Ah bon, the ultimate target, then, and either the betrayed wives as the killers or the cuckold. ‘Yet it wasn’t Celine who drank the Cuvee, monsieur. It was Marie-Jacqueline Mailloux.’
A last cage was ignored but for a few handfuls of hurriedly tossed feed, the hawks and eagles still to come.
‘Didn’t you find the bottles I sent for Celine to take with her? A picnic hamper? Saint-Louis crystal, caviar, a little pate, a baguette and some of the Cantal and Saint-Nectaire? I packed these especially for the Marechal and even included a corkscrew he would not fail to recall. My knife … ah, not so handsome as Noelle’s and much worn, but still … I knew he’d recall it and remember the affair.’
‘A Laguiole?’ hazarded St-Cyr.
‘Why, yes. It was one I’d had since a boy. Albert can confirm, since it was he I asked to deliver the hamper to Celine at Chez Crusoe early last Tuesday evening.’
Albert …
‘Inspector, the hamper …’
‘Has not been found.’
‘Was it taken — intercepted?’ demanded Hebert.
‘Perhaps.’
The Laguiole, with its opened blade, was fixed in memory as Ines fought to see and again stumbled blindly. Cascades of what must be seepage clung to the passage walls of these cellars they were now in, cellars that had been built in the twelfth or thirteenth century. At each breath’s escape she knew a little cloud of vapour would appear in the torchlight but still she couldn’t see a thing. Blanche was ahead of her, blocking the light; Herr Kohler well out in front of her, and with the torch. Water trickled distantly, the taste of its sulphur in the air and on the tongue. And wasn’t that what Vichy was all about? she demanded. A coldness that made one cringe, a warmth that was as if subterranean and filled with innuendo, its sound constantly hollow, the air acid?
Celine hadn’t mentioned the chateau’s spring in her letters, nor had Monsieur Olivier said anything about it. But, then, after his first letter, the rest, without names or addresses on their little envelopes of thin paper, had been concealed in those from Celine, and she had had to courier them to others to his contacts in Paris, had wanted to do this. Never the same cafe, never, even, the same contact. No names there either. Just greet as if old friends — the contact always recognizing her from a photo perhaps?
She didn’t know, was not to know, and had accepted this. Simply telephoned a number from a cafe no one could trace her to when a letter arrived, the time and place of meeting then being assigned eight hours before that given and always two streets away to the south from the one given. Even the telephone number to call had changed with each letter.
Wear Shalimar, Celine had said in her last letter. That way, if anything happens to me, M. Olivier will know it’s really you.
St-Cyr had been quick to notice the perfume but would he see that she’d worn it expressly for that purpose?
These days so much had to be hidden. And, yes, Celine had said she would be wearing it too.
‘Stay here,’ said Herr Kohler.
‘No!’ implored Blanche.
‘Please don’t leave us,’ Ines whispered.
‘I’ll only be a minute. Either Albert took the left fork or the right.’
‘Or went straight ahead,’ she managed but, suddenly, Herr Kohler was gone from them and Blanche and she were left alone to listen in the dark. No images, no anything. Just a deep, dark, black emptiness before her eyes … Her eyes.
He made no sound, gave no further indication of his whereabouts, must even have switched off the torch. Had he really done so? Had he?
Uncannily the water bubbled forth, its sound echoing in the distance.
‘Albert’s unpredictable,’ swore Blanche, not liking their being left alone. ‘Edith Pascal can get him to do anything simply by bullying and because he’s terrified of being berated by her.’
Somehow Ines found her voice. ‘Did he put the rats in Lucie’s bed?’
‘He’d have taken the livers if he had, but Edith could well have done it herself. Edith hates Petain and all he stands for. She blames him not just for my father’s rejection of her but for all the pain he’s suffered.’
‘So she killed the four of them, is this what you’re saying?’
To not even ask about Edith first implied knowing her. ‘Just what the hell are you really doing in Vichy?’ grated Blanche. ‘Albert’s certain there’s something wrong with your being here. He wouldn’t have taken that knife otherwise.’
‘And my bag? Why would he have taken that?’
‘To find out everything he can about you.’
‘But he can’t read more than a few words. Even if he looks at my carte d’identite and travel permits, he won’t be able to understand them.’
And you’re still so very afraid of him, aren’t you? silently demanded Blanche. ‘He smells and gets the feel of them. He’ll try to surprise us first and then … then will hole up somewhere to examine every little thing you’ve got in that bag of yours. Be grateful you parked that valise of yours with his father or he’d have taken it too. Admit that you met with Lucie in Paris.’
‘Celine’s letters were simply posted to me!’
‘You’re lying! Lucie told me you’d met each time she went to Paris.’
‘Now you’re the one who’s lying!’ cried Ines as Blanche grabbed her by the arm only to suddenly release her hold.
‘Look, let’s stop this!’ swore Blanche. ‘Let’s help each other. My father was the best friend of yours. Celine had him write to you about the firing squad.’
They’d been whispering urgently but had yet to realize this, thought Kohler, having moved back along the corridor to stand nearby.
‘Celine did no such thing,’ countered the sculptress. ‘Oh for sure she knew Monsieur Olivier was my father’s compagnon d’armes. Since the age of seven or eight she had to listen to the details of my searchings for what really happened to Papa. One evening she took it upon herself to speak to Monsieur Olivier in the English Garden by the river. Tears leaped into his eyes at her mention of my father and, asking her to follow in a few moments, he led the way to his house. They did not go inside because Edith Pascal was there. They simply sat and talked in the dark.’
And he told you a little about Edith, did he? ‘Admit it, letters were exchanged. Not only did you write to Celine, but to my father!’
But why, please, does this upset you so? wondered Ines. And if a little is yielded, will not the same be done in return? ‘All right, we exchanged letters. Lucie and I did meet. The Louvre, the Sorbonne, the Bibliotheque Nationale, the Musee Grevin … She first found me there, but after that would always telephone ahead or leave a message.’
‘Didn’t you think that dangerous?’
All calls were monitored, all such messages were read by others, but was Mademoiselle Blanche fishing for something else, a Resistance connection? wondered Ines. ‘Of course I thought it dangerous — the penalty alone for carrying or receiving such letters is extremely harsh and totally unreasonable, but … but Lucie was my only link with Celine and it was the only way I’d know she was back in the city.’
‘And your only link with my father!’ spat Blanche. ‘Did he tell you he knew Paul and I were in Vichy and had been in that house?’