‘Gestapo,’ said Kohler. ‘It’s a murder case, isn’t it?’
‘But… but the SS, they are inside the church?’ bleated the walrus.
‘Oh them,’ said Kohler. ‘They’re just friends of the family.’
‘Friends … but that is not possible, monsieur. Riel Noel knows no one in the SS.’
The man was a real klutz.
‘The countess does,’ spat the weasel acidly. ‘She’s asked that cousin of hers for help. That’s why he’s here. To teach the Reverend Father some manners.’
‘Over the land claim,’ offered the walrus apologetically. They’d best keep talking a little. This one had to stoop to avoid banging his head on the roof. He’d not stay long.
‘The land claim?’ asked Kohler.
The walrus went on. ‘Yes. The upper vineyard of the Domaine Theriault has always been a private passion of the Reverend Father. The deeds, they are not entirely correct, you understand. Written by monks who knew nothing of surveying, and by magistrates in Paris or Rome who liked to write in Latin but had never visited this area. The matter has been in and out of the courts for centuries.’
‘That’s why the abbot accepted Jerome Noel into the order – to gain favour with the countess,’ said the weasel.
‘It didn’t work,’ added the walrus. ‘Now our parish priest, the Father Eugene, has the body and the abbot and the countess continue their fight. It’s always the same with these powerful people. One gains a little by trickery, then the other gains something back. They go at it like cats in the night, monsieur. Most of the action is in the howling.’
Kohler knew he’d have to remember that one.
The weasel grinned. The Gestapo was loosening up. Good … good … that was very good. Big-foot liked these little stories … ‘Our parish priest was chosen by the countess from among the fifteen candidates she and the abbot interviewed. Even Rome will fart for a countess.’
‘Any ideas who killed the brother and sister?’
The weasel shrugged. ‘The Prefet thinks it is the work of a sadist, monsieur, but then he is only the Prefet of Vouvray and the murders, they were not committed in his district. Talbotte, the Prefet of Greater Paris, has telephoned to give him the facts, you understand. The girl Yvette was raped in the you-know-where, but they’re not saying. They’re hushing it all up to preserve the sanctity of our minds.’
‘The brother, God forbid,’ offered the walrus, trying to help but not quite making it.
‘The brother, eh?’ snorted Kohler. ‘Flying up her backside after death! You two are under arrest for withholding information.’
‘Under arrest …? But … Ah no, monsieur,’ struggled the walrus, ‘you would not do that to us.’
Kohler yanked out his pistol. ‘I would and have. Stick up your hands. We’ll use the two graves you’ve already dug. They can dump the coffins in on top of you.’
Both armpits of the walrus’s jacket had split long ago. The poor bastard wet himself. In the name of Jesus, was his bladder that weak?
‘The countess’s car was seen leaving the area late on the night before Jerome’s body was found,’ blurted the man.
Now that was better. ‘Up by the monastery?’ demanded Kohler, cocking the pistol.
Dear Jesus, he means it! ‘There was a bicycle tied to the back of the car,’ managed the weasel, his eyes never leaving the muzzle of the gun. Gaston would be the first to get it.
‘Who was driving?’
The walrus coughed up. ‘The countess, who else? Me, I did not see so clearly, monsieur. Please, you must believe this. The rabbits are best in among the rocks, isn’t that so? Me, I was out …’
‘Trapping?’
Ah Mon Dieu! why had he said it? Now the forced labour for hunting and taking the spoils of the victors! ‘A few rabbits,’ he grimaced and tried to gesture with his arms up like that. ‘Only a few, monsieur.’
‘Three?’ demanded Kohler not letting up on the heat. Four?… Six? Gott in Himmel, six furry little bundles or was it …?’
Ten years – he’d get at least ten years! The walrus’s eyes melted. Thank God there was no more in his bladder. ‘Eight, monsieur. I … I have the ferret and the nets. My wife, she makes the pate for the butcher. I could let you have two pots …?’ It was a hope, a gamble, a possibility …
‘Six,’ said Kohler. ‘I’ll want the address later. You two keep co-operating and I’ll be sure to tell her what happened to you. Did anyone else see the car?’
The two of them glanced apprehensively at each other. Again the walrus had the tongue. ‘No … No, there was no one else.’
Kohler stepped forward and came to crouch between the man’s outspread boots. The stench of urine was overpowering yet he reached out to straighten the man’s tie. ‘We like to have our people looking their best,’ he said softly. The gun tapped the walrus under the chin. ‘You’re lying,’ said Kohler. ‘It’s a shame you’re so big in the belly. It’ll make the coffin on top of you tilt.’
God forgive him, he’d have to tell the truth! ‘The … the abbot or … or one of the brothers, monsieur. He … he was standing on the road, watching as the car drove away.’
Oh, was he now? The tears were very real. ‘And was Yvette at home having her backside reamed or in Paris?’
The walrus winced. The weasel came to the rescue. ‘Yvette was at home visiting her parents.’
So he’d found his voice again, had he? ‘And did she know how to drive a car?’ asked Kohler.
The weasel didn’t like the look in the Gestapo’s eyes. ‘Madame Theriault has taught her this some years ago. When … when Yvette was eighteen, I think.’
‘Gabrielle …’ offered the walrus. ‘In the name of Jesus, monsieur, could we not lower our arms?’
‘Jesus isn’t with us, so I can’t ask him,’ said Kohler. The oxeyes swam as they fled. ‘No … no, please, I insist,’ breathed Kohler. ‘You must look at me. It’s one of our very first rules when dealing with shits like you two. Hey, tell me, my friend, are the bowels okay – the back ones? You’re not about to empty them or choke on them?’
The man nodded quickly. To be humiliated like this … ‘I was in the last war, monsieur, at Verdun. Ever since, my system it has not functioned so well in times of crisis.’
‘An old soldier, eh? Hey, listen, I know all about it. So, okay, I’ll let up a little if you’ll tell me – was Gabrielle Arcuri also at home, visiting the countess and her son?’
‘The son is dead, monsieur. Monsieur Charles, he was killed at Sedan during the invasion.’
Kohler let that one pass. ‘Gabrielle’s son, Rene Yvon-Paul.’
‘Oh, him. Yes … yes, me, I suppose she did come to see the boy. She often does.’
‘But you don’t know for sure she was here?’
‘No … no, I cannot say that.’
Kohler stood up. The weasel, like all of his kind, had let the walrus blurt it out and take the rap.
He waved the gun at the man to indicate that the arms must remain aloft. ‘Was the General Ackermann at the chateau?’
Anthracite eyes stared defiantly back at him. ‘The general, monsieur? No … No, I do not think he was here, but I cannot say for sure.’
Had the man any reason to lie? Plenty, if the matter had anything to do with the SS. ‘Look, I’ll give you to the count of three, then I’ll have your friend drag you out of here.’
‘That is the truth, monsieur. Gaston and I both live in the lower part of town. It is not far from the main road, you understand, but far enough and very far from the ChaTeau Theriault, so we don’t exactly see all that’s going on, and since we dig graves, our presence is not all that welcome among the citizens of this stinking place, and those miserly bastards don’t often pass the time of day with us.’
Okay, fair enough for now, said Kohler to himself. So, Yvette and the countess were around but there are doubtfuls with Ackermann and Mademoiselle Arcuri.
The Corsicans could be asked for confirmation – if Ackermann and his duel could be avoided! Glotz might somehow be convinced to cough up what he knew of the general.