Stonekiller (18 page)

‘Please,' said the Baroness, ‘her dress has been torn — a little accident. She will only be embarrassed when we want her to be happy and welcomed as one of our own.'

‘Hey, it's okay, eh?' whispered Kohler to Madame Jouvet. ‘She means to be kind. I'll see you get home.'

Concerned blue eyes flashed up at him. ‘Where is Herr Oelmann? I do not see him among all these.…' She was at a loss as to what to call them. ‘Men, women, girls of fourteen and boys of the same age, younger ones too.'

‘Gone elsewhere, I think.'

‘Back to the house of my mother perhaps?'

‘Ah
merde …
Don't worry. Louis can take care of himself. The sous-préfet and his men will soon be there.'

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 Jésus-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 à la périgourdine
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
département
of yours.'

A golden dessert wine, an apéritif 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,
chérie
…'

‘All right, all right. Forgive me,' motioned the Sûreté. ‘It is only that I have had a long day and no sustenance and still have much work to do. When sous-préfet 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-préfet 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 à 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.'

The husband had vanished to his frying pan. ‘All right, then, the omelette too.' He was in God's hands.

So, thought the woman sharply, Ernestine, she has picked her harvest a little differently this time and the detective, he is only too aware of this and is squeamish. It could only mean she had intended to kill her son-in-law.

‘Our mushrooms are not poisonous, monsieur,' she said sweetly.

They exchanged a look so knowing he winced. ‘Tell me about Madame Fillioux. What was she like?'

Suspiciously she looked at him. ‘As facteur, shop owner and innkeeper?' she asked.

‘As a girl, madame. One of sixteen or seventeen.'

The chest swelled. The lips were compressed. ‘Far too ambitious for a little place like this. That father of hers should not have been tempted by the few miserly francs her future “husband” offered for her … her services. Letting her stay at the farm of a relative nearby the cave so that those two could spend every waking moment without supervision? Pah! what did the imbecile think he was doing but putting the teat into the lamb's mouth?'

‘Had she no friends in the village?' Everyone was listening.

‘Not after throwing herself away like that and being so stubborn and proud. Paris … an intellectual, a student-assistant to some professor at the Sorbonne. It only goes to show what schooling like that does to a young man. Handsome … oh yes, Inspector. Henri-Georges Fillioux was very handsome.'

Several of the regulars nodded agreement.

‘Already married, if you ask me,' she went on tartly, ‘and keeping that choice little bonbon to himself. This hotel was too expensive for the likes of him. Hah! he was only after something else and had an eye for it.'

‘The trunk.'

‘Those old stones, yes, and whatever her little capital was worth to him.' Her virginity. ‘She … she used to be my dearest friend, Inspector. We shared our every confidence until that one came along and now … now she has been
murdered!
'

Everyone in the place could hear Madame weeping as she went into the kitchens. Giving a futile but apologetic shrug to the other diners, St-Cyr took to fussing with his napkin and to self-consciously rearranging the cutlery. These little villages … one had always to be so careful.

When the stoneware jug of wine was thumped down, a little of it spilled out to stain the cloth. ‘All right, then,' said the
patron
fiercely. What has really happened to Ernestine, eh? For years I have had to put up with those two not speaking a word unless necessary and now, suddenly, we may all have to launch a boat to escape the flood.'

‘Dead of multiple stab wounds from a flint handaxe and repeated slashes with a flint knife or some other such tool. Disembowelled and left to rot in the little glade where love was first consummated.'

Ah
nom de Dieu
, how terrible! ‘He's come back then, has he, that “husband” of hers?' stormed the
patron.
‘A coward, if you ask me. “No soldier,” she said and meant it too. “Amnesia,” she would say.
Amnesia!
Shell-shocked, eh, and wandering about for nearly thirty years? A deserter! A weakling who crumpled under the first barrage!' He thumped the table, sloshing more of the wine. ‘She waited only for his return. She always swore he would come back. She was very pretty, monsieur, but far too intelligent and ambitious for her own good — he did that to her. “He frees my mind,” she used to say.' A hand was tossed, the puffy eyelids were narrowed fiercely and then widened with sincerity. ‘But the interest she had in those old things, ah let me tell you, never have I heard one speak of them so convincingly and with such passion. And speak we did, at times.'

‘
Antoine, get in here!
'

‘Marie, she's gone! Can you not find it in your heart to forget and forgive what I once felt for her?'

Ah
merde
, a full public disclosure with more tears and a scorched omelette!

The
patron
hunkered down over the table. ‘No one came through the village on that Sunday, Inspector, but I will ask around just to be certain. Perhaps one of the children saw something. Perhaps whoever murdered Monsieur Auger knew only too well the places where one can pass unseen. Nothing has changed much in these past thirty years. Nothing.'

Henri-Georges Fillioux did it, so okay, we've got that firmly, said St-Cyr to himself. ‘Did no one question the sous-facteur's absence?'

A shrug was given. ‘Several of us tried to find him but without success. It was not a pleasant feeling. The incoming mail was piling up. We were all very alarmed, especially when Ernestine did not return from her little holiday. Two days, three at the most were usual, never more.'

‘And the PTT, why was it left locked up for a week? No telephone, no mail service?'

‘We were afraid to break in. Ernestine.…'

St-Cyr gave an audible sigh. ‘She would have pressed charges.'

Ah, trust the Sûreté! ‘Her hatred was only the result of our blaming her for something that, had the young man been from these parts, would have soon been taken care of and forgotten.'

‘But Fillioux was from Paris and of good family. One of the little aristocracy.'

‘He made us feel inferior, Inspector. When Ernestine got pregnant, we rejoiced, to our shame. She was a good woman in spite of what everyone thinks.'