The photo had been taken of them standing under the canvas tarpaulin of a rustic porch overlooking the Atlantic. Middy blouses, pleated skirts, bobbed hair, cloches and smiles. A homeward-bound sardinier was in the near distance, the sloop close in to the wind.
‘I think you know that is Noelle Olivier, Inspector. She begged me to let my Marianne accompany her and the twins, who were then nine years old, and I agreed, though I had my doubts. Noelle’s objective was not only to get away from Vichy and its vicious gossip, but to settle her mind and search out the meaningful in life. The children loved that holiday and grew even closer to her, and to my Marianne.’
‘And Monsieur Olivier, who disowned them three years later?’
‘Has never for a moment forgotten my daughter nor myself. It was he who arranged to get Marianne and her little family safely out of France. As for the twins and his disowning them, is it not now better for them that he continue to do so?’
A wise woman. Royan was at the mouth of the Gironde, about equidistant between the U-boat pens at La Pallice, near La Rochelle, and those at Bordeaux. Lovely in the summer of 1922, no doubt, but a far cry from what was to come.
The photo of Madame Ribot showed her in a wide-brimmed, tailored-suit hat, round whose crown was wrapped a matching ostrich plume. From under that brim, two dusky eyes gazed steadfastly to one side of the lens, the nose fine and long and a regular ski jump, the face a soft, clear oval whose lips, unpainted and unparted, were perfect.
A white silk neckerchief, pinned with a single stick-pearl, stylishly set off the hat and the plain black, seersucker dress. No earrings were worn — those had probably already been pawned. The auburn hair was pinned up under that hat. An extremely genteel and handsome woman who had just spent her last sou on a portrait to launch her career.
Magnificent, but he couldn’t let it influence him. Louis would only be fussed if he didn’t indicate the telephone. ‘That’s one of his pipelines, isn’t it? Keyed through the switchboard downstairs but elsewhere also — the old Poste, Telegraphe et Telephone building next door, eh? That’s why that little thumb-switch is on the base of the transmitter. When Laval comes for advice, the switch is thrown and the receiver left off the hook if possible; if not, you simply relay to Olivier later on what was said.’
A Gestapo would have dragged her from the room. This one hadn’t. ‘In 1900 I knew I faced an uncertain and difficult future, Inspector. In 1940 it could only be more so, but as for my being a conduit for anyone but my clients, I could not possibly say.’ She would replace the receiver now, Violette told herself, and then raise her glass in salute.
Ah damn the French and not just Louis. Must they constantly force him into choosing? ‘Don’t. Please don’t, madame. Prussic acid’s reaction isn’t pleasant to watch, and we’re on your side. Just keep it handy. Maybe it won’t be needed.’
The hand with the receiver gestured. ‘Then is it, Inspector, that you do not suspect Monsieur Olivier of having killed those girls, but have decided it was Charles-Frederic Hebert?’
Persistent. Mein Gott, but must she insist? ‘Since you’ve let the one know I’m still here, perhaps you’d ask him where he is.’
‘And give away the treasure of treasures?’
‘Just do it!’
‘I can’t. I hang up and take the acid!’
Kohler moved. The glass shattered as it hit one of the filing cabinets, the receiver was replaced, the line having gone dead.
‘Please, you must not lead them to Monsieur Olivier, Inspector. He has no one but himself, having warned the others to stay away and go to ground.’
The darkness was total, the hotel as silent as a tomb. No one entered because the Garde Mobile had men at the front door and all other doors; no one dared to leave. Merde, what the hell was he to do? demanded Kohler. Let Ferbrave use the ratchet to lower the lift to the next floor?
Of course they thought all three of them had taken the lift and found themselves trapped. Of course they hadn’t yet realized this wasn’t so.
Two of the Garde had been left up here on the third floor in case anybody should attempt to climb out. Though neither of them had moved in some time, their leather coats hadn’t relayed the fact that they’d been touched by him. One man was leaning against the gallery railing, next to an upright and sucking on a dead fag end for comfort; the second stood mid-corridor, feet widely planted in front of the lift, his submachine-gun no doubt trained on its gate. Both would have torches when needed, and orders to get the files on Julienne Deschambeault that were in his overcoat pockets, but would they have been told to shoot if necessary? Two detectives from Paris caught in the crossfire as they hunted down the killer, a terrorist, eh?
What terrorist? They couldn’t know Olivier was of the FTP, couldn’t even suspect this, and neither could Menetrel, or had they finally realized it?
Traces of smoke began to filter into the lift cage through the pitch darkness. Alarmed, St Cyr waited. Had the Garde set the hotel on fire?
Sickened by the thought, he felt the sculptress urgently place her free hand questioningly on his shoulder. Still there were no voices, still no torch beams.
When he peered down through the criss-crossed mesh of the gate, flames were seen. Little flames.
The lift rose a fraction as the ratchet was engaged, then it settled back and down, only to rise again before settling further.
‘Dieu le pere, forgive my sins,’ whispered the sculptress. As he reached out to her in comfort, tears wet his fingers but her lips continued silently to form the words. Had she decided on doing this long ago if captured? Prayers … focus on them and only on them. Don’t scream. Don’t give the Gestapo what they want.
The smoke came from burning paper, he was certain. L’Humanite? wondered St-Cyr. Did they now know who had drawn up that death notice?
Again he looked down through the gate. This time he’d have to press his face against the bars and stand on tiptoe. They’d opened the gate below, so silently.
Flames … the heat was carrying the smoke upwards. Charred bits of tracing paper crumbled, pages caught fire one by one.
‘They’re burning some of Madame Ribot’s files?’ the Inspector whispered, but could not understand why this should be since he had what they wanted.
Again the lift rose a fraction only to descend a notch, and again and again, and where was Herr Kohler, why hadn’t he tried to stop them?
‘Go to the far corner, mademoiselle. Stand with your back to it and your valise and bag clutched in both hands. Leave me to face them from this side.’
‘It was Monsieur Olivier,’ she blurted, her voice a little louder than a breath.
‘He had no reason to kill any of them and every reason to make certain your friend remained alive. Indeed, I think he may well have tried to stop her murder from happening.’
‘Then why the rats?’
‘He didn’t butcher them.’
‘But he has such a knife!’
‘And our killer knew of this, knew of him, his past, his wife, his life as a recluse whom people endlessly found tragic but of interest.’
‘A bitter man who must hate all such girls and the Marechal most of all.’
‘It’s a cover-up, mademoiselle. The Garde won’t kill you. That would only cause too much trouble with Petain whom Menetrel wants kept totally in the dark on this.’
‘And Monsieur Hebert?’ she asked.
‘Holds the papers that are being set alight.’
Scorched bits of paper drifted down into torchlight. There were two of the Garde at the ratchet, and as they looked up the lift well in puzzlement, Kohler moved.
They’d laid their torches and weapons on the cellar floor close by and had jumped down into the lift well, hadn’t seen him yet had been bent over the thing, one with a hammer to seat the pawl properly between each tooth of the wheel, the other cranking down hard on the lever to lower the lift cage.