Stonekiller (20 page)

He was down on his hands and knees and reaching well under the other side of the armoire when the telephone started up again. He waited. He searched. Straining, he muttered, ‘Ah
merde
, why don't you go away? The woman's been dead for a week tomorrow!'

As if in answer, it stopped. The wood was rough in places. There was no dust. There were no cobwebs, even though Madame Fillioux had not been an exemplary housekeeper. ‘Too busy but …,' he said and, heaving on the thing, moved the armoire from the wall sufficiently to shine the torch behind it. The floorboards were clean and bare and in short lengths. He moved the armoire a little more. The first round wooden peg came out so easily, he felt a rush of elation. The second, third and fourth were no different.

Stacking the boards, he played the light on Madame Fillioux's little treasures. There were the letters from Henri-Georges the woman had used as proof to obtain her marriage certificate, it also. Both wire cages and corks from those first bottles of Moët-et-Chandon were there, as were a fine silver necklace and a diamond pin.

Twelve louis d'or represented the savings of a lifetime. The 10,000 francs was missing but had it been spent?

In bundle on top of bundle, there were four sets of postcards. Gingerly he took them up. Some were from a year ago and more — he could see this at a glance for they were of the printed message kind, the sender being able only to fill in the blank spaces here and there and cross out the unwanted words. Others were fully written out and more recent. Some were from the parents of the husband — requests for help that began in that first desperate winter of 1940-41. He'd read them later. No time now, no time. Others were from Professor Courtet — yes, yes — and still others from Danielle Arthaud, but.…

Caught unwares, he was startled by the jangling of the telephone and hissed, ‘
Ah, go away and leave me to it!
'

There were four rolls of tracing paper, of that heavy grey-white sort artists often use for rough sketching. Each was bound by an elastic band. Not all of the rolls were of the same width or length, but from beneath their outermost layers, inner colourings gave haunting shapes of animals in brick red, ochrous yellow and sooty black.

Unrolling the widest of them, and holding it to the light, he sucked in a breath and said, ‘Ah
nom de Dieu
, has she been to Lascaux to copy the cave art there so as to then repeat it in the Discovery Cave?'

In silhouette, and sometimes only in outline, bison and shaggy black ponies raced across the paper with reindeer and sharp-horned aurochs. There were others too. The woolly rhinoceros, mammoth, musk oxen and giant elk — but had these been among the animals portrayed at Lascaux? He didn't think so. Red deer, wolf, badger, fox and rabbit also appeared on the tracing paper, salmon too.

Each pigment had been worked into the paper with a fingertip where necessary, the woman using the technique to quickly flesh out colour and give shadings so as to emphasize line and form and highlight shadow, imparting life to the sketches.

With a start, he realized he had opened two of the other rolls yet had no recollection of having done so.

Test patches of natural pigments were displayed on the narrowest roll and he could see that the woman had experimented with them, adding clay, then water, for ease of spraying through a tube or for working into the rock face with thumb and finger.

Tucked inside this roll was another. Here a succession of handprints had been traced from a rock wall but try as he did, he could not recall any mention of such in the news reports of the Lascaux discovery.

‘Two sets of handprints,' he said softly as he unrolled the thing further. ‘One larger and far stronger than the other. A man, then, and a woman.'

From across the ages they seemed to cry out to him, but then a blown pigment spray of reddish-brown ochre outlined a third set. Below these last handprints Madame Fillioux had written her name, and he could see that she had not only tested the technique on herself but had juxtaposed her own prints with those of the past, if indeed they really were of the past.

Again the telephone rang. Again, startled half out of his wits, he jumped.

Stuffing things into his pockets and setting the rolls of tracing paper aside, he anxiously replaced the boards and heaved at the armoire until it was back in place.

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.

‘
Allô
…?
Allô
…? 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 Jésus-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 Château 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 première
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 château 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 Sûreté'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 détective 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 brassiére 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.'

‘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 détectives 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.'