J. Janes - Tapestry

‘Monsieur, you wished to see me?’

‘Has Madame Guillaumet said anything?’

‘Not to us. There may be memory loss simply from hunger, you understand. Like so many these days, it’s the little things first that one forgets, and not just with the rape cases, which are never easy, as I can see you are only too aware.’

As if it mattered deeply to him, he said that he and his French partner handled only common crime. ‘We’re floaters,’ he said, and that they had been brought in especially to deal with this tidal wave of blackout crime and could use all the help she could give. ‘The girl who let the press in?’

‘Noelle Jourdan.’

‘How could they have gotten to her?’

‘The press, they have their ways. I wouldn’t know, of course.’

‘But might have an idea?’

Was this one on an amphetamine-Benzedrine perhaps? she wondered. He had a nice grin, not unkind and though the accent, it was harsh to sensitive ears, he did speak French and was not like so many others of the Occupier who didn’t even bother to learn a few words. ‘Inspector, is it that you would shut us down at such a time? Those who must have helped them get to Mademoiselle Jourdan have been set the example of her dismissal in disgrace. Now, of course, they tremble that they’ll be next. Is that not enough?’

A wise woman. ‘Tell me about the girl. Her age, address, training-give me as much as possible in the limited time you have to spare.’

‘Nineteen. The mother’s dead. The girl lives alone with her father at 25 place des Vosges. Noelle was very competent. It struck me hard to have to dismiss such a promising candidate. One invests the time, n’est-ce pas ? One cares deeply, rejoices at each step of progress and then …’ She shrugged. ‘The young, they abandon you.’

‘Two thousand francs wasn’t much.’

Enough to buy perhaps three days of food, but he’d seen that too, this one. ‘Inspector, I simply don’t know who paid her, only that when confronted, the girl cried out that she had done her duty. To whom, I ask?’

Her duty … ‘Was she forced into agreeing, do you think?’

‘Did they get to her because they knew they could, is this what you are saying? If it is, the answer must be that I couldn’t possibly know.’

There was absolutely nothing else he could do. To offer money to make sure the woman didn’t kill herself would only insult the matron who, by one of the pins she wore, had been made a widow by the 1914-1918 hostilities as so many had been: 1,390,000 Frenchmen, with another 740,000 left permanently disabled. ‘Take care of her then, madame.’

* * *

The police academy victim’s fingers were stumps. Shreds of skin and splintered bone suggested that in places at least two or even three jabs with the shovel had been necessary; in others, the severing had been immediate.

Anger? wondered St-Cyr. Hatred? Haste? Unfamiliarity with such an action? A new shovel, an old one? These days, obtaining a new one would have been all but impossible. Had the shovel, then, not been used much and therefore not blunt along its cutting edge?

‘As sharp as shovels go,’ conceded Armand Tremblay. ‘There is rust, Jean-Louis. Oxidized flakes of the metal are embedded in the face and will have to be retrieved later, but for now, an old shovel, long-handled, though one not used much and therefore sharp.’

‘A killer who doesn’t throw anything out or sell it?’

‘Or one who has access to such items. Didn’t you say one of your Drouant victims was involved with … ?’

‘Cement. That one couldn’t have done it. He’d have used his fists or a sledgehammer, but with this one a thumb and forefinger would be most useful. Was it the killer who stamped on the hands to open them, or one of his accomplices?’

‘Whoever it was, he didn’t wear rubber boots. Here and here again, there are what appear to be the marks of hobnails.’

Again they both looked questioningly at the sewer. ‘Jean-Louis, I really must insist. Who needs a drowned detective or one that’s on his deathbed from hypothermia?’

‘You sound like Hermann. You worry too much about the wrong things. Haussmann and Eugene Belgrand, his chief engineer, weren’t idiots when they put such things in place.’

A hundred years ago …

‘But is it a lateral for the runoff?’ went on Jean-Louis. ‘Sometimes Belgrand would have a weir installed to hold back the larger solids, which could then be periodically removed by lifting the grille and using a shovel, a long-handled one, too, at that, I must add. At other times a catchment was installed at the bottom of the shaft for exactly the same reason and also, again, to hold objects that might have accidentally been dropped.’

In an age of pocket watches, wrought-iron keys, flintlock pistols and little leather bags of coins. The end of one era, the beginnings of another.

A glance up the stairwell revealed unabated rain. Out on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honore there would be nothing but the hush of hurrying bicycles and the click-clack of wooden-soled shoes, the eyes not purposely averted from this scene of horror if the press had indeed brought notice to it, simply gazes that were empty of all feeling.

‘Ours is a funereal city, Armand,’ he said of the Occupation. ‘The sound of laughter is often as rare as that of tears. Instead, there is usually nothing but a numb indifference.’

The area beneath the victim had yielded only the grey granite of the paving stones and iron of the grille. Jean-Louis peeled off coat, jacket, pullover, shirt and undershirt. The thick dark brown hair was pushed out of the way, the bushy moustache tweaked as if he was about to step into the boxing ring.

An iron bar had been obtained to prise the grille open. Lowering it into the sewer, he probed for the bottom and when, perhaps a metre or so below, it was touched, said, ‘ Dieu merci, perhaps I’ve been spared the necessity of holding the breath.’

The force of the water was not great but because of the quantity, there was backup and the lateral full. Reaching down with both arms fully extended, the walls could be felt and gently probed, each brick’s outline followed.

‘ Ah, mon Dieu , the things one has to do!’ he shouted. ‘If Hermann could see me now, I’d never hear the last of it!’

Up he came again, to catch a breath. ‘We’ll probably have to wait for help,’ he said, his teeth chattering.

There were no fingers, there was no weir, no catchment either, it seemed. Repeated attempts failed to yield anything, thought Tremblay, ready with a towel.

‘It’s not later than Haussmann,’ Jean-Louis was forced to admit after a last dip. ‘It’s definitely not recent. The weir is of cast iron and has rusted through but has held back a little something.’

Like a secretive schoolboy of ten, a frozen fist was opened. Hadn’t Napoleon been the one to say men were ruled best by baubles?

‘Vanity?’ managed Jean-Louis as he rushed to dry off and get dressed. ‘Pride? The joys of possession, eh?’

Not just any award, but the thin red ribbon of the Legion d’honneur.

‘Was it ripped from the lapel of his killer’s overcoat?’ he exhaled. ‘Caught on the barb of a decayed weir.’

The ribbon was more often worn on the lapel of the suit jacket.

‘There’s only one problem, Armand. Well, two, no three,’ he went on. ‘First, of course, it may not have been the killer’s, but if it is, he could have been awarded it for honest reasons, either civilian or military, and therefore his arrest might be difficult, especially these days if he’s a friend of the Occupier.’

‘Or?’

‘You know the answer as well as I do.’