Not all of the cheques had been made out to Jews. The weaver had been working a currency fiddle. Occupation francs in exchange for pounds sterling to be paid out of her account after the war or if and when the person managed to escape. The wealthy, fleeing to the south, had realized their money would be worthless if taken out of the country, and so had dealt it off in hopes of better times. At anywhere between 600 and 1000 francs to the pound sterling it was not much of a deal, but better that than nothing, yet quite obviously she’d never spent a sou of it on herself. She’d been a damned fool to have kept the stubs. By just such little things were people caught.
There’d been cheque stubs, too, in the Stavisky Affair but fortunately for those in positions of power and trust, some enterprising cop in the Surete had got to them and they had vanished. Pierre Bonny, now of the French Gestapo and the rue Lauriston. You’d think she’d have learned her lesson and burned them!
‘Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?’
Her voice grated. Kohler realized he hadn’t heard her come into the house or up the stairs, that he’d been too caught up in things, a bad sign. ‘Maybe you’d better tell me, mademoiselle.’ He indicated the stubs. Flustered, she pulled off her hat and gloves and tossed them on to a chair.
‘Those are none of your business. They’ve got nothing to do with … with things.’
She began to unhook the cloak – couldn’t have kept her fingers still; glanced down at the carpet to avoid his scrutiny. Said, ‘Ah merde, look what you’ve made me do.’
Mud and snow had been tracked in on her boots. She dragged them off and found a towel on which to set them.
Undoing the last of the hooks, she removed the cloak but stood there with it in one hand, unable suddenly to think.
He indicated the stubs and said a little sadly, ‘The only reason you haven’t been picked up is that Delphane still hasn’t blown the whistle on you. I can only surmise that he wanted Louis and me to find these, so you’d better tell me about them, mademoiselle, and while you’re at it, give me the identity of that child you just buried.’
Agitated, she glanced uncertainly at the cloak, still not knowing quite what to do with it. ‘Have you got a cigarette?’ she asked. ‘Look, I haven’t used them in years but …’ She gave a shrug. ‘Ah, forget it. Most of you men these days are far too miserly. I shouldn’t have asked.’
She went over to the bed and laid the cloak on it, said, ‘It’s so cold in this place.’ She’d get no sympathy from him; she’d have to tell him something. ‘The remains are those of Ludo’s eldest daughter, Therese. She died of influenza in the winter of 1930, at the age of twelve. It … it was the same year Josianne-Michele contracted epilepsy.’
Kohler wanted to say, How very convenient, but let it pass. He found his cigarettes and lighting two of them, passed one to her.
‘Merci,’ she whispered. Taking a drag, she filled her lungs and held the smoke in, a pause. ‘Look, everyone in the village has to give up the remains of a loved one. It’s that simple, don’t you understand? They draw lots, for God’s sake! The abbe makes sure no one cheats. It was Ludo’s turn, that’s all. None of it’s fair, is it?’
‘None of the war? No. No, of course not. But why leave the comparative safety of the cottage to follow us to Cannes when told not to?’
There was nothing in his eyes but emptiness. ‘It is my responsibility to see that the remains are properly and unobtrusively reinterred, and that the positions of all the graves are recorded so that after … Well, after you people …’ Ah merde, why had she said it? ‘After this war is over, monsieur, the remains may be returned to the village where they belong. If I am not here to pay off the grave-diggers and see that the custodian turns a blind eye and signs the papers and the register, no one else can. Me, they accept because they have known me a long time.’
That was fair enough. ‘And Josette-Louise?’ he asked.
‘Will stay at the cottage. Ludo will make sure of that.’
‘Borel, yes. It must be hell not having water rights, especially at a time like this.’
The weaver stubbed out her half-finished cigarette but, as was the custom these days, saved what was left for another time. ‘Ludo didn’t kill Anne-Marie, Inspector. He was only too well aware of how much she meant to me. He is also my very dear friend and most valued associate.’
‘But you’d lost her to another?’
‘To Angelique, yes. Oh, you needn’t think you’re on to something, monsieur. Ludo knew very well what Anne-Marie was like. This one, that one … but through it all, there was myself and me, I remained steadfast. Ludo respects that in a person. He always has and unlike others in that village, he does not judge me beyond the sincerity of my commitment to my lover and my work.’
She turned from him, but was undecided which way to go. Kohler saw her toss a hand and give a shrug. ‘Besides, Inspector, he and the rest of the village needed her and now … now must somehow pick up the strings.’
‘The threads,’ he said. ‘From you, threads would sound better.’
So, he didn’t believe her, was that it then? She bowed her head, a spill of raven hair across shoulders that would still be too proud for him, ah yes, but would they make his voice gentle?
‘Mademoiselle Viviane, if my partner hadn’t found Josette-Louise in Paris, Jean-Paul Delphane would have silenced her. Why not tell me about the money?’
Still she would not turn to face him. ‘Because I can’t tell you, Inspector. Not now. Maybe never.’
‘Was he the father of those two girls?’
‘How dare you?’
‘I dare because I must. I’ve seen too many witnesses who should have spoken out when asked.’
‘Then why would he wish to kill his daughter, eh? Pah! If you’re so intelligent, answer me that!’
There were tears in her lovely eyes and she could barely keep herself together.
‘He’s desperate, mademoiselle. Jean-Paul Delphane is on the run and I think you know exactly why.’
‘Then I have nothing more to say to you!’ She started for the hall. Kohler grabbed her by the arm.
‘You can’t stay here,’ he said.
‘Am I under arrest? Is that it, eh? Come, come, Inspector, make the decision!’
‘Yes, yes, then, you’re under arrest. You are charged with the murder of Madame Anne-Marie Buemondi, mademoiselle, and with illegally dealing in a foreign currency, namely that of the enemy.’
‘Please, you don’t understand. No one really will. It wasn’t me.’
He let go of her and she went to gather her things. On the way past the room she used as a private studio, she paused to take a last look at her weaving. ‘I want so much to finish it,’ she said – he’d never understand how an artist could ache to finish something; would never know why else it was important to her. ‘This, it was something special.’
‘Was it for Josette-Louise?’
Hurriedly she wiped her eyes. ‘Yes. Yes, as a matter of fact it was.’
‘Not for Josianne-Michele?’
The weaver hesitated – it could not be helped. ‘No, not for her, Inspector. Josianne-Michele loathes the touch of my weaving, but me, I have lived long enough to know I cannot please everyone.’
‘Was she jealous of the time it took you away from them?’
‘Yes, of course. Children … they can be … Well,’ she shrugged, ‘unreasonable sometimes.’ Ah damn. Children … why had she said that?
‘Come on then. My partner will be busy at the villa. We’d best find Buemondi and have a few words with him.’
The villa …? Ah no. ‘Carlo?’ she asked.
‘Yes, yes, Buemondi.’
‘He killed her. I know he did. He can shoot that thing of his better than any of us.’
There were perhaps thirty rooms in the Villa of the Golden Oracle and in nearly every one, there were gorgeous things but still not a glimpse of its elusive occupant. Oh for sure, there had been the sudden rush of stockinged feet up a narrow staircase to the attic; open French windows behind drapes that had reached to the floor in a library that was magnificent. The chilliness of the air as he had stepped outside a moment; in the bathroom upstairs, the faint after-scent of a delicate perfume he had had no time to identify. Boots that had been so carefully removed and left on the doorstep. The coldness of a kitchen stove. Mirrors … mirrors; paintings … paintings; pearls, black opals and diamonds spilling from a jewel case whose rifling had been interrupted, ah yes. Nom de Dieu! Had he come upon a robbery?