The Night Gate - Enzo MacLeod Investigation Series 07 (2021)

by Peter May

  Georgette kept her lips pressed firmly together, biting the lower lip hard inside her mouth. The death of her father had blighted her adolescence, and the scar it had left was still painful to the touch. But she was determined to give nothing away to this cold fish opposite. Though something in his knowing assessment told her that she was doing a poor job of it.

  He took the sheet in his other hand, freeing his right to take a long pull on his cigarette. ‘After graduation in Paris you spent two years at the Ecole du Louvre.’ He looked up. ‘What did you study there?’

  ‘Is that not in my file?’

  ‘I’m asking you, mademoiselle.’

  ‘The history of art.’

  ‘But you cut your studies short.’

  ‘I volunteered to help pack the works of art being evacuated from the Louvre in August last year. Then rather than go back to school, I volunteered for the Armée de Terre.’

  ‘And why did you do that?’

  ‘There was a war coming. I wanted to defend my country against a German invasion.’

  He made a sound that might have been a chuckle, though she could detect no sign of amusement. ‘All on your own?’

  She smiled sardonically. ‘Well, I might have had to, General, since the Under-Secretary of State for National Defence ran off to London when the Germans came within shooting distance.’

  If there had been even the merest hint of amusement in his face it was immediately banished and he visibly bristled. ‘Pétain was set on capitulation.’ His voice had developed a bark. ‘An armistice. Collaboration. If I hadn’t fled, he’d have had me arrested for opposing him.’

  Now she smiled, sensing a shift in the balance of power between them. ‘I know.’ She nodded towards the hand which held his cigarette. ‘And I know that you wear your wedding ring on your right hand because you almost lost your left to a wound during the last war.’

  De Gaulle glanced self-consciously at the ring.

  ‘Since you seemed to know who I was, I took the liberty of informing myself about you on the way here. The cuttings libraries of Fleet Street are a gold mine of information, and entirely free to the public.’

  He took another long, thoughtful draw on his cigarette, and as he exhaled, asked through the smoke, ‘So why was it you left the country?’

  ‘I’m sure you know that, too, General. I was given compassionate leave to attend my mother’s funeral here in London. Then came the invasion.’ She sighed, still deeply frustrated at the thought. ‘And I was stranded.’

  ‘You and I both.’ De Gaulle eased himself out of his chair and wandered to the window, still smoking, but gazing down now into the leafy square below. ‘And do you still want to serve your country?’

  ‘Of course.’ Indignation was evident in her voice.

  He turned back towards her. ‘Let’s take some air, shall we?’

  Traffic in The Mall was light, its red-coloured tarmac more apparent somehow in the absence of vehicles. Sunlight caught all the curves and angles of the distant Buckingham Palace in sharp relief as they walked east to west with Admiralty Arch behind them. The sun had risen high by now above the foliage of St James’s Park to the south and Green Park to the north. The trees that lined their route dispersed the light in ever-changing shapes on the pavement ahead of them.

  Georgette felt tiny beside this man, barely reaching his shoulder, and she was much more intimidated by his size and presence out here than she had been seated across the desk from him. He seemed even taller with his kepi pulled down on his forehead, its brim casting a deep shadow across his face. They had been walking for some time, in what for her was an uncomfortable silence, before he spoke.

  When finally he did, she was caught entirely off guard. ‘What do you know about the Mona Lisa?’

  It took a moment to process her surprise. ‘I helped pack La Joconde for her journey to the Loire.’

  ‘To Château Chambord, I understand.’

  ‘That’s right. It was thought that everything would be more secure moved out of Paris. Safe from bombs, and out of reach of the Germans.’

  De Gaulle grunted. ‘Nothing in France is out of reach of the Germans.’ He paused to light another cigarette, and she waited patiently for him until they carried on their way. Her curiosity was now aroused. ‘So you helped pack the actual painting?’

  ‘I did. In a custom-built poplar case cushioned with red velvet, which was then crated up. All the crates were coded using one, two, or three coloured dots to denote their contents. Yellow for very valuable pieces, green for major works, and red for world treasures. The Mona Lisa’s crate was stamped with three red dots, the highest possible rating. And was the only one in the red category to get that.’

  ‘I assume, since you studied the history of art at the Ecole du Louvre, you know all about its provenance?’

  ‘I know every last thing about La Joconde, General.’

  ‘Tell me.’ He kept his eyes ahead of him as he sucked on his cigarette, but Georgette reckoned that those big ears of his would miss nothing.

  ‘Mona Lisa is a portrait of the wife of an Italian nobleman, Francesco del Giocondo. Some experts believe the version that hangs in the Louvre was not the first that da Vinci painted of her. Others have speculated that it was really a feminised self-portrait.’

  De Gaulle faltered mid-stride. He looked down at her. ‘Really?’

  She grinned. ‘Highly unlikely, I think. There is so much smoke around this painting it’s amazing we ever get a clear view of it.’

  He sighed and resumed his pace.

  Georgette said, ‘What we know for certain is that La Joconde was painted in oils by Leonardo da Vinci on a panel of poplar wood, 77 by 53 centimetres, sometime around the year 1503, just sixteen years before he died. In 1515, da Vinci accepted the patronage of the French king, François Premier, and travelled to France on a donkey, carrying with him numerous sketchbooks and unfinished artworks, as well as the Mona Lisa herself. Some believe that it, too, was unfinished, and not completed until the artist was safely installed in France. The journey took about three months. Over the centuries the painting has been in the possession of not only François Premier, but Louis XIV and Napoléon Bonaparte, who reportedly slept with her in his bedroom.’ She grinned up at the general. ‘Well, not in the biblical sense.’

  Not even the hint of a smile cracked his face. In fact, he almost seemed not to have been listening. Then suddenly he stopped and turned, and she found herself craning her neck to look up at him. ‘La Joconde belongs to France. Painted by an Italian, yes, but owing her very existence and survival to the republic.’

  His vehemence surprised her.

  ‘And now the Germans want her.’

  She frowned. ‘They do?’

  He glanced each way along the pavement before speaking again. ‘More specifically, Hitler. He wants it as the centrepiece of a super museum he plans to build in his home town of Linz in Austria.’

  ‘How can you possibly know that?’

  ‘British intelligence have sources in Berlin. They report that Hitler has commissioned an art expert to procure it by fair means or foul.’

  Georgette was shocked. ‘He can’t! The world would be incensed.’

  ‘Which is why they won’t just take it. But nothing is more certain than that they will find a way. And we can’t let that happen. La France is the custodian of the most famous painting in the world, mademoiselle. We have kept her safe for centuries, through wars and natural disasters. And now we have to keep her safe from the Nazis.’

  He crushed his cigarette beneath a shiny shoe and raised his face towards the heavens.

  ‘God knows, I have enough to do simply trying to save my country from destruction. Which is why I am passing the baton of responsibility for La Joconde to you.’

  Georgette’s eyebrows shot up in astonishment. ‘Me?’

 
‘Beyond today I can devote no more time or thought to this. But I want it to be your raison d’être. The one thing you can do for your country that no one else can. Go back to France and keep her safe. Guard her with your life. I am in touch with Jacques Jaujard, the director at the Louvre. He will ensure a place for you as an assistant curator wherever it is that the Mona Lisa might end up.’ He placed a hand on her shoulder, and she felt a strange sense of destiny in his touch. He looked at her earnestly. ‘Mademoiselle, we are fighting the Hun not just for France, but for civilisation. This might be a small act of defiance in a world at war, but it does have a greater meaning.’ He took his hand away again. ‘What kind of training did they give you when you joined the army?’

  The confusion of thoughts and fears that tumbled through her mind almost robbed her of the power of speech. She shook her head and pulled a face. ‘Basic fitness and weapons handling. But they were never going to let a woman with a rifle anywhere near the front line. They taught me to drive and told me I would be assigned to the catering corps.’

  He nodded gravely. ‘In that case I’ll ask the British to find you a place on an SOE training course.’

  ‘SOE?’

  ‘Special Operations Executive. A newly formed British organisation for training operatives to be dropped into France to conduct sabotage and surveillance behind enemy lines.’ He cast a sceptical eye over her. ‘You’re going to have to learn how to handle yourself.’ For the first time she saw the hint of a smile in those enigmatic eyes. ‘And how to fall out of an aeroplane at ten thousand feet.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It was a cold, crisp, clear day when Dominique parked Enzo’s Citröen on the castine of the palisade, the sheer walls of Carennac’s sixteenth-century château rising up behind them, lingering mist from the river below evaporating in the sunlight.

  Near-naked trees cast spindly shadows on white gravel littered with leaves that crunched underfoot as they stepped out of the car. Enzo clutched the Michelin guide that he had been studying on the journey up from Cahors. On the drive into the village from the main road they had passed a couple of hotels, one of which was closed up for the season, and a small store that also served coffee. But the place was deserted.

  Dominique looked around. ‘Where is everyone?’

  Enzo said, ‘According to the guide, the out-of-season population is little more than 400. But that probably takes in the farms and outlying houses around here as well. They get hundreds of thousands of visitors in the summer, though.’

  ‘Why? What’s here?’

  ‘Apart from the château, an eleventh-century church and cloisters, and a twelfth-century tympanum.’

  ‘What’s that? Some kind of drum?’

  ‘An architectural feature of some kind,’ Enzo said, flicking through the pages. ‘And there’s a tower down by the water where Fénelon is said to have written his famous Telemachus.’

  Dominique screwed up her face. ‘Never heard of it.’

  Enzo grinned. ‘No, neither have I.’

  ‘Can’t be that famous, then. Which way?’

  ‘Not sure. Let’s head to the end of the palisade.’

  Dominique slipped her arm through his and pulled him close as they walked through the morning sunshine to where the road turned sharply to the left. Branching to the right it crossed a long bridge that spanned a dry riverbed leading down to the Dordogne. On the corner, an arch led to a steeply cobbled street that climbed along the side of the Eglise Saint-Pierre. A flight of wide stone steps led to an elaborately carved entrance, an assemblage of stone figures above a cluster of columns leading into the church itself. Enzo could almost feel the breath of centuries exhaling from its dark interior.

  A small bistro on the opposite corner was shut, as was the tourist shop next to it. A staircase leading down to a terraced restaurant below was roped off. And Enzo felt a little of the sadness of the abandonment described in Francis Cabrel’s evocative song, ‘Hors Saison’. Out of Season.

  Tall buildings with criss-crossing half timbers loomed over them as they followed a narrow street into the heart of the village. Shadows cast themselves deep across the tarmac, and the scent of woodsmoke filled the air. Evidently the diminished population of this chaotic jumble of stone houses built over centuries around the church were all indoors, huddled around hearths or wood-burning stoves.

  At a curve of the street a small woman suddenly appeared, a split-cane shopping basket crooked over her arm. Grey-streaked dark hair was pulled back beneath a pale headscarf, her face deeply lined and still tanned from the long-departed summer sun.

  Enzo asked if she could direct them to the park and she gave a mute flick of her head towards a street that climbed steeply away to their left, cantilevered houses pressing in close on either side to shut out the sun.

  In a phone call with Magali the previous evening, Enzo had established that the Second World War remains had been found in a tiny park at the heart of the village. A recent storm had brought down a tree. Its roots, torn from the earth, had lifted a tangle of bones and leather and other remains with them.

  At the top of the street the road opened out, branching up to their right and down to their left. Straight ahead stood a tiny patch of raised greenery delineated by gnarled old trees beyond iron railings and a handful of steps. A raised cross stood sentinel by the gate.

  But their focus was drawn immediately away from the little park by the lights of several police vehicles, and the flashing orange of an ambulance. Uniformed gendarmes gathered on a covered landing at the top of steps leading to a house that overlooked the park. The door to the house stood open, and in the autumn silence of the village they could hear a hubbub of voices coming from within.

  Dominique was instantly curious. ‘What’s going on here?’

  But Enzo didn’t want to know. ‘None of our business.’ And he took her hand and led her up the steps to the park. To their left three benches stood among several ancient trees amidst the drifts of brittle autumn leaves brought down prematurely by the storm. To their right a small war memorial was set among a collection of boulders, and flanked by four trees. Nineteen souls had been taken from this village by the Great War. Only one by its successor. And yet, someone else had died here. Someone quite alien, a long way from home. At the far side of the park stood an old chapel, now an exhibition space closed up for the season. To the right of it, almost against the back wall of the park, lay the skeleton of the fallen tree. The area of ground which had been torn up by its roots to reveal the long hidden grave had been taped off, and a canvas cover erected over it to protect the earth from rain.

  ‘A lime tree,’ Enzo said. ‘Looks like it’s been dead for some time.’

  He fished out his phone and took several photographs to establish the setting, before moving in to take more detailed shots of the broken ground. He crouched down to brush aside fallen leaves, and picked up a curved piece of discoloured and broken terracotta. There were several more pieces of varying sizes lying in among the disturbed earth.

  Dominique crouched beside him. ‘Mean anything?’

  ‘Probably pieces of an old clay drainage pipe.’ He moved to the outer area of the grass torn up by the roots and crouched again. With delicate fingers he uncovered the remains of the pipe itself, leading away beyond the chapel, about two feet beneath the surface, the merest hint of a depression in the grass. ‘Yes, here it is.’ It was choked solid with earth. He glanced back along the area of disturbance to where the broken root system projected from the ground. It had brought up the bones and broken the old pipe at the same time.

  Enzo stood up and took several more photographs.

  Dominique slipped her arm through his again. ‘So what are you divining, Holmes?’

  ‘Elementary, my dear Watson,’ Enzo said. ‘The body was buried below the pipe.’

  ‘You mean they dug beneath it to hide the corpse?’


  Enzo shook his head. ‘No. The pipe was laid after the body had been buried. My guess would be that the trench for laying the pipe had already been dug, and the killers of our unfortunate victim took advantage of it to hide the body. After all, if they’d dug a fresh grave here, it would have been apparent to everyone.’

  Dominique nodded. ‘So they dug down just below the level of the existing trench and covered it over, knowing that the drainage pipe would be laid on top of it then buried beneath fresh earth. And no one would be any the wiser.’

  ‘The pipe was probably laid by a cantonnier, working for the mairie,’ Enzo said. ‘So in theory, all you would have to do is go back through municipal records to find a date for when the work was done, and you’d have a reasonably accurate approximation of when he was murdered. Certainly to within a day or two.’

  Dominique grinned. ‘Which is not at all bad after seventy-odd years.’

  ‘Monsieur Macleod?’ The voice rang out in the cold air and startled them. They turned to see a gendarme hurrying across the grass in their direction. He was a young man. Mid thirties, Enzo thought. Thinning mousy-brown hair was cut to a stubble in an attempt to disguise encroaching baldness. He was very nearly as tall as Enzo, and wore a short, dark blue fleece with a distinctive white stripe across chest and arms above a black leather gun belt hung with keys. He clutched his cap in his hands, and Enzo noted the three bars on his epaulette denoting the rank of capitaine. A pale blue mask dangled from one ear.

  For a moment, Enzo thought he was actually going to shake his hand, but the gendarme stopped short, as if suddenly remembering himself. He was beaming like a star-struck schoolkid. ‘Monsieur Macleod, it’s an absolute pleasure.’ He glanced towards Dominique and somehow managed to dismiss her with the briefest of acknowledgements before turning his gaze back on Enzo. ‘I recognised you from my cuttings collection. Followed every one of your cases and kept my own album. Outstanding, monsieur, just outstanding.’