the farm.â
Hermann always had to have the last word. One had to let him. It was best that way. Sometimes.
They went at it in silence. The armoire, although substantial, held only five dresses, a couple of hats and one pair of shoes, but the dresses were of good quality, pre-war, as were the high-heels. The shoes were crimson to match a sleeveless sheath whose neckline was a modest concave, the wool so soft and fine it felt like a womanâs skin when warm.
The girl would have looked well in that crimson dress, with a black slip to match her hair, a black lace-trimmed brassière and black underpants, ah yes, except, of course, that the hair was not naturally black at all but very light, as evidenced by the hairs on her forearms.
A blonde. These days blondes were at a premium. Blondes with blue or violet eyes â grey even.
So sheâd taken great pains to hide the fact. An almost complete dye job.
âLouis, take a look at this.â
A stuffed canary.
âIt was nestled in its own little box on a bed of crushed velvet. There was an elastic band around the wings and breast â this one.â Kohler expanded the elastic. âHeavy and thick, but the wings donât seem to need holding in.â
Gingerly St-Cyr took the canary from him. The birdâs skin had been tightly sewn, fitting the little body to perfection. âNot a feather out of place, Hermann. Did the girl often take it out to caress it, I wonder?â
âPerhaps she was lonely? Is that what you mean?â
âThe work of an artiste,â he said, not pausing to comment on the Gestapoâs offering. âA real taxidermist, Hermann. No ordinary stuffer of neighbourhood cats and dogs in good times when there is money for such remembrances. Ah no, not this one. The set of the beak and the eyes are too real. He has captured the bird in death as in life.â
âThen why the elastic band?â
âWhy the coins, Hermann? Why any of this? Why the abandonment by Talbotte, eh, unless the higher-ups want to burn us?â
The girlâs identity card, residence papers and ration tickets had been stuffed into a stocking, along with seven 100-franc bills and a clatter of sous.
âChristiane Baudelaire, a student, Louis. The Ãcole des Beaux-Arts. Twenty-two years, two months and seven days.â
The photo was passable. It was the corpse all right.
St-Cyr ran an exasperated hand through the thickness of his dark-brown hair. âBaudelaire was a poet who lived in poverty, Hermann. The girl has chosen well.â
âItâs not her name? But the photo, Louis? Itâs ââ
Though he knew he shouldnât, St-Cyr let him have it with acid. âA student? This room? Everything about it says she lived elsewhere, Hermann. There is no laundry, no food, no crumbs! Too few clothes. Ah Mon Dieu , if an art student, then where, please, are the sketches, where the much-guarded portfolio, eh? Where the chalks, the paints, the canvases that are so difficult to come by these days? The rags with the turpentine, Hermann? The smock?â
âOkay, okay, I get the point. Donât let grief and guilt over Marianne and Philippe get your ass in a knot. Just remember Iâm your friend.â
âOf course. Forgive me. But, Hermann, there is not even a piece of gum-arabic eraser? Not even the smell of paint? No, my friend, this was but a room for one purpose.â
âThen whereâs the real ID?â
âOutside, in the courtyard, under a stone. In behind something, Hermann. She would not have walked the streets without it. Not this one.â
Gestapo streets. Jackbooted streets. The patrols, the curfew.
âPerhaps she left the ID with a friend,â offered Kohler lamely.
âPerhaps, but then â¦â
St-Cyr thought better of saying it. The friend, if there was one, could well be dead or in hiding.
âLouis, this thing is fast becoming too big for