. Had the boy been badly wounded and sent home, or was he in a POW camp in the Reich? If the former, Victor would want him out of France; if the latter, why, out of Germany for a fee of at least 100,000 francs, the going rate. Money would be needed. Had money been found?

What was it Madame Quévillon had said to Hermann about the fishing boats? ‘Some leave never to return.' For centuries Bretons in the north had been sailing to England to sell onions, other produce and lace, to smuggle also. But Vannes and the Morbihan were so much farther south.

Yet from here they had sailed in their simple craft to Portugal, Morocco and Mauritania to collect
langoustes
, the spiny-lobsters which they then had stored in tanks at Concarneau and other places.

It was something that would have to be checked out. That blind spot on the railway spur, that shed and the bicycle tracks … the denial of these.

And a violent argument. The threat of tax assessors and a girl who heard only one name but was certain of it.

‘But if you ask me,' the girl Paulette had said, ‘it's a queer enough thing for a man to want to make dolls, let alone to make them of people he knows, especially if they are from around here and can be identified by others.'

By the Préfet, he asked, or by the husband of Madame Charbonneau? and knew now that this was what Paulette had meant.

‘
Merde
,' he murmured sadly, ‘that girl had best be careful lest the odds of her surviving equal those of the U-boat crews.'

4

‘The house near Kerouriec …' began St-Cyr. ‘It's magnificent, Hermann. Grey granite block that faces the sea and softly glows in the pitch darkness while the sound of breakers is constant. All of the shutters are open but the black-out curtains pulled. Not a sliver of light escapes.'

‘Quit going on about it. Let's get this over with. I'm hungry and tired.'

‘And impatient. A moment, please, my old one.'

They had walked up the road from the bus and now stood beside a granite pedestal on which, in addition to its bronze sundial, there were several seashells and pebbles, and the bleached remains of a gull. ‘The child,' murmured Kohler, fingering the collection.

‘Yes. Is she the one to check for escaping light? If so, then her stepmother is willing to place great trust in her and is very astute. It is a thing most parents fail to do.'