Caroline had been certain of this too, certain that if Cérès was to be asked, the truth would come out and everyone in the camp would know exactly what Madame was like and why she could no longer stay in the same room with the woman.
Laurence Vernon must have died in the casino fire of 17 July, 1920. He had often been ‘under the empire of alcohol,’ as the French were fond of calling alcoholism, and before Madame could stop things from happening, had lost a second fortune.
She’s going to kill me, thought Jennifer, bracing herself, having backed right into a corner. If she’s not stopped, she’ll grab me by the throat, is far too strong. Caroline had always warned that Madame’s temper could flash to violence, that too often she, herself, had been the victim. Gentle, timid, hesitant, naively innocent Caroline, whose awakening had been so sudden and complete. Caroline who had asked that a meeting be arranged in a place no others would think of, Herr Weber then demanding of her that he know everything ahead of time. Just everything.
Caroline, who had held her hand so tightly when sitting on trial before that medium’s tent of Madame Chevreul’s. ‘Have either of you been stealing things?’ that woman had asked of them from behind the screen.
Caroline had lost her ‘shooter’ marble to this. . this thief of theirs and had been found with a Star of David. A sprig from a beech tree and three curls of the inner bark had been in that stall, a tidied corpse. Why tidied? Why laid out like that? She would have known the shame such a thief would have felt when exposed to the stares of everyone else in the camp. The shunning that would follow, the total silence of everyone spoken to, their looking away not just for a day or two but forever.
Caroline, who had wanted to tell Kommandant Jundt not just who had shoved Mary-Lynn Allan, or even that Becky Torrence had helped her fiancé to escape to the free zone, but that she had inadvertently discovered who the thief was.
Caroline, who had been pensive when facing Marguerite. . who had played the imp before gazing deeply into the last of her crystal balls as only she could, the clear. .
Caroline, who had been so upset and had felt so betrayed.
Kohler waited. He could hear someone softly, tensely breathing. When he nudged the door, whoever it was held her breath and he wondered, was she waiting with that armature wound up and ready to kill him?
Ach, there was only one way to find out. Sacrificing the last seven matches in the box, he flung them one by one into the room.
They fell like star shells over a battlefield, thought Jennifer, each arcing through the darkness only to finally go out and leave her biting back the tears.
When he lifted her chin and took the armature away, Jennifer knew that Herr Kohler had found her, not Madame. Not yet.
Louis wasn’t going to spare the girl, even after what she’d just been through. They couldn’t-Kohler knew this, yet it saddened him to see her so stressed and going to pieces in front of them.
‘My apartment,’ she blurted. ‘If I don’t get back to Paris, what’s to happen to all of those precious things I bought for my father’s clients? An oil on panel by Lucas Cranach the Elder, inspectors. It’s magnificent. I would sit for hours in front of it and never tire of feasting my eyes. There’s a sketch by Jan van Eyck for his St. Barbara. The folds of her gown cast such shadows they set off the whole piece-its mood, its purpose, its divine purity and poise-and I just know it was done in charcoal first and then in pen and brown ink, for the shadows tell me this as much as does the fine detail. She has an illuminated breviary in her lap but is not reading-she knows it all by heart and one can see this in her peace of mind as those beloved words come silently to her. There’s another sketch by Delacroix-Ah, mon Dieu, words fail me. It’s a preparatory for his Descent from the Cross, after Peter Paul Rubens. It, too, is in pen and brown ink on paper. I’m certain the ink was made from oak galls-that’s one of the first things we question when examining such works, for forgeries are everywhere in the art world. I acquired it for the Levy family in Boston.’
She paused. It seemed to calm her to tell others of these things, thought Kohler. Even Louis was listening attentively and perhaps had begun to realize just why the poor kid was so concerned.
‘There’s a collection of snuffboxes that I had spent nearly a year building for Mrs. Anna Blumenfeld Senior. German gold and enamel, by Daniel Baudesson, circa 1765: a countess at her toilette with ladies in waiting. She’s just come from the bath and though it is in miniature, you can see how pink her skin is and feel how hot the scented water must have been. Another German box is of gold and bloodstone, with a stag on the run and being set upon by ferocious hounds. Why must men who hunt be so unforgivably cruel? The box is circa 1750, but though exquisite, is not a favourite of mine.’
‘You’ve exceptional taste,’ murmured Louis, somewhat mollified.
She brightened. ‘I’ve Swiss boxes with enamelled silver birds that spread their wings and sing when the boxes are opened. Naturally they’re favourites, and I know I will feel a terrible sense of loss when they’ve finally been shipped home but’-she shrugged-‘one has to learn to bear such feelings if one is to be a dealer.’
‘And your favourite of favourites among the snuffboxes?’ asked Louis, as if they had all day and night.
Those soft brown eyes took him in, strands of the fair hair being tidied, for they’d fallen over a still deeply furrowed brow. ‘A gold and semiprecious stone box by Johann Christian Neuber that is inset with 107 stones and is from Dresden, circa 1780. I paid 2,500 francs for it but know it’s worth at least thirty times as much.’
Twenty-five American dollars on the black bourse becomes $750.00 at home. ‘A bargain,’ muttered Louis who had yet to even find that pipe and tobacco pouch of his.
‘Please don’t think me opportunistic, Chief Inspector. With that 2,500, the Meyerhof family of four made it to the zone libre. I know this because, in their gratitude, they sent me a postcard. They had “found employment.” There was “plenty of food.” These brief words filled in places among those the censors had blacked out and they told me that the family had reached Marseille as planned and were about to board a ship. To Tangier, I think.’
‘And the card, mademoiselle?’
Was it proof he wanted? ‘It. . it was unfortunately stolen-taken.’
‘Like others, Hermann,’ Louis said with a sigh as if totally absorbed in the tale or resting up to gather steam, especially as she hadn’t bothered to mention the card before.
Again she found the will to uncertainly smile at him, thought Kohler, but then grew serious. ‘Each piece bears a certificate, Chief Inspector, with the letterhead of my father’s shop in Boston. Each gives details of the piece, the date purchased, the price negotiated, the name of the seller and to whom the item is to be delivered. My father, I know, would be very proud of me and would say to my mother and to my uncles who are partners of his, “Hasn’t our Jenny the eye?” Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve been among such things.’
And Weber knew it-Kohler could see Louis thinking this but all that sûreté said was, ‘There’s a bench of sorts near the boiler, Hermann. Let’s sit a moment.’
‘Sometimes it’s still a little warm at this time of day,’ Jennifer managed.
Madame had fled, and they were both worried about what that woman might now do, thought Jennifer, but the one from the Kripo, the criminal police, took out his cigarettes, the other a pipe and tobacco pouch and they shared a match, she accepting a cigarette though shaking still.