But, had Gabrielle returned? Vouvray was near; the chateau of her mother-in-law, the Countess Theriault, a little closer. She could have come back easily, and would at least have called in to see Rene Yvon-Paul, her son.
But had she come back here to take the money into safekeeping for Monsieur Jacqmain, and why, please, would he have entrusted it to her? Had he known her that well?
Questions … there were always questions. Hermann could help with the search. ‘But I cannot ask him to enter this room again.’
The figurine in the bell jar was of a classical nude, seated not on a stone bench but on some sort of creature, half lion, half hound. She was gazing questioningly to her left and rested that elbow on the creature’s head whose fangs were bared so that the snarl it gave was directed at the viewer.
Executed in a fine, white alabaster, and perhaps in 1810, the piece was not valuable as such but curious only in that Monsieur Jacqmain had quite obviously admired it.
The thing was on the satinwood writing-table in his bedroom and beneath a portrait of his mother. This young woman’s auburn hair was fashioned into a diadem from which silken wisps escaped. Her dress was of the belle epoque. The ruffled neckline was low, the expression introspective, she was seated in a straight-backed chair that was all but hidden by the soft pink folds of her dress.
There were other sketches, all of women, all clothed. Indeed, even with the figurine, Jacqmain’s bedroom could well have been that of his mother, of a woman of refinement. There was a dressing screen decorated with needlepoint vines and tropical birds on a black matt background. There was a sewing basket … no cosmetics, a hand mirror, no necklaces, rings or pins – Ah! he had not liked to dress up as his mother or as any other woman. There was nothing to suggest it.
And still there was no sign of the money.
There had been nothing in his bank book to record even a modest deposit. Simply the biweekly withdrawals of 350 francs in cash, a frugal life. Nor would the cash have been placed in a safe-deposit box – that would have been far too risky and by law, such a sum would have had to have been declared.
Jacqmain had kept the diamonds in the house and must simply have put the money in the same place.
When Hermann called down from the attic, St-Cyr went up with him to find those two rooms jammed with the still crated kit of a prospector whose safaris had been ended by the war.
‘Ah merde, where did he hide that money?’
‘Maybe he never had it, Louis. Maybe our Generalmajor promised to pay it but conveniently forgot, though he told us otherwise.’
‘Herr Max was a witness to what he said. Have you forgotten this?’
‘Not for a moment. Something’s not right. This thing is beginning to smell even worse than we thought.’
‘Happy hunting then.’
‘We’ll be here all night, have you thought of that?’
‘Of course. It’s all in a day’s work. When one finds the indicator minerals, one must search for the diamonds, isn’t that so?’
‘Piss off. Go on back to his bedroom but don’t take too long!’
In a bedside table drawer there were two small albums of photographs. The first was of Nana Theleme as chanteuse and dance instructress or caught on the street with a friend or in some cafe, and it was obvious Jacqmain had been infatuated by her, for the album had been well thumbed. The second was far newer and of Tshaya, of Madame Lucie-Marie Doucette, wife of the Spade. All of the photographs revealed her without a stitch. Back and front, but there were more shots of the back. They were brutal photographs in the coldness of their portrayal which she had fiercely defied when facing the camera.
‘The house on the rue de la Bourde,’ breathed Kohler, having given up the search.
‘You go. I’ll continue looking.’
‘Not at those. Gabi might not like it.’
‘Then take them with you. They might help loosen a tongue since they could not have been taken without the madam of that place having agreed.’
‘And for payment, eh?’
‘Surely not 850,000 francs!’
When he found a bullwhip made out of the grey and plaited hide from the belly of a ‘white’ rhino, St-Cyr began to think he understood the prospector’s secret desires.
*
The chambre de divertissements detaches of the house of the hesitant touch held a carpet and a well-padded, ancient armchair. An ashtray and champagne bucket were provided, as were a few cushions should the viewer need them to glue himself better to the eyepiece in the wall.
A Defense de parler notice warned the client or clients to control any such urges. Kohler had seen it elsewhere on numerous occasions. A student of the maisons de tolerance, he looked only for what was unique.
Madame de Bonnevies … ‘Madame Charlotte’ to her girls … was not happy. This perfumed battleship of fortitude was in trouble and knew it. She had broken the law on two counts and he’d told her this straight off so as to level the playing field and save time.
‘Monsieur l’inspecteur,’ she huffed and whispered, teasing dyed red curls. ‘Lucie-Marie Doucette – this “Tshaya” you speak of – was intransigent and known to us by another name and with good papers. Mon Dieu, what was a poor, delicate creature such as myself to do with that one? She was rebellious, moody, deceitful, silent, wicked, cunning and utterly uncontrollable. Many times she had to be held down or tied so that the client could have the little moment he had paid for and not suffer the indignities of rejection and her fingernails.’
‘Or her teeth,’ breathed Kohler softly, causing Madame de Bonnevies to jerk her head as if struck.
The ruby lips were pursed in defiance. Rouge rained from quivering cheeks. ‘The teeth, of course.’
She was superb! Big, tough, all business and not in the least about to back down even if in trouble. ‘So Tshaya came to you in the summer of 1941 and on the run from deportation?’
It had been and still was a criminal offence to hide such people. ‘In late August, or was it in the first week of September?’ she asked herself. ‘I … I did not know she was on the run. Her papers were perfect. Her name was …’
‘Yes, yes, but you saw profit in her ass.’
Must he be so crude? ‘I saw profit in her body, yes.’
‘And Monsieur Jacqmain … we’ll get to why you allowed him into a lupanar that was reserved for the Reich, so don’t hold your breath. What was his reaction?’
Even with the need to whisper this one was formidable. The scar down the left cheek from eye to chin was the mark of a duelling foil, or was it, perhaps, that of a rawhide whip? ‘All men have their betes noires, is that not so?’
Their pet hates. ‘Mine’s not women who I feel need to be whipped.’
‘He … he liked to watch. He … he always said the scars, they … they relieved him of the agonies he felt towards his mother.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Ah! Inspector, is it that you also have visited such foreign parts and have become accustomed to tastes a mother would not wish to hear of her son?’
She was roasting him now with those swift brown eyes of hers. ‘Explain yourself,’ he managed.
She would shrug and say, ‘It was nothing to me, you understand, but Madam Jacqmain had disowned her son for living in sin with the blacks and the coffee-coloureds. That poor man had pleaded with her for forgiveness in his letters home. He said he had scourged the girls most completely but … but then had succumbed to base desires and had had his way with them.’
Verdammt! ‘So you let Jacqmain come in here even though the house was off-limits, and nur fur Deutsche?’