Read Online Dollmaker by J. Robert Janes - Free Book Online

widened eyes of innocence betrayed.
    Reaching up, he took down one of them and, shutting his eyes to better concentrate, ran a fingertip delicately over a cheek.
    â€˜The bisque is very fleshlike, very lifelike,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Hard and yet soft feeling, finely porous like skin and cool, and that is why the Captain sought only the finest kaolin.’
    Taking out the shards he had picked up from the railway bed, he was saddened to find them too small to compare, or the one too smeared with blood.
    It wasn’t hard to find the Hotel of the Sunbathing Mermaid who gave her favours to lonely sailors and tourists who might well lose their wallets. Her pale blue tail fin, voluptuous body, bright blue eyes and extra long lashes, sparkles and ravishingly long blonde hair added that little touch of whimsy to the stark facade of a fifty-room hotel that had been built in 1890 out of granite and given Gothic spires to make it interesting.
    Like Madame Quévillon had said, all the shutters were open.
    Kohler grinned appreciatively. The mermaid was at least five metres tall and had, before the war, been neon-lighted so as to make her visible from well out to sea. ‘I like it, Louis. Yes, I can see why the Freikorps Doenitz chose the place.’
    â€˜A few oysters, a bottle of the Muscadet, some lobster perhaps and the fillet of sole or turbot.’
    â€˜Stop whining like a collaborator! Hey, I’ll see what I can do.’
    The plate was heaped with sauerkraut around whose soggy, steaming nest a curve of coarse, thick, boiled sausage huddled.
    Boiled potatoes lay pathetically to one side, a sort of horsd’oeuvre perhaps. No one else was in the mess, the former dining-room. They were to be fed a submariner’s standard fare after thirty days at sea. There was even black bread with a suspiciously thick crust of mould.
    Kohler took up his knife and fork then reached decisively for the mustard.
    â€˜Your stomach, idiot!’ shot St-Cyr testily. ‘ Don’t scorch it and bellyache to me.’
    â€˜I’ll see if there’s any tomato sauce.’
    Sacré nom de nom !
    â€˜So, Louis, what’s with the stovepipe coifs?’
    It was too good an opportunity to miss. Besides, Hermann would file the information away. His curiosity about the French was like that of a man in a flea market. Everything of interest was a bargain to him.
    â€˜The stovepipes, yes,’ began St-Cyr. ‘The Bretons are Celtic but due to the absence of phosphates in the soil, most are not so tall – you will have noticed.’
    He hacked off a chunk of sausage and examined it suspiciously. One never knew these days. Cat, rat, fishmeal, sawdust – edible seaweeds perhaps …
    â€˜Eat it, Dummkopf !’
    â€˜The Bretons, the Armoricans, Hermann, they wanted their women taller so they bound their heads with wire as the ancient Chinese did the feet of their princesses. When France took the region over, of course the practice was stopped, but …’
    â€˜But the stovepipes remain,’ breathed Kohler. ‘I think, I’ve got it, Louis. The influence of Paris and of refinement.’
    â€˜Yes, you’ve got it.’
    â€˜Then it’s just like the Captain must have said. The dolls had to be dressed in Paris because only there would they know how to do things properly.’
    The sauerkraut was salty. Beer was called for but it was deliberately thin and flat, and by the time Kohler had managed it, his sausage was cold.
    They ate in silence. Not another soul ventured into the darkly panelled dining-room. Though there must be other U-boat crews on rest and recupe, there wasn’t a sound but that of the wind which had decided to bring more rain.
    â€˜We’re being shut out, Louis.’
    â€˜Ostracized is the word you want.’
    â€˜No matter. U-297’s crew are convinced the Captain did it and that , my fine Sûreté, is not something they