Find the forger, find the loot, find Charles Audit who’d been so financially in need his brother had ‘helped’ him out and had possessed the villa and the young wife in payment of those debts, not to mention having consigned him to Devil’s Island for fifteen years on a charge of attempted murder.
It made one thankful one had no brothers or sisters, no granddaughters either.
Or sons like Madame Minou had.
Christabelle Audit’s ‘lover’. A successful businessman of between fifty-six and sixty years of age. Pates and liqueurs from Antoine Audit and Sons of Perigord.
Charles Audit was sixty-seven. It had to be the brother of Charles Audit, or someone using his name so as to implicate him.
The girl might well have undressed in front of her great-uncle for reasons financial or otherwise – relatives were always the first to take advantage of the young. She might not have known the coins she was trying to sell were fake; alternatively she might well have been in on the swindle.
In any case, she must have let him see the jewellery she’d taken from the villa. He’d have known about it. He’d have paid the rent by leaving the money with her.
But why, if it had been Antoine Audit, would he not have used the villa?
Because it was rented to the Germans. Because it was occasionally being used and he didn’t want to chance being seen there with her or anyone else.
Dragged out of sleep at 3.15 in the morning, the concierge of the house at 10 rue Benard in Montparnasse had nothing but venom on his tongue. A scarecrow in faded flannel and nightcap.
‘The Surete, eh? Well suck lemons, my fine. You’ll find no tits to play with here! The house you want is next door!’
The door began to close … ‘Monsieur, please! The Surete, eh? A detective – a chief inspector. Please permit me to put the bicycle inside, eh? Don’t crush the wheel! Ah! In the Name of Jesus, my only mode of transport!’
‘CRUSH? I’LL CRUSH YOUR TESTICLES, YOU BASTARD!’
‘No … no. Ah merde! Now look what you’ve done!’
St-Cyr wrenched the bicycle back from the gap in the door and flung the thing aside. ‘The boot, the whistle or the fist, mon ami?’ he shrilled. ‘I’m on a murder investigation and even an old stick like yourself will not stand in my way!’
His shoulder hit the door. The chain snapped, the bolt was torn free. All bones and knuckles, the concierge grabbed him and stumbled backwards. Jesus, the fists! ‘MONSIEUR, STOP IT THIS INSTANT!’
So much for the quiet word, the unobserved journey.
Amber eyes threw daggers up at him, accompanied by the hot wind of garlic. ‘The Surete, eh? you dog’s green offal! I’ll show you!’
He’d the strength of ten! Several of the tenants had come rushing to the rescue. St-Cyr let a rush of breath escape as he tried to hold the raft of bones down. ‘Okay … okay, you win, eh? Did you hear me?’
He dragged him up. ‘That bitch!’ sang out the concierge. ‘I’ll show that bitch! This is the last time, I tell you. The very last time!’ The man sucked in his grizzled cheeks and spat.
The crowd of tenants cautiously approached. Some were armed with brooms, others with chairs, one had a cricket bat, another a butcher’s knife. Sleep is so deceptive, the ravager of us all. ‘Go back to bed. That’s an order, do you hear me?’ shouted St-Cyr.
‘Your badge. Your papers. Quickly, quickly,’ rasped the concierge. ‘Don’t give me the shit, monsieur. I, Phlegon Yvode, know very well what you were after.’
‘But that’s next door.’
‘Yes. Did your mother suck all the goodness out of your father’s prick before he penetrated her to breed you, eh? Or did neither of them have any brains?’
Hermann should have been with him. ‘My chest is hammering, monsieur. It’s the Benzedrine – no, please, do not trouble yourself. Merely an after-effect, I assure you. The heart … I’m afraid for my heart.’
‘Fuck your heart! With brains in your ass, it must be in your boots!’
St-Cyr drew himself up. He’d give the bastard a moment, he’d allow the tenants one more chance to bugger off. ‘Monsieur, you remind me of my days with the cape, eh? Ah yes, me I came up the hard way. I know very well how to deal with turds like yourself but please don’t force me to violence. You’re too old to have a broken nose and six caved-in ribs. Those teeth of yours would be hard to replace.’
A flic, a cow! He might have known but had best give the rush of breath defeat would bring.
With a yank, Yvode hitched the torn nightgown back over a bare shoulder. ‘Well, I am waiting, my fine Inspector. What is so important that you should awaken the whole of a decent, respectable house at this ungodly hour?’
‘Shh! Don’t start the engine again, eh? Please, the key to apartment six and everything you can tell me about its tenants. The girl was murdered – strangled. Raped.’
‘Ah no. This … this cannot be. Me, I have thought …’
Devastated and suddenly spouting tears, the man turned away to search the corridor and the stairs down to the entrance. To the stragglers he said, ‘Mademoiselle Audit, my friends. Christabelle.’
‘Monsieur, what was it you thought?’
‘Nothing. My lips are sealed. You may see the flat but you will find nothing there either, Inspector. They came and took it all away yesterday.’
‘Who came?’
‘The Gestapo, who else?’
‘Which Gestapo?’
‘The French ones. Those of the rue Lauriston. Monsieur Charles has gone to see his brother. Mademoiselle Christabelle … Ah that one, to think she is dead. Never the unkind word, always in such a hurry.’
St-Cyr found his cigarettes crushed in the tussle. He tried to take two of them out but gave it up. ‘When did Monsieur Charles leave?’
‘On Tuesday. He … he has said he would return in a week, that Lyon would be a pleasant change at this time of year but that Saint-Raphael would be even better. His brother had places in both and in Perigord.’
‘How long had they lived here?’
‘Since a few weeks before the Defeat.’
His slippers flapping on the tattered runner, the concierge reluctantly led him up one flight of stairs and along the hall to Number six. ‘The curtains are gone. Everything is gone. We cannot show a light. The regulations…’
A little kindness wouldn’t hurt. ‘We’ll leave the door open. I just want to see it. Come … come … you first, monsieur. You’ve nothing to fear from me.’
There were several rooms and, as their steps took them farther from the door, the darkness increased. ‘Tell me about the ones who came to clean this place out.’
‘Must I?’ Yvode saw him nod. ‘There were ten of them, with two trucks and a white car – a huge car. Never have I seen such a beautiful thing as that car.’
The white Bentley Lafont always drove. ‘Pistols? Revolvers? The …’
‘The swastika armbands, monsieur, and the black uniforms, as I have said, of the French Gestapo. Everything … My curtains – mine, monsieur – even my register. Me, I have only a tired memory. The authorities, they will …’
‘Yes, yes. I’m sure you’ll get it back. They’ll have given you a receipt.’
‘Of what good is a piece of paper when a valued tenant returns to find his possessions gone?’
‘Perhaps he won’t come back.’
‘Was he murdered too?’
‘We don’t know that yet. We hope not. Now where did they take the things? It’ll have been on the receipt.’
‘The rue Lauriston, as I’ve said.’
‘Tell me about the possessions, the things in this flat.’
‘Stuffed birds, stuffed animals – strange creatures from the jungles, monkeys, snakes, seeds, beans, plants, books, leather-work … a few photographs taken in South America, I think. He never said much about it. He has assumed I would know about such things and me, I have not thought it correct to ask.’
Yvode sucked in a breath. ‘A photograph of a carousel. He had raised his granddaughter from childhood, you understand, monsieur. The carousel was his heart and soul, his present to her but …’ he gave a shrug … ‘Monsieur Charles, he had to sell it.’