J. Janes - Sandman

‘Was she out this afternoon?’

‘In the Jardin d’Acclimatation?’

‘Searching for that child-Reverend Mother, you know this is what I mean.’

‘Céline … Céline thinks all girls of that age have the devil in their bodies, Inspector. She doesn’t really mean to say such things. It’s her past, that father of hers. It’s Violette and … and the life that one insists on leading. The constant shame of it, the ridicule of our girls, the whispers, the secretly passed notes with filth written on them. Shameful things the girls themselves cannot possibly understand.’

‘Let us go into your office, Reverend Mother. Let us take a moment.’

She would have to tell them and beg God’s forgiveness for doing so. ‘Céline Belanger has … has very bad thoughts, Inspectors. They come and go. There are times when she is quite calm, times when very upset and agitated. She is constantly visiting Violette not only because she feels it is her duty as an older sister but also because she secretly blames herself. I’m certain of it, certain, too, that she knows very well what their father did to Violette because he’d done the same things to her. Oh yes, this, too, I am certain of, but each visit seems only to reinforce the hateful thoughts. They are like the migraines. They come on suddenly and stay for days.’

He must go gently. ‘Does the sister think bad thoughts of your girls, Reverend Mother?’

‘She sees flames.’

‘Flames, but …?’

‘Yes. I know the milieu are fond of saying that when they see the police but Céline’s flames, they are different. They are of girls of Nénette’s age letting men do filthy things to them. Wanton things. Things they themselves don’t anticipate but have secretly encouraged simply by a smile, a desire to feel wanted, a need to get attention. To Céline their unawareness of the danger is just a lie hiding base desires to know and experience everything about sex even though desperately afraid and ignorant of it. She … she has tried many times to suppress all such thoughts. We have prayed constantly for God’s help but you see, recently our girls, they only made it worse. They sensed Céline did not just dislike them but felt them guilty of such things. They became convinced she wanted to punish them.’

The age of innocence shattered by a nun. ‘Did she try to find Nénette this afternoon? Was she following that child only to have her turn up here?’

‘Céline’s cloak was torn. Her face was scratched-a branch perhaps, or a briar. Sister Dominique came back early in great distress to tell me Céline had deliberately left her.’

‘Where will she go, if she finds Nénette?’

To the Notre-Dame, was that what he was thinking? To Suresnes or Aubervilliers, to some run-down tenement? Or was it to les Halles and empty stalls where no food is brought for sale because there is so little of it getting into the city? ‘She will try to find Nénette, Inspector, to save her from what Violette and that … that “priest” of hers would do to the child. She will take her to the house on the rue Chabanais because only then can she confront the child and Violette with the truth.’

It was now nearly 11.00 p.m. The métro would soon stop, as would the city’s much diminished bus service. Céline could know nothing of what had happened to Madame Morelle or that Violette had run from the house.

‘What was the child wearing?’ he asked and she could see how very concerned he was that Nénette might freeze to death.

‘The overcoat that is padded with leaves. The sealskin boots and mittens. A tea cosy for a hat. She found her things in the larger of the kitchen stoves, where Sister Céline had placed them to burn but had been distracted by your telephone call.’

‘Then the child must have hidden in the kitchens until the sister had left the convent?’

‘Yes. Yes, I am afraid that is how it must have been. Céline will be looking for her; Nénette will be trying desperately not to be found, but the sisters, Inspector, they have been searching so much for her, they have come to know well the places in which the child might attempt to hide.’

‘The cemetery, the synagogue, the Bois, the Jardin and the Villa Vernet.’

Flames, verdammt! thought Kohler. ‘We’re going to have to check out that tenement on the quai du Président Paul Doumer, Louis. The concierge can identify Debauve as the one who came to collect Madame Morelle. Our priest will be only too aware of this.’

‘Gloves … I no longer have a pair of gloves.’

‘Mittens,’ said one of the sisters. ‘We’ve been knitting mittens and sweaters, Inspector. Take some. Bundle up. Please don’t freeze.’

‘There are socks, too, warm socks.’

‘A thermos, someone. Quickly. Quickly.’

‘No laudanum. No laudanum, please.’ Ah merde , Sister Céline …? Had she drunk her tea? Had that yawn she had given over the telephone been but a sign of things to come?

High above the synagogue, the moon split the clouds that had come to blot out the stars. As the curfew descended on the city, the night threw up the singularity of its sounds. Everything seemed simply to stop running, to be replaced by a silence so penetrating each footfall was heard, each intake of breath. Though both of them instinctively listened for the feint and ominous drone of distant bombers, each knew the weather had interfered to give a night of peace to cities on both sides of this lousy war.

Louis would go inside the synagogue to flush them out, if they were in there; he, himself, would watch the exits, particularly that of the lift from the furnace room. ‘Take care, mon vieux . Shout if you need me.’

‘You also.’

And then he was gone-had vanished inside, into what? wondered Kohler, saying, Ah damn, damn, why does it always have to be us?

When it began to snow quite hard, he knew that God of Louis’s wasn’t treating them very well.

The cellars would be freezing. They’d be damp-that icy dampness that clings and penetrates even two layers of heavy woollen undergarments, socks and sweaters. The river of ice on the crowded, cluttered floor would be slippery. ‘Let’s face it,’ said Kohler, aloud to himself. ‘I hate like hell waiting for things to happen.’

In the furnace room, St-Cyr let the beam of his torch dance uncertainly over the maze of pipes, grey-white beneath their dustings of soot. Now the words NÉNETTE … ANDRÉE … appeared, now ARE WE ALL TO DIE? and then … then LILINE with hardly time for her to finish printing the E.

The firebox door of the furnace had been wired shut. He could swear it hadn’t been like that. Closed, yes, but not secured. Whoever had done it had twisted the wire several times. Was the child in there, then? Had she scrawled in to hide, only to find herself trapped?

Again he shone the torch around the room. Again he had to be certain he was alone. Hermann … Hermann, he began.

Setting the torch down on the overturned bucket the child had used as a stool, he tried to untwist the wire, saying softly. ‘Nénette … Nénette, it’s me, Jean-Louis St-Cyr of the Sûreté.’ Had the Sandman killed her?

The wire had been snipped off with wire cutters. It had been twisted tightly with pliers. Whoever had done this had come prepared.

He cut his fingers. They very nearly froze to the wire. Leaning down, he caught at his sleeve and used it to slide the draught plate open and shone the torch inside.

The firebox was huge, the many-toothed bars of the grate, sturdy. A nest had been built in there of leaves last fall and it would have been big enough for those two girls to have used but had been set afire some hours ago. Now there were only its ashes, grey and light against the deeper, older, more solid ash and clinkers.