Ackermann swung. Kohler’s hand flashed out to grab the withered wrist. ‘You incompetent lout!’ shrieked Ackermann. ‘I’ll see you’re dealt with!’
The Bavarian released the wrist. ‘I’m going, General, but I’ll be back, and when the questions start coming, I’ll expect your fullest co-operation or else.’
‘Get out of here.’
Kohler nodded. ‘As soon as you give me the keys.’
Ackermann sucked in a breath. ‘Try looking in that drain. I’m sure you’ll find the keys if you do.’
No one can turn on his heels quite like a Prussian. Kohler swore under his breath. The general reached the drive which ran in front of the main entrance. A servant, a butler – a broken-down retainer, God knows what the French called them – came out with his coat and things.
The countess came to say goodbye. As they shook hands, she glanced across the grounds towards him.
Then the general left sedately, the Daimler purring past the Citroen, and the lady started towards him.
‘You mustn’t mind the general, Captain Kohler. Our Hans is not himself these days.’
The keys were in the palm of her outstretched hand.
Lamely Kohler shrugged. ‘I never did get on with generals, Countess. That one’s only worse than most.’
‘Louis, did the general do it?’
‘I don’t know, Hermann.’
‘He’s showing all the signs but making such a mess of it.’
‘Murderers often do.’
‘Not when you’ve had tanks and flame throwers at your command. No, my friend, Ackermann is deliberately being stupid so as to take the heat off someone else.’
‘The countess?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Not our chanteuse, our mirage?’
Kohler finished his cigarette and flicked the butt out of the car window towards the ChaTeau Theriault that lay above the woods on the other side of the river. ‘You’ve not fallen for the woman, have you, Louis?’
‘Me, ah no, of course not. Traces of sympathy, yes, Hermann. I’d like to think her innocent. But no, such feelings won’t interfere with the course of justice.’
‘Let’s go and have a word with the monks. It’ll fill out the reports and give Pharand and Boemelburg something to chew on.’
‘I wish I knew who wrote that little diary and who had the meetings. I’m not at all certain they are one and the same, Hermann. I didn’t get a chance to ask Mademoiselle Arcuri, but she denied leaving her purse, so someone else must have planted it.’
‘Or she’s lying, Louis, and those violet bedroom eyes have got to your brains which have sunk to your balls.’
St-Cyr heaved a sigh. By all accounts, it had been quite a morning. ‘In another time but not in another place, me, I would have to agree with you, Hermann, but are we seeing the truth or is she but the mirage she is forced to play out?’
Kohler switched on the ignition. As he eased the car on to the road, he said, ‘When we get back to Paris, I’m going to have to settle things with von Schaumburg. It’s our only chance.’
‘You don’t need to apologize, Hermann. I quite understand.’
‘Good, because the fur is going to fly!’
The road to the Abbey of St Gregory the Great seemed to take for ever. It wound up into the tufa hills behind the terraced village of Vouvray, before angling off to the west. Each ridge led down into another valley. It was all the same. Second gear half the time. Goats, barren trees, distant watchful, isolated, cowled monks who exuded only suspicion as they worked the soil or tended their flocks.
Then an old stone bridge fit only for a cart and horse. Narrow – Jesus, it was pinched.
The arches beneath the bridge leapt from a ragged gorge.
Kohler drew the car to a stop. The engine ticked as he hunched over the steering wheel, looking across the bridge and up the winding Roman road to the abbey.
Beehives lay beneath the naked branches of an orchard. Rows and rows of vines reminded him of the military graves in Belgium.
‘Louis, this place … It gives me the creeps. Gott in Himmel, were the monks afraid of something?’
‘They built to last, Hermann, and in the twelfth century, they had plenty to fear.’
The place was stark – right on a hilltop. A massive turret of bleached stone, whose portals stared out and down at all visitors, was surmounted by a cake of low-roofed stone buildings and capped by a square bell tower that could only be described as brutal.
‘Then those monks knew what they were doing,’ said Kohler, easing his crotch. A pinched testicle again. Son-of-a-bitch! ‘Ah, this underwear of mine, Louis! It’s like a novice whore’s first touch.’
The door burst open. He winced as he eased himself out of the car. ‘That left ball of mine, it’s never been right since the war. Swelled up ten times its proper size – did I ever tell you, Louis? An infection … a cold in the balls from all that mud.’
‘A thousand times,’ said St-Cyr.
‘Like a Corsican lemon. Hard as a walnut,’ went on Kohler. ‘One squirt, Louis. God but it …’
The tall black wooden cross above the bell tower drew their attention. ‘We’re being watched,’ said St-Cyr. ‘The Benedictines’ bush telegraph is at work.’
‘Shall we leave the shooters?’
‘It’s not necessary. They’ll expect them. Please remember my car keys, though.’
Kohler tugged at his trousers to ease the underwear down. ‘Never mind the bullshit, Louis. I won’t forget them again. You can bet your last sou on that.’
‘Good!’ St-Cyr looked up at the rustic signboard that stood beside the bridge. ‘They raise mushrooms, make goats’ cheese, sell the wine they produce and the honey. Perhaps we can stock up, eh?’
‘Personally, I can’t see us lugging a couple of sacks of clinking bottles down that road. Come on, let’s get on with it. We’re lucky it isn’t raining, that’s all I can say.’
The abbey was perhaps a kilometre from where they had been forced to leave the car. From time to time they paused to look back. Monks pruned the vines. The last of the harvest was in. Some tilled the soil, others tightened the wires along which the vines had been trained, or replaced the stout wooden posts. No idleness, of course. Five … perhaps six or even seven hours of manual labour a day. Cold bare hands, raw splits in the knuckles. Cold rooms. No heat but God’s and vesper candles.
The road wound beneath the tower. As yet the gate was out of sight.
Then there was the Loire in the distance below them across innumerable rows of vines and shelving terraces.
‘Chateau Theriault, Louis. Gabrielle Arcuri could have told you how close this place was to it.’
‘It’s not in her nature to have warned us, Hermann. After all, we’re not exactly on the same side, eh?’
The low stone walls of the abbey’s vineyards ran downhill towards those of the Domaine Theriault. Woods, stony patches of pasture, a stream, two apple orchards, a road … all these things they took in.
‘Would she be a friend of the abbot, I wonder?’ commented Kohler. ‘If so, Louis, we’ll never pull that woman in if we have to and neither will the Resistance.’
Everywhere they looked there were potential hiding places and routes of escape.
St-Cyr yanked on the heavy iron chain. A distant bell thudded in cloistered warrens. An eternity passed before the bolts clashed and at last the iron-studded door was eased open.
A silent rock of ages with bright, mischievous eyes, stooped shoulders and a toothless grin motioned them in as if in secret.
The House-guest Brother.
‘It’s a day for silence, messieurs. Our humble apologies but none are allowed to speak until after the service at midnight.’
His eyes lit up at the prospect of such a late service. Kohler simply lost patience. ‘Gestapo, you ancient fart! Take us to the abbot and I’ll show you the worth of your “vow” of silence! We’re on a murder case.’
The mischievousness disappeared. Brother Andrew calmly studied this German as if such a thing had never been seen before. Without another word, he beckoned them to follow. He even left the door wide open. Perhaps it was too heavy.