‘Perhaps it’s time we paid our respects to the grieving family?’
‘My thoughts exactly.’
Visitations were being held at both of Vouvray’s funeral homes but it was to the larger of them that they went.
The countess was waiting for them and, as she got out of her car, St-Cyr nudged the Bavarian and said, ‘She’s decided to save us time, Hermann. Better this than a confrontation with the grief-stricken parents.’
He was impressed. When the chips were down the countess hadn’t hesitated. That’s what it took to run such a place. Decisions, decisions, always things to decide.
‘Let the parents have their grief in private with their friends and relations. Jerome was fathered by my husband. Look, I don’t know who told him of it but he had some crazy idea that it would entitle him to a share of the Domaine Theriault and the monks believed him.’
‘But the Domaine belongs to your grandson on your death?’ exclaimed St-Cyr.
‘Yes, of course Rene Yvon-Paul inherits everything unless Gabrielle should marry before he comes of age.’
‘How many people know of this?’ demanded St-Cyr. No time for pleasantries or introductions. A stunning woman …
‘Too many. Now, please, I’ve told you what I can. Leave them in peace, for God’s sake. They’ve suffered enough. Both of their children … No bodies to bury as yet…’
She turned away so swiftly, on impulse St-Cyr reached out to comfort her.
A silk handkerchief was found in her purse. He helped her to her car. ‘We’ll be in touch, Countess. For now it goes without saying, no one is to leave the district and we’ll pop into the prefecture to make them aware of it.’
This one was kinder than the Bavarian. Though sudden, her tears had convinced him that at least she was sincere.
‘Give my regards to Mademoiselle Arcuri, Countess. I’m sure we’ll all have much more to say when we meet again.’
She managed a weak and grateful smile. ‘I knew you’d understand. Gabrielle was quite taken with you, Inspector. She liked your honesty. She said you were very considerate for one so diligent.’
5
It was well after curfew when Kohler let him out at the foot of the rue Laurence Savart but then drove up the street into the darkness anyway. St-Cyr cringed as the sound of the Citroen’s muffler fled through the city, he following its location with uncanny accuracy.
Hermann shot across the boulevard de Belleville. When he reached the Place de la Republique, he swung the car in a screeching loop and pelted back up the hills going faster … faster … leaning on the horn as well. Ah, Mon Dieu, what was the matter?
The car shot into the street, the Bavarian braked hard. ‘Get in, Louis.’
‘Hermann …’
‘Look, you son-of-a-bitch, I told you to get in and that’s an order!’
When they reached the house, Kohler threw the car into neutral and yanked on the emergency brake. ‘Now give me your torch. Mine fell on the road and broke.’
Leaving the car door open, he proceeded to sweep the front gate with the light, crouching to run his fingers lightly round the sill and then up over the latch. ‘So far so good,’ he breathed. ‘I’d hate to be picking butcher’s pieces of you off the walls.’
Gingerly Hermann opened the gate. All his training in demolitions came to the fore. Intuitively he knew where to look. ‘Okay,’ he snorted. ‘Now for the walk, eh, Louis?’
There were no tripwires, no hidden grenades or mines. ‘Clean,’ he said with surprise. Perhaps they’d been cleverer than he’d thought? ‘Now give me your key, Louis. Come on, don’t waste my time.’
‘It’s under the mat. Hermann, Madame Courbet comes in each day. If there’d been any surprises, her youngest son would have been waiting to tell me.’
‘Idiot! Boys can’t always be trusted, Louis. You of all people ought to know that after this morning.’
Kohler found the key then felt around the door jamb before easing the door open a millimetre and shining the torch all round.
Satisfied, he nudged the door wide and shone the light into the vestibule – did the floor and walls, picked out a chair, a cabinet with its mirror and the coat pegs one by one.
He crouched to place three fingers lightly on the floor, then gingerly lifted a corner of the carpet. ‘Your housekeeper ought to do under here,’ he said. So far so good …
‘Hermann, if the Resistance wanted to nail me, they’d have simply waited in the street.’
The Bavarian shone the light up into St-Cyr’s face. ‘Louis, why do you think I came back? Those bastards were waiting for you. I flushed them out and chased after them. They had a motorcycle. There were two of them.’
St-Cyr blinked painfully and shielded his eyes. A motorcycle …
‘Let’s have a look at your mail, eh?’ said Kohler, swinging the beam of the torch over the cabinet.
A motorcycle … ‘It’ll be on the kitchen table. Madame Courbet will have put it there.’
She’d done more than this. Several of his books, including the Daudet he’d been reading, had been destroyed, their pages made into papier-mache balls which were now being patiently dried for use in the stove. Two of the books had been from the central library … In the name of Jesus, why couldn’t the woman have asked?
‘We’d better get you some coal and a couple of sacks of kindling out of Gestapo stores,’ snorted Kohler.
‘You do and my neighbours will only hate me. Envy’s a terrible thing, Hermann. Pity is much better.’
‘Fuck your neighbours then.’
Among the dross there was a small brown package.
Kohler stopped the Frenchman’s hand. ‘I’ll get the Unexploded Bomb boys to deal with it, Louis. Why take the chance? ‘Then we’ll clean the rats’ nest out. We can’t have them interfering at a time like this.’
The Resistance … ‘Hermann, leave it, will you? It’s only a warning, eh? Me, I can take care of myself.’
‘Since when? Gott in Himmel, it’s not your ass I’m worried about! It’s mine, you idiot! If something should happen to you, what the hell could I say to von Schaumburg? Oh sorry, General, but the man whose wife ran off with your nephew has just been blown to pieces?’
St-Cyr tore the wrapping paper off the thing and laid the little black coffin on the table between them. The Resistance had spelled his name correctly, even adding the Jean to the Louis.
Kohler gripped him by a shoulder and gave him a brotherly shake. ‘Try to get some sleep, eh? I’ll be in touch.’
They both stood there looking down at that thing. The beam of the torch fell on it as a stage light in some seedy nightclub, a last act, a fond fairwell. A chanteuse in an iridescent sheath of silk and pearls, a mirage, an angel with a voice …
‘It doesn’t make any sense, Hermann. It simply doesn’t.’
‘Does anything in war? If so, be sure to let me know.’
St-Cyr followed him out to the car, then stood at the kerbside long after he’d left. It had been such a worthwhile day, so good to be out of the city and in the country. A real challenge and now this, a complete misunderstanding, a piece of foolishness.
As he turned to go back into the house, the swish of slippers came to him in a rush and then a woman’s silhouette and the hesitant, breathless and inquisitive tongue of Madame Courbet, still in her nightdress and cap.
Thank God it was dark! ‘You had a visitor,’ she said. ‘Late this afternoon. He wouldn’t take no for an answer when I told him you were away, and how was I to refuse? I had to get the key and let him into your house. A general… one so disfigured … Ah, Mon Dieu, those boys … the filthy urchins, my son Antoine excepted, all ran from him in fright but called him names.’
‘A general?’
‘Yes, Ackermann. A friend of yours. He noticed the shoes, Inspector, just as I did.’
The woman clutched the throat of her nightgown. When there wasn’t any response, she continued. ‘Such pretty shoes, Inspector. It’s a shame one of the heels has been broken but my husband’s brother, the one with the limp, he is very good at fixing such things. Me, I could arrange to have them repaired.’