Unlocked, the shackle-chain was removed, the Surete bracelets left on.
Wild flowers, exactly like those painted by Theodore Rousseau of that school, not the Henri of that name, grew in profusion, though most had gone to seed. Beyond these lay a vegetable garden which showed every indication of diligent tending. Rabbit hutches held four does and a buck. Under worn canvas, and with no tires, but up on chocks, Ludin having flipped the tarp back, was a Citroen convertible and another life, another time, and proof positive that Laurence Rousel did indeed know how to drive.
‘You’re out of luck,’ said Ludin, only to choke and gasp, and smother a cry.
A chicken coop and run with seven hens, half hid the gardener, a gentle dark-haired, dark-eyed girl of fifteen whose gathered apron held the carefully harvested grass and wildflower seeds she had been about to scatter.
Terrified, she noticed the pistol.
Seeds showered as she stood helplessly, defeat registering in silent tears. Bolting for the house, she went into what must be its kitchen, failing entirely to close its door.
‘On your knees,’ said Bohle. ‘I’ve had enough of you.’
Could he not even cross himself? ‘If I were you, Kriminalrat, I would wait. Your French is nonexistent and you’re going to need it if ever you’re to find those black diamonds. While there may well be German soldiers who would come to your aid, for you to call on any would, I think, be most inadvisable. Hermann will …’
Reeking, the abattoir waited for it all to happen, the gobs and mounds of greasy-yellow fat, the hooves, the constant dripping of those verdammte taps. Kohler knew he had really done it this time. Kleiber had the whole area covered: supposed chimney sweeps on the surrounding roofs at resident chimney pots and pipes that couldn’t possibly have much soot; egoutiers lifting manhole covers they’d obviously never had to lift before; flics who weren’t flics and others who were, and all on streets that were otherwise empty in any case, the locals having had the good sense to stay the hell out of the way.
Anna-Marie would see only snipers on those roofs. She’d know beyond a shadow of doubt that while she might get in through that side door that gave out onto the rue Brancion, she’d never leave by it or any other. Kleiber would ask, and she’d try not to answer, and then, Louis would have said, What will you do? Oh for sure, as usual you think you’ve considered everything, but is it that you’ve been so overconfident and in such a hurry you’ve missed something?
Verdammt, what?
That FTP equipe. Did you honestly think they would leave her alone to just come in here on of all things, a bicycle, and with not only a kilo of boart, but that of borderlines and those Meyerhof life diamonds? Think, mon vieux. You must, before she gets here and it all goes wrong.
There wasn’t time. Bolduc was turning in. Lebeznikov was beside him and probably cradling a Schmeisser. Kleiber would be in the back, shut in by all that armour plate and that lock, and able only to peer out the single armoured gun-portal on each side of the van, and the small, iron-meshed glass window into the cab up front or the one in the very back.
‘Monsieur l’Inspecteur, je suis la.’
In the all but absent light over by that side door, she having closed it, she stood with hands on the handlebars. There was a rucksack on her back, a small suitcase in the trailer, and as she came hesitantly toward him, avoiding the offal and all the rest, he saw that the pistol she held was cocked and knew she was going to kill herself. And why did you not think of that, too? Louis would have asked.
Everything in her expression said it, but Louis wasn’t here to help.
Clearly there were plenty of potential weapons in this kitchen that hadn’t seen a touch of modernization in the past fifty years, and just as clearly Heinrich Ludin knew exactly how dangerous any of them could be. Alone, he sat in a far corner, pistol in hand, cognac and cigarettes nearby, and not for a moment did he take his gaze from the three of them.
Thin, tall and well into his sixties, and wearing the suit, vest and tie he no doubt always would, Laurence Rousel exuded the notary so much, one didn’t need a second glance. Reserved, cautious-wary to the extreme, given the present circumstance-he sat at the near end of the table, spoon, napkin and glass of vin rouge all waiting. Head not bowed, not yet.
Michele Guillaumet, housekeeper, gardener and cook, had found some inner strength and had obviously told herself to concentrate on the meal ahead. Giving the soup yet another stir and sampling, she removed it from what had to be one of Godin’s original cast-iron ranges. Wood was added to the firebox, the contents of the oven checked, for she was drying the seeds, having sprinkled a little of the precious salt over them first. Ladling the soup into two plates and one of those ghastly china Petain mugs, she added a sprinkling of chopped chives and said, ‘There, it’s ready. Bon appetit,’ Ludin insisting on a translation, which as prisoner still in handcuffs, was dutifully given.
‘I think the mug might be easier for you, Inspector.’
She had applied the iodine and precious sticking plasters to the back of this twice struck head, had tried to make him as comfortable as possible and would have lived in fear for well over two years that something like this might happen. Oh for sure she and Rousel would have talked it over many times, and yes, there would definitely be those who would question such an arrangement as her living here with a man nearly five times her age. In any village, not just this one, she could not have remained hidden without others knowing. Monsieur le Pere for one and probably feared by most, the mayor aussi, the schoolteacher, too, for there was a pile of books and notes awaiting her concentration. Then, too, the grocer, shopkeeper, and in Barbizon, not a garde champetre but a prefet with two flics at least. None, however, would dare to intervene, given that Citroen traction avant out there, and while there would be those who regretted it, others would say, Me, I told you so, as word of that car spread, and still others who would claim, It’s about time someone cashed in on her!
Additionally, of course, she obviously had come to love to cook and that could only mean that someone had been teaching her. ‘The aroma is magnificent, mademoiselle. Onion, of course, but shallots as well and a diced potato, am I not right?’
‘And?’ she asked, uncertain of what he was up to, Ludin getting the full translation.
‘Chicken stock and the small pumpkin, again neatly diced, and all put through the French mill when cooked to give such a perfect puree. Not too thick, but just thick enough for that delicate yet complete fullness of taste. Ground cumin is a natural, but to this you have given it that rarest of things these days, a tender grating of nutmeg, black pepper as well, and equally rare, lastly the chives. I envy you your chef, Monsieur le Notaire. This is superb and something I haven’t tasted in years. Grand-maman would make it for me once a year, sometimes with ginger-she said it was a Russian thought-at other times with caraway instead. The Russians do like pumpkin and caraway, don’t they?’
This, too, was translated, since it had to be, the Gestapo having become increasingly agitated at the length of the discourse and wondering what the inspector was up to. Apologetically she would whisper, ‘We were going to smash all of those mugs and that portrait when the Allies got here.’
Yet again, came a translation, Ludin immediately shouting, ‘Ruhe!’ and vomiting blood.