Gros-Caillou, the Champ de Mars and Tour Eiffel to the southwest. Money there, too, bien sûr , but the quartier École Militaire was home to retired career officers from that other war and this one too, some of them, and most were nothing more than pompous pains in the ass who would be all too ready to damn an absent fellow officer’s wife if she strayed.
She had taught her evening class at the École Centrale des Arts et Manufactures, over on the rue Vaucanson in the Third. At just after 9.30 p.m., or close to it, she must have stood in the rain on the rue Conté to hail a vélo-taxi ’s little blue light. The college of engineering and manufacturing was popular. Some of those taxis would have been waiting until evening classes were out, but why hadn’t she just run the short distance south to the métro entrance on place Général-Morin? That would have got her home safely.
Though he didn’t want to think it, not with her, not with those kids of hers and a husband locked up in the Reich, it would have to be asked: Had she been on her way to meet someone? She had left the children at home, hadn’t had the cash perhaps to have hired anyone to come in or hadn’t wanted the neighbours to know, yet had had the cash for a taxi.
The passage de la Trinité hadn’t been far, the time perhaps 9.45 or 9.50 p.m. He shuddered at what she had had to go through, couldn’t help but recall other such cases.
When Matron Aurore Aumont of the H ôtel -Dieu found the detective, he was staring bleakly down at the square as many must have done in the old days when dragged there to be anointed with oil before being set afire in the face of God. He looked, she was certain, like a gentilhomme de fortune who had just seen the ashes of his life.
She had been going to tell this gestapiste that there was no soap and little disinfectant, that there had been a 50 percent increase in tuberculosis, wards full of those who had foolishly smoked uncured tobacco, obtained illegally of course, and that appendicitis, ulcers of the stomach and ruptures of the bowel were due entirely to the eating of rutabagas—cattle food! the potatoes having all gone to the Reich. But she couldn’t bring herself to say any of it to this fritz-haired giant with the terrible scar and others far smaller but still far too many to count.
‘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?’
‘Noëlle 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. Noëlle was very competent. It struck me hard to have to dismiss such a promising candidate. One
She had taught her evening class at the École Centrale des Arts et Manufactures, over on the rue Vaucanson in the Third. At just after 9.30 p.m., or close to it, she must have stood in the rain on the rue Conté to hail a vélo-taxi ’s little blue light. The college of engineering and manufacturing was popular. Some of those taxis would have been waiting until evening classes were out, but why hadn’t she just run the short distance south to the métro entrance on place Général-Morin? That would have got her home safely.
Though he didn’t want to think it, not with her, not with those kids of hers and a husband locked up in the Reich, it would have to be asked: Had she been on her way to meet someone? She had left the children at home, hadn’t had the cash perhaps to have hired anyone to come in or hadn’t wanted the neighbours to know, yet had had the cash for a taxi.
The passage de la Trinité hadn’t been far, the time perhaps 9.45 or 9.50 p.m. He shuddered at what she had had to go through, couldn’t help but recall other such cases.
When Matron Aurore Aumont of the H ôtel -Dieu found the detective, he was staring bleakly down at the square as many must have done in the old days when dragged there to be anointed with oil before being set afire in the face of God. He looked, she was certain, like a gentilhomme de fortune who had just seen the ashes of his life.
She had been going to tell this gestapiste that there was no soap and little disinfectant, that there had been a 50 percent increase in tuberculosis, wards full of those who had foolishly smoked uncured tobacco, obtained illegally of course, and that appendicitis, ulcers of the stomach and ruptures of the bowel were due entirely to the eating of rutabagas—cattle food! the potatoes having all gone to the Reich. But she couldn’t bring herself to say any of it to this fritz-haired giant with the terrible scar and others far smaller but still far too many to count.
‘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?’
‘Noëlle 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. Noëlle was very competent. It struck me hard to have to dismiss such a promising candidate. One
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