Sandman by J. Robert Janes Page A

hand and the wrist-watch dovetailed perfectly into the image of wealth and success.
    The face was broad, the forehead high, the fine grey-white hair not parted but brushed straight back and perfectly trimmed. The burnish of a slight windburn suggested he had recently been outdoors on holiday—had he been skiing at Chamonix?
    A banker, an industrialist—a man not just of money and power but one who, as with every new situation, had already assessed this one and leapt ahead to the successful conclusion he wanted.
    The eyes were a North Sea blue, the lips compressed, the expression, though calm, the merest touch quizzical.
    â€˜Gentlemen, I see you have met my wife. Bernadette, ma chére , give the inspector his coat and go upstairs. You will be freezing.’
    He was leaning slightly back against a magnificently gilded ebony Boulle commode, and the Savonnerie carpet of the marble staircase swept upwards behind him beneath a gorgeous Flemish tapestry that must date from the twelfth century.
    Dutifully she set the dog down and handed the leash to Kohler, who took Louis’s fedora as well, while the Sûreté politely removed the coat from her and shrugged himself back into it.
    Her bare toes formed crimson islands in the tiny puddles the dog began voraciously to lick.
    â€˜Bernadette,’ said Vernet, with a nod so slight she bowed her head and whispered, Yes, of course, Antoine. It’s … it’s only that my heart is broken. I … Pompon, don’t do that! Ah, you naughty boy. My legs, my snuffie, my little forest—’
    â€˜My dear, we are waiting.’
    â€˜Madame, a moment,’ cautioned the Sûreté, holding the flat of a restraining hand up at the industrialist. ‘Your face … the scratches.’ Hermann had reined in the dog.
    Hesitantly she touched the scratches. Inflamed, they ran from high on a prominent cheekbone right down the narrow face to the lower left jaw. There were four of them.
    â€˜I … I did it in anguish. I tore my hair, I slapped myself, too.’ She turned her right cheek towards him. ‘As I said, Inspector, I am so distressed. Nénette was … was very dear to me.’
    If Vernet thought anything of it, he gave no indication. Was he content to let her hang herself? wondered St-Cyr. Things were certainly not quite right. She was tall, a brunette with a fine, high chin, nice lips, a sharp and very aquiline nose, but eyes … eyes that pleaded for understanding and said, from the depths of their moist brown irises, You warmed my feet. You listened to me. Please remember what I said.
    A woman of thirty-five, a man of sixty-four.
    A maid came to take the dog away. Vernet didn’t even glance at her but the girl, pale and badly shaken by the death, instinctively felt the master was watching her and avoided looking up.
    Bernadette Vernet took the stairs with dignity and only at the curve of the staircase let the peignoir fall to the carpet to expose bare arms and squared, fine shoulders, the nightdress of silk.
    Hermann was impressed and St-Cyr could hear him giving her credit for a perfect exit. A handsome woman and proud of it, but not entirely a happy wife. Ah no.
    â€˜Gentlemen, please state your business.’
    â€˜Our business is murder, monsieur,’ said St-Cyr, swiftly turning towards him. ‘Perhaps you would be good enough to accompany me to the morgue. There is some question of identity. A simple glance from yourself should be enough.’
    Not a flicker of unease registered. ‘What do you mean, some question …?’
    Ah! was he a glacier? ‘Please, that is best settled with the victim before us.’
    â€˜And your partner?’ asked Vernet, still unruffled and giving the tiniest glance at Hermann.
    One must be affable. ‘Detective-Inspector Kohler will question the staff, with your permission. Nothing formal. There is the absence of Mademoiselle Chambert, you understand. We are