Dollmaker (19 page)

It had not been requisitioned by the Occupier because its tyres no longer had inner tubes but were ingeniously stuffed with strips of old leather. Short lengths of rusty baling wire bound the tyres to their rims. Much-used wicker baskets were mounted front and back, and there were two shabby saddlebags as well.

‘The pianist …' he said, yawning hugely and so suddenly he was caught off guard and had to pause. His heart was racing. ‘Easy,
mon ami
. Go easy, eh?' he said to himself and shunned the pills.

Lifting the bicycle over to the far wall, he moved the hay aside and buried the thing. A few places needed tidying. He stood back and stretched as he looked it over – yawned again. On first sight, the shed would appear quite empty, the bicycle gone.

Only after a moment or two of consternation and panic would Charbonneau realize what had happened. ‘And by then I will have him right where his wife lay on the straw with the Dollmaker.'

Or had it been like that on the day of the murder?

He didn't think so. The woman had been warned by Préfet Kerjean that there might be trouble. Both of them knew the husband and the Captain would be at the clay pits. The Préfet and the shopkeeper had argued violently.

Between the time the Captain was seen leaving the clay pits and the time of the murder there could not have been time for lovemaking.

A doll's head had been broken, a hand had been cut.

Otto Baumann had delivered the Captain's message to the Charbonneaus two days before the murder. Paulette le Trocquer knew far more than she was willing to let on. A packet of American cigarettes had been left on a timber over there. The tightly crumpled ball of a woman's handkerchief had been pressed down into the hay. The smell of its perfume had been good and definitely not cheap and not that girl's, not yet.

Softly closing the door, St-Cyr put the latch on and started out.

Why had the pianist returned to the scene of the murder? Was Charbonneau so desperate or such a fool he thought he could get away with it unnoticed?

Or was he so obsessed with the findings of his labours, he could not leave them?

Alone beneath the sun and drifting cloud, the grey and lichen-encrusted pillars of the megaliths stood well beyond the site of the murder and their alignment on high, overlooking everything. Tall, and weighing several tonnes – feats of engineering would have been required to raise them – they appeared omnipotent, inducing doubt and fear.

Wind played among the bunched grasses at their feet. The iodine and salt-fish smell of the sea was everywhere and when he stood directly opposite them, he saw that none were out of line and that the tallest of the seven stones was nearest the tracks yet still some forty metres from them.

Already their shadows were long. They did not fall upon each other. There wasn't a sign of anyone, only the sounds of picks and shovels in the clay pits just to the north and west. Denied diesel fuel, gasoline and dynamite, the miners had had to reverse a good seventy-five years of history and return to digging by hand.

Retracing his steps to the site of the murder, St-Cyr left the tracks for the irregularities of the moor and began to make a wide detour so as to come upon the standing stones yet cast no tell-tale shadow of his own.

When he found him on the far side of the sixth megalith and digging at its foot, Yvon Charbonneau, whom he had only seen in a black bow tie and tails in concert, was on his hands and knees and buried up to his shoulders. The laceless, shabby leather boots were smeared with sand and whitish clay, the dark brown corduroy trousers were patched and filthy and worn through in the crotch where his underwear showed whitely.

A grey and crumpled handkerchief trailed from a bulging pocket. Mounds of earth containing bits of charcoal and charred bone were heaped on either side of him. To the left, there was an earth-encrusted shabby brown briefcase. A short-handled pick rested near the briefcase along with a short-handled shovel and stonemason's hammer – tools that could more easily be carried on the bicycle.

Laid out in a fan-shaped array on a mud-caked towel were three beautifully carved and polished deep green axeheads, some pale creamy brown flints – scrapers probably, or knives – several potsherds and a few broken bracelets of dark blue glass.

Charbonneau withdrew from the excavation. He did not yet sense company or that the Sûreté now knew beyond doubt that he had hidden the shopkeeper's briefcase on the day of the murder and had returned to recover it but had found his obsession too great for prudence to overcome.

The blade of flint he carefully cleaned off was half the length of a callused, grimy left palm whose ham had been crudely stitched and was still red and swollen. Delicately, as if caressing the notes of Rachmaninoff, Schubert or Brahms, he ran the fingers of his right hand over the long oval blade. Each conchoidal hollow and cusp left by the pressure flaking was felt and judged perfect, the point too.

Then he turned to reverently set it among the other pieces only to see that he was not alone.

‘Monsieur …' began the Sûreté.

The flint was dropped, the hammer seized. Charbonneau lunged at him. They grappled. The hammer was raised …
His wrist, damn it!
shouted St-Cyr, grabbing it.
Must stop him. Must force him to …

He was carried back in a rush and slammed hard into the last stone. Air … he needed air …
Can't breathe
, he cried.
My chest …

His head hit the stone again and again. A last sight gave the pianist, whose thick and tousled black hair was flecked with iron-grey and whose dark ripe olive eyes soon lost their wild hatred and grew slowly sad.

Ah nom de Dieu, de Dieu, he is about to kill me
, thought St-Cyr. There was a sharp crease between the eyes. Well down from them, a mottled grey-black, thatched roof of a moustache extended right into side whiskers that ran across the cheeks but did not climb to the ears …

A last image was of Paulette de Trocquer flicking a smile coyly at him as she stepped fastidiously over the corpses of her own making.

Collapsing, he hit his head against the stone again but did not feel a thing.

The hammer was raised. They were all alone. The hammer came down.

Kohler awoke with a start to find himself on the back seat of a car, looking up into the eyes of Elizabeth Krüger. The girl was leaning well over the front seat. Cautiously she released his lapel and watched as he wet his throat.

‘Louis,' he croaked. ‘Where the hell is he? Come on, damn you. He should be with us. I … I heard him cry out my name.'

In spite of the noise from the canneries, Herr Kohler did not realize where they were or what had happened. ‘Please, you have been asleep, Inspector. Such a sleep. The Kapitän Freisen and I found you in the car when we came out of the Kernével villa to drive here to Quiberon.'

‘Quiberon …?'

She smiled faintly. ‘The interrogation, yes? Have you forgotten? You did not even hear us get into the car.'

Oh-oh. Two hours, three … He recognized the stench of boiled sardines in oil. ‘I was tired. Where's Freisen?'

It had been good that Herr Kohler had been asleep. It had made things so easy for her. Johann had been pleased with her help. ‘Inside the prisoner's cell. We have waited for you such a long time. It is almost dark, yes? Do you wish to cancel the interrogation for today or to carry on?'

Again he asked for his partner. He sat up and flexed his arms. He discovered the rucksack he had used as a pillow and pulled it possessively towards him.

‘Your … your friend is not at the Hotel Mégalithe. Indeed, he may still be in Lorient or … or with Frau Charbonneau and her husband.'

‘Is the Préfet here?' he asked sharply.

She withdrew and now knelt not touching the back of the seat. ‘No. No, he hasn't shown up either.'

Gott im Himmel
, was it trouble?

That faint, hesitant smile crept over her. ‘Please, they will come, yes? The Kapitän Freisen is most anxious to get the investigation over so as to clear the Captain's name. The Kapitän zur See Kaestner is … is willing to talk.'

Kneeling like that, she took him back to lonely roads, hot afternoons and cars parked among the fir trees. ‘But is he willing to tell us what really went on,' he asked, ‘or is it going to be more of the same thing?'

‘The … the Admiral Doenitz has ordered the Kapitän Kaestner to be truthful and frank and to give you all the help he can.'

‘And the Captain Freisen?'

‘He … he cannot possibly have had anything to do with the … the murder.'

‘But the two of them are playing a tight little game of their own, fräulein. The Admiral is unaware of this. You are.'

‘I … I don't know what you mean?'

Blushing made her even prettier. ‘I think you do. I think you would like to see Herr Freisen take over command of U-297. But what you want doesn't matter to them. Point is, Fräulein Krüger, though he wishes he could avoid it, Herr Freisen will go to sea if ordered but the Dollmaker is a stubborn man. Only he can bring that boat back but in his heart of hearts he knows he won't be able to and so do Baumann and that boy they've got in there. Now only being convicted of murder can settle it. Murder.'

‘You … you … Why did you have to come here?' she blurted. ‘He's ill. He needs help. He …' She choked back a sob.

It would be best to be gentle but to tell her where things really stood. ‘He won't let Freisen take command even if Doenitz, against his better judgement, orders it. He won't, Fräulein Krüger. He's too damned clever to allow it to happen, too cool, too arrogant, too proud and yes, too damned good. Hey, he's Lorient's top ace, a survivor. Though the men might make book on it and lay off their bets on the outcome of our little investigation, they're still counting on him. And who's to say they won't try to take him with them if necessary? Ah yes, fräulein, there's that to consider.'

She brushed her tears away. ‘Then you had better talk to him.'

The din from the canneries was unbelievable, the stench horrendous yet both were totally ignored as in a submarine after weeks at sea.

‘Vati, it is the Inspector Kohler.'

The boy, Erich Fromm, stood aside in the narrow corridor to let them squeeze past. Kohler took in the faded blond hair and furtive blue eyes, the broad jaw, cleanly shaven cheeks and the bad case of acne that had erupted overnight.

Fear made the boy dart his eyes away from him; embarrassment from those of the Fräulein Krüger. Nerves made him pick at a pustule. Some were bleeding.

‘I'm going to want to have a private little chat with you, my friend,' breathed Kohler. ‘Death's-head tells me you put all your money on the Captain. Right?'

There was no answer, only a rapid moistening of the eyes. No constriction of the swarthy throat yet but it would come.

The telegraphist stood uncertainly in the doorway waiting for him. ‘Well?' asked Kohler.

Like a ramrod, the kid snapped to attention. ‘
Jawohl
, Herr Haupsturmführer Kohler.'

‘Good. Now save us both time by telling me why you think he killed that shopkeeper.'

A desperate look for help was thrown at Fräulein Krüger; a wary and uncertain glance down the corridor to where Baumann and the Second Engineer were both bored to death rereading the Christmas issue of the
Völkischer Beobachter
on whose front page the Führer had splashed a map of the Atlantic that was peppered with red dots.

‘…
like drops of blood
, the text had read.
Each one marks the position of the sinking of an enemy merchant ship … January to 17 December 1942
. Clang, clang and up periscope!

‘Well …?' asked Kohler.

‘The … the Kapitän has … has ordered me to do so, Herr Hauptsturmführer.'

‘Kaestner told you to bet against his getting off?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘When did he do so?'

‘As … as soon as he heard Death's-head was making book on the outcome.'

Verdammt!
the bastard. If he really was guilty, Kaestner was making damn sure the kid would double his money, if not, he was slanting the odds so as to make a bundle himself. Half the crew had money on his head. A great joke if it wasn't true and he got off scot-free.

He was also creating yet another smokescreen from behind which he could slip away. Who else would so blatantly admit to murder in such a fashion? He had to be protecting someone and he had known instantly when ordering the boy to bet against his getting off, that this detective and his Sûreté partner would try to see beyond the smoke to Madame Charbonneau.

He's too sharp for us, grumbled Kohler testily. Louis … where the hell was he when needed most? Probably sawing it off or sipping pastis while poring over his bits and pieces of a broken doll.

Kaestner was grinning broadly; Freisen was frowning impatiently and rhythmically striking a pencil against the edge of the table as he rocked back and forth in his chair.

Unlike the previous meeting, the Captain sat alone with his back to the wall in which a tiny, barred window of meshed and frosted glass let in the last of the day.

Freisen sat opposite the telegraphist – the seating had all been worked out in advance. The C.-in-C. U-boats Kernével could better signal the telegraphist from there to pause if things got rough.

Another visit to the toilet? wondered Kohler.

Drawing out the only other chair, he sat down across from the Dollmaker and only then realized the chairs for Louis and the Préfet had been removed.

‘So, we begin it again,' he said. ‘Start by telling me about your relationship with the pianist.'

Elizabeth Krüger could not hold back a faint smile. Flushed with elation, she did not dare to look up from her pad but waited for them to continue.

Kaestner rested his forearms companionably on the table and grinned good-naturedly. ‘All right, you win. Yes, he was there earlier. When I arrived at the clay pits, I found Yvon digging at the foot of one of the standing stones. We spoke briefly.'