Free Dollmaker by J. Robert Janes Page B

nothing.’
    But now you are afraid, thought St-Cyr, glancing at the Dollmaker and the Bullet. ‘The value, please?’
    Nom de Jésus-Christ , what did it mean, this attack? ‘A few francs.’
    â€˜And the reason for his “getting in a huff”, Préfet?’
    Jean-Louis was serious. ‘This I have already mentioned, Chief Inspector. The money, yes? Is time of so little value to you?’
    â€˜Time is to murder what salt is to an open wound. One or both of you cried out the name of a Madame Charbonneau. This was heard by the daughter and the mother also, I believe, though that one steadfastly denies it.’
    Exasperated, Kerjean blew out his cheeks and tossed the hand of inconsequence. ‘And the former, Jean-Louis? That little slut? Paulette le Trocquer would lie for the sheer pleasure of seeing if she could get you to believe her!’
    â€˜What do you think was in the briefcase?’ asked Kohler.
    Startled by this new direction of attack, the Préfet’s eyes narrowed swiftly. ‘The money? Is this what you two think?’
    â€˜I’m asking.’
    â€˜Then I do not know, Inspector. Since the Captain’s money has been missing for some time.’
    â€˜How long, please?’ asked St-Cyr.
    Would the two of them keep it up? wondered the Dollmaker. So far so good.
    â€˜I … I can’t be sure, but at least eight weeks. Its absence was discovered by Monsieur le Trocquer just before U-297 returned to the Keroman bunkers on the 5th November. Privately he accused his daughter of the theft. The girl still denies it and did so then.’
    It would be best to shift the direction of attack. ‘Was the submarine badly damaged, Préfet?’ asked Louis.
    Again there was that swift, dark look from Kerjean. ‘Why not ask the Captain? Let him tell you.’
    â€˜Perhaps I will,’ said St-Cyr, moving the cigarette package until it was directly in front of him. ‘I want first to settle one thing, Préfet. Since you and Monsieur le Trocquer argued about Madame Charbonneau what, please, is your relationship with her?’
    Me, a married man with six children, is that it, eh? wondered Kerjean. It was. Ah, Jean-Louis, how could you do this to me? ‘That is a private matter, Chief Inspector. I am not on trial here, nor am I under suspicion, or am I because of the word of a girl who wants only to escape the boredom of her little life?’
    Why must he be so difficult? wondered St-Cyr, greatly troubled by him and saddened, too, at the thought that perhaps the Préfet was trying to protect someone or had done the killing himself. ‘It would help if you told us.’
    Ah damn that girl Paulette. ‘Madame Charbonneau is a friend, that is all. I have many friends in the Morbihan. I make it my business to know the people with whom I may one day have to deal on matters of the law.’
    It had been spoken like a good cop, yes, of course, but … ‘And the husband of this woman, Préfet,’ asked St-Cyr, ‘is he a friend also?’
    Prepare yourself then, Louis. Prepare yourself my fine little buzzard from Paris. ‘Both Sous-Préfet le Troadec and myself have many times returned him to her, Chief Inspector, and that is the extent and the beginning of my friendship with them. They are lost, yes? Like so many who ran from the invasion of 1940, they cannot find the will or courage to return to Paris. Like all great artists, Monsieur Charbonneau seeks in the things around him the inspiration for his work and the reason for his being. He “hears” a symphony he wishes to write. Who am I, a simple policeman, to question such as him? But when the weather is very bad and I find him out in it digging for bits of pottery and old bones or flint axes among the megaliths, I take him home to his wife and daughter.’
    â€˜You did it,’ said Kaestner flatly. ‘You killed that shopkeeper.’
    â€˜I did