‘Mother … mother could not have known of this. She … she was not an unkind woman. Yes, she refused all their requests for help. She had her reasons but then, suddenly, she decided to send things.’
‘But why?’
‘I … I do not know. How could I? She never told me.’
‘But did you tell Franz where the postcards were hidden?’
Postcards … postcards … ‘I … He.…’
‘Tell me, damn you!’
‘No! No, I did not tell him! They … they were stolen. Oh for sure, how would I know who took them?’
‘Stolen …? Ah no.’
The transformation was so sudden one was taken aback. From daring to despair, from complete self-assurance to tears. The glass was drained, the bottle seized and petulantly flung aside as if the actress couldn’t believe it dared to be empty.
‘Why did you have to tell me that? Me, for God’s sake? Two murders. A few postcards – ah! those detectives of yours, they will suspect me. Me, damn you. Me!’
Realizing she had said too much, the actress got up to pace irritably back and forth. She touched a figurine, a vase, a button, picked up things and put them down, demanded a cigarette and when she had it, threw it down and said, ‘Some wine. I must have a little more.’
Abruptly she left the room, left the doors wide open but once in the corridor, encountered a couple, kissed each of them, brushed a cheek and, her voice echoing gaily after them, said, ‘It’s early yet. Ah! you’re so anxious, Marie. Go and enjoy each other’s bodies, then come back to us refreshed.’
Alone, uncertain and not liking things, Juliette began hesitantly to take from an armoire a clean, simple dress of soft white cotton. Belted at the waist, its skirt was flared a little, its collar high, and with the half-sleeves and pockets, it fitted perfectly. So perfectly she felt ashamed that, unbidden, a little surge of pleasure had crept into her life. Paris … in spite of the severe shortages and the rationing, the dress was a Schiaparelli.
Looking for something to hide her bruises, she found the dressing table in chaos. Things were open. No cap or lid had been replaced. Tissues were everywhere. Some stained with lipstick, some simply used to wipe a nose that ran – ’An allergy to moulds,’ the actress had said.
Uncovered, the skin pouch and leather thong lay in a drawer amongst deep blue glass beads and pearls, rings, bracelets and ear-rings.
Taking it out of the drawer, she set the pouch on the dressing table only to see herself in the mirror, suddenly so afraid.
Almond-shaped and chunky, the handaxe was Mousterian – Neanderthal and of the Middle Palaeolithic. Much older than the paintings at Lascaux and Discovery. Perhaps seventy thousand or more years old and from the lower layers of the gisement. It was pointed at one end, and had been flaked by coarsely chipping away the flint, but opposing edges had been sharpened with smaller, denticulate spalls. It came to raised centres on both sides and from these, the larger spalls appeared to radiate. Bare, unflaked surfaces fit into the hand.
In tears she blurted softly, ‘Maman, is this what killed you?’ A sickness came, a memory, the flesh discoloured and bloated, the stench terrible, the flies … the flies.…
Shutting her eyes to stop herself, she managed to put the handaxe down.
A crudely worked auger had a point with which holes could be drilled in bone and wood by twisting the tool rapidly back and forth while pressing. There were knives and scrapers and one long knife with a serrated blade – blades to cut a breast in half and scrape the flesh from the skin? Blades to hack at her throat, her.…
‘Those are from the film.’
‘Ah! I … I was looking for something to hide my bruises.’
‘Then these are what you want!’ A jar of face cream and one of powder were snatched up and slammed down in front of her.
‘Please, I did not mean to pry.’
‘You did! So search. Go on, look. See if I care that the friend I open my heart to suspects me!’
Trembling, Danielle Arthaud turned away to find a glass and fill it to the brim. With difficulty the tools were returned to the pouch and the drawstring tightened but one had to say something after such an outburst. ‘Those tools aren’t correct if your part in the film has anything to do with the date of the paintings. The tools are Neanderthal and those people, they did not make the paintings at either Lascaux or the cave of my father.’
‘You think they’re fakes, don’t you?’ said Danielle emptily.
‘The tools? Ah no, they are very real.’
‘The paintings, idiot!’
It was almost a scream. The actress was shaking and in tears again. So beautiful, so self-assured and now so … so shattered she didn’t realize her nose was deluging.
Caution was necessary. ‘I do not know about the authenticity of those paintings Professor Courtet claims he discovered. I am not certain either of the amulet I saw today. It’s the one from the trunk, yes, of course, but me, I have to ask, has it been tampered with.’
The fists were clenched, the face tightened. You little fool. How dare you say such a thing in a place like this? Everyone’s future depends on Moment of Discovery. Their lives!’
‘I … I didn’t know,’ Juliette said and blanched.
The eyebrows arched, the nose was hurriedly wiped. ‘You didn’t know. Even after Franz had played with you in the woods at that farm? He took me to that place, madame. He showed it to me. We walked all over it.’
‘Ah no.…’
‘We saw your mother’s house too. He knows the roads. He drove you straight there, didn’t he, and only at the last did you become lost because he let you lie to him.’
Herr Oelmann knew, said Juliette desperately to herself. He knew where Monsieur Auger lived but never once let on.
7
It was strange to hear the river under moonlight. Beneath the sound of cicadas and crickets, it gave to the village of Beaulieu-sur-Dordogne a sense of peace, a hush like no other.
Perched precariously on the tiled roof in the shadow of its tower room, St-Cyr waited apprehensively. For some time now Herr Oelmann and Andre Jouvet had said nothing.
Each was known to the other. Both were used to things like this. Both knew beyond a shadow of doubt that he had left the door open and that he would not have done so unless still within the house.
Oelmann had a pistol. Jouvet had one too, a Luger. By easing the carpet-bag towards the crown of the roof, St-Cyr could pull himself up a little. The tiles were hard and warped. The nearest dormer was shuttered and not two metres from him. The heavy tiles were loose and uncooperative. One broke away and he had to lunge for it, had to pray to God and strain for it all in one breath.
God didn’t care about such things. God had the universe to tend. By an act of sheer desperation, he managed to stop the tile and to lift it back. An honest, hard-working detective, he cried out inwardly to the heavens. Two brutal, savage murders and a massive case of fraud – is it that? he demanded. Everything was heading that way like a shooting star. Ah yes.
When the shutters opened, he was astride the dormer with knees tucked up, hugging his precious bag containing the things Hen Oelmann desperately wanted. Two torches shone out over the tiles to probe the recesses where moon-shadow hid so little.