J. Janes - Tapestry

‘Is it not necessary?’

‘Regine Trudel’s La Source de Joie?’

Why had he asked if he knew all the answers? ‘There, also.’

The Fountainhead of Joy on the avenue Frochot in Pigalle and definitely better than those who trolled the streets. ‘ Ah, bon, mon ami, out with the rest. That wife of his is scared to death of his contracting a heavy dose of the clap. That daughter of his knows all about it too, and may well have a hidden life of her own for all I know at the moment, so give.’

Perhaps if nothing else, this would stop Herr Kohler. ‘La Maison de Plaisir du Maitre.’

The House of the Master’s Pleasure, the SS brothel on the avenue shy; de Wagram. ‘Your judge has an interesting after-dinner life, doesn’t he?’

‘I … I wouldn’t know. I simply do as I’m told.’

‘So tell me where you picked him up last night and don’t lie to me.’

‘Inspector, as I’ve already told you, he gets rides from other taxi drivers, from friends, too, among those he entertains. He must.’

‘Has a blanket pass to be out after curfew, does he?’

An Ausweis . ‘Of course.’

Cigar smoke filled the car. Herr Kohler fiddled with the windscreen wiper switch and checked to see that the blades were not frozen fast. He didn’t say, I’m waiting. He merely implied it. ‘The Lido. Monsieur le Juge, he … he likes to watch the girls there.’

‘While they bathe topless in the swimming pool and sometimes, if the law’s not looking, completely bare the rest for the tips they’re bound to receive?’

‘That is correct.’

‘And now for the hard part, since there’s room for two in that contraption of yours.’

‘He didn’t take anyone from there. The girl hadn’t been feeling well. The headaches-perhaps the onslaught of the flu.’

Oh-oh. ‘What girl?’

Did this one always insist on digging his own grave deeper than necessary? ‘The one he often takes to the flat he keeps on the rue La Boetie.’

Scheisse, a petite amie ! ‘Her name?’

‘He’ll kill me if I tell you. Madame Rouget might find out. She’s a …’

‘Very jealous woman? Surely the judge has told you that?’

‘Elene Artur. She’s … she’s an indochinoise, you understand, but her skin is almost white and I think her father must have been French, the mother the half if not a little more.’

And so much for racism. The generals and the boys who flocked to the Lido would have been fascinated, but had she made that telephone call and, if so, why? ‘Keeps her at the flat, does he?’

‘There are also others he uses it for. The judge doesn’t stay the rest of the night, you understand. Only the hour or two unless he …’

‘Falls asleep?’

‘ Oui . She …’

‘Elene.’

‘ Oui . Elene comes down to the cellar, to the furnace room to get me, and … and together we put him into the taxi.’

‘Pretty, is she?’

‘ Tr e s belle .’

‘Come on, there’s no perhaps about it, is there? Twenty-two, is she? Twenty-four?’

‘Twenty.’

‘Leaves by the side entrance, does she, in the morning after she’s rested up?’

‘Leaves it at five, when the curfew ends. She has a child her mother looks after.’

A child. ‘Whose?’

‘This I don’t know since she doesn’t wear a wedding ring and I’ve not asked.’

The stage doorman at the Lido had said that all its girls had been accounted for but he wouldn’t have said anything of one who had had to leave early, especially not when he’d have known of the judge’s interest in her.

St-Cyr was certain the photos on the Trinite victim’s desk revealed far more of the husband than of herself and the children. Captain Jean-Matthieu Guillaumet had spent time in the colonies. The first tour of duty had been in French Polynesia. After that, he had had a lengthy stay in Indochina, then in the Sudan and, more recently before the 1939 call-up had summoned him home, French West Africa. Like his papa before him, he’d been a graduate of the Ecole Militaire and a career officer.

The wife had, apparently, been left to fend for herself. Bien sur, the husband would have come home on leave-six months perhaps, though three or four were more usual. There were no contraceptives amongst her most personal things-she’d been a good Catholic. There was, as yet, not one hint of her having strayed in all those years. No silk stockings but, like so many women had to these days, had they been sold on the black market? Among the rest, there were no seductive undergarments. One garter belt was neatly to the side of four pairs of plain white cotton briefs. There was not even one pair of the latter for each day of the week. Two slips, one of satin, had seen their wear, an extra brassiere also, but nothing fancy. All of these things were prewar and most of them had been mended, but had she worn the last of her finery? He couldn’t ask the children. Perhaps Madame la Concierge would have noticed?

Attempts at writing the next letter to the husband had been done on thin notepaper first and then scratched out. I must tell you . I have to tell you . I tell you I have no other choice .

On the back of that slip of paper: If only you would ask your parents to accept me as I am and not continue to prejudge .

And on yet another piece of notepaper: If only they could bring themselves to help us a little. They’ve plenty. They don’t need what the government allows of your wages. We do!

Each page had been tightly crumpled before being thrown into the wastepaper basket in despair and left ready for the fireplace.

It was on another piece of paper that he found: Why can they not forgive my one indiscretion? I was young. You were away for months on end and didn’t seem to want me anymore. You could have taken me with you-at least for a little. It wouldn’t have cost that much, but when you did come home, and we did go out, I knew from the looks your fellow officers gave me that you had been with others .

All these efforts had had to be scrapped-for one thing the censors would have played havoc with them, for another, there simply wouldn’t have been enough space.

Oh for sure, I went to Deauville for a little holiday when you were in Indochina. It was only for a few days, as I have told you many times and, yes, I didn’t ask your father’s permission since you were unavailable to me, but why must he and your mother continue to hold it against me and believe the worst? I did nothing wrong. I kept to myself. I walked along the beach in my bare feet or sat in the sun, or watched others as they played tennis or danced in the evenings while I sat alone at my table .

Trying to get a grip on her life-he knew that’s what she’d have been doing, just as Marianne must have done during the constant absences of this detective husband of hers.

Then Madame Guillaumet had had a son, and then a daughter, the cement of them making things all the harder, and then the Defeat had come.

He’d have to ask the concierge and went downstairs. Madame Ouellette had switched to Victor Hugo’s Notre-Dame de Paris .

‘She wore her street clothes, Inspector, but as always, tried to look her best, particularly as she had to spend two hours or more in front of her class. One of her students brought the message from the Ritz where he’s employed as a doorkeeper. I don’t know his name, only that when he came here early last Friday, he was wearing his uniform, so there can be no mistake in that regard.’

And weren’t all such doorkeepers suspected of being procurers? Francine could see him thinking this as a detective should.