A kaleidoscope like no other. A fabric designer’s piece of magic. A child’s toy but such a toy.
He knew its owner had once been Viviane Darnot, for the weaver could never have resisted such a thing and would have been absolutely entranced by its patterns. He thought of Chamonix, of the wall hangings he had seen in that villa, her eyes reflected so many times in shards of mirrored glass.
The octagonal patterns were everchanging as the outer end of the tube was turned, yet when the turning stopped, it was as if the particles fell in on themselves and the pattern remained stationary.
The hallmark gave the name of the engraver: John S. Hunt of Hunt and Roskell, London, 1849. Viviane Darnot could well have received it from the father she seldom saw; in turn, she would have given it to the girl she loved.
And that same girl, now a woman, had pawned the gift and done so when? he asked, examining the tag and recalling that her body had been found on the 16th, the Wednesday last.
She had pawned the kaleidoscope on the previous Saturday, 12 December, at two forty-five in the afternoon.
Had Jean-Paul informed the weaver of what her former lover and companion had done with her gift? Was that why Madame Buemondi had extended the ticket on that hillside and made not threats, ah no, but entreaties perhaps for forgiveness? I needed the money, cherie. I was desperate, she might have said. Josianne must have her medicine. The pilots must get across the Pyrenees and into safety so that they can fight again.
But wait, he cautioned. Viviane Darnot is English. Then were they not both in on it, both helping the escapers until Angelique Girard came between the two women? Ah yes. The cloak had been given to another. The kaleidoscope had been pawned – a last straw, then. The weaver could tolerate no more. Wearing the cloak, she went into the hills and when Anne-Marie arrived, challenged her former lover and then shot her.
Perhaps, but then … then … ah, it was such a case. They must get to Paris as quickly as possible and then return to those hills. That’s where the answers lay. The boy, Bebert Peretti, must be made to tell them what he witnessed on that hillside. The villagers, most particularly the herbalist and the hearse-driver, must be made to reveal what they knew. Somehow he had to keep Hermann from finding out about the maquis, if indeed there had ever been any of them.
And Jean-Paul Delphane? he asked, still holding the kaleidoscope. Jean-Paul must be made to answer for his crimes.
They were hurrying along the Quai des Corsaires through the fog, past half-timbered houses that had been built in the late 1500s perhaps. An old town, a once-bustling port the British had controlled from 1152 until 1451, Bayonne had fallen into decline for 200 years only to be revived by eighteenth-century privateers who had used it as a free port. Hence, the long tradition of taking the wealth of others? asked St-Cyr, snorting at the thought only to forget all about it.
‘Hermann, we must remember to ask the hearse-driver or the Abbe Roussel why Madame Buemondi denied the Borels their right to water, and when she did so.’
Kohler flapped his wings in despair. ‘Dummkopf! It was the Perettis she threatened! The Borels’ oldest son was after the epileptic’s ass and Madame did not want him having it!’
‘Yes, yes, my friend, your crudeness is admirable, but the Borels? Why, if Ludo Borel and the weaver worked together on the plant dyes, did Madame Buemondi take away their right to water and when did she do so?’
Louis could be such an idiot! Kohler stopped suddenly and turned to face him. ‘That woman was helping escapists, my fine. Whether she pissed away Borel’s water or not, simply doesn’t matter. She met a girl here, the daughter of a mountain guide, Louis, and she had the 35,000 francs to hand over.’
‘Ah no, a guide …? Why did you not tell me, Hermann?’
‘You were too busy trying to get that toy out of the rabbit’s hands. Besides, I didn’t want to tell you.’
They hurried on in silence, each angry with his own thoughts, until they came to the house. Between the timbers of the upper storey there was white stucco. The shutters were open. They rang the bell and wondered why, if there was no housekeeper, the lower shutters had not been closed.
‘Try the door,’ said Hermann, and when Louis did, it opened easily enough. ‘Louis, I don’t like this.’
‘Me neither,’ said the Frog, still carrying his toy.
The ceilings were low, the lintels over the doorways even lower still, the house unpretentious – quite obviously that of a merchant with shipping interests as well as others. Merely a house away from home.
The bedroom looked out over the River Nive but by then they had noticed the stench.
‘Ah Nom de Jesus-Christ!’ coughed Kohler, flinging himself away to throw up his guts and rush out of the room only to bang his head and shriek at the place.
St-Cyr threw open the windows but with the fog there was little daylight.
He struck a match and went over to the bed. The body was that of a young man of twenty or so. The bloated face was greenish-grey and horribly distorted, a mask of agony. Decay of the internal organs had caused a froth to ooze from the lips and nostrils. He’d been hit in the right thigh by shrapnel – a Stuka perhaps or merely the flak from some battery. The wound had festered but had perhaps not been too much to bear at first. Then the gangrene had set in, the fevers, the delirium – he could see where a rag had been used to stuff his mouth and stop his cries. The thigh was a deep greenish-black and bloated terribly, the sheeting and mattress soaked with effluent. The boy had been dead for at least two or three weeks, but why had she left him here to die like this all alone?
Why had Delphane left them to find the body if not to pin the rap of sympathizers on them?
‘Hermann, we are being forced into admitting we saw this one. If we do not report him, Herr Munk will think we are on the other side and wanting only to hide things. Yet if we do report the body, he will then move in on the village.’
For a former artilleryman and one who ought to have been accustomed to seeing death in all its many forms, Hermann looked positively ill.
‘Delphane wins either way, Louis. If we say we found the body, the village is lost and he’s proven right. If we withhold the information even for a day, he’s still proven right about us.’
‘And we have so little time at our disposal.’
‘Could we find the guide and his daughter?’
The warmth of fear was in Louis’s eyes. ‘How? If they are running an escape line, Hermann, they will most certainly not come to us.’
‘Ja, ja, I’m Gestapo. I know all about it. Our goose is being properly cooked this time.’
‘Hermann, the door was open, yes? Eyes will be watching to see what we do. If we leave quietly, some might think other than those of Jean-Paul and the ones he employs, if any.’
‘But will they take the chance of contacting us? Why should they?’
Why, indeed. It was hopeless and they both knew it. Madame Buemondi had been conducting escapers through to Spain. Whether her murder had anything to do with this or not was of no consequence, and yet … and yet, a murder had been committed.
‘Come on,’ said Kohler. ‘Let’s find our pilot and go home.’
‘Paris in winter is the shits,’ muttered the Frog. ‘Me, I should like to spend the last days of my life in that woman’s cottage.’
Listening to the bees of summer in his dreams and calculating the honey each would make as he read Baudelaire. Living on goat cheese, herbs and sausage. And water, Kohler reminded himself. Ja, ja, water. Without that there can be no life.
6
An icy mizzle made greyer still the gathering dusk over Paris. All along the rue du Faubourg Saint-Martin near the Gare de l’Est the only cars were those of the Germans, and few of them, ah yes, but not few enough.