‘This terrible murder. Please tell us how the investigation is progressing. Spare nothing. Alberto and myself are here to help.’
Like vultures over carrion, was that it, eh, snorted Kohler to himself as he took out his little black notebook and flipped it open to a blank page they couldn’t get a look at. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got. Three judges. The two of you and Bishop Rivaille. Time: ten p.m. Location: the Grand Tinel and one young lady singing her heart out from the far end of an otherwise empty hall.’
He let them think about this, then said, ‘One dog that answers to the name of Nino but is a beagle bitch that wanders and brings home little treasures she finds so that her friends, male and female, can share the joy of them. A girl’s tennis shoe … The jade green heel from a pair of expensive dress shoes that were bought in Paris, I think.’
‘Ispettore …’
‘Got your attention, have I? I want the truth, Maître. The wine’s okay, by the way. A bit heavy, but of a nice deep colour. Maybe it suffers from being too inexperienced. Ja, meine lieben Herren, it’s like a young virgin. Slow to develop, but given the fullness of time, will come into its own.’
They waited. Simondi had returned to surveying him with that thumb of his still hooked into his waistcoat. Renaud was calm.
‘I take it those are the deeds to the vineyard?’ said Kohler.
‘And the mortgages,’ offered Renaud eagerly. ‘Bishop Rivaille has always expressed an interest …’
‘A passion, Alberto.’
‘A passion, yes, for returning the Mother Church to her former glory in Avignon. We try to assist in whatever ways we can.’
‘The vineyards lie on land that is immediately below the ruins of the papal summer palace, Inspector,’ said Simondi, taking up the unlabelled bottle to refill Kohler’s glass. ‘Keep the memory of this with you while I get us a bottle of the 1926. It’s no trouble. Alberto and I were about to share one anyway.’
‘Forget the wine. Suppose you start by telling me why Salvatore Biron, the concierge, wasn’t told of the audition.’
‘But he was! I’m certain of it,’ exclaimed Simondi. ‘Didn’t Bishop Rivaille tell you this?’
‘Biron claims he didn’t know there was to be one.’
‘Then he lies for reasons of his own. Strike only for the truth, Inspector, as you’ve stated yourself.’
Again, Simondi, adopting the same pose, settled back to study him.
‘Salvatore loves the cinema,’ offered Renaud apologetically. ‘César is too kind. It’s not the first time our grand mutilé has lied, nor is it the first time he has been absent from his duties. When I couldn’t find him, I simply drew the black-out curtains myself and set up the chairs.’
‘I found the candles,’ said Simondi. ‘The bishop and I lighted and placed them about the hall. The girl entered. She was obviously extremely nervous. I asked her if she wished to put off the audition until another time.’
‘You begged her to do so, César. I heard you. Why not say it?’
‘Scusate, Ispettore. Forgive me. Yes, I was, I must tell you, uneasy. Mireille … Ah! She had the voice, the manner, the bearing. Her costume was perfect.’
‘Perfect!’ said Renaud softly. ‘Magnificent!’
‘Evocative. The past personified in every detail, yet I knew in my heart, Inspector, things would not go well for her.’
‘Who else was present?’
‘Only the three of us and herself. Why, please, do you ask?’
‘What about the singers?’
‘Them? Most certainly not. Each understands totally that such an interference would lose them their position. When one does what I do, Inspector, one has to insist on absolute obedience. A commitment that is total. Auditions are always private and, as much as possible, held in confidence.’
‘It was too close to curfew in any case, Inspector,’ said Renaud. ‘None of them would have had laissez-passers.’
‘What about Brother Matthieu?’
‘That one?’ exclaimed Renaud. ‘Ah no, Inspector. By that time of night, our gueule cassée would have been alone in his cell with his God and his thoughts.’
‘He has a small problem, Inspector,’ confessed Simondi, reaching for his glass. ‘It’s harmless, I assure you. When one has suffered so much, others must make allowances, isn’t that so?’
‘What problem?’
They looked at each other. ‘A fondness for hair,’ said Renaud.
‘A girl’s hair?’
‘And her breasts, but only to look at, never to touch,’ conceded Simondi. ‘Photographs, I believe.’
‘Entirely innocent,’ interjected Renaud with a nod.
‘And you’re certain no one else was present?’
‘No one,’ said Simondi.
‘Then that has to mean one of you killed her.’
‘Ispettore …’
‘No, you listen, amico mio. Find paper and pen and each of you set out exactly what you did and where you were between dinner and after the murder was discovered and you were “notified.” My partner will expect me to get this from you both. He’s the boss. Sign and date it too.’
‘Merda! Can’t this wait, Ispettore? My wife is the one I think you should question. Earlier on Monday I asked her to join us as the third judge but later understood her to be unwell and called upon Alberto here. But she … she may mistakenly have gone to the Palais at the last minute.’
‘There was someone else,’ said Renaud. ‘César, I was certain of it and still am. You see, the chairs are hidden out of the way, Inspector. When I went to get them I felt strongly that someone was there, but when I shone my light around the stairwell, there was no one.’
‘Didn’t the three of you lock the main door behind you?’
‘I’m sure Henri-Baptiste did, Inspector. We went in together using his key,’ said Renaud.
‘Before or after Mademoiselle de Sinéty?’
‘Why, before her, of course. She had my key,’ said Simondi.
‘Then it was Mireille who, in her agitation, César, must have left the door unlocked.’
‘I’ll get us the 1926, Inspector. Scusatemi un momento. Alberto, find him a cigarette, or perhaps he would prefer one of my cigars.’
And il profumo del successo? wondered Kohler. The sweet smell of success. One targeted wife, was that it, eh, and one distracted, baffled detective? ‘You do that. A marc, though. Wine always seems to give me gas even when one’s hosts have just bought a six-hundred-year-old vineyard.’
7
The curfew had come down, the city was like a tomb. High above the river and the Palais, the clouds had parted to reveal the sickle of a waning moon.
Kohler drew on his cigarette and hunched his shoulders against the cold as he waited for Louis to join him on the bridge. A Wehrmacht motorcycle courier had come to the cinema with a note calling him away at once. Von Mahler had insisted on the meeting place and hadn’t been happy. Louis had gone against the Kommandant’s express wishes and had spoken to his wife.
‘And now, suddenly, von Mahler doesn’t want anyone else to know of it.’
The stars were very bright, the wind had dropped to almost nothing. Mireille de Sinéty hadn’t just been murdered. She’d been savagely silenced. But had there been something else? Had that savagery been used to set an example to others? Had the Cagoule done it?
And what of Adrienne de Langlade? Xavier had been accused of raping her. He had known of the girl’s drowning, had removed a thick twist of hair from her corpse and kept it.
‘To blackmail Brother Matthieu?’ he asked. Every cop who was worth his salt knew that schoolboys often garnered pocket money by blackmailing illicit lovers, homosexuals and perverts. Some of the little buggers had paid dearly for it.