Once inside the grounds, the footprints made their way through the kitchen gardens, pausing every now and then to view the winter beans, the snow-caked Brussels sprouts on their sturdy stalks, the cabbages and onions.
There were three iron-tipped, wooden bolts in the centre of the target that was over by the far wall. St-Cyr looked anxiously around, said, ‘Mademoiselle, what is this?’
The house and grounds were still. ‘Ah Nom de Dieu, Hermann, what am I to do?’
From two to four centimetres separated each bolt in the cluster and all had hit the centre of the target.
They were not antique but relatively new and with feathered flights, and he had the thought then that whoever had fired them, had had plenty of extras made.
He took out the Lebel, and turning so as to face the house, gripped the revolver in his right hand.
Then he started for the place, determined to get things over with as quickly as possible.
The red Majestic he’d ridden from the weaver’s house on the first visit was leaning against a post in the solarium. Snow clung to its tyres and spokes. She’d made no attempt to clean it off – perhaps she’d wanted him to find the bicycle as it was.
Her boots rested neatly side by side on the doorstep and she’d even left the inner door to the house open for him. ‘Mademoiselle …’ he began, only to think better of saying anything. She was not in the grand salon, not in the kitchens or in any of the other ground-floor rooms.
The main staircase was wide, and it went up to two landings, so he could not see the second floor and would have to take things one step at a time. Ah Nom de Jesus-Christ! Why hadn’t he prepared himself better? That nail in the front left tyre; that slow leak. Of course she’d caught the morning’s autobus to Cannes. The ride down from the village could have been accomplished without them being aware of it. A chance, of course, but when one is desperate, chance is all one has.
She was not in the first of the bedrooms he came to. Not in the second either. He reached the room Angelique Girard had used and found its door slightly open. Hermann, he said. Hermann …
He gave it a nudge, threw his back to the wall, glancing both into the room and suddenly behind himself, along the hall.
Silks and satins. A sky-blue slip. White lace underpants on the floor. An oval dressing mirror facing him. The bed unmade, the covers thrown carelessly back as before.
No sign of anyone. He hesitated, then breathed in quietly and gave a muted sigh of exasperation.
There was a condom on the floor, grey-white and looking as if a snake had just shed its skin.
St-Cyr stepped over it, barely missing the wire and clasp of a gold ear-ring. When he reached the French windows, he looked briefly through the lace curtains and down into the gardens.
As before, he found the target against the far wall, and saw again the bolts that had been fired into it.
Carlo Buemondi? he asked. Or Jean-Paul Delphane? The front entrance? Had either of them been waiting for her? Was it even Josette-Louise Buemondi? Was it Viviane Darnot? Where was Angelique Girard? Why hadn’t he looked at where the archer had stood this time? Ah damn, he should have.
Sixty metres and deadly accurate. The ‘mother’ extending the hand and threatening perhaps with the pawn ticket.
A kaleidoscope. The letters DMXTG.
They were burying the remains of the child in a corner grave not far from the ruins of the old abbey among which the weaver’s house stood alone. Kohler could see the three of them. Dedou Fratani and one of the men from the garage where they’d off-loaded the butter and eggs; two others – obviously grave-diggers – and, ah yes, the weaver. Viviane Darnot had broken her word and the express wishes of both the Surete and the Gestapo, this one anyway. She’d taken one hell of a risk and had followed them back to Cannes and he, in turn, had come after them, though none of them were aware of it.
Turning from the window, he ran a finger over the harpstrings of the warp on the weaver’s upright loom. He touched a beechwood bobbin, noted that she used them as shuttles. There were nests and singles of them clinging to the warp above the finished cloth. Threads and threads; colours and colours; tonal variations that were superb. Once in a thousand years an artist like this would come along, but the point was, the New Order wouldn’t give a damn. Munk would smash her fingers and break her arms if he felt the slightest need. They’d strip her, kick her and kill her – things often went too far. ‘Don’t let them,’ he said, giving his thoughts aloud. ‘I’d hate to have it on my conscience.’
Childhood memories of chasing balls of wool across a carpeted floor came to him, but he had no time for them. An ornate iron bed with canopied mosquito screen, armoire, chaise and dressing-table made the bedroom somewhat Spartan, and he saw at a glance that she’d not had much money. Not since her father had lost his wealth in the Stavisky Affair.
Moving swiftly, Kohler went through the room, ignoring the scent bottles until he found a Roman one, pale green, opalescent and milky just like the one Louis had taken from the cottage.
It was empty, but immediately he thought of the ruins of the fortress above the village. Shards of Roman glass and bits of pottery picked up on numerous little expeditions – collected by twin girls of age ten or twelve, adults too.
Photos showed the weaver with them at the ruins. There were shots of several collections, shots of the views from up there, others of the picnics they’d had.
Then, the girls bathing in that little pond at the cottage and laughing, splashing each other and their mother, their bodies skinny. Chummy shots of the weaver with her arms draped across their shoulders – they had loved her; both of them had. It was easy to see they’d both adored her.
One of a hike in the mountains – Chamonix, he wondered? Anne-Marie Buemondi must have taken the photo, for a woman’s heavy sweater and alpine boots lay next to them.
When he came to a photograph of Jean-Paul Delphane, taken perhaps fifteen years ago, Kohler let a breath escape as he pried it from the corner tabs. Uncle Jean-Paul had been written on the back. June 12, 1927. The twins would have been nine years old. ‘For “uncle” write “father”,’ he said, pocketing the thing.
Still other snapshots were of Ludo Borel and the two girls – herb collecting in the hills and happy faces; others of the weaver and Borel with Madame Buemondi; then some, also, of the herbalist’s eldest son with the twins but there was nothing in the album beyond the age of twelve. Perhaps the photos were elsewhere; perhaps the camera had broken.
It didn’t take a genius to see mischief in the girls’ eyes, but which of them had been the more daring? Both looked like imps and lots of fun, so perhaps it did not matter who had dared the other to get Alain Borel to spy on those two women as they made love. Ah yes.
There were photos of the weaver and Anne-Marie that had obviously been snapped by inexperienced hands, i.e. those same two girls. In one photograph, the weaver playfully leaned her head against her lover’s chest. In another, unknown to them at the time, one of the girls had caught them kissing; in another they were holding hands.
Again he had the thought that everything had stopped at the age of twelve.
Rifling through an Empire-style desk that had obviously been bought at a flea market, he found her cheque stubs – books and books of them. Cheques drawn on the main branch of Barclay’s Bank in London. Lombard Street.
?700 to a Monsieur Isaac Kelmann, dated 13 September 1942. This from a woman who had no money or had not been able to get it out of Britain in time?
?500 to a Mademoiselle Judith Lund, 8 August 1942.
He chose another bundle, dropped the first and quickly pocketed it. ?1500 to a Meyer Biederfeld, 24 November 1941.