Sandman by J. Robert Janes Page A

chest. There was a distant castle on a hill in the background.
    He uncrumpled the tube of paint—the girls would have been fascinated by it. Without breaking the rigor, he could not examine her fingernails but wondered if there would be traces of the paint.
    Suddenly he said aloud, ‘Where are your underpants? It is a puzzle, for a girl such as yourself would not have gone without them. Not to here, not to any place, and they would have been freshly laundered and ironed as well.’
    Though he searched the room as best he could without disturbing things, he could not see them. They’d been taken—he was certain of it. An interrupted attempt at tidying up, he wondered, or simply to either reuse or sell on the black market? Underwear was constantly in demand—after every film performance the usherettes in the cinemas collected the forgotten or misplaced underpants of those females who could find no other suitable place in which to make love. Needless to say, the boyfriends kept theirs on. Women had all the hard luck. Illegitimate babies were an ever-increasing aspect of the Occupation the Germans patently ignored, yet syphilis they dreaded and it, too, was rampant.
    Nothing else had been taken. Not her gloves, her beret, her scarf or overcoat, all of which were of good quality and would have fetched far better prices.
    Impulsively he yanked the dusty drapes aside to let in the cold grey light of day and stare emptily down at the Seine and ask, ‘Did Vernet force his attentions on you—is that why you didn’t go to him for help—help that would have saved your life? And what , please, of Madame Vernet? Surely she must have known or suspected what was going on?’
    The industrialist should have taken precautions. It was a logical assumption, but he knew beyond doubt Vernet would have done no such thing. Too arrogant, too wealthy—why spoil the fun when you’ve got a naked eighteen-year-old girl in your lap? So many of the wealthy played around, their affairs were legend.
    There were no bruises on her inner thighs, no love bites though he hated the necessity of looking and apologized. No scratches, no signs of resistance or passion. Had she simply let Vernet do it to her in that room at the head of the stairs or in the flat he had rented for her friend?
    And where, really, was that boy, that fellow student? Probably vanished into thin air like so many these days.
    Von Schaumburg would hit the roof. Criminal abortions, sex out of wedlock … A boyfriend who was a homosexual—that, too, would cause trouble.
    Liline Chambert’s identity papers gave her age as nineteen years seven months, a home address in Orléans, where the Vernet interests manufactured farm machinery, tractors and gasoline engines. It was a good place for an accountant to reside, especially if one’s trusted employer was to assist in a daughter’s education.
    She hadn’t even cried out as she had died. She had just been hit by the shock; a waste, a crime, a shame, a tragedy. There was no law that would blame Vernet. All would blame the girl. It simply was not fair.
    â€˜Where is Nénette?’ he asked her gently. ‘Has this business here or these things in my pockets any connection with your visit to the belfries of the Notre-Dame and the Sandman, and if we should be so fortunate as to find her alive, will she then lead us to him before it is too late for her, even though he may not have killed her friend? Or will the killer of that friend also hunt her down and kill her to protect himself?’
    Only then did he take out the toy giraffe to stand beside the girl, looking down at it. A crèche …
    â€˜Louis …?’
    â€˜Ah! Hermann.’
    â€˜The kid still hasn’t come home. Vernet’s gone to Rouen. Bomb damage last night. One of his factories. A necessary trip perhaps, or simply stalling for time.’
    â€˜Stalling, I think.’
    â€˜I’ll tell