Mayhem (34 page)

The other two followed, and the grounds soon fell to silence while the woods gave up an occasional yell.

Satisfied, the chanteuse breathed in deeply, and when St-Cyr turned to face her, there was still the ghost of a momentary excitement in her eyes.

‘So, we make a kind of team, eh, Inspector? You and me, we fit pretty good after all.'

He hated to spoil things. ‘Madame …'

The excitement disappeared. ‘Yes … Yes, I know, Inspector. I'm a married woman. Me, I have not forgotten that you wish to meet my husband.'

The wind sighed through the embrasures. As before, the central stairwell was surrounded by a landing off which four gaps gave out to embrasures. Heavily studded doors with ancient locks led to rooms. It was the sort of place they used to put erring daughters or sons who'd lose their heads.

When they reached the top floor, she watched him as his eyes settled on each of the doors.

Again he heard the sighing of the wind. To have no heat, to always be cold … Surely the husband …

Stepping away from her, he went to look out over the maze to the woods beyond. Hopefully Hermann would lose them. They'd have to meet at the mill after dark. ‘Mademoiselle Arcuri …'

Would he arrest her after all? ‘There you go again, Inspector. Mademoiselle this, and Mademoiselle that.'

‘Your husband, madame?'

‘Which room do you think he's in?' she asked. ‘Let's see how sharp you are, Jean-Louis St-Cyr of the Sûreté Nationale.'

How bitter she was about it. ‘The key … we'll need the key,' he said.

‘The key,' she echoed. ‘Me, I am sorry, Monsieur the Inspector, but I've forgotten to bring it.'

Deliberately she'd made him feel stupid. ‘He's not a prisoner, is he?'

‘Yes … Yes, in a manner of speaking he is.'

The forest-green sweater, the bright red ribbon in her hair, the skirt and shoes made her appear innocent – the adventuress, perhaps, but a murderess …? Ah, Mon Dieu, it was so hard to tell.

She knew he still had his doubts about her. It was to be of no use then, that bit of fun, that chance to forget things for a moment as his partner had escaped from the maze. Now this. A final confrontation. A time of decision for him, a last sad song for her.

‘The key's hanging up there,' she confessed, and reaching beyond him into shadow, took the thing down. ‘It opens all of them, but he's in the room directly across from us.'

As he took the ancient key from her, St-Cyr said humbly, ‘What happened to him?'

‘Just open the door, will you? We really don't have all that much time.'

She was angry with him – disheartened, perhaps, but definitely disappointed.

The lock was stiff, the door even stiffer and heavy … so heavy. ‘Our ancestors …' he began, heaving on the thing.

The room was empty except for a plain oak casket that lay in the centre of the floor where it could catch a bit of sun from the only window. She remained on the landing, framed by the ancient doorway, caught as it were by what he'd found.

‘When … When did he die?' Damn, he felt a fool! That voice on the telephone to Yvette. He'd been so sure …

‘In August, the twenty-third to be precise. Two days before his thirty-eighth birthday. We hid him, yes – since the defeat of 1940 – but he didn't run away from the fighting, if that's what you're thinking. Two of his men stole a staff car and drove him half-way across France to be with his mother because, Inspector, when a man is in great pain all he can do is cry out for his mother.'

Not his wife, not his lover. ‘Madame, please forgive me.'

‘Jérome found out. Hans Ackermann suspected – they leave no stones unturned, the SS and their Gestapo.'

‘Yet you helped my partner just now?'

‘Only because I had to. If Hans should find this, he'll do exactly as you've said. Jeanne will be sent into forced labour and René Yvon-Paul to a reformatory. Me, I don't care much about this place. Perhaps Hans secretly has it in mind to confiscate it. I wouldn't really know. But I could not stand to see my son sent away.'

‘Did you murder Yvette? Please, I must have the truth.'

‘Would you send me to the guillotine if I told you that I had?'

Dear God, must she make it so hard for him? ‘Yes … yes, though I would hate myself ever afterwards, I would have to do so.'

‘Even in a time of war? Yvette couldn't be allowed to live, Inspector. You do understand? She knew far too much. Hans … Hans was getting too close. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't think straight. The Resistance … those little black coffins, I …'

At last she stepped into the room. The slender fingers sought the casket, she crouching to give it a last goodbye. ‘Jeanne bought this in le Mans, well out of the district. We squirrelled it away after dark. No questions. Only the doctor knew about Charles and he'd been sworn to silence – she's very good at things like that. Have you noticed?'

St-Cyr said nothing – so it was to be the silent treatment after all. ‘It doesn't matter, does it, Inspector, if a Frenchman is alive or dead, so long as you've hidden him and the German authorities want him?'

‘Mademoiselle Arcuri…'

There you go again. It's Gabrielle. Not Natasha, never Natasha. Not any more.'

‘We have no time. They've caught my partner.'

The stables were not far but when they got there, Hermann had already been tied by the wrists to the stall boards on either side of the central corridor. His feet were bleeding. One trouser leg was torn. There was a cut above the right eye. He'd lost his hat and had for company two of the Château Thériault's more curious brood mares and one of Ackermann's men.

‘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.

René 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.'

‘René, 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 tête-à-tête, 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, René. 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. ‘René, 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.'

‘She hates me,' snorted the countess.

‘I do not! I have never
hated
you, Jeanne. I simply don't like the way you feel I'm not good enough for you and your son.'

‘The son, ah yes,' said Ackermann with a smile. It was all working out perfectly. The Sûreté was leading them down the garden path.