the colonnade. Beyond them, the trees were tall; beyond those lay the fence and some of the hôtels particuliers of the very wealthy. Nice … it must be nice to live there and overlook the park.
Beyond these residences lay the boulevard de Courcelles and the boulevard Malesherbes.
The warden, in his cape, hat, rubber boots and faded blue coveralls, was watching as two of the underwardens carefully removed the earth. ‘Inspectors …’
Ten fingers—were all of them here to remind him of the trenches of that other war? wondered Kohler.
The grave was shallow. ‘A dog’s ear, Hermann.’
There were mutters of consternation. ‘I can see that, Louis. A terrier’s. Irish probably. Is there a tattoo?’
All dogs with a pedigree, and this was a quartier for them, would wear their registration number inside an ear.
The fur was rusty coloured and more shaggy than wiry but still, the ear was long and pointed as it should be and there were two of them and the tail and paws as further proof, and not dead that long, thought Kohler. Maybe a day, maybe two or three, given that it was still winter. ‘Number 375614, Louis. Skinned, the pelt sold or kept, but in either case to be tanned for further use, the rest consigned to the stew pot or soup.’
Dog snatching had become rife, felt St-Cyr. Household pets of all kinds were at risk. Notices, posted on walls, warned of the dangers of eating cats, since the vermin they might have consumed would surely carry disease. And hadn’t the average family or individual already seen nearly 80 percent of their wage packet’s prewar purchasing power vanish? Hadn’t those same wages been frozen at 1939 levels? Wasn’t the Occupation’s horrendous inflation one of its most tragic curses, the consequences being suicide and lawlessness? ‘I’ll just bag these, Hermann, and we’ll be on our way.’
The passage de la Trinité, that of the Jouffroy, the Restaurant Drouant and the police academy … A vélo-taxi theft and the beating-rape of its passenger and purse-snatching, a safecracking with clay from the sewers, a brutal mugging, slashing, deliberate humiliation and another handbag snatch, a violent murder and a missing pet.
‘Assignments that are given on purpose and others that are not, Hermann.’
‘The stench of fish oil. A man with a gut.’
‘Grease, and two wedding rings. It’s curious, is it not, that both the Trinité victim and one of the Drouant victims have absent husbands.’
Who were languishing in prisoner-of-war camps in the Reich or farther to the east—they’d found this out when they’d taken Giselle and Oona to the Trinité victim’s flat to look after the children. ‘Did the assailant or assailants know beforehand where each of the victims would be, Louis?’
That, too, was a good question for which there could, as yet, be no adequate answer.
2
When the boys heard the sound of the Citroën at 8.42 a.m., they knew absolutely who it was. That big, black, beautiful traction avant slid to a stop down there at number 3 rue Laurence Savart in Belleville. Antoine Courbet’s mother did the cleaning but never the washing-up. Hadn’t Monsieur Jean-Louis once said that such a humble activity was the best way of relieving tension and that he’d better keep doing it so long as the pots hadn’t burned the dinner. What dinner?
‘He’s home at last,’ said Guy Vachon with a sigh. They’d be late for school.
‘It’s been ages since we’ve seen him,’ said Dédé Labelle. ‘At least a week.’
Together they stood in the rain those two detectives. ‘They look exhausted,’ whispered Guy. ‘Has there been trouble?’
‘There’s always trouble for them,’ whispered Antoine. ‘Maybe your papa can find them another set of side mirrors.’
They all knew that Monsieur Jean-Louis didn’t like using the black market or imposing on the neighbours. Hadn’t Antoine been the one to suggest his mother look after the house in the chief inspector’s absence
Beyond these residences lay the boulevard de Courcelles and the boulevard Malesherbes.
The warden, in his cape, hat, rubber boots and faded blue coveralls, was watching as two of the underwardens carefully removed the earth. ‘Inspectors …’
Ten fingers—were all of them here to remind him of the trenches of that other war? wondered Kohler.
The grave was shallow. ‘A dog’s ear, Hermann.’
There were mutters of consternation. ‘I can see that, Louis. A terrier’s. Irish probably. Is there a tattoo?’
All dogs with a pedigree, and this was a quartier for them, would wear their registration number inside an ear.
The fur was rusty coloured and more shaggy than wiry but still, the ear was long and pointed as it should be and there were two of them and the tail and paws as further proof, and not dead that long, thought Kohler. Maybe a day, maybe two or three, given that it was still winter. ‘Number 375614, Louis. Skinned, the pelt sold or kept, but in either case to be tanned for further use, the rest consigned to the stew pot or soup.’
Dog snatching had become rife, felt St-Cyr. Household pets of all kinds were at risk. Notices, posted on walls, warned of the dangers of eating cats, since the vermin they might have consumed would surely carry disease. And hadn’t the average family or individual already seen nearly 80 percent of their wage packet’s prewar purchasing power vanish? Hadn’t those same wages been frozen at 1939 levels? Wasn’t the Occupation’s horrendous inflation one of its most tragic curses, the consequences being suicide and lawlessness? ‘I’ll just bag these, Hermann, and we’ll be on our way.’
The passage de la Trinité, that of the Jouffroy, the Restaurant Drouant and the police academy … A vélo-taxi theft and the beating-rape of its passenger and purse-snatching, a safecracking with clay from the sewers, a brutal mugging, slashing, deliberate humiliation and another handbag snatch, a violent murder and a missing pet.
‘Assignments that are given on purpose and others that are not, Hermann.’
‘The stench of fish oil. A man with a gut.’
‘Grease, and two wedding rings. It’s curious, is it not, that both the Trinité victim and one of the Drouant victims have absent husbands.’
Who were languishing in prisoner-of-war camps in the Reich or farther to the east—they’d found this out when they’d taken Giselle and Oona to the Trinité victim’s flat to look after the children. ‘Did the assailant or assailants know beforehand where each of the victims would be, Louis?’
That, too, was a good question for which there could, as yet, be no adequate answer.
2
When the boys heard the sound of the Citroën at 8.42 a.m., they knew absolutely who it was. That big, black, beautiful traction avant slid to a stop down there at number 3 rue Laurence Savart in Belleville. Antoine Courbet’s mother did the cleaning but never the washing-up. Hadn’t Monsieur Jean-Louis once said that such a humble activity was the best way of relieving tension and that he’d better keep doing it so long as the pots hadn’t burned the dinner. What dinner?
‘He’s home at last,’ said Guy Vachon with a sigh. They’d be late for school.
‘It’s been ages since we’ve seen him,’ said Dédé Labelle. ‘At least a week.’
Together they stood in the rain those two detectives. ‘They look exhausted,’ whispered Guy. ‘Has there been trouble?’
‘There’s always trouble for them,’ whispered Antoine. ‘Maybe your papa can find them another set of side mirrors.’
They all knew that Monsieur Jean-Louis didn’t like using the black market or imposing on the neighbours. Hadn’t Antoine been the one to suggest his mother look after the house in the chief inspector’s absence
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