‘And the brocade?’
‘For the wine, I think. Who knows? The Bar Modiste kept cigarettes for her – you’ll find their number in that little book of hers.’
‘And you’ll not tell anyone I’ve got it, will you?’
‘Of course not. Women are not allowed the tobacco ration, monsieur. But Madame Gilberte of the Bar Modiste bleaches the hair, yes? And bleach is unobtainable but for Madame Buemondi’s service.’
‘What did the two of you do? Have tea in here every afternoon?’
‘She was very free with her information, monsieur.’
‘Only because you made her tell you.’
Marchal tugged at a sleeve. This one would find out everything. ‘She often used our telephone, monsieur, as I am sure she did everyone else’s when needed. Me, I … ah, I have overheard the snatches from time to time. From the nuns of the Blessed Virgin she obtained the braided silks stiff with gold and silver thread, and much bed linen that could be dyed any colour one wished if one was a fashion designer and had nothing else with which to work. For these things, Madame gave the nuns toothpaste, the soap, the sandpaper sticks for the fingernails, the wine, the vegetables, the sausage and the granulated sugar.’
The Gestapo made no comment but only drew on the cigar. Marchal told him that Madame must have at least fifty names on her list of contacts. ‘Each morning she would begin her day by telephoning someone. Always the bright, cheery voice, always the optimist until … Monsieur, has anything happened to her?’
‘No … No, it’s all just routine. We have to follow everything up. It’s part of the job.’
‘Then why have you got her notebook?’
‘Bayonne … Why not tell me what she did there?’
‘Bayonne …? But … but why would she travel so far when she had all the business she could possibly handle here?’
‘Medicines?’ shot Kohler. ‘Look, I can let the boys over at the Hotel Montfleury know all about your part in this affair or I can forget I ever saw you.’
‘All right, all right, then yes, yes, she went to Bayonne to obtain the medicines. If that is what you wish to hear, monsieur, then that is what I will say but me, I know nothing of this.’
That was fair enough. ‘When was the last time you saw her?’
‘Three days ago. Wednesday, the 16th. She telephoned first as she always did before coming over. She was in great distress and quite unlike her usual self. Would I take this lot of frames – sixteen of them. Mon Dieu, what am I to do with them? I said I could not pay the usual price, as I had already far too many of them but she said I would have to just this one more time as something important had come up and she needed cash. “Cash,” she said. “I must have the cash or all is lost.”’
4
For some time now they had been moving through the silent house, ethereal and remote – ah, it was so eerie, this last vestige of grace. In every room there were priceless antiques; from every window and door, exquisite views of the gardens, and in the distance, always the sea, the hills or a breathless panorama of both.
Yet it was uncanny how the weaver searched for Anne-Marie Buemondi. Viviane Darnot expected to catch a glimpse of her companion in every room, round every door and in every corridor, or to hear her voice in the distance on the telephone perhaps.
They were upstairs now and St-Cyr saw the face of tragedy mirrored in one image after another, she holding back to let him go on ahead. Ah, Mon Dieu, what was this? Another killing? Another body? The husband, the daughter Josette-Louise, or someone else?
The face was broken by some trick of optics into juxtaposed slices. Pale and shaken, the eyes … the eyes …
She was perhaps some three metres behind him yet appeared in the far distance and back again repeatedly until splintered into slices. The soft smell of woven wool, the pungency of Dutch tobacco, a sound, some sound and that same face, those same dark grey-blue eyes and paleness of skin. White … all but chalk-white. Lips that were pensive and red yet quivered. Nostrils that were pinched in fear.
Where had he seen her in Chamonix and why had she lied about it being at the railway station?
Yet he had to be kind. ‘Grief builds its castles of hope, mademoiselle, then tumbles them down. Why not tell me who was the owner of that splendid cloak you wove?’
‘Anne-Marie. It … it was hers.’
‘Then who borrowed it? Who defiled it, mademoiselle?’
‘She did. That one did. And now you know.’
The head nodded curtly towards the nearest door and he knew then, too, that she had led him here as well.
St-Cyr opened the door but stood aside to let her pass only to find her ashen and trembling in her grief. ‘Anne-Marie will hate me for what I’ve just done,’ she said.
‘The daughter?’ he asked, not knowing quite what to make of things. ‘Josette-Louise …? The one who is in Paris?’
The eyes flashed up more darkly. The head was tossed. ‘Angelique Girard, Anne-Marie’s latest …’
Ah no. ‘Her latest lover,’ breathed St-Cyr, still watching the images in the mirrors, still struggling to recall where they’d seen each other in Chamonix. ‘Did you kill Madame Buemondi, mademoiselle?’ he asked quietly. ‘Come, come, to love so deeply is as understandable as it is to feel so deeply betrayed.’
The weaver did not answer. Trapped – caught in the mirrors fragment by fragment – she watched as the castle of all her hopes began suddenly to fall apart.
She buried her face in her hands. The raven hair spilled forward and with a ragged sob, grief took hold of her.
Alone, St-Cyr went into the bedroom. Bars of sunlight threw their pale yellow slats across the open mahogany armoire and he saw at once the hanging silks and satins, the negliges, the slips and half-slips of the careless and untidy, but matched to those in the drawer at the cottage. Ah yes.
The crumpled underpants whose lace fringes were gossamer to the Prussian blue pile of an Aubusson carpet.
The canopied bed was rumpled, the covers flung back. The shutters, when open, gave out on to a small balcony and from there, a view of the rear gardens – vegetables still in their winter plots, orange and lemon trees, and almond trees.
‘Angelique Girard,’ he heard her say, the voice vicious and grating now, the jealousy all too clear. But when he went out into the corridor, the weaver was hurrying downstairs.
‘I gave her that cloak, monsieur. I worked my fingers to the bone for her and she … she … she gave it to another. Another!’
The cry of it echoed throughout the silent house and he heard it as the broken heart of the betrayed.
Ah, Nom de Dieu, what was he to do now? Arrest her? Take her into custody – what custody? Gestapo Cannes, eh? They’d strip this place of everything but the paint or they’d requisition it, if not for themselves then for the Wehrmacht.
The coloured silks and satins were as light as a feather – azure blue, deep green, amber and gold – and he had the thought that Muriel and Chantal might have sold them to the woman, yet their shop in Paris was so far from here.
When he found the photograph, its glass and frame broken, he found Madame Anne-Marie Buemondi standing behind the girl and he had to wonder who had taken the photograph.
The girl was young and very beautiful, even though pouting fiercely. There were dark circles around her lovely eyes. The hair was thick and light-coloured, teased forward and out into masses of curls and waves.