St-Cyr took two cigarettes from the case and lit them. ‘But there was something else,’ he said, placing a cigarette between her lips. ‘Another reason, isn’t that so?’
Was she a suspect after all? she wondered, indicating that they should sit at either end of the bed. His eyes were watering.
‘Madame, the Kommandant of Greater Paris okayed the necessary permit for your car and gave you an excellent gasolene allocation, am I not correct?’
The mirage tilted back her beautiful head and blew smoke towards the ceiling. ‘It’s no more than I’d have got had I worked at any of the other clubs.’
‘Ah yes, but could it be they had singers in plenty?’ He coughed.
‘Not of my class. Believe me, Inspector, I know where I stand in things. One has to.’
‘Spoken like a true artist, not the star performer of a third-rate club. No, madame, it’s my belief you chose the Mirage after very careful consideration. As its only star you could pull in the troops, making quite a name for yourself and stifling any questions the German security forces might have asked about you.’
She tapped ash carefully into a palm and leaned back to gaze steadily at him. This one was good, so very good. ‘I didn’t kill Yvette and I didn’t kill Jerome.’
‘Jerome I have settled. It’s Yvette’s killer I need to pin down.’
St-Cyr took a drag of his cigarette and let the smoke rise before his eyes, fighting down the need to choke. ‘Jerome was blackmailing you, Mademoiselle Arcuri. He knew your husband was alive and in hiding here. Under the decree of this past spring, by aiding an escaped prisoner of war you, your son and the countess were liable to be sent to Germany, the two of you women into forced labour and an almost certain death, the boy to a reform school and probably death as well. The General Hans Ackermann was after you. He’d read the Sicherheitsdienst file on the wife of his cousin’s son. The countess had said a few things perhaps, let a hint or two drop, or simply shown she didn’t really care for you the way a mother-in-law should. Jerome threatened to sell you out to Ackermann, and you gave him these.’
He found the diamonds in a pocket and pitched the little velvet pouch on to the bedspread between them.
Deliberately it landed next to the cigarette case but she gave no sign of recognition until he took her hand in his and guided it to the pouch. ‘Open it,’ he said.
‘I … I don’t need to. My father asked me to carry those when we escaped from Leningrad. The children were often the last to be searched. I could run faster than my brothers and sisters. I … I ran. God forgive me, but I ran.’
St-Cyr drew in a breath and held it for the longest time. With a sigh he said, ‘And you’ve kept them ever since in spite of your needing money when you first arrived in Paris.’
‘Was it such a crime? I loved my father and my family. I hoped we’d see each other again – we’d need the money the diamonds would bring. I didn’t hear the shots. I swear I didn’t. Jerome was horrible. Poor Yvette, she knew he was being used by Hans. She tried to intervene.’
‘Many times, I think. That is why she kept the diary.’
‘A diary? Me, I don’t know about such a thing. I never saw it.’
Ah, Mon Dieu, must she be so difficult? ‘But you remembered the exact spot where she’d be in Fontainebleau Woods?’
The woman flicked ash on to the floor, forgetting completely about being tidy. ‘All right, I knew of it. Jerome boasted to her of his liaisons with Hans, and Yvette wrote them down.’
St-Cyr searched his pockets for the diary until he had the thing. For a moment he looked at it, then this, too, he tossed on to the bed between them. ‘Just before she left the club Yvette changed her clothes, then went to tell one of the Corsicans – Remi, I think it was – that…’
‘There’s no thinking about it, Inspector. You’re certain it was Remi, so why try to hide such a little thing?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course. Forgive me. Old habits … it’s the cop in me, eh? She said …’
‘I know what she said, Inspector. “Tell Mademoiselle Arcuri that it’s all going to be fixed.”’
‘The voice on the telephone. It was not that of the General Hans Ackermann, madame, but that of your husband.’
The violet eyes were limpid pools that brimmed. ‘Madame, please listen very carefully. I am not, I repeat not against the Resistance and its objectives but my partner, Hermann, you understand, is of the Gestapo no matter what he would sometimes like me to believe. If your husband is alive and you are hiding him, then now is the time to tell me.’
‘And the SS General Hans Gerhardt Ackermann?’ she asked harshly. Ah damn, what was she going to do?
‘The general is of the enemy of course,’ said St-Cyr, feeling a sense of loss he had trouble explaining.
As he watched, she brushed away the few tears and stubbed out the cigarette on the iron standard of the bed.
‘All right, you win, Inspector. You’d better come and see for yourself.’
She stretched out a hand and stood there waiting as he snatched up the cigarette case and the diary.
Their fingers touched. She was so close – a stunning woman, a chanteuse in great trouble, a mirage even yet.
The pouch of diamonds was pressed into his hand. The smile she managed was soft and introspective but the moment passed so suddenly as she shrugged and said, ‘I’ll be glad when this is over even though I’ll be dead.’
7
The sun was almost gone, and back here, wandering in the maze, a quiet had come that was now broken only by the distant sounds of geese and guinea fowl.
Kohler didn’t like it one bit. The cedars were too tall, too thick and pungent. Underfoot, the grass had been crushed by footsteps other than his own.
Again he listened intently. Louis had said there must be a secret door in the tower at the centre of the maze. Mademoiselle Arcuri’s husband could then come and go as he pleased from the river and the mill. But of that tower there’d been no sight for some time. Continually he lost his sense of direction and was forced to double back. Ah merde! What the fuck was he to do?
In desperation, he lit a cigarette and left it on the ground. From the next aisle he could barely see it through the fronds. One step … two … he drew his pistol …
The toe of a jackboot gleamed. A fly alighted then thought better of it. Ackermann had sent his buddies. Christ!
He turned and ran – went along another and then another aisle, hit a dead end. Shit!
‘Klaus, the bastard’s over here!’
But where?
Kohler yanked off his shoes and socks, and leaving them, backed away. The aisle was long and at its far end there were openings both to the right and left.
‘Helmut, I’m over here,’ shouted the one called Klaus – close, too close! ‘Let’s make the bastard sweat.’
‘Calls himself an SS man,’ came the answer.
‘Gone too French. Been saying nasty things about our general.’
‘There’s no cooked spinach in the SS!’ shouted the one called Helmut as he began to run. Kohler saw him and turned – Jesus, was that the other one too?
He tore his way through the cedars and sprinted up the aisle, hit a turning and went left, then right – right!
The banter ceased. His heart hammered. ‘Louis … Louis,’ he began, but knew he mustn’t shout.
Moisture clung to the ancient stones of one of the chateau’s towers. As St-Cyr and Mademoiselle Arcuri climbed to meet her husband, their steps rang hollowly. These old chateaux … Ah, Mon Dieu, the labour of their restoration. It must go on and on for centuries.
Embrasures gave increasing views of the grounds. At a point five storeys up, he could not help but see that Hermann was in trouble.
The maze with its little tower was directly below them. ‘Hermann, can you hear me?’ he shouted.