Instead of taking her to Domme, the Baroness had insisted they come here ‘at least for a bit of supper.’ A slender arm, bronzed by the sun and bare to a finely moulded shoulder, gracefully waved from the back of the hall, electrifying those around it.
‘Ah! Danielle,’ sang out the Baroness. ‘Merci, ma petite. You are very kind, very beautiful and exactly the twin of Madame Jouvet.’
The twin … Ah nom de Jesus-Christ, what was this? wondered Kohler. Svelte, fluid, and wrapped in a clinging white halter-sheath with finely pleated skirt, dark blue beads, bangles, ear-rings and high heels, the actress made her way among the crowded tables evoking strident cheers, hand-clappings and whistles and not just from the men.
She was about thirty or so but looked one hell of a lot younger, had thick, wavy auburn hair that fell to soft curls over coyly half-hidden ears, had large, deep dark brown eyes – stunning eyes – long lashes, beautiful eyebrows, high cheekbones and, up close, a generously wide, very engaging, very brave and open smile.
‘Danielle.’
She and the Baroness kissed. A hand was extended. Kohler felt the silk of fingers as they slipped into his own. ‘Inspector,’ she said and her voice, her accent was like a caress, like a salutation.
‘Madame,’ she said. You poor thing. These people – oh they are such creatures,’ she tossed a dismissive hand. ‘Everything, it is a spectacle to them, isn’t that so, Marina? Everything but their little lives which are only spectacles to others. Come … let me find you something to wear. It is not nice what has happened. Two murders. Your mother … you must be in shock but you must also eat, yes, to regain your strength.’
As if the chosen one of a very large family, Danielle Arthaud leaned over the head table to a stack of dinner plates and gathered the necessities, then went from dish to dish with complete self-assurance. ‘Les truffes sous la cendre?’ she asked. ‘They’re so good, so fantastic I have discovered a passion for them and will take another two for myself.’
Spiced truffles wrapped in thin slices of pork, heavy brown paper and roasted under the ashes, the truffles first seasoned and then sprinkled with brandy, and to hell with rationing.
‘A few oysters, a little of the ballotine de dinde, or would you prefer the rillettes de pore? The ballotine? Ah yes, I thought so.’
The white meat of turkey stuffed with foie gras.
Just a spoonful of the eggs en cocotte a la perigourdine was taken, eggs on a layer of foie gras baked in a saucepan with a rich brown sauce in which there were thick, round slices of truffles. Some salad was added from one of several bowls. ‘And yes, a bottle of the Monbazillac, you do not mind? It is my favourite since I have come to this marvellous departement of yours.’
A golden dessert wine, an aperitif too, perhaps.
‘Sweet, fragrant and heady,’ confided the Baroness to Kohler. ‘Our petite Parisienne has acquired a taste for it also. It owes its special fragrance to the pourriture noble, the noble rot which reduces the acid of the raisin.’
‘A Renaissance wine to go with this house,’ indicated Danielle with such a generous grin it banished all thought of spite. ‘It keeps for thirty years but this one, ah it is not so old, I think.’
Ah Gott im Himmel, she was electrifying. Beautiful, exciting and very, very sure of herself.
She and Juliette moved away from the table to pass below a tapestry and coat of arms high on the ancient stone wall. They went up the staircase, and as all eyes watched, she turned at the balcony to give them the briefest of glances as if she owned the whole damned place. The perfect exit.
‘Come,’ said Marina von Strade, taking him by the arm. ‘You must be tired and hungry. We will eat and then we will view the rushes and afterwards you can meet everyone. For tonight you are mine.’
‘Who was that?’ asked Kohler.
‘Danielle? Ah, you are interested? You find her attractive? Until the war came, she was a nothing actress. Impoverished, struggling, always trying to meet the rent – you know the type. Now she has blossomed so much, she can toss away promising work in two other very good films to accept a far lesser part with us. But she is clever. She knows that this is the film that will be her moment of discovery.’
‘No boyfriends?’
‘Don’t be so curious. Ah! what is a woman to do? Strip before you? She has lots of boyfriends. They sniff at her heels. She picks, she chooses. It’s her privilege but … ah but she has only one love.’
‘Your Willi?’
‘Don’t be silly. Willi is a businessman. To him sex is just a function like any other and everything can be settled with cash. It’s only a matter of the price.’
* * *
‘A litre of the vin paille de Beaulieu, please,’ said St-Cyr.
‘And for dinner, monsieur?’ asked madame la patronne. The place was absolutely quiet, though several of the village regulars were seated at their customary tables. There were also two guests, salesmen by the look of them.
‘Dinner … ah, I have no ration tickets. Give me whatever you can.’
‘But … but that is impossible. Without the tickets, one is lost.’
‘Even in a little place like this and in the zone libre, madame?’
The generous waist drew in, the aproned bosom swelled. ‘An officer of the law and you demand the black-market meal? Ah no, no, monsieur. Here in Beaulieu-sur-Dordogne we do things legally or not at all!’
‘A police officer, ah yes, of course one has to be careful but…’
‘Marie … Marie … what is all this commotion? My cooking, my customers, cherie …’
‘All right, all right. Forgive me,’ motioned the Surete. ‘It is only that I have had a long day and no sustenance and still have much work to do. When sous-prefet Deveaux arrives with his men at first light, he will give you all the tickets you require.’
‘Deveaux?’
Was it such a calamity? ‘Yes. Your sous-facteur has been murdered but the sous-prefet cannot come until dawn.’
The couple went into a huddle, the others cautiously laid down their knives and forks or set their glasses aside.
Florid, round-faced and perplexed, the patron blurted, ‘Murdered? But that is not possible, monsieur.’
‘Possible or not he has had his head bashed in a week ago. Late in the afternoon, I think, but of course I cannot yet be positive.’
‘Last Sunday?’
‘Did anyone not from this area pass through the village? At dawn perhaps, or at any time up to, let us say, noon.’
The hotel, in a big provincial house, was on the place du Champ-de-Mars right in the heart of the village and well above the river and the streets around Madame Fillioux’s house.
Both shook their heads, an automatic response. The woman hesitantly smoothed her apron. ‘The vin paille,’ she said warily, ‘l’omelette aux champignons, salade a l’huile de noix, grand-jeans, sweet cherries and the ersatz coffee since no other is available these days. The prix fixe, monsieur.’
The chefs special if incomplete but the very same meal as Madame Fillioux had planned. A meal that had, no doubt, been one of several stand-bys for the past thirty or more years until the Defeat and had captivated the young prehistorian so much, Madame Fillioux had repeated it every year since then.
‘No mushrooms, please,’ he said, giving the woman a suitably pained look. ‘The stomach, madame, the ulcers perhaps. A detective’s life.…’
‘No mushrooms,’ she said tartly. ‘You offend the chef.’