J. Janes - Dollmaker

Schultz shook his head. ‘You forget the Préfet. You forget your side window. Someone had to break it. Not me. I’m just here to protect Vati.’

‘The others will tell Louis I was with you.’

‘They won’t say a thing. Vati won’t let them. Vati must know all about the doll by now, but I’m loyal to him, Herr Kohler. He’s our Dollmaker. He’s the only one who can bring us home.’

In single file, and tightly grouped, the four of them made their way through the fog. St-Cyr brought up the rear. The Préfet’s gun was in his hand. Would they ever reach the car? Would one of them not try to bolt and run or take the revolver from him?

Kerjean was immediately in front, then the woman. The pianist, who knew the bog best, was in the lead but would he take them on a wide detour so as to stall for time, would he lose them and slip away?

He had set the spear point carefully on a hummock and had gingerly raised his hands in surrender. As he had got up, the Préfet had said, ‘Why didn’t you do as I asked?’

Charbonneau had replied, ‘Don’t ask when you already know the answer.’

No one had spoken since then. Exhausted, afraid, each had kept their thoughts but which was the killer of le Trocquer, or was that person still absent?

There were so many questions and all of them raised others. Worst of all perhaps was his not being able either to sit down quietly to think things through, or to meet with Hermann to bounce things off him and get his feedback. They worked as a team yet were forced by circumstance and this blasted terrain, this … this pagan landscape, to work largely alone. Each half of the partnership would know things the other half did not.

The last time they had been together, a little more than twenty-four hours ago, they had helped with the bomb damage in Lorient and he had told Hermann of his two sons and had used their deaths to make him see things from Kerjean’s point of view which had not been fair. Ah no, most certainly, but war makes even the best of friends from opposite sides think first of their own kind, stupid though that is and always has been.

He had told Hermann of the telescope and the Préfet’s son. He had asked him to say nothing of it. ‘Victor’s a good man,’ he had said. ‘Don’t blame him for wanting to get the boy out of France.’

Hermann had wanted to know if the shopkeeper had been aware of the escape. He had said he wanted to look at the Dollmaker’s report on the state of the crew.

Had he found a report on the Captain? Had the Dollmaker been in Paris for some kind of medical assessment — was that why Kaestner had gone straight to the clay pits with such an urgency it defied rational comprehension? Surely the day after New Year’s would have sufficed? U-297 wasn’t putting to sea immediately on his return. Yet he had sent messages on ahead to tell others where he would be on a day when the pits would be closed and only the watchman would be present.

Baumann had taken the message to the Charbonneaus. Both had known of its contents as had the child.

Angélique, wanting to put a stop to the love affair, had got her father to take her to Quiberon the day before the murder to buy some candlesticks from the man who would then take the doll she had left in the shop and go out to confront the Captain with it. The child had known of the shopkeeper and had seen so clearly what he would do. The man had delivered messages to their house.

‘Kämmer and Reinhardt …’ he muttered, his voice well muffled by the fog. Hélène Charbonneau had caught up with that shopkeeper who had then thrust the doll into her hands. She had backed away in terror until out of sight and had stood and dropped the doll at the sound of … of another voice, yes, yes, a sharp accusation of its own, then a skull’s crushing, perhaps a gasp, perhaps only the sound of the switch-bar as it had hit the rails on being cast aside.

But had she told the complete truth? Was she still trying to protect the husband, just as he had been trying to shield the daughter by hiding the briefcase and the doll?

She had had ample reason to kill le Trocquer, so, too, had the husband, and if she had lied before, could she not still be lying?

Quickly he ran through the sequence of events: the confrontation, the receiving of the doll, the backing away, the challenge to le Trocquer from behind, then the killing, the dropping of the doll and, a few minutes later, the hesitant viewing of the body and escape, after which the husband recovers the doll and the Captain then finds the bisque.

But had it been like that? Were there not other pieces to fit into the thing? The Préfet for one?

The line had come to a stop. The Renault appeared out of the fog, sitting just as they had left it, at the side of the road.

‘Jean-Louis …’

‘Victor, I am asking you to trust me, even as I am now asking you, madame, and you, monsieur. Either one of you killed le Trocquer or none of you. We will return to the house but I must ask that you give me your word not to try anything.’

‘What good is the word of a killer?’ asked Kerjean bitterly.

‘You will sit in the back, Victor. Madame, get in the front passenger’s seat. Monsieur, please drive carefully. This gun will be on the three of you and I will not hesitate.’

‘Then Victor will only try to get you to kill him,’ said the woman sadly.

‘And that is why, madame, I must put these bracelets on him. Préfet, I am sorry for the humiliation and the apprehension they will cause, but I cannot have you dead before giving the guillotine its final answer.’

‘You’re a fool! You always were a stuffed shirt! Answering the guillotine? Pah! Then ask yourself about the Dollmaker. Ask what he would do?’

The handcuffs were secure. ‘I already have and I know exactly where he is.’

‘And Angélique?’ asked the woman. ‘Where is she? Please, you must tell me. I’ll never forgive myself if anything has happened to her.’

‘At home among her dolls on the chaise-longue where you were to have poisoned yourself.’

The sound of the car was lost in the fog but then it came to them again and Schultz heaved a grateful sigh. ‘The Captain,’ he said. ‘We’ll let him decide what to do with you.’

The cook rolled down his side window. The sound of the car grew at a bend. It was negotiating the first of the alignments. Almost imperceptibly Kohler began to lower his hands towards the steering wheel. Anything was worth a try. There was a Beretta strapped to his left calf and just itching to be fired. ‘Look, why not get out, eh? He’ll squeeze right past us. He’ll only think you boys were too pissed to continue and decided to sleep it off.’

Schultz hesitated. He couldn’t seem to make up his mind, but at last he said, ‘Don’t try anything. You first. I’ll follow. Take it slowly.’

‘Just let me tie my shoelace.’

The cold muzzle of the pistol was pressed hard against the back of Kohler’s neck. Some glass fell from the side window and they both heard it hit the running board as the door opened.

Once on the road, Death’s-head made him raise his arms. ‘Now we wait and you can count the seconds.’

The car came on but the sound of it seemed to come from all directions until, suddenly, there it was out of the fog with its headlamps staring at them and its engine still ticking over.

‘Hey, I’ve seen that car before,’ quipped Kohler gratefully. ‘It’s Préfet Kerjean but he’s not at the wheel.’

Schultz didn’t like it. ‘Get back in the lorry! Don’t fuck about.’ He grabbed an ear but it refused to budge.

‘The woman’s with her husband. My partner’s getting out. If you shoot me now, my friend, he’ll nail you right between the eyes. Fog or no fog, that one can hit a flea on a whore’s ass at twenty paces and not even touch the skin.’