The wind blew the snow into their eyes, the headlamps shone out at them from the loneliness of that polar waste.
‘Chamonix, Louis?’ asked Hermann.
‘Ah, yes, Chamonix. If only I could remember exactly what went on there just before we found the body of the financier. I want to recall mirrors being smashed to pieces, Hermann, the pieces flying outwards as I catch a glimpse of the weaver’s eyes, the look in them and then … then we find Stavisky writhing on that floor in a room that was locked and empty but for himself.’
‘You gained access through a window, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, yes …’
‘You used a ladder?’
‘Yes, of course. Hermann, please do not confuse the issue, eh? It is very delicate. The mind … I …’
‘Hey, hey, don’t get your ass in a knot. You could have slipped and hit your head. The instant black-out.’
‘And the glass?’ snorted St-Cyr derogatively.
‘The mirrors of your imagination, my fine. They toted you off to that clinic you seem to want to remember, and they patched you up!’
‘The asylum, Hermann. That old grandmother grinding goose livers, she asked us if we had come from the asylum in Chamonix as promised.’
So she had. ‘Josianne-Michele told us she had been sent to Chamonix at the age of sixteen. The girl could have been there at the time.’
‘Yes, yes, and the weaver could well have taken her to see some doctor. Mademoiselle Viviane sent money to the other sister in Paris despite the mother’s asking her not to. Perhaps she tried to help Josianne-Michele as well.’
‘But to a clinic, Louis, not an asylum. Epilepsy isn’t madness. It can be controlled in many cases by proper medication.’
‘Which Madame Buemondi must have been obtaining from someone in Bayonne which is so near the Spanish border, Hermann, the medicines are likely to have come that way.’
‘Unless she was moving escapees out of the country, or doing both, my old one, and while we’re out here freezing our balls off, don’t forget that the treatments in Chamonix were unsuccessful and that Carlo Buemondi demanded the return of his daughter and must thus have known with whom the girl was staying.’
‘Viviane Darnot,’ echoed Louis, clucking his tongue as he nodded, and wanting nothing more than his pipe, a good fire and a chance to think.
Kohler gently shook him by the shoulder. ‘Come on then. It’s stupid of us to be arguing out here. Hey, you can drive. I’m going to let you.’
‘For once? Through lousy roads for over 900 kilometres of this?’
‘Then what the hell are we going to do?’
The Surete was swift. ‘Find another way, my friend.’
‘No, Louis. Now, look, you can’t expect me to do a thing like that. I’m in enough trouble as it is. I caught a glimpse of my dossier. Yours isn’t any better.’
‘Success belongs to those who dare, Hermann. To fly is to approach the gods.’
‘You sound like Goering.’
‘It is the only way if we are to get from here to there to Paris and back in such a short time. Besides, it will give you the chance to spend a night with Giselle and Oona, wrapped in their collective embrace.’
‘Then let’s hope the weather eases and Rommel doesn’t need the plane.’
‘Shall we eat first?’ asked St-Cyr.
‘Where?’ demanded Kohler suspiciously.
‘Fayence. The olive mill of a friend.’
‘Louis …? Ah, Louis, mon enfant! Mon cher!’ The cook threw her arms about the Frog and took him to her ample bosom, all 150 kilos of her in a red polka-dot housedress and green woollen cardigan with tentlike apron. Pearl earrings too. ‘But … but out of nowhere you appear? In this snowstorm? In this dreadful war?’ Her dark eyes narrowed swiftly. Sweat was brushed from her brow with a forearm. ‘It is the murder of that poor woman. Even here we have heard of it. The spear, Jean-Louis. Hooked with the barbs of vengeance and pulled for good measure!’
Bernadette Yvaldi gestured at the futility of life. ‘But come … come in, my friends. Two seats. I have only two seats left but you shall have them on a night like this and the Generalmajor Johann Vermelhren, he will not say no or I will poison him personally. And anyway, you have one of them in your company.’ She dipped her dark-haired head Kohler’s way but refused to acknowledge him otherwise.
The place was packed with Luftwaffe. ‘Louis …? Louis, how the hell did you know they’d be here?’
‘Pleased, eh? The secrets, Hermann, they are best kept to oneself.’
‘You didn’t know,’ hissed Kohler.
‘No, my old one, I did not know of anything but a small aerodrome, but God, he has smiled on us, eh? The slender ray of light, Hermann. The warmth of a fire knowing high octane fuel will be ours if only you can sing the right tune.’
The woman ushered them to a table next to the fire. The Moulin of the Broken Wing was a converted eighteenth-century olive mill complete with press. There were about twenty tables with chequered cloths, plain linen and candles.
‘I look after them,’ she said tartly, ignoring the grins of her boys in uniform. ‘The Moulin, it has become their mess.’
‘Good,’ breathed Kohler. ‘No one eats better than the Luftwaffe.’
‘Oh?’ she taunted, a tough old pork-pie of sixty maybe. ‘If you wish the haute cuisine, monsieur, you had better leave.’
St-Cyr chided her. ‘Don’t ruffle the feathers, Bernadette. This one is okay, eh? Good simple food, Hermann, that is what she always serves.’
‘Simple, monsieur, because with those dishes nothing can be hidden. No rubbish in the langouste Belle Aurore or the poularde de Bresse braisee a l’estragon because we stick to the truth by being uncomplicated. There is only one menu and that is what you will eat in my establishment.’
‘Which of them is the Generalmajor?’
‘You are sitting in his chair; Jean-Louis in the chair of his mistress but … since they are not here,’ she shrugged, ‘I can give their places to someone else.’
‘That God of yours just frowned, Louis. Let’s hope they don’t show up.’
The soup was a thick marriage of mutton stock, vegetables, garlic and God knows what else. Good, though, and served with bread brushed with olive oil because the Luftwaffe must have asked for bread and maybe they were short of butter or she simply made them eat it that way. The omelette had truffles, reminding Kohler of Perigord and the truffle hunter of that last case.
Stuffed woodcock were crammed with the birds’ chopped intestines minus the gizzard, foie gras and more truffles. Garlic again, but mild enough – not strong like the garlic of the north – and dashes of Armagnac.
The daube was more than just a cheap cut of Provencal beef soaked in wine with herbs and braised in olive oil before making the casserole stew. It was superb. Chunks of beef, but sausage too, and duck – he’d swear it was duck. Salt pork, lamb, ground black pepper and white beans. Bay leaves, onions and things. Peppers, tomatoes and black olives, of course. Bean stock, too, and wine.
Kohler was impressed but Louis … for a Frenchman, Louis ate with almost total lack of interest after the first few exclamations of joy for Madame’s benefit. He sipped the local wine, refusing the 1911 Chateau-d’Yquem of the Luftwaffe and the Dom Perignon. He read and read again the dossier of Madame Anne-Marie Buemondi and often looked up to stare emptily into the fire.
Then he took to looking at the photograph of the other daughter, Josette-Louise.
Their coffee came – he refused the desserts, asking only that their portions be saved for later along with any leftovers. ‘We are travelling by air, Bernadette. A long flight through dangerous weather conditions and possible hostile aircraft. It will help if we have something to eat. It will take Hermann’s mind off the extreme altitude and the chance of Allied bullets.’