The Guardian of Lies

by Kate Furnivall

  I widened my search, billhook at the ready.

  But I found no one, no trace. Except a few spots of blood leading in a zigzag direction away from the house. From here the Mas Caussade yard looked far away, at least five hundred metres, so whoever fired at me was good. Very good. A shudder clawed its way through me and my breath raced in and out of my throat.

  As I hurried back to the house, I wondered how often André stood there with his rifle at the ready.

  *

  That night when Léon came to the farm, I didn’t tell him. I intended to, I wanted to, but the words hooked themselves to the roof of my mouth and wouldn’t leave. When he walked into the barn in the darkness, I stepped into the circle of his arms and felt the aches and pains and the dull shame of my earlier mistake vanish. He was still breathing hard from his run and I could feel the damp fabric of his shirt and smell the weariness of his day on him.

  ‘Bad day?’ I asked.

  ‘Still ploughing my way down the names on my list for interview. The thrill of being a gendarme knows no bounds.’

  With my thumb I soothed a crease from between his brows and drew him over to our seat of hay bales where I poured him wine and fed him cheese and olives until finally a stillness returned to him.

  ‘I’ve been trying to track Maurice Piquet,’ he said.

  ‘Any success?’

  ‘I found one of the demonstrators in Serriac who remembers a man who answers to his description. He has good reason to remember him.’

  ‘Why? What happened?’

  ‘The man who sounds like he might be Piquet wrenched the docker’s wooden protest placard from his hands and slammed it into his face. Broke his nose.’

  ‘Merde! Why did he do that?’

  ‘The docker claims it was unprovoked. Just a desire for violence. But the point is that if I can find him, I can lock him up for assault.’ Slowly he brushed a fingertip along my scar. ‘You would be safer with one of them off the streets until we have proof that he is involved in the murder of Mickey.’

  An image of a striped cat lying dead at my feet flashed through my mind. ‘We would all be safer.’ I wrapped both my palms around his hand to keep it safe. ‘I worry about you. Asking so many questions.’

  He smiled and scooped me closer to him. ‘It’s my job, Eloïse. But it’s not yours. So I want you to stop. Remain on the farm but don’t go out on your own. You’re safe here.’

  ‘I am a sitting duck here, Léon. Both André and I. We might as well have a “come and get me” sign on the door.’

  He knew me too well. He didn’t let that pass.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘You should check the hospitals in the area. To see if Piquet has registered with any.’

  He cupped the back of my head in the palm of his hand, preventing me from turning away. ‘What happened?’ he asked again.

  I closed my eyes. He leaned forward and softly kissed each eyelid.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked for the third time.

  The words unhooked from the roof of my mouth and slid out for Léon to hear. Leaving the taste of blood on my tongue.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The Dumoulin Air Base rolled out the red carpet for us. A line of fifty crisp young men from the mighty United States Air Force stood to attention as a welcome guard and we were greeted by the commanding officer himself, Colonel Masson. Smart, sharp and smiling.

  There is something about a large number of men in uniform that is immediately intimidating. They have the better of you without moving a muscle. In identical uniform, shoulder to shoulder, they are no longer individuals, but merge into one superhuman being. They belittle you. They reduce you. Even when standing there doing nothing except staring straight in front of them like wooden soldiers, you know – and they know – that they are a highly efficient killing force. And parked behind them are their highly efficient killing machines.

  Only Mayor Durand with his impressive gold chain of office around his neck and Captain Léon Roussel in his authoritative dark uniform and braid could have stood toe to toe with them. There were more than a hundred of us, some I recognised, some were new to me. We had been herded into a large soulless reception room where we were presented with indifferent wine and what they called potato chips.

  Our party was mainly male, of course – the president of the Chamber of Commerce, the heads of the major businesses, a number of landowners like Papa, and a big-bellied hotel owner. Among the few women present, all done up in their Sunday best, were the town’s well-respected chief librarian, as well as my old loud-voiced headmistress who oozed disapproval of the whole event and kept lifting her hand to wipe a sheen of sweat from her forehead as though the nearness of so much nuclear power made her nervous. And in a dress designed to have the military eyes out on stalks, Clarisse Favre. Léon had insisted she accompany me.

  ‘Papa will be with me,’ I’d pointed out. ‘He can be my guard dog.’

  ‘Your papa,’ Léon said in his best stern-policeman voice, ‘will have his eyes on the aeroplanes and his ears on the facts and figures. Not on you.’

  I knew he was right. So here she was. Glued to my side. In a Chanel dress of moss-green linen, the exact colour of her eyes, skimming her slender hips. The plunging neckline was not disguised in any way by the addition of a tiny chiffon scarf at her neck. With her hair swept up in an elaborate knot she looked a million dollars, but this was not her usual style. When I asked her who she thought she was dressing for, she slid me a satisfied smile.

  ‘For the Americans, chérie. They’re men, aren’t they?’

  I laughed. Usually she prided herself on dressing only to please herself.

  It was odd. The way the mood in the room changed. On the arrival of the visitors I was conscious of an awkward suspicious edge to them that was not well hidden behind the polite smiles and handshakes. But the air base had rolled out its most personable officers to mingle with us and answer our questions, and there was something about these American airmen with their clean-cut faces and their can-do attitude. There was something that was . . . I struggled to put a word to it . . . that was inspiring.

  Highly skilled. Highly trained. And passionate about what they were doing here. Saving the free world. A few of them spoke a little French but the CO had laid on interpreters to mingle with them. I could feel the hostility drain away like sand running through my fingers. Across the room I caught the eye of Major Joel Dirke and we exchanged smiles, but he was caught in the grip of a local chicken farmer who was looking irate. Maybe the overflying aircraft were disturbing his hens’ laying pattern. I’d heard one man claim the noise of the jets had made his dog so nervy it would not go boar-hunting anymore. What was Joel Dirke saying? That it’s all part of saving the world?

  It was Léon my eyes sought out. Again and again, scanning the heads, but he had not arrived yet and I felt a stirring of concern. What police business had detained him?

  ‘Mr Caussade, I am pleased to see you came.’

  Colonel Masson was standing in front of us, looking uncertain of his welcome. My father shook the CO’s hand but grunted his response in Provençal, which made me want to pour my wine over him.

  ‘I am Eloïse Caussade,’ I offered, ‘and this is my colleague from Paris, Mademoiselle Favre.’

  He greeted us with military courtesy. ‘It’s good to see so many here,’ he said, looking around the room. He was half a head taller than most, with eyes that drilled into you, seeking out your weak spot. ‘I intend today, by the grace of God, to bring a spark of enlightenment to the subject of nuclear power and its force for doing the Lord’s work. To purge the land of the evil of Communism which seeks to rid the world of His churches.’

  Ah. So it was personal. I found myself liking this man who believed in the godliness of America’s purpose in Europe.

  ‘I look forward to hearing more,’ I said. ‘That’s why we’re here.’ And before he could move on to the next group, I asked silkily, ‘Is it true that you ar
e planning on flying nuclear-powered aircraft over here from America, even though it is still in the early stages of testing?’

  His surprise was so fleeting, I barely saw it. His military training kicked in. He knew exactly how to deal with an ambush. Shoot it down.

  ‘Miss Caussade, you are mistaken.’

  ‘About the aircraft being powered by nuclear energy? Or about it coming to Dumoulin Air Base?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘Colonel, there are rumours about this prototype aircraft that are coming out of this air base. It clearly means you have an Intelligence leak. Are you aware of it?’ I kept my voice low and private. ‘The local Communists are using this information as yet more propaganda to turn people against American interference in our country. Rumours like this add fuel to the Communist fire.’

  My father watched the colonel. Clarisse watched me. But I looked past them. I looked across the room, past the smart military khaki uniforms and the freshly pressed suits to the ornate gold mayoral chain of office with the horned head of a taureau noir at its heart, the symbol of Serriac. Its wearer, Mayor Charles Durand, brandished a glass in one hand and a cigar in the other, a fine-looking man in his grand regalia. Around him stood an attentive group. One man was voicing his opinions with a dramatic dance of his hands, but the mayor was not listening. He was staring at me. Not casually. Not out of boredom. He was staring straight at me like one of the USAF’s anti-aircraft rockets. As if he would shoot me down.

  A hand cupped my elbow. I looked round. It was Léon. Firmly he steered me away from the CO to a quiet corner and said, ‘I have news.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  LÉON ROUSSEL

  Léon did not let go of Eloïse’s arm. He stood close to her, holding on to it, because for some inexplicable reason he clung to the belief that while his hand was locked around her arm, she would be safe from rifle bullets and from knives sliding between ribs. It was self-delusional of course, he knew that. But right now it was all he had.

  ‘What news?’ she asked quickly.

  She had a fire in her dark eyes today. It seemed to be consuming her. He recognised it at once. It was exactly how he felt when working on a crime case and knowing that the answers were close. The heat builds in your chest. A fire in there that never goes away. That’s what he saw reflected in her eyes and it made him want to whisk her away from here. He glanced quickly around the noisy reception room, assessing the mood the way he would a rowdy street gathering on a Saturday night. Across the room both Colonel Masson and Mayor Durand still had their eyes on her.

  Léon put a small smile on his face for their benefit. ‘What the hell were you saying to Masson about the leak at the air base?’

  She shook her head. ‘Tell me, what news?’

  ‘This morning I’ve been over at the burned cottage again with a couple of men, digging around. Literally.’

  She was good. Her expression didn’t change, just the faintest hiss escaped through her teeth. ‘What did you find?’

  ‘Nothing pleasant, I’m afraid, Eloïse.’ He had thought about not telling her, but she deserved to know. ‘We dug around in the garden and around the shed, and in the end we unearthed something of interest.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A pair of bull’s horns. They’d been hacked off very roughly.’

  She didn’t flinch. ‘Goliath’s?’

  ‘It seems probable. We will have to unearth his head to make sure.’

  She nodded. Her neck stiff. ‘You must tell Papa.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He didn’t mention the dried blood on the horns, indicating that the poor creature may have still been alive when they were removed.

  ‘You think it was this Communist cell that committed the crime?’

  ‘It looks that way but we need proof. I will bring Isaac in for questioning again.’

  ‘But he told me the city-dwellers of Marseille would be too frightened to face a bull.’

  ‘That’s probably true.’

  ‘So who would have the nerve to enter a field with a black bull like Goliath?’ She paused and the sound of chatter buzzed in their ears. He wanted her to come to it herself.

  ‘Isaac,’ she whispered.

  ‘It’s possible. Again, we have no proof yet.’

  ‘No, I don’t believe it. Not Isaac. He would never do that. But we both know that there are many farmworkers who went off to earn more money in the factories and docks of Marseille, so they would have had experience of how to take on a bull.’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘Did you find anything else?’

  ‘Tyre tracks. If we can trace Piquet’s motorcycle, if we can make a match . . .’

  ‘So many ifs. He could be anywhere.’

  Léon tightened his grip on her arm. He could see the mayor heading their way. ‘You have set yourself up here,’ he murmured, ‘as bait. In full view of anyone who might be interested.’

  He saw her swallow, her long slender throat struggling as if something was caught there.

  ‘I thought Gilles Bertin might have been among the guests, but I can’t see him,’ she said.

  Léon thought about what it took for her to come here, believing Bertin might turn up. ‘No, Eloïse. I contacted Colonel Masson and checked every name on the list. I would never let him anywhere near you. Or near André, for that matter.’

  ‘Louis is playing guard-dog at home today. I sat him down at the bottom of the stairs with Papa’s hunting rifle with instructions to shoot the balls off anyone who comes barging through the door.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Eloïse, you know that is—’

  But he was interrupted by the smooth tones of the mayor. ‘Captain Roussel, I think we are in for a treat today,’ he said with a bonhomie that didn’t quite match his face. He switched to Eloïse. ‘Bonjour, Eloïse.’

  ‘Bonjour, Monsieur le Maire,’ she said coolly, and walked stiffly away to join her father. Léon saw the good-looking major with whom she had gone riding immediately materialise at her side.

  Dammit. What was that about?

  *

  Léon sat himself down next to the headmistress, Mademoiselle Madeleine Caron. She was a straight-backed woman in her fifties whose sharp features and equally sharp reprimands he recalled only too well from his schooldays. She was wearing a brown felt hat set at a precise right angle on her head and maintained a blinkered focus on the colonel. Léon listened to the colonel’s talk on the necessity of establishing the Dumoulin base here, but he listened with only one ear, drifting in and out. Most of his attention was focused on the audience. They had all been shepherded into a lecture theatre with tiered seats and a podium up front for the speaker and the interpreter. There was lots of rustling and expectation in the room.

  Colonel Masson had welcomed the visitors and run through the history of Dumoulin Air Base from a small grass airfield during the war to the efficient cog that it was now in the military machine that was fighting against the Soviet threat. The United States had already poured millions of American dollars into the air base, building full and extensive facilities for the airmen and aircraft deployed here. However, the runways were not long enough or sufficiently reinforced to accommodate the new larger and heavier aircraft coming into service. Masson spoke well. Just the right touch of military arrogance and paternalistic concern. His pride in the base and in his men shone through.

  The colonel swept a hand in the direction of the front row. ‘We are particularly pleased to welcome Monsieur Aristide Caussade and his daughter here today because we owe Monsieur Caussade a debt of thanks. By allowing us to take possession of a stretch of his land, it will enable us to extend our main runway from seven thousand feet to the ten thousand feet required for larger aircraft. Merci, Monsieur Caussade.’

  He led a ripple of applause, though there was an awkwardness about it. People were not sure they wanted 10,000ft runways, and definitely not larger aircraft. Léon noticed that the mayor played it safe, giving token app
lause but no more and the woman beside Léon gave a grunt of anger. There was a stir of interest when Colonel Masson commenced a slide-show of the base’s facilities and of the different types of aircraft on its apron. The images displayed up on screen paraded the sleek miracles of technology and Léon could not deny the thrill of viewing the aircraft roaring into action.

  ‘Here we have the Republic F-84 Thunderjet, Strategic Air Command’s primary strike aircraft. A turbojet fighter-bomber armed with six M3 Browning machine guns, plus of course a considerable weight of bombs and rockets.’

  In a series of still shots the plane flashed across the screen, up into its take-off, black smoke billowing behind.

  ‘Now the Boeing B-50 Superfortress.’

  A large four-engine bomber loomed up on screen and a murmur ran through the crowd. Léon caught a quick movement by the headmistress next to him. She took out a camera from her bag on the floor at her feet, but before it got anywhere near her eye, it was removed by a polite young sergeant with a firm shake of the head.

  ‘Handsome beasts, aren’t they?’ The colonel smiled with pride. ‘And as soon as the extended runways are constructed, the new B-47 Stratojet will be deployed here. Designed by Boeing with thirty-five-degree swept-wings to fly at high speed and high altitude . . .’

  The CO’s voice rumbled on but Léon’s focus was on the faces around him. Seeking out any flash-point. One man with a deep scowl and his bottom teeth clenched on his moustache, locking in any words. The bank manager in his pin-striped suit, his head pulled back as far as it would go. An angry hooded pair of eyes at the end of the next row of seats. Elsewhere a shake of a head. And a blank expression nearby, except for a tight click of back teeth over and over.

  ‘. . . six turbojets . . .’

  The headmistress was sitting on her hands as though to keep them from striking out.

  ‘. . . primary mission is as a nuclear bomber capable of striking the Soviet Union . . .’

  On the other side of Léon sat five eager young men who ran the local football club. Mouths open. Eyes shining. Hanging on Colonel Masson’s every word.