Kohler turned to look at the woman. ‘Did Tshaya “prepare” herself?’
‘In such a way?’
Most girls were drunk half the time, some on dope, too, if they could get it in these hard times. ‘In any way.’
‘That one’s defence was her hatred. She despised the profession and rejected all attempts at compromise. She was taken to Paris many times to be used in other ways, perhaps, but when brought back, was simply more sullen and determined.’
‘Did she ever go to Jacqmain’s house?’
‘After dark?’
The woman had held her breath. ‘You know that’s what I meant.’
‘Then I must tell you that she did on three occasions, each of which was after a session such as you have just seen.’
‘You were told to let her do this?’
Must he constantly push the matter? ‘We were ordered to by that husband of hers. Ah! there was nothing either of us could have done. Monsieur Jacqmain did not beat her, if that is what you are thinking. He merely trailed the bullwhip he had brought from Africa across her flesh. An hour … two hours, little more.’
‘Was she tied up?’
‘Yes.’
She’d have been terrified. ‘And how did he pay her – and yourself?’
There would be trouble if she did not answer truthfully. ‘In diamonds. He made us swear to say nothing of them and we agreed, of course, to do as he wished.’
The fool!
The Auberge of the Priest Who Travelled With Full Saddlebags served crayfish in white wine, pork stuffed with prunes, pike au beurre blanc, Saint-Martin duckling, hare a la chinonaise, touraine de peches a la royale, le Lochois cakes and macaroons, cheese, wine and cognac. Absolutely no ration tickets were required – one didn’t even discuss such things. There was hardly a Frenchman in the place and though the hour was late, practically all of the tables were in use but Hermann, being Hermann, had managed a quiet corner.
‘Louis, we have to talk.’
The chevre crottin before the Surete had come dusted with dill and chives as requested; the baguette was broken.
‘Agreed.’
Disconsolately, Kohler dug his fork into the saucisson de Lyon with the hot potato salad. Louis wasn’t eating, a bad sign. The Frog was simply staring at his monk’s repast as if lost in thought and wounded to the quick.
‘Do you remember the Reverend Father of the Abbey of Saint Gregory the Great, Hermann?’
Vouvray, then, and that murder in Fontainebleau Forest. ‘How could I ever forget a thing like that?’
Good! The SS had used a bull whip on Hermann because he had insisted the truth be told. ‘The Abbot said the wine owed its flavour to the aubuis, the clay with much limestone.’
The snort was harsh, the words bitter. ‘It was the boulder of flint you picked up that settled things.’
‘Ah yes, but Gabrielle got the drop on me in that abandoned grist mill down by the river. She and I then shared a simple meal such as this and at the time, I wished her rucksack had held a bottle of their wine. With the goat’s cheese and the bread, it would, I thought, have been superb.’
So much for the travelogue of memories. The Vouvray moelleux was of Sauterne sweetness. For well over a thousand years there had been vineyards along the Loire. The wine was clear and crisp, robust and fruity – ‘piquant’ the Abbot had said, and ‘a good keeper’.
‘The 1934 Clos de l’Oiseau de la Brume, Hermann, the Chateau Theriault,’ he said, showing him the label. ‘An extraordinary year.’
‘The Countess isn’t mixed up in things, is she?’
Hermann still held a fondness for that one. ‘Let us hope not because if she is, this time for certain Rene Yvon-Paul will inherit nothing.’
‘Why don’t you tell me what’s bugging you?’
With great deliberation St-Cyr sampled the cheese, the bread and the wine, nodding from time to time as if well satisfied that his initial thoughts had been correct. ‘But have I been so wrong about Gabrielle, mon ami?’
‘Wrong in what way?’
It was now or never if they were to remain friends and partners. ‘Gabrielle collected the money, Hermann, and took it with her but may also have had the nitroglycerine the Gypsy used at the Ritz in that suitcase, cushioned no doubt by the banknotes.’
‘Ah Christ …’
‘Jacqmain may have had a flask of nitro in his prospecting kit and not have turned it in. He’d have wanted to be rid of it. An extra condition, then, of his letting Wehrle have the diamonds.’
‘And?’
Hermann wasn’t looking well. ‘The matter is even deeper. That crone I spoke to thought the Generalmajor would soon be on his way. A little trip.’
‘To Berlin, idiot, with the contents of his safe. He wouldn’t have known the Gypsy was to empty it on the eighteenth.’
‘Perhaps but then … ah mais alors, alors, what if not to Berlin but to Spain? A major coup for a tiny reseau, a fund of exceedingly valuable information for the Allies.’
‘And what if not the Generalmajor but the Gypsy, eh? What if that’s who Gabrielle meant?’
‘An operation, code-named Zebre, Hermann.’
‘A Funkspiel, Louis.’
‘The Resistance are desperate for funds. Those three women knew this and asked London for help. They set up those robberies and Herr Max, not London, obliged by sending them the Gypsy. Nana knew all about this safe-cracker and that he was one of the best, so perhaps they asked London to send him – this we may never know – but Suzanne-Cecilia detected a different signature at the end of London’s last reply. She’s convinced of it.’
‘Then it’s true …’ Kohler shoved his plate aside. ‘God help us now. There’ll be no way out of this for Giselle and Oona short of my turning you all over to the Gestapo and Herr Max.’
‘But will you, Hermann? That is the question only you can answer.’
6
At dawn the Chateau Theriault’s five towers were shrouded in snow. Off to the right, and away from the river, vineyards occupied the lower slopes, climbing gently until they met those of the Abbey of Saint Gregory the Great in territory that had been disputed for centuries until at last the land claim had been settled not two months ago.
‘Louis, go and talk to the Countess, eh? Tell her I’ll be along in a little while.’
Hermann had slept badly and, contrary to his usual self, had not driven the car but had lamely wanted to ‘look’ at the countryside.
That big Bavarian was sick at heart. Moundlike, the shapes of box, yew and hawthorn stood nearest the arched stone entrance which was set in the base of one of the towers. Ivy climbed the walls. Immediately inside the gates, the courtyard of lawns and formal gardens held mothballed fountains and statues.
The chateau was huge and Hermann had often said it must be a bugger to heat, but now this conscience-ridden Kripo looked away to the centre of the courtyard to where stone greyhounds leapt at a cornered stag and the nothing murder of Fontainebleau Forest had finally come to an end.
It hadn’t been easy. It had been a very close thing, and when Louis let him out of the car, Kohler simply asked, ‘You haven’t got a cigarette, have you?’
He went on then towards the stables which were on the far side. He paused to open the great doors to let the light in, then searched his pockets desperately yet again for tobacco.
‘Let him be, Jean-Louis. Give him time.’
‘Countess …’
‘Please wait for us in the kitchens. This frost … will it kill the vines? I had thought to burn fires throughout the night but new restrictions have been placed on such things, so I have spent the hours in walking the rows and fretting. It was silly of me, but when one loves a place so much and there is no other recourse, what else can one do but pray?’