Mannequin (26 page)

But had he messed with that girl, with Joanne Labelle? Had he put his hands on her and tried to kiss her? Had he …

Trembling at the thought, he lit another cigarette and then a lantern, which he placed near an unshuttered window should Louis come looking for him. He knew they had the night and morning to spend in this godforsaken place—that's all there was to it. Too many things to look for and carefully—yes, God damn it, yes, most carefully.

The coroner would have to be called in, the local
flics
and a photographer. It was all a routine he had come to detest, only now he really knew it and felt it. ‘It's finished for me,' he said. ‘I don't think I can take any more.'

Boemelburg would simply stare at him and snort or say, Welcome to the Russian Front, Kohler. What was your former rank?

There were dozens of glass containers in a small storeroom that must once have served as a wine cellar and root-store. But all the bottles were empty and covered with a film of dust, though all bore the label of ether.

Clearly Gaetan Vergès had been an ether-drinker but his supply had been carefully budgeted by the father in the main house and doled out only a little at a time. The son had lived here, had fished, shot ducks, gathered firewood, read, written his journals, worked in the family
potager
probably, and each evening had had his cubic centimetres of ether. Maybe twenty or thirty, maybe forty or fifty—just enough to make him feel good for a little while and then to get him to sleep. One hundred, two hundred … would it have taken half a bottle or the whole damned thing?

But all that had ceased with the death of the father and the Defeat of France. The source must have dried up, though when the father had passed away, they still didn't know.

Up in the loft, there was a small bedroom—it was all so tidy. There was a portrait photograph of Angèlique Desthieux—she had been a real beauty, a fine-looking young woman. Decent, calm, gentle, not arrogant … Eminently lovable and adored. Worshipped.

The photos had not all been taken by Luc Tonnerre—some had been done by professional photographers and presented to Vergès as gifts from the mannequin and future bride with love and tenderness.

Kohler eased the bedside table drawer open … a Bible, a rosary, a simple cross on a neckchain … a packet of photographs tied with pink ribbon …

Angèlique Desthieux had had a splendid body. She lay naked on a magnificent Louis-Philippe
chaise-longue
he recognized from the photographs they had found in the Paris house. She was looking up into the camera lens not with fear but lust in eyes that, though lovely, were hard and demanding.

Naked, she stood on tiptoes and leaned against a Louis XVI commode, facing a superbly carved and gilded wall mirror in which were reflected her breasts squeezed between stiffened arms, lips that were parted as if in orgasm, dusky eyelids that were closed, the thick triangle of her pubes …

In another of the photos, her seat was pinned to the edge of that same commode. She was facing the camera and her gorgeous backside was reflected in the glass, but she was not biting back the tears, ah, no. She wanted to be fucked and everything about her said this. Same, too, with her lying on the carpet both facing up into the camera and with her face down.

Kohler retied the ribbon and slid the packet into his overcoat pocket. All the photographs had been signed
Luc
and had carried the message
Gaetan,
mon cher compagnon d'armes,
this is how she was and what she was really like.

Ah
merde …

Beside the cross on its chain there was a packet of eleven-millimetre cartridges for the revolver. Several were missing.

Beside the cartridges, there was a small bell jar—the memento the doctors had presented to him on release from the operating table.
Verdammt,
the French! Had they no more sense than to do a thing like this? Perhaps as many as sixty pieces, many of them the round lead pellets so common in the shrapnel of that other war, had been picked from Vergès's body. Varying in size from coarse to fine, from perhaps a half-centimetre to two centimetres, some had little burrs or ragged edges, others nicks—mere imperfections of the casting or deliberate, they had become their own special brand of razor.

When he went downstairs, Louis was crouched over the body oblivious to everything else and intent on memorizing, as only the cinematographer in him could, every last detail.

‘I'll go out to the car, and fetch the local boys in blue and the coroner.'

The Sûreté's gumshoe didn't even look up or turn away. ‘Insist on Tremblay. Be positive, Hermann. Use your Gestapo cudgel if necessary. I want Tremblay to have a look at this and the other one. Bring the torches when you return. Say nothing of the house in Paris—make up some story. Hey, it doesn't matter, eh? The less they know the better. Total secrecy. A blanket order from Boemelburg. We need to buy us some time,
mon vieux. Time
!'

When the coroner found them, St-Cyr and Kohler were standing in the barn near the lorries with the préfet of Paris.

‘The girl has been dead for at least two days, Jean-Louis, the man also,' said the coroner, ‘but I do not think he was the one who killed her. There are no rope marks on his hands and there should be since both died at about the same time.'

‘Idiot,
of course he killed her!' roared Talbotte, the préfet of Paris, furiously. ‘He was fucking her eyes out,
imbécile!
Banging her ass, her mouth, her cunt until she was blue in the face and …'

‘Préfet,
please.
I knew the girl,' said St-Cyr, tapping him on the chest. ‘I know her mother and father.'

‘Louis, go easy, eh?' cautioned Kohler. ‘It's Talbotte's beat. We're within his jurisdiction and we need him.'

The Bavarian as pacifier? ‘Then tell him to go easy with his own mouth!' snapped the Sûreté!

Ah
nom de Dieu
tired and still wound up. ‘Look, he's taking it hard, Préfet. Back off,' urged Kohler.

‘Piss off and suck lemons!' hissed Talbotte. ‘The one in the cottage discovered he could no longer live with himself and ended it. That's fair enough. He has saved the taxpayer a considerable expense.'

Louis drew the préfet aside. Alarmed, Kohler hesitated, wanting to go after them but Tremblay, the coroner, judiciously pulled him back and quietly said, ‘I know Jean-Louis, and I know Talbotte. Let them work it out between themselves. They hate each other and it's obvious.'

Wise words or those of disaster? wondered Kohler apprehensively. Ah
merde,
the French! they were so territorial. The fingerprint boys from Paris were busy dusting down the cabs of the two lorries. Up in the tower room, a police photographer was doing close-ups of Joanne Labelle, while in the cottage, another caught Gaetan Vergès from every possible angle.

Paris and its environs were Talbotte's beat. No sooner had the préfet of Provins been alerted, than his phone line to Paris had started buzzing the big cheese himself.

No fool when it came to money, the Occupier, or a chance to keep a finger in his own pie, Talbotte had driven out himself.

Kohler offered the coroner a cigarette which was gratefully accepted as was the light. At fifty-six years of age, Armand Tremblay had seen enough murder-suicides to form his own conclusions no matter how inconvenient. Robust and ruddy-cheeked, with lively dark brown eyes behind wire-rimmed spectacles that had been mended with surgical tape, he looked a man who loved his comforts.

‘That revolver, Inspector,' he said, giving his head a little toss and shrugging magnanimously as if to forgive whatever oversights he might make, ‘it's just not right. Ah no, no, most certainly not' He took a drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke aside. ‘You see, Inspector, on firing a revolver or pistol, the hand is automatically jerked upwards and only settles back a little unless deliberately pulled down. Then, too, with such a violent cessation of the nervous system there is very often cadaveric spasm, a tightening of the muscles which would grip the revolver as if in life. Unfortunately this one's fingers are slack, whereas all his other limbs, they are rigid from the spasm which has the same effect as normal rigor but comes on instantly at the moment of death.'

‘Merde alors,
' breathed Kohler, knowing he would have seen it himself had he not been so preoccupied with death itself. ‘The barrel wouldn't have remained pointing directly at the entry wound. The fingers show the pressure marks of having had their rigidity broken so as to force the hand to hold the revolver.'

‘Precisely!' enthused Tremblay, pleased at having got the better, not of a detective, let alone one of the Occupiers, but of the killer. ‘These are simple things and they should not have been overlooked, especially if the killer knows anything of guns.'

‘Was Vergès forced to lie on the carpet first?'

‘Mais certainement.
One has only to look at him.'

‘Then the muzzle was pressed against his forehead?'

‘Ah no, not quite. Your Monsieur Vergès has co-operated, Inspector, by first cutting a cross in the bullet that killed him.'

‘Pardon?'

‘Don't forget your cigarette. Don't waste it. Not these days, eh? It's simple. The cartridges are nearly thirty years old and there's a thin film of grease on them. Monsieur Vergès has this grease on the fingertips of his left hand. He has held the cartridge as he cut the bullet. There are also a few flakes of lead in the grease and a little of the lead has rubbed off on the skin itself. We will, I am sure, find his fingerprints on the pocket-knife and the spent cartridge case but not those of the killer.'

‘A friend?' bleated Kohler, thinking of Luc Tonnerre.

The rounded shoulders automatically lifted. ‘Perhaps. Let us say a friend for now. An assisted death. A death by agreement but under the laws of even your own country, one of murder all the same.'

‘Then why didn't he simply kill himself?'

‘Perhaps it is that he couldn't bring himself to do it and needed help.'

‘Was he high on ether?'

‘It's too early to say. After the tests … A little patience, Inspector. Then we'll be positive.'

‘But you think that might have been the case?'

Detectives were always wanting answers before they could be given. ‘There is the possibility but no evidence of the bottle nearby or of the means of drinking it. Oh
bien sûr
there are those other bottles but they've been there for ages, and certainly one could pour it into a glass and down it quickly perhaps, even though it is highly volatile, but with lips like that … ah, one cannot drink from a glass so easily, can one? And that, Inspector, is all I can say for now.'

‘Then which of them died first?'

The Bavarian was so intent. ‘This, too, I cannot say since the times of death are very close.'

‘But …?'

Tremblay sighed impatiently. ‘But if pressed, I would say the girl first and then the man, both most probably on Monday morning at perhaps 9.00 or 10.00. I am only guessing.'

‘Just after dawn.'

‘Yes.'

Louis and himself had been on the train coming back from Lyon with no thought at all of what was to come. ‘Louis said you were good.'

‘He's too kind.' Jean-Louis had seen what they had just discussed, of course, but had not let this one know, out of deference to his German masters perhaps.

‘What about the girl? Was she also drugged?' asked Kohler, throwing a worried glance towards the end of the barn through which Talbotte and Louis had disappeared too long ago for comfort.

‘The girl … ah yes,' said Tremblay, looking at the lorries, then very seriously up at him. ‘Inspector, I think what you really wish to ask is was she co-operative in any way, and this I cannot tell you until I have analysed her blood and organs for the presence of ether, or any other deleterious substance.'

‘But is it possible?'

‘Anything is possible. God made the world that way so that we might find within us the urge to do right, not wrong.'

Tremblay gave a mildly self-conscious smile at his little sermon. ‘Personally I do not think such a thing ever entered that girl's mind, Inspector. She may well have been coerced into doing as they demanded of her and that is why she ran her hands through the hair of at least one of her assailants who was not Monsieur Vergès, by the way. No, not at all. The assailant's hair was natural and growing in place.'

‘There was an ear-ring …'

‘Jean-Louis wishes me not to mention it in my report for now but has shown it to me and told me exactly how and where it was discovered.'

‘Any thoughts?'

‘Besides his own? No, not at the moment. A brave child. Another Jeanne d'Arc'

‘Didn't the Burgundians capture and sell Joan to the English?' asked Kohler, frowning over his knowledge of French history since it was still fuzzy even after a good two years of putting up with Louis.

‘Ah yes, the Burgundians to their eternal shame, Inspector, but it was most definitely others who burned her at the stake in 1431 and then forgave her after a new trial in 1456, and in 1920 made her a saint!'

More than 500 years later! It said something about the French. They carried their guilt through the centuries, periodically mulling it over and trying to exorcise the misfortunes of a hotheaded moment. Idly Kohler wondered what they would say about the Occupation fifty or a hundred years hence?

Guilt again? he asked himself, snorting inwardly. Further trials and more of the periodic soul-searching! ‘I guess I had better find Louis.'

‘I wouldn't. I would leave them. They have things to discuss in private, old cases, new cases, this one, that one, who knows?'

‘Blackmail?' asked Kohler darkly.

There was another shrug. ‘Perhaps. Who cares so long as it accomplishes the desired purpose of gaining you both the necessary time to pursue the investigation without undue interference?'