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try to roll one from the contents of his tin. Mon Dieu , it was cruel. The Bavarian’s fingers, which could defuse even the most clever of tripwires or fuses, could not seem to control the cigarette paper or its tobacco. ‘Here, let me. To think that you, a former artilleryman and bomb disposal expert, never learned the art even in that French prisoner-of-war camp you managed to find refuge in.’
    Deftly St-Cyr rolled the cigarette, licked the paper, smoothed the thing out, pinched off both ends, tapped them and returned the recovered tobacco to the tin.
    â€˜We must offer a Lucky Strike to Freisen and the Captain,’ he said by way of apology. ‘It may be our only hope of driving a wedge between them.’
    Kohler lit up and blew smoke towards the ceiling then indicated the handkerchief. ‘Things the Bullet wasn’t told, eh? A cosy ride in the hay and the woman forgetting a little something?’
    The shed and the bicycle tracks … ‘Then why was the handkerchief crumpled so tightly unless she wanted only to resist but found she dared not do so.’
    â€˜Did that belong to the piano player’s wife?’
    â€˜And these?’ asked St-Cyr, plucking at the tufts of wool. ‘Is it that this Madame Charbonneau, who it is rumoured is both mistress of the Préfet and the Captain, witnessed the murder or committed it?’
    â€˜Or were the shopkeeper’s wife and daughter simply lying to you about her being the mistress of anyone?’
    â€˜The pianist spends all his time searching the megaliths for clues to the past. They would not have lied about that. It’s far too easy to check.’
    â€˜Driven to it, is he, by the wife’s fooling around?’ shot Kohler.
    â€˜Perhaps.’
    â€˜Then he’d be out and about a good deal and that, my fine Sûreté, is what those two wanted you to think. Besides, clots of wool like that could have come from almost any female here, or hadn’t you noticed? The men even have black overcoats.’
    â€˜But would a man have retreated? Would he have pushed himself away on his seat, or dropped the doll and then, yes then, returned to step on the victim’s glasses quite by accident?’
    â€˜We’ll interview the Captain first, then borrow a set of wheels and pay the pianist and his wife a little visit.’

3
    Kaestner’s look was piercing. It was as if the Dollmaker could not stop himself. Sharp grey-green eyes sought the absolute truth with a frankness that was disturbing.
    A man of thirty-two, of medium height, he was slight, not unhandsome, though the face was narrow, the chin pointed, the lips thin and often tightly parted showing the crowns of clenched teeth, the ears prominent.
    The thick brown hair had been cut short, boyishly parted on the left and given but the whisper of a hasty brush. When he spoke, he did so with clarity and pointedness. More intent on observing, he kept his own counsel with good reason.
    Préfet Kerjean had seen fit to be present.
    On the other hand, the Kapitän zur See Freisen, the C.-in-C. U-boats Kernével, would always be the man in the background. Ever watchful of the Captain, he was suspicious of everyone, under orders from above and intense in his own way. A man of thirty-four perhaps, and with a short-cropped sandy beard, moustache, high forehead, prominent brows, blue eyes, large blunt nose and crinkly hair that was parted on the left and closely trimmed.
    Somewhat taller than the Captain, the Bullet sat more stiffly, rocking back in his chair when the notion took him. Was he not a little impatient? wondered St-Cyr. Did he really mind so much the stench of sardines, sewage, iodine and lifeless air? If so, why hadn’t he insisted on moving the prisoner elsewhere?
    Neither of the captains were in uniform except for their white Schirmmützes , their caps, which sat formally to one side of each of them on the table. Their dark blue turtle-neck