The man turned it over. ‘One request by the Countess Theriault, in the fall of 1940 – October 2nd, to be precise – then one by the wife, Gabrielle, a week later – that one came here just like you. See, there’s a star beside her name. That’s the code I use. And then a final request by the abbot no less, of the Abbey of Saint Gregory the Great, on 23rd November 1940. He also paid us a visit.’
Would the countess or Gabrielle have asked if they’d known the certificate was a fake? Had they been so clever as to have done this to cover their tracks in anticipation of someone like himself checking into things, or had it been in case the abbot should ask?
‘Is the paper the same for the other certificates?’ He knew it was.
Again the walnut felt the certificate. He held it up closely against the desk lamp, scanned it carefully for the watermarks all such genuine certificates possessed.
He pushed his glasses up and peered at the stamps and then at the signatures. Like so many, the certificate had been filled out after the Defeat. Vichy had then sent it on to Paris for filing.
‘Perhaps the captain’s mother, or his wife, got to somebody at the Ministry of Defence in Vichy, Inspector. Perhaps they want him listed as dead – all three of these people,’ he tapped the list, ‘but me, I have no reason to question the validity of this certificate.’
Could Gabrielle Arcuri’s husband have run from the battle as so many officers had?
It was the unpleasant thought that had led him here and he still wasn’t satisfied. Far too often fake death certificates had been used to cover such things, but damn! He’d hoped for proof. It would have made things so much simpler.
Patiently the walnut crossed out the three and wrote a four, then turned the certificate over and added, Inspector St-Cyr of the Surete, 8 December 1942.
‘What’s he done if he isn’t dead?’
St-Cyr took in the toothless grin. ‘Murdered a young boy and his sister for having discovered his secret.’
But then why leave the purse at the scene of the first crime, why the diamonds, why the cigarette case, the condoms in their little silk sleeves, the perfume …
Why, indeed, unless it had been someone else who’d done the killing and had wanted to point the finger at Gabrielle Arcuri.
Then why execute the girl in that fashion, why try to pin her killing on the Resistance?
The two killings had all the appearances of having been done by different people but had that been the case and had the killings been done by men?
From what he’d seen of the countess, she could easily have done them both to protect her son and the Domaine Theriault.
But not Mademoiselle Arcuri, eh? he asked himself as he left the building and went to unlock the bicycle. What of her, my friend? Is it that, after one meeting in an abandoned grist mill, you feel so sympathetic towards the woman you can believe her claims of innocence for Yvette and herself yet discount the fact that she had every reason to protect her husband?
Even to her singing in a club like the Mirage, where the Germans wouldn’t think to question her loyalties because she was so popular with their men.
She’d have despised her husband for having run away. She’d have had nothing more to do with him.
Then perhaps that was the reason she’d gone back to Paris, to the life she’d once led?
Chantal Grenier, the petite designer of the shop, Enchantment, composed herself before earnestly saying, The Lune Russe, Louis. Gabrielle Arcuri was the chanteuse there before the war and before her marriage. Night after night Muriel would go there to listen to her. Me, I thought my Muriel was going to leave me, that she’d a crush on someone new. I could not understand her doing such a thing to me. I wept, Louis. I thought of suicide but, ah no, it was only that voice. Muriel had become entranced by it. She was like the archaeologist with a new bone, gazing raptly, always raptly. She simply could not leave the Lune Russe alone. Such magnetism, isn’t that so? Such intensity in that voice. It is very sexual, very erotic. Muriel could not be blamed, and for this, I have long since forgiven her.’
There was a smile, never too much, always just perfect. The bleached blonde hair was tossed the appropriate amount. Sentiment registered in the large brown eyes beneath their long dark lashes.
Muriel had gone off on one of her ‘scrounges’ for materials. There were only the two of them in the office. St-Cyr sat back in his chair. ‘So, when Muriel learned that Mademoiselle Arcuri was singing in Paris again, she went to hear her?’
There was a frown, the brief look of one so lost by doubt one must surely die for love, but all this passed at the thought of a recent kiss. ‘Yes, several times since almost a year now, since … since she has discovered Gabrielle was back. Muriel has named our latest perfume after the club.’
‘You should have told me. It was very naughty of you not to have.’
‘You stole a vial of our perfume, Monsieur Louis! You behaved as a common thief, a shoplifter! This I can never forgive, not in a man I have always thought of as having principles. It’s no wonder your wife has left you for a German officer, even though he came into the shop not an hour ago to buy her a going-away present.’
The woman ducked her eyes and waited pensively.
Poor Louis … it had been very naughty of her to have told him. ‘This young officer was nearly in tears, Louis. Broken-hearted. Three days, that’s all they have left together. Three! She’ll be back and then, why then Gabrielle and you …’
She couldn’t say it. St-Cyr raised his eyebrows. ‘Will not go to bed together,’ she admitted. ‘Gabrielle would have been much better for you than your wife.’
So Hermann had been to von Schaumburg and the general had put a stop to things. He felt sad for Marianne’s sake. It would have been much better if she’d left Steiner of her own accord.
But as for his going to bed with Mademoiselle Arcuri … ‘Chantal, let us bury our hatchets, eh? For myself, I regret stealing your vial of perfume and will gladly pay for it.’
‘For my part, I apologize too, but it would have been much better, Louis, if you had confided in me fully. That’s what dear friends are for, isn’t that so?’
It was, but were the tears that had formed in her eyes really genuine?
‘Is Gabi in trouble, Louis?’
Gabi… ‘Her life may well be in grave danger. Her maid was murdered.’
‘In Fontainebleau Woods. The Resistance … an execution, Louis! An execution!’
The news had been in the papers. She’d have got it there. ‘Chantal, please don’t distress yourself. Murders like these happen all the time.’
‘But not to people you’ve touched, Louis! She was such a pretty thing. Yvette Noel … Muriel gave her a vial of our Mirage for herself when she presented two of them to Mademoiselle Arcuri.’
‘Backstage?’
‘But of course. Between acts.’
‘What was Mademoiselle Arcuri’s reaction?’
‘To Muriel’s naming the perfume after her and the club? Very pleased, very excited – enchanted that someone from before the war could remember her like that. After all, she’d been away for several years. Six, I think, or was it seven? But this was last year, Louis, and can have no bearing on the case.’
So Yvette had had her own vial of perfume and could easily have put it in that purse. ‘Did Gabi ever come into the shop?’
‘But of course. Several times after the episode of the perfume. Lingerie, stockings … whatever she needed.’ Gabi … oh dear, what had she done?
‘But not the dress she wore at the club?’
Louis knew all about the dress but was pretending ignorance. Very well, my dear detective! ‘No … No, she had that made elsewhere. She didn’t agree with us. I tried to tell her the pearls would only detract from the effect she wanted so much to achieve, but she wouldn’t listen. She can be very stubborn, very determined, Louis. This you must believe.’
‘Did Mademoiselle Arcuri ever smoke cigarettes in your presence?’