Sandman (29 page)

‘
Talk!
' shrilled the woman. Her hands were tossed, her shoulders shrugged. ‘Who has time to talk to such as you in a place like this? Violette was here all day and all last night. She has not left the premises.
Not
for one minute. This I will swear on my father's grave.'

‘But not on your mother's,' sighed the Sûreté, forgetting his sore knuckles at last to run his eyes over her. ‘Madame Berthe Morelle … Berthe Lefebvre of the rue Saint-Denis and les Halles. The jet-black hair, it is a wig needed due to recurring bouts of
la syphilis;
the cheeks, they are fleshy and deeply rouged to hide the sugar scars of displeased
maquereaux
. Gone are the days of your youth. Please let me see your licence, madame, so as to remind myself and refresh your memory.'

Ah no … ‘The rue Saint-Denis?' she bleated, still slow to tumble to it.

‘And an arrest that was made more than thirty years ago in a house on the corner of the rue des Precheurs [the street of the Preachers]. A prostitute you helped. A friend, you said, and like a sister to you—wasn't that it, eh? An unwanted child she had refused to bear—ah, of course nothing could be proven. You had arrived too late to caution the girl and could not hold the abortionist for the
gendarmes
you yourself had summoned because that one, she had vanished. Others swore to it. There was little we could do, since you willingly slept and did other things with the presiding magistrate, who had a taste for whores that were cheap. You've changed. You've grown older. One would have hoped, wiser.'

St-Cyr … St-Cyr …? A blue cape and
képi
then and no moustache but boots and a persistent air that could not be bought off. Ah, why had Madame Rébé not forewarned her of this one at their last reading? ‘You've changed yourself,' she said tartly. ‘Violette has done nothing. She was here all day and last night, and others will swear to this.'

‘Swearing's in your blood,' he snorted lustily. ‘We'll ask them, of course, but first, madame, please take us to the room and leave that one here unless he wants trouble. We will question the two of you upstairs where you belong.'

She tossed her head as if wounded. ‘There is no need to be offensive. The past is over. The legs, they are closed, and the door to heaven, it is shut. We've both come up in the world.'

‘
Good!
I'll bring you down, then, shall I? You're wanted on the charge of abortion and causing the death by it of Liline Chambert. Please save your breath for the stairs.'

He'd make it stick, she knew he would. ‘
Abortion?
' she snorted. ‘I did no such thing. Pah! the years have addled your brain, my fine Sûreté. Why would I indulge in such an illegal practice when I have all this raking in so much more?'

‘That is just what we'd like to ask you. Now move.'

‘Louis …'

‘Not now, Hermann. Get her upstairs.'

‘But—'

‘No buts. Just do as I say.'

‘Okay, Chief, you're the boss but that one's SS.'

‘
Idiot! did you think I hadn't noticed?
'

They were on the stairs and moving. They were on the first floor and heading up five flights. Big men, little men, some with grins, stood on each step of the way. Whores came down, whores went up. Peignoirs were open, some wore none at all … One said, ‘Ooh, they are in such a rush, those two, madame. You haven't lost your charm. The older the sweeter, eh, my fine messieurs?'

‘And both at once!' hooted another. ‘Give her port and advocaat, the half-and-half, messieurs. By midnight she'll be opening all the doors and you can enter where you please!'

‘But not both in the same place!' tossed the other one over her shoulder as Louis tripped and piled into a brunette, grabbing her bony hips for support.

‘Have you paid?' she hooted, her face overly made-up, the lipstick smeared, the hair dyed a violent red.

By now the Wehrmacht's finest had got the message and all were shouting, ‘
Get them. Stop them. Throw the bastards out
.

‘OUT! OUT!
RAUS! RAUS! RAUS!
'

They stamped their boots each time they said it. They pushed, they shoved, they heaved on the line, and the ripple of their pent-up dislike of the police raced on and up … up.

Madame Morelle burst on to a landing, threw out her black, lace-clad arms and went down in a welter of other legs, arms, breasts and bare buttocks. Now everyone was laughing and shouting, ‘Grab them. Hoist them. Pick them up and pitch them out.'

‘OUT! OUT!
RAUS! RAUS!
'

Kohler dragged the woman up and grabbed Louis by the overcoat collar. She gasped and rolled her dark eyes in panic. ‘My heart,' she managed, placing the flat of a be-ringed, pudgy hand on her heaving chest.

He shoved, and the ripple on the staircase behind them reversed itself as they raced upwards, pushing the woman ahead of themselves. Couples began to leave their rooms, only to hesitate, some clutching their clothes or a bedsheet, others trying to get dressed until …

‘Violette, no!
No
, do you hear me?' shrilled Madame Morelle.

They had reached the fifth floor, were right at the top of the stairwell. Wild-eyed and desperate, the schoolgirl, her white shirt-blouse torn open down the front, her breasts hanging out, the dark blue pleated skirt and kneesocks stained and dishevelled, faced them. Arms out, feet out and planted, panic in her deep brown eyes, the shaggy mop of dark brown hair now braided so that she looked not twenty-three years old or seventeen but no more than thirteen or fourteen.

‘Violette …' said Madame Morelle, catching a breath and trying to hold the detectives back. Everyone was watching. No one made a sound. ‘Violette,
chérie
, come to mother.'

With the back of a hand the girl wiped her mouth and spat furiously to one side before repeating the gesture. ‘You're
not
my mother.'

‘Don't jump. Please don't. It's too far even for angels.'

‘I want my little farm, damn you. I want to leave this place and raise flowers and birds to sell in the market. I want to taste honey, not cloud-custard. I'm sick of men jerking off into my mouth.'

‘
Chérie
, please don't do it. Please. I swear I'll take you to Spain with me. From there you can go to Provence, to your little farm if you wish.'

‘Father Eugène has the money. He really has it, hasn't he?
Tell
me, damn you! Tell
me
he hasn't stolen it all.'

Ah
nom de Jésus-Christ
, why
did
she have to ask? demanded Madame Morelle of herself. There were only the two of them facing each other in this
impasse
. The child climbed up on to the railing and clutched a support. It was a long way down the spiral of those stairs, and as all looked up at her and craned their necks to watch their little bird fly, Violette looked down at them.

She'll push me, said Violette to herself. She'll have to do it.

‘Madame,' breathed St-Cyr, ‘please step aside.'

‘
Don't be a fool!
' hissed the woman, her bulk stubbornly blocking their way, all lace and flesh, perfume, jet-black beads and dangling jet-black ear-rings. ‘Darling,' she crooned to the child, ‘be sensible. Take me by the hand and come down from there.'

Perhaps five metres separated them and this was clear, except for the open doorway from which the schoolgirl had come.

‘You did it,' she said. ‘You killed that girl who was pregnant. You pumped air into her
passage de V
énus and she died from the shock. How did it feel to have her die so suddenly?'

‘Don't be silly,
chérie
. I did no such thing. These men, they speak lies.'

‘Where is Father Eugène? Why isn't he here to tell them that you owed him money,
mother
, and that, with one bold stroke, one gamble, all your debts to him would be erased? Is he the Sandman, do you think, messieurs?' she taunted. ‘Is he the one who violates little girls like me and then kills them?

Little girls …

Frantically Kohler searched for a way to get at her. Had her clients beat it? he wondered. Was that room of hers now empty, that schoolroom? Was there another way into it?

‘She'll see you leave,' confided the Sûreté softly. ‘This matter has, unfortunately, to be settled by the two of them.'

The girl looked down, and as she did so, she dragged off one of the elastics from her braids and let it fall.

There was a hush that only got deeper and deeper. ‘If I could undress, I would,' she said, ‘so as to be that much closer to heaven. I've done nothing that can't be forgiven—my sister tells me this constantly, messieurs. “You
will
be accepted into the Kingdom of Everlasting Love,” she says, “but only if you ask for His forgiveness instead of praying He will fuck you.” The
grand frisson of frissons
, eh? The one a girl would feel all the way up her spine and into her brain if only she could feel anything at all At all!'

Ah
nom de Dieu, de Dieu
…

‘She thinks all girls of my age have the devil in their bodies, messieurs, but please, is it not the devil in the minds of men to which she refers? Is it not
they
who want to undress and violate girls like me? Ask her. Ask Céline. See what she says. Tell her that's what the father we shared did to me. To
me!
—at the age of eight. Have her anoint my naked body before she drives the skewer into my heart.'

Plunged into darkness, the house waited a split second, its breath held for the shrill scream that lasted long after the floor below had been solidly struck and the rain of wooden balusters had ceased. Everyone cried out. A great, sad sigh went up. They began to move, to panic in the darkness. Someone shouted, ‘The electricity has gone off!'

Arrondissetnent
by
arrondissement
, the Occupier could do such a thing without notice.

‘The SS,' breathed Kohler, moving forward with Louis's shoulder under one hand. ‘The railing's gone. Ah
merde
, Louis … L … O … U … I … S!'

Dragged back, they lay there propped against the wall. Candles were lighted. Matches struck. One by one these tiny lights grew into a softly fluttering glow that filled the stairwell.

The property in Spain, the bank accounts, too, would be of little use. Madame Berthe Morelle, blood gathering in a large dark pool about her head, was spread-eagled on the floor. Her wig had flown off. Her head was totally bald. The ripples on the back of her neck were pale and flaccid.

‘Louis, the schoolgirl …'

‘Across the roof-tops, I think.'

‘Ah
merde
… It's too icy.'

Ice or not, there she was caught momentarily in the beam of Hermann's torch and then fixed more firmly, perched up by the chimney pots, daring them to follow.

Pale, greeny-blue beneath the ice and encrusted snow, the copper sheathing sloped steeply past another flimsy skylight to her feet. Walls separated the houses. Some roofs were higher, others lower. The wind was increasing, the cold was fierce. Above them the stars climbed into the heavens. Smoke from the coal fires of the brothel drifted past.

When they found a torn patch of skin, they knew she had clutched an iron pipe. When they saw her again, she was trapped against a dividing wall, the roof between them sloping away on either side while that behind her rose up a storey higher.

‘Father Eugène does things for the SS,' she shouted tearfully. ‘He is a spy for them. A
spy!
He hears the confessions of the really sick ones they send him. You should talk to some of those, messieurs. Ask them about schoolgirls. Ask what they've done in the past and still want to do. He doesn't send them to me. He says I'm not suitable, that we must be discreet. They're officers.
Officers
, damn you!'

Blood was frozen to the bare flesh of her left palm. Her skirt clung to her thighs. Louis started forward, balancing. Kohler kept the light on her as best he could. ‘Mademoiselle,' began the Sûreté. ‘Please, it's over. We desperately need information …'

‘
Over, is it?
' she cried. ‘The SS are using him. He
reports
to them!'

Half-way along the crown of the roof, the ice was thick. Louis slipped. He went down hard and cried out. She screamed and, turning, nimbly climbed the wall, to look back once and then to cry out, ‘I SAIL TO HEAVEN!'

And was gone. No sound. No scream.

Louis cautioned his partner. ‘Stay away, idiot! You've Giselle and Oona to look after. Me, I am alone but for Gabrielle. Say goodbye for me. My shoes, they aren't up to this. My hands, they are freezing.'

He had pulled off his gloves and had thrown them away.

Madly the torch beam danced over him as he clawed his way back up to the crown of the roof. Then, balancing again, he stubbornly went on.

‘She's gone across the next roof,' he shouted, having climbed the wall. ‘She's left a skylight open in her haste and is safe.'

Back in the house on the rue Chabanais the lights had come on, and they knew the SS major had been the one to switch them off.

He was standing on the ground floor next the body. He was grinning up at them.

‘Hasse, Louis. The escort service,' cursed Kohler. ‘Debauve must have found things out about him the SS now know. They must believe the Attack Leader is the Sandman.'

‘Perhaps but then … ah
mais alors, alors
…'

‘Save it. We haven't time.'

There were no lights at all in the impasse Maubert where the SS-Attack Leader had his atelier. Come to think of it, there hadn't been any at all on the Left Bank. The houses on either side of that narrow slot crowded closely. The one at the far end showed only the dark silhouette of its roof-top against the night sky of stars.