Then he took everything upstairs to the attic to find a carpetbag and to empty her bedside drawer.
Again the telephone rang but so softly was it heard, he had to run down the stairs that now were all but in darkness, the beam of his torch bouncing from the walls and railing.
‘Allo …? Allo …? Is that Beaulieu-sur-Dordogne?’
‘Yes … Yes.…’ He was out of breath and impatient.
‘Give me the Chief Inspector Jean-Louis St-Cyr, please.’
‘It’s me.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Me, madame. Now connect us.’
‘A moment … Ne quittez pas, monsieur.’
‘Ah nom de Jesus-Christ, madame, you are giving me a fatal heart attack!’
‘Bad-mouthing an operator is an offence against the law, monsieur. I shall disconnect you as of this moment!’
‘Ah, no … no, madame. Forgive me. A case of two murders. Much work still to be done and obstacles to be overcome.’
‘Obstacles?’ she asked.
Ah merde. ‘Just a few.’ She’d be certain to listen in.
‘Louis, it’s me. Where the hell have you been?’
‘Enjoying my dinner and a digestif.’
‘I thought so. You’re giving me a hernia. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Hermann, just tell me what you want.’
‘I’m at Chateau d’ Aimeric – it’s named after one of their troubadors, I think.’
‘Cut the travelogue, please.’
‘It’s to the east of the Sarlat road and about half-way between Lascaux and that other hole in the ground. I think the weather’s fine.’
‘Good for fishing?’ Good for Hermann.
‘The best. At least a river pike. A big one.’
‘Have you a gaff?’
‘Ah, no, not yet. Maybe I can borrow one from the sparrow. It’s possible.’
Madame Jouvet must be with him. ‘Don’t argue, then. Don’t agree either. Just do it again.’
D.A., thought Kohler. ‘Okay, Chief. I think I’ve got it.’
‘Paris, four, fifteen, seven, five place premiere and still quite comfortable if jaded. Our second-in-command this year. A goose perhaps.’
‘Good. Yes, that’s very good, Chief. Hey, I think you’ll like the fishing. I’ll check it out for you.’
Danielle Arthaud had been sent a parcel by sous-facteur Auger on the 15th of April to Number seven place des Vosges, apartment five. ‘Hey, Louis, I almost forgot. Your horoscope tells me there’s likely to be snow and a shooting star tonight. Have you got your helmet?’
‘Snow …? My helmet …? Ah, yes, I’ll … I’ll be sure to wear it.’
‘You’d better. The first will make you do things you shouldn’t; the second will bash your head in if you’re not careful.’
They rang off and for a moment St-Cyr remained lost in thought and worried. Danielle Arthaud was at the chateau with Hermann who had evidence enough not only to suspect her but to suggest she was on cocaine. Herr Oelmann, ‘the shooting star’, was not there.
One always had to speak in code these days, especially in the North where the Gestapo, with all-too-avid French assistance, monitored everything. Regrettably no calls were allowed to cross the Demarcation Line unless to the SS of the avenue Foch or to Gestapo HQ in the Surete’s former building on the rue des Saussaies. One could still call London from here. He could call New York, Lisbon, Zurich or Buenos Aires if he wanted and hear those voices from freedom so far away, but he could not call Marianne and Philippe to let them know he had been detained.
Perhaps she’d understand, perhaps she wouldn’t think, as she had so often of late, that life was passing her by and he had simply forgotten them.
When he heard a car rolling softly up to the house, he silently cursed his luck. Had he left the lock off the door?
For the life of him he could not remember.
Juliette Jouvet was silent and uneasy as the last of the truffes sous la cendre was delicately divided in half with a thin and beautifully worked blade of grey-blue flint.
Danielle Arthaud heaved a contented sigh as she sat looking at the pieces. ‘These things,’ she said of the truffles, ‘they fill my soul and make me feel like a lover condemned to a longing which can never be satisfied.’
The actress took another sip of the Monbazillac and let that sweet, golden wine trickle down her lovely throat before reverently placing one half of the truffle in a palm to pass it to her guest, her little charge, her schoolteacher, mother and battered housewife who still appeared so shy and timid.
‘That blade is Magdalenian – Cro-Magnon,’ said Juliette tightly. ‘Where, please, did you get it?’
‘Ah, don’t take such offence. I borrowed it.’
‘It’s from the cave of my father.’
‘Is that so bad? You were there. Ah, please don’t deny it. You saw the paintings on Sunday, yes? Paintings like you had never seen before. Me, I saw them on the Friday as Marina will most certainly have told your detective by now. They filled me with rapture. I wanted to lie naked on the floor in supplication before them. Naked under an aurochs, madame, and with my legs spread to take the release of his little burden.’
Did such a thought embarrass her? wondered Danielle, having said it just to see what would happen. It must, for that little bird said harshly and in confusion, ‘As the deposits of the gisement become younger, the tools become better and far more skilfully worked. One also finds flints from distant places, mademoiselle. These flints indicate trade between groups. That flint you still have in your hand, it is not native to my father’s cave but is blue like those from the valley of the Seine.’
‘Are you denying that you saw the paintings or merely avoiding the issue?’
‘I … I don’t know what you mean? I … I went in only to the gisement.’
And you are lying, said Danielle to herself, but lies are told only to hide other matters. They weren’t getting on. For a start, the richness of the bedroom had made the schoolteacher ashamed of her poverty and ignorance of such things, the silks, the brocades of gold and silver, the clothes too. Clothes that were scattered all over the room as if, worn once, then dropped without a care until picked up by someone else.
Silk underwear clung to the canopied roof of a magnificent Louis XIV bed. A pale rose brassiere dangled from the arm of a Renaissance chair whose dark and deeply carved arms only further embarrassed the schoolteacher since she sensed, ah yes, that the chair, it had been used for more than one purpose. What purpose, please? demanded Danielle silently only to say, ‘Relax,’ and give a generous grin with lips that were as wide and fine as the schoolteacher’s, were hers not so broken. ‘I’m here to be your friend. You’ve had two terrible shocks. Then there is the little matter of your dress, your husband,’ she said, nibbling delicately at her share of the truffle and giving the battered housewife the fullness of big brown eyes whose irises were so deep and wide and disconcerting.
‘Herr Oelmann,’ said Juliette, colouring rapidly. ‘I think you mean him.’
Ah! the schoolteacher’s expression was fiercely accusing. ‘Franz, yes. Did he make you tell him things?’
‘Such as?’ she demanded hotly.
It would be best to give a little shrug. ‘Such as, did you know where your mother hid the postcards I sent her?’
There was a sense of daring, of recklessness and yet of confidence in the look the actress gave. The flint blade was unconsciously fingered as if in its touch there was guilt.
When no answer was forthcoming, Danielle said, ‘Your father’s parents, Juliette. They are old friends of my family. Since your mother refused to answer them, they asked if I would write to her on their behalf and I did. They.…’ Abruptly the flint blade was put down as if best left alone. ‘They are reduced, poor things, to living in two rooms of their former villa which has been requisitioned by the Germans. A General Hans-Johann von Juenger currently resides there in splendour while they must come and go through a back door so as never to be seen. Always they must search for food. They are old.… They are not well.’