Mayhem (21 page)

‘He made allegations of an improper nature against Brother Sebastian, our beekeeper, Reverend Father. I didn't wish to trouble you with the matter until I had had the opportunity to investigate. He borrowed my bicycle far too many times,' went on the wine maker. ‘I'd
like
to have it back. These old legs of mine…'

Again St-Cyr stepped in, this time with more success. ‘The Préfet of Barbizon will see that it is returned to you, but tell me, Brother Michael, to ride so far …? Would someone not have given him a lift?'

‘Plenty of times. The countess in her car. Others, too, perhaps.' He gave a shrug and turned away.

Was the interview to be concluded on such a note of innuendo? ‘A moment, Brother,' said St-Cyr desperately. ‘The General Hans Ackermann perhaps? He visits the château, I believe?'

‘The general …?' Brother Michael flung a look at the abbot who calmly said:

‘A distant cousin, I believe, Brother Michael.'

‘Me, I don't know about such things. I only know Brother Jérome was absent far too many times.'

St-Cyr gave them another moment then gambled. ‘Did he sign his will, Brother Michael?'

‘His will? No … No, he …' Dear God forgive him. ‘No, he … he refused. When … when I went to look for it in his box in the scriptorium, it … it was missing, Reverend Father. I would have told you but …'

‘You
should
have told me, Brother Michael. I'll see you before chapel. In my office! Gentlemen, your interview is concluded. Follow the arrows and they will lead you out to our road. Good day.'

‘What was that all about?' asked Kohler when they'd gone some distance.

St-Cyr tossed his hands in a gesture to the gods of gambling on a shoestring. ‘As a Benedictine novice, Hermann, Brother Jérome was required to renounce all worldly goods and give himself to Christ and his God.'

‘So, what's the problem?'

‘Ah, the problem, my friend. The problem … Before taking their final vows each novice signs over his worldly goods to the monastery. He makes out a will and it's as if he has already died.'

‘But he couldn't have had anything in any case? His father's the Chef de Culture at the Domaine Thériault. The countess told me the family had worked for them for the past ninety-seven years. If that isn't indentured slavery, I don't know what is!'

‘It's what the countess didn't tell you that puzzles me, Hermann. Why, for instance, should the Benedictines accept such an unworthy candidate – true, he was escaping his military service like so many others and true, money – a donation – may have changed hands, but still …? And why was he such a pretty boy, as is the son of Mademoiselle Arcuri? No, my friend, there's more to this than meets the eye. These old families …' St-Cyr clucked his tongue and shook his head. ‘Sometimes life is so simple, Hermann, we don't see the obvious.'

‘Perhaps it's time we paid our respects to the grieving family?'

‘My thoughts exactly.'

Visitations were being held at both of Vouvray's funeral homes but it was to the larger of them that they went.

The countess was waiting for them and, as she got out of her car, St-Cyr nudged the Bavarian and said, ‘She's decided to save us time, Hermann. Better this than a confrontation with the grief-stricken parents.'

He was impressed. When the chips were down the countess hadn't hesitated. That's what it took to run such a place. Decisions, decisions, always things to decide.

‘Let the parents have their grief in private with their friends and relations. Jérome was fathered by my husband. Look, I don't know who told him of it but he had some crazy idea that it would entitle him to a share of the Domaine Thériault and the monks believed him.'

‘But the Domaine belongs to your grandson on your death?' exclaimed St-Cyr.

‘Yes, of course René Yvon-Paul inherits everything unless Gabrielle should marry before he comes of age.'

‘How many people know of this?' demanded St-Cyr. No time for pleasantries or introductions. A stunning woman …

‘Too many. Now, please, I've told you what I can. Leave them in peace, for God's sake. They've suffered enough. Both of their children … No bodies to bury as yet…'

She turned away so swiftly, on impulse St-Cyr reached out to comfort her.

A silk handkerchief was found in her purse. He helped her to her car. ‘We'll be in touch, Countess. For now it goes without saying, no one is to leave the district and we'll pop into the préfecture to make them aware of it.'

This one was kinder than the Bavarian. Though sudden, her tears had convinced him that at least she was sincere.

‘Give my regards to Mademoiselle Arcuri, Countess. I'm sure we'll all have much more to say when we meet again.'

She managed a weak and grateful smile. ‘I knew you'd understand. Gabrielle was quite taken with you, Inspector. She liked your honesty. She said you were very considerate for one so diligent.'

5

It was well after curfew when Kohler let him out at the foot of the rue Laurence Savart but then drove up the street into the darkness anyway. St-Cyr cringed as the sound of the Citroën's muffler fled through the city, he following its location with uncanny accuracy.

Hermann shot across the boulevard de Belleville. When he reached the Place de la République, he swung the car in a screeching loop and pelted back up the hills going faster … faster … leaning on the horn as well. Ah, Mon Dieu, what was the matter?

The car shot into the street, the Bavarian braked hard. ‘Get in, Louis.'

‘Hermann …'

‘Look, you son-of-a-bitch, I told you to get in and that's an order!'

When they reached the house, Kohler threw the car into neutral and yanked on the emergency brake. ‘Now give me your torch. Mine fell on the road and broke.'

Leaving the car door open, he proceeded to sweep the front gate with the light, crouching to run his fingers lightly round the sill and then up over the latch. ‘So far so good,' he breathed. ‘I'd hate to be picking butcher's pieces of you off the walls.'

Gingerly Hermann opened the gate. All his training in demolitions came to the fore. Intuitively he knew where to look. ‘Okay,' he snorted. ‘Now for the walk, eh, Louis?'

There were no tripwires, no hidden grenades or mines. ‘Clean,' he said with surprise. Perhaps they'd been cleverer than he'd thought? ‘Now give me your key, Louis. Come on, don't waste my time.'

‘It's under the mat. Hermann, Madame Courbet comes in each day. If there'd been any surprises, her youngest son would have been waiting to tell me.'

‘Idiot! Boys can't always be trusted, Louis. You of all people ought to know that after this morning.'

Kohler found the key then felt around the door jamb before easing the door open a millimetre and shining the torch all round.

Satisfied, he nudged the door wide and shone the light into the vestibule – did the floor and walls, picked out a chair, a cabinet with its mirror and the coat pegs one by one.

He crouched to place three fingers lightly on the floor, then gingerly lifted a corner of the carpet. ‘Your housekeeper ought to do under here,' he said. So far so good …

‘Hermann, if the Resistance wanted to nail me, they'd have simply waited in the street.'

The Bavarian shone the light up into St-Cyr's face. ‘Louis, why do you think I came back? Those bastards were waiting for you. I flushed them out and chased after them. They had a motorcycle. There were two of them.'

St-Cyr blinked painfully and shielded his eyes. A motorcycle …

‘Let's have a look at your mail, eh?' said Kohler, swinging the beam of the torch over the cabinet.

A motorcycle … ‘It'll be on the kitchen table. Madame Courbet will have put it there.'

She'd done more than this. Several of his books, including the Daudet he'd been reading, had been destroyed, their pages made into papier-mâché balls which were now being patiently dried for use in the stove. Two of the books had been from the central library … In the name of Jesus, why couldn't the woman have asked?

‘We'd better get you some coal and a couple of sacks of kindling out of Gestapo stores,' snorted Kohler.

‘You do and my neighbours will only hate me. Envy's a terrible thing, Hermann. Pity is much better.'

‘Fuck your neighbours then.'

Among the dross there was a small brown package.

Kohler stopped the Frenchman's hand. ‘I'll get the Unexploded Bomb boys to deal with it, Louis. Why take the chance? ‘Then we'll clean the rats' nest out. We can't have them interfering at a time like this.'

The Resistance … ‘Hermann, leave it, will you? It's only a warning, eh? Me, I can take care of myself.'

‘Since when?
Gott in Himmel
, it's not your ass I'm worried about! It's mine, you idiot! If something should happen to you, what the hell could I say to von Schaumburg? Oh sorry, General, but the man whose wife ran off with your nephew has just been blown to pieces?'

St-Cyr tore the wrapping paper off the thing and laid the little black coffin on the table between them. The Resistance had spelled his name correctly, even adding the Jean to the Louis.

Kohler gripped him by a shoulder and gave him a brotherly shake. ‘Try to get some sleep, eh? I'll be in touch.'

They both stood there looking down at that thing. The beam of the torch fell on it as a stage light in some seedy nightclub, a last act, a fond fairwell. A chanteuse in an iridescent sheath of silk and pearls, a mirage, an angel with a voice …

‘It doesn't make any sense, Hermann. It simply doesn't.'

‘Does anything in war? If so, be sure to let me know.'

St-Cyr followed him out to the car, then stood at the kerbside long after he'd left. It had been such a worthwhile day, so good to be out of the city and in the country. A real challenge and now this, a complete misunderstanding, a piece of foolishness.

As he turned to go back into the house, the swish of slippers came to him in a rush and then a woman's silhouette and the hesitant, breathless and inquisitive tongue of Madame Courbet, still in her nightdress and cap.

Thank God it was dark! ‘You had a visitor,' she said. ‘Late this afternoon. He wouldn't take no for an answer when I told him you were away, and how was I to refuse? I had to get the key and let him into your house. A general… one so disfigured … Ah, Mon Dieu, those boys … the filthy urchins, my son Antoine excepted, all ran from him in fright but called him names.'

‘A general?'

‘Yes, Ackermann. A friend of yours. He noticed the shoes, Inspector, just as I did.'

The woman clutched the throat of her nightgown. When there wasn't any response, she continued. ‘Such pretty shoes, Inspector. It's a shame one of the heels has been broken but my husband's brother, the one with the limp, he is very good at fixing such things. Me, I could arrange to have them repaired.'

The rumours must be flying. ‘The girl was only someone I met in a street after curfew, madame. I don't even know her name.'

‘Then you'll want to sell the shoes?' asked the woman quickly.

No … No, he wouldn't want to do that. They must be returned,' he said, digging an even deeper hole for himself. ‘She was very young, a student, you understand, madame. You know how such girls are.'

Ah yes, she did – who didn't? A student. Pretty no doubt. Young and stupid and thinking only of a warm bed and a meal. Warm in that house? God forbid.

She rubbed her slippered toes together. So, the girl had come back with him and had left her shoes … They'd have spent the night together. It was just like a man! The wife not gone and he'd taken up with someone younger …

‘Madame Courbet…'

‘Yes?' she demanded haughtily.

‘The postman … When did he leave that little parcel?'

The girl had sent him a little gift, stolen of course. ‘This morning, Inspector.'

You don't need to get uptight! said St-Cyr inwardly, resigning himself to more difficulties. ‘And the General Ackermann saw it?'

‘But of course. He picked it up.'

St-Cyr thanked the woman and waited until she'd gone out through the gate before closing the door.

Then he stood facing the darkness of the door while listening to the silence of the house. It was mad – crazy. Mayhem … yes, yes, mayhem! Ah, what the hell was he going to do? Go into hiding? Hermann wouldn't let the matter lie. Hermann would have to do something about it.

Kohler breezed into the garage at Gestapo Headquarters, number 11 rue de Saussaies, to let the graveyard shift know they ought to take better care of the muffler. Then he went through to the duty sergeant to file a report on the incident.

‘A Wehrmacht dispatch rider's bike, camouflaged and with the insignia of the Fifth Armoured Division. Bastard's probably in bed with the sister. He'll have paid her off by loaning the bike to her brother. A girl rode behind. There was just the two of them. Green as grass and nervous as hell. About twenty or twenty-two years of age – the girl, that is. Short hair, but wearing the usual beret, so the hair could have been longer.'

Porki Schultz lifted lead grey smouldering eyes from his typewriter. ‘Any idea where to look?'

Schultz always liked the young ones. A real sadist. ‘I'd be there now if I had. Tell countersubversion to keep an eye on St-Cyr's house. The bastards have put the number out on him.'

‘St-Cyr?'

‘That's just what I said, wasn't it?'

‘Have you seen Glotz yet?'

There was a grin Kohler didn't like. ‘I only just got in. How could I have?'

A man of forty-seven winters, one wife and eight children back home, Schultz loved exercising authority. ‘A hot little number. You'd better go and see him. He was hanging around the front door not ten minutes ago.'