Sandman Read Free Page A

sides. On the reverse, the cross and the twelve equally spaced stars denoting the Apostles or the twelve tribes of Israel. A first-communion present, perhaps, or one for confirmation, but not our victim’s. Her ears, they are not pierced.’
    Merde , it never bothered Louis to work so close to a corpset Never! He enjoyed it ‘Her chaim bracelet is of dogs, in silver. A dachshund, a spaniel a border terrier, but one is missing. It’s been purposely removed, I think The loop that held it is still here but has been squeezed to death with the pliers.’
    â€˜Is there anything else?’
    â€˜Lots. A handkerchief bearing the heiress’s initials. A small, gold-capped Lalique vial of perfume. Good stuff, too. And one turquoise-on-silver tiepin that’s been stepped on and has its shaft bent. No clutchback to it, though. That’s missing. And some chewing gum, the ersatz stuff. Pink and horrible and chewed to blazes before being wrapped in a scrap of newspaper.’
    â€˜To be saved for a rainy day.’
    â€˜Five forgotten raisins among the lint. No coins. Two elastic bands—extras for her braids, probably.’ And then, anticipating Louis’s question, ‘ Ja, ja, mein brillant Detektiv Französisch , there are some tangled black hairs. Long ones.’
    St-Cyr nodded grimly. ‘Then our victim wears the coat not of herself but of her friend, the heiress, who may, perhaps, wear this one’s.’
    â€˜And that, mon fin , can only mean they planned to switch coats again and must have thought they could get away with whatever they were up to, only the Sandman stepped in.’
    â€˜If it really was him. If , Hermann. This we really do not know.’
    Were things not right? Kohler hesitated. He thought of the death’s-head cap badge, the medal and the wound badges … They’d have to go carefully. They couldn’t jump to conclusions. ‘Then let’s keep the identity switch to ourselves for the moment, eh? Let’s talk to the parents first and get a feel for what’s been going on?’
    This was heresy, but had the identity switch been done so as to throw the killer off? Just why had he had to rip off her hat and check her identity papers?
    Had a mistake been made and, if so, did he not now realize it? And where, please, was her hat? Now thrown away or hidden, never to be found?
    â€˜First leave me alone with her. Go and talk to the sous-préfet. Find out where the custodian of this cage is and ask him why he was not around to prevent such a tragedy.’
    â€˜At about three o’clock this afternoon, the new time. Berlin Time.’
    And in winter an hour ahead, so four o’clock the old time and with the shadows quickly gathering. ‘He’ll have been flogging doves on the black market, Hermann. Pluck his feathers for us.’
    Hermann needed little jobs like that. They brought out the best in him. Reaching over the corpse, St-Cyr said a whispered, ‘Forgive me, my child, but we have to talk a little, you and I, and I cannot stand to look at your eyes any longer.’
    Closing them, he knelt a moment seemingly in quiet contemplation while the cameras of the mind filmed the body from every possible angle, noting near the end that horse manure had been smeared among the droppings on the floor beneath the snow—the boots of the police perhaps, the killer, the custodian or themselves, the child also. The stables and riding trails were near.
    Only then did he find between the last of the bins of droppings beside her left shoulder a small and folded scrap of white notepaper. It had been hidden by the snow.
    Opening it, he read, Je t’aime . I love you. It was signed Nénette .
    Outside the ring of lights Kohler found no comfort.
    â€˜Monsieur l’Inspecteur, the family … Please, someone must speak to them, yes? The aunt … Madame Vernet, is distraught. The uncle, Monsieur Vernet, he … he is a man