‘Louis, it was a good try. Have you got a cigarette? This miserable bastard …’
‘No cigarettes are allowed,’ said the man in French, waving his Luger their way. The thing was mounted with a drum clip of thirty-two rounds. The look was anything but friendly. ‘Your revolver, Inspector. Please take it out and toss it over there.’
If only Mademoiselle Arcuri was not so close to him. ‘Do it!’ said the man.
Gingerly he fished the Lebel out of its holster.
‘Louis, they won’t harm you – not … not until it’s over for me.’
There was a training whip, one of those long, rawhide things, leaning against a stall. The Arcuri woman took a step towards it …
‘Please don’t,’ said St-Cyr, not looking at her. ‘He would only kill you, madame.’
The Lebel landed in the manure pile. Ah damn! ‘So, my friend,’ he said with a shrug, ‘what now, eh? No more reports, no more worries …’
‘We wait for the general. That’s what we do.’
This one was not so tall as Hermann, but tough. Big in the shoulders, stiff and strong in the neck. About twenty-eight years of age. In all that chasing around he hadn’t lost his cap. The uniform was immaculate.
‘Your name?’ asked St-Cyr pleasantly. Perhaps five metres separated them. ‘You will allow us a cigarette, eh? For Mademoiselle Arcuri if not for myself?’
‘Klaus Jensen, from Hamburg. Sure, smoke if it helps, but not him.’ The Frenchman was up to something. ‘No tricks, eh? Just a cigarette. She can light it for you.’
As Mademoiselle Arcuri slid a hand into his jacket pocket to find the case, they exchanged glances. ‘Have you a match, my friend?’ asked St-Cyr. ‘I seem to have run out.’
Jensen set his lighter on the floor and nudged it towards the woman. A real looker, a general’s woman but then …
The smile she gave was brief and grateful as she crouched to pick the thing up and flicked it into flame. Kerosene … was there any kerosene for the lanterns? she wondered.
St-Cyr accepted the light, holding her hand to steady the flame. Again they exchanged glances. Perhaps no more than five minutes had passed. ‘You didn’t kill Yvette,’ he said quietly. ‘Forgive me if I gave you the impression that I thought you had.’
‘But…?’
‘Ah no, not here. Please.’ He shook his head.
‘But I did kill her. Me, I did it.’
‘No, madame, that is not possible, eh? But let us leave it for now.’
‘What was that you two said?’ demanded Jensen, waving the pistol. He’d shoot the Frenchman then the woman if he had to.
St-Cyr filled his lungs. When the choking fit had passed, he said, ‘Merely that your French is excellent. Where did you learn it?’
‘At the Sorbonne, from ’36 to ’39. Among other things, that is!’ He grinned.
Other things like organizing the Fifth Column and recruiting French students into the Nazi cause.
‘Me, I would have thought you one of us, isn’t that so, Hermann? A real Frenchman of the upper crust.’
Just what the hell was Louis on about now? ‘Yes … yes, he speaks Frog like a well-heeled native, Louis. So what?’
‘So nothing, my friend. I just thought it curious.’
*
The mourners had departed. The waiters had disappeared. The abbot still sat at the far end of the salon with the countess on his right. The parish priest had taken his leave, discreetly perhaps, as had the parents Noel in whose places a stern-faced Brother Michael sat beside Brother Sebastian. Lost in prayers that one, and mumbling them over and over again without the help of his rosary. Ah yes.
Rene Yvon-Paul came towards his mother and when they met, she brushed a hand fondly over the boy’s hair, then stooped to kiss his cheek.
The boy gave her a doubtful look but sat between her and the countess in whose dark eyes one could detect nothing but a cold watchfulness.
Ackermann told his man to wait just inside the main entrance to the salon and to let no one enter or leave. ‘We shall give him his moment, and then we shall deal with the two of them.’
So much for the pleasantries.
‘Countess, Reverend Father, a glass of wine, I think, to slake the thirst, said St-Cyr.
She looked to Ackermann and back to him. ‘Yes … Yes, of course. Hans, would it be all right?’
‘A little of your demi-sec for me,’ enthused St-Cyr. ‘The small taste I had was superb.’
‘Rene, would you …,’ began the countess. Ackermann nodded curtly.
As the boy left by a side door, St-Cyr stuffed his hands into the bulging pockets of his jacket. ‘May I, General?’ He indicated the pipe. ‘An old favourite Hermann has been good enough to supply with fuel.’
‘Did he steal the tobacco or break someone’s hand in the process of persuasion?’ asked Ackermann.
Hermann must have quite a reputation at number 72 the avenue Foch. ‘He bought it, I think, General. Hermann’s a man of mystery, though, and one can’t always tell what he’ll do even in the tightest of situations.’
‘If that was meant to worry me, forget it. He’ll be dead before nightfall.’
Ackermann crossed his legs. ‘So, a little tete-a-tete, Gabrielle? But you’ve changed your things? Now that was wise. Good travelling clothes are what will suit this whole business best.’
Fortunately the wine arrived.
St-Cyr waited patiently for the boy to serve them. ‘It’s a pleasure to see things done so properly, Rene. Not a drop wasted, eh? And the order of the serving absolutely perfect.’
He took a sip, held the wine a moment on the tongue, then moved it around his mouth. ‘Magnificent!’ he said. ‘Countess, I commend your efforts. So, my friends, let us begin, I think, with the murder of Yvette to which Mademoiselle Arcuri has already confessed.’
‘But you …’ began the chanteuse. The others were startled.
Smiling good-naturedly, St-Cyr lifted his glass in a toast to her. ‘Please allow me to proceed.’
‘Just don’t take too long,’ snorted Ackermann.
‘General, I will be as brief as possible. Countess, could I have the use of that splendid Russian table you have over there? Such inlays of semiprecious stones – the pink of rhodonite, the green of malachite and blue of lapis lazuli. For one who appreciates beauty and rarity, it’s a wonder you don’t value your daughter-in-law more. Brothers, would you mind …?’ He indicated the table.
Together, the three of them moved the table closer to hand, but left it to one side of the gathering. ‘I prefer to stand and to walk about,’ said St-Cyr apologetically. ‘Rene, would you be so kind as to find my pipe a suitable ashtray?’
That, too, was done and while the moment availed itself, the countess said quietly, ‘If she killed the girl, Inspector, why haven’t you arrested Gabrielle?’
Could one remain so calm in the face of death? ‘Because, my dear Countess, there are confessions and confessions. Some are of the heart and worth everything to those who are students of it, isn’t that so, Reverend Father?’
There wasn’t even a nod from that grim-faced pillar of salt. ‘Others are for the judges, juries and the lawyers,’ went on St-Cyr, ‘as the Brother Michael knows only too well.’
‘Then why did she confess?’ asked the countess sharply.
‘Why indeed, one might ask except, my friends, for the fact that these are not normal times, eh, General? The German presence implies new rules and orders under which we all must live.’
If Ackermann thought anything of that he gave no indication beyond the smoothing of the fingers of his left hand over the palm of the right hand. St-Cyr reached for his glass and brought the wine under his nose, holding the pipe well to the side. ‘Ambrosia. A perfume, too, of the gods. So, it is my belief, Mademoiselle Arcuri, that by confessing, you are trying to protect the countess.’