J. Janes - Tapestry

‘We?’ snapped Madame la patronne , heaving rounded shoulders as she gestured with both hands to indicate the crowd and stood as tall as himself and Delaroche. ‘Is it that you don’t know why there’s such a rush at this hour, Inspector? No girl or woman dares be out after dark, my clients, my girls and especially myself!’

‘Herr …’ began Delaroche only to think better of it as Bob questioningly lifted eyes to this intruder.

‘It’s Inspector.’

‘Certainly, but could you not hold off for a moment? Petit Bob is almost done.’

‘WE?’ demanded Madame Mailloux again while taking off a nail.

Empty Kripo eyes met hers. ‘My partner, Jean-Louis …’

‘St-Cyr.’ She let a breath escape. Had her number come up again? wondered Benedicte. The years had slipped by, as they will. The winter of 1937 had been and gone, with him barging in here just like this ‘partner’ of his to demand answers to his infernal questions, but that had been after too many other years had passed, the salaud having arrested her for not having had a licence to walk the streets. ‘I heard he was in Lyon,’ she said.

‘A case of arson.’

‘And then in Vichy, was it?’ she hazarded. Everyone was listening, of course.

‘We get all the easy ones but that was later.’

‘And Alsace?’ she asked, pleasantly enough. ‘Colmar, was it not?’

The gossip had reached here. ‘That too.’

‘What is it you want?’ Even Miya Sama, the Pekingese warlord in Madame Jesequel’s lap was listening.

‘A few small questions. Nothing difficult,’ said Kohler blithely. He’d fish about in his pockets and finally pull out the notebook detectives, Gestapo and otherwise, were supposed to fill with all those things that meant so much. ‘Ah, here it is. Registration number 375614.’

‘Lulu.’

The tears that welled up were genuine.

‘Madame de Brisac’s Lulu, Inspector. Have you found her? Never have I seen one so distressed. Every day the questions. Constant telephone calls to the Societe Protectrice des Animaux to beg them not to put any Irish terriers down, especially since it is now long past the one-week period of grace. The Cimetiere des Chiens has been contacted, a mausoleum designed by Lenoir, descendant of the architect Le Roman himself, the one who did the reconstructions at the Royal Abbey of Saint-Antoine-des-Champs in 1770. The stones have already been carved, the inscription done by a poet-I can’t remember which, but …’

‘No remains having been found, she waits in hope,’ said Herr Kohler. Petit Bob, Delaroche knew, was watching this Kripo with interest, having got his scent while licking detective fingers. Sugar … Had Kohler slipped Bob a few loose grains?

‘ Oui, oui, it’s a tragedy,’ said Benedicte. ‘Bedridden, Madame de Brisac depended on Lulu to brighten each day. Denise Rouget and Germaine de Brisac, Madame’s daughter, are constantly on the lookout, but each day brings only its new disappointments and what is one to do when a love such as that is so deep no other dog could ever take her place?’

‘Bedridden?’

‘Cancer. The lungs. The cigarettes. Have you found … ?’

‘Rouget … ? Haven’t I heard that name before?’

‘You must have.’

‘And Germaine de Brisac? Is she also a social worker?’

‘That I wouldn’t know, Inspector.’

‘But you’re sure of it?’

No answer was needed and none would be given!

‘Then just tell me from where Lulu was snatched and when.’

‘Kohler, if you don’t mind, I’ll take Bob and leave.’

‘I do mind, Colonel. Stay put. When I’m finished with this one, I’ll deal with you.’

The Cimetiere des Chiens, that private last stamping ground of dogs and other pets, was on the Ile de la Recette (the “takings”) in the Seine. Tombs and mausoleums, rows of little headstones, wreaths of artificial flowers in winter and more than twenty thousand graves at last count**** but formerly the island home of those who had been paid a pittance to drag corpses from the river.

‘Lulu had just been given a tidy up, Inspector. Three times a week. The Monday, after her walk in the park …’

‘Which park?’

‘The Monceau, of course, so that Madame de Brisac might hear her cries of joy and catch glimpses of her from the bedroom window.’

‘Continue.’

‘Then Thursday, the school holiday-that is when the Mademoiselle de Brisac’s children are home and could play longer in the park with Lulu, sometimes even letting her have a run.’

The park warden and his underwardens wouldn’t have liked that, French parks being what they were. ‘Not married?’

‘The husband was killed during the invasion.’

‘The daughter taking back her maiden name?’

‘They were to have been divorced.’

‘Wasn’t divorce almost as hard to come by under the Third Republic?’

This one was like a barracuda after its dinner! ‘There were family problems. Perhaps the husband wasn’t suitable. Who am I to …’

‘Husband fooling around on her?’

‘I didn’t say that, Inspector.’

‘Kohler …’

‘Be quiet, Colonel. And on Saturday?’

‘Lulu came for the bath and the grooming so as to look her best for Mass, and then …’

‘Her Sunday run in the park.’

‘Oui.’ He would tell her nothing of Lulu.

‘And on which Saturday was she snatched from the park?’

It would have to be said. ‘She wasn’t. Mademoiselle Germaine de Brisac, coming straight from work, had the car, of course, and had put Lulu safely into the backseat. Mademoiselle Rouget had gone into the Lido to see if her dear papa was spending the evening at home and would like a lift.’

And nicely put. ‘Time five twenty or six?’

‘Six thirty.’

‘And Lulu was taken from the car when Germaine de Brisac went to find Denise Rouget in the Lido?’

Dieu merci, he hadn’t asked her the reason for such a delay, which could only mean that he’d find out elsewhere. ‘That … that is correct. Monday, the eleventh of January. It was bitterly cold. I … I went out with my torch to wrap the shawl I always wear at such times around Lulu so that she wouldn’t catch a chill.’

‘Shawl taken?’

‘I had clients to attend to. Lulu was safe. I swear it. I shut the car door and checked to see that it was secure as always.’

‘Describe the shawl. One never knows.’

Must he sigh like that? she wondered.

‘Kohler …’

‘Be patient, Colonel. Take a leaf from Petit Bob. Listen, since it can’t be helped, but don’t make a sound. Have a half a carrot stick and give him the other half. He’s earned it.’

‘I can’t. They make his stools loose.’

‘And that troubles him, doesn’t it?’

‘As much as it does those who might inadvertently step in them.’

Petit Bob looked questioningly from one to the other but grace a Dieu , he hadn’t let out a moan. ‘Inspector, the shawl was of hand-woven wool. Russet, crimson and gold, the colours of a Canadian shy; autumn, for the man who gave it to me when I was a girl of seventeen, was one of those and French too. There was a brooch of my mother’s, a shield in silver with the cabochons of banded ironstone like one of my rings. This one.’

A real knuckle-duster. ‘Louis and I’ll see what we can do. Dog snatching at about six thirty, Monday, January eleventh. That right?’

Serpent! she said silently, sucking in a breath as he wrote it all down. ‘Oui, c’est correct.’

‘And Denise Rouget and Germaine de Brisac went to school together?’

Why could he not understand that one had to be so careful these days, that everyone was listening as they watched and that among them were those who would quite willingly, if encouraged, write damning letters to the authorities while hiding behind the innocence of anonymity? ‘I did not say that, Inspector. It’s not my practice, or that of any of my girls, to divulge information of any kind about my clients even to such as yourself, but since you demand it before reliable witnesses, then, yes, they did.’