Murder in Lascaux

by Betsy Draine

  “Were you involved in any of the fighting?” He had been in his late teens, old enough to have fought.

  “I served briefly, but for most of the war I remained here, helping the local people.” That was a vague, disquieting answer.

  “As a member of the government?”

  “No, as a private citizen but one who, along with my father, had responsibilities as a result of our family’s position. We provided aid and assistance to those who were in need.” Here the old baron knocked the ashes from his pipe, uncrossed his legs, and rose with slight difficulty from his armchair. “Madame, you will excuse me if I interrupt this interesting conversation, but I must go now. I only came into the library for a moment to search for a book.” He strode to one of the shelves, pulled a book out by its spine, checked the title, and tucked it under his arm. “I wish you success with your research. Until later …” His words drifted off inconclusively, as he nodded and rounded the door at a sprightly clip for an old man in slippers.

  Like me, Toby had skipped the group’s excursion. While I worked in the library, he’d spent a few hours antiquing around Beynac, but he returned to the chateau empty-handed. Not to call the afternoon a loss, he proposed that we go off on a little jaunt before dinner. Without even asking “Where to?” I agreed, on the condition that he’d put up with listening to my end of a call home as he drove.

  Our destination was a picturesque hamlet tucked away on a side road between St. Cyprien and Les Eyzies. Tiny as it is, Meyrals has a reputation as an artists’ colony, and we were ready for a distraction. As we headed that way with the windows rolled down to savor the breeze, I dialed my sister’s cell phone. I reached her during her work break, which was good, but she was having her cup of coffee at Hank’s shop, which was bad. Nonetheless, after determining Hank was not at the table, I plunged in.

  “Got a minute to talk about men?”

  “Not really. Unless you’re having trouble with Toby.”

  “No, but I’m a little concerned about you and Hank.”

  “What is it with you and Mom? Every time I let slip I’ve got a boyfriend, you two are on my case, badmouthing the guy. Even when you haven’t met him. Do you want me to be single forever?”

  “I’d just like to see you take it a little slower, Angie. Till this week, you’d never mentioned Hank, and all of a sudden you’re giving him $30,000. You’re going to be penniless once you write that check. And you’ll be without a job if you walk away from the beauty shop and go on the road with Hank. It’s not such a great idea for a woman to be that dependent on a man, even if she’s married to him, and I haven’t heard you mention that.”

  “Oh, brother. Is that what this is about? You and Mom want me to marry Hank before I invest in his business? You two are living in the Dark Ages.”

  “That isn’t what I meant, Angie. This is coming out all wrong. I’m just worried for you.”

  “Well, stop worrying. I’m not fifteen anymore, you know.”

  “Are you telling me I’m being too much the big sister?”

  “You could say that.” I heard a grudging smile in Angie’s voice.

  “Okay, I’ll back off. I’ll just be plain old sister, sending love from overseas.”

  “Good. Forget about me for a while. Have a great vacation. You’re in France!”

  That made me realize I’d said nothing about our ordeal at Lascaux. For a second, I wondered whether the murder at the cave had hit the press in the United States. Angie wasn’t much of a newspaper reader, so she wouldn’t have seen any coverage. But someone else in the family might hear about it soon. I let the moment pass, and we said sisterly goodbyes.

  I turned toward Toby. “Was that awkward, or what?”

  “Not so bad. You’ve said your piece. Are you really going to cease and desist with Angie?”

  “I promised to, didn’t I? But I have this terrible impulse to call my brother in Boston and ask him to help. Angie’s always respected Eddie’s opinion.”

  “Would that be in the spirit of—”

  I interrupted him. “No. I know that. It would violate Angie’s privacy. It would undermine her independence. And she told me to lay off. So it’s not happening. I’m just telling you, I have the impulse.”

  For the remainder of the drive, we enjoyed the scenery in silence. We drove past slender stands of poplars swaying in the wind, yellowing pastures where the hay was rolled up like carpets, remote farmhouses, beehive huts, crumbling manors, and roadside chapels, all made of the same attractive tawny stone. For the moment, thoughts of family and murder were banished from my mind.

  The sleepy village of Meyrals has a sixteenth-century château and an old church but is otherwise unremarkable, except for half a dozen signs planted here and there directing visitors to this artist’s home or that artist’s gallery. We turned off at the third sign and followed the arrows to a rambling old stone house set back from a side road about a mile from the village entrance. The house was well hidden by a tall hedge, but a sign out front read: “Nigel Simmons, Peintre. Bienvenue. Welcome. English Spoken.” A Brit, most probably—there were a quite a few of them living in the Dordogne. Alerted by the slamming of the car doors as we got out, the artist himself appeared in the doorway and invited us in.

  Nigel Simmons was in his fifties, had a ruddy face that complemented the red cravat around his neck, and was sloshing a gin and tonic in one hand, with which he motioned us inside. He had longish hair combed wet and wore a long-sleeved white shirt and white pants. Delighted to see us, he was, and more than happy to show us around. “Americans! We don’t see too many of your lot around here, do we? But please come in. Have a drink? You’ve come at the right hour. Just having one myself, as you can see.”

  He showed us into a large, open room with walls of exposed stone and old worm-eaten beams that supported the upper floors. After brief introductions, he left us to wander around while he fetched the drinks. The ancient manse had been smartly renovated with an eye toward maximizing exhibition space but at the same time preserving as much of the original architecture as possible. The walls were hung with plentiful examples of the artist’s work, mainly watercolors of popular subjects: flowers, birds, fruit tumbling from baskets, vegetables portrayed from interesting angles. They were attractive.

  “Please don’t leave without buying one,” he implored with disarming frankness. “I could use the money!” This was said with a self-deprecating smile as he handed us our drinks. After taking our time looking around, we did select a small, unframed painting of a watermelon, sliced into triangular pieces, which was nicely done and inexpensively priced. It would make a sweet gift and would be easy to pack. That broke the ice.

  Highly pleased, Nigel invited us to make ourselves comfortable. He pulled a wicker chair across the room and gestured for us to take seats on an old sofa set against the wall. As cash-paying clients, we were entitled to freshened drinks and conversation. In ten minutes we had his full life story—divorced, living in the Dordogne for the past twenty years, bibulous, garrulous, lonely, and, except for the house, which must have been valuable, a bit down at the heels. He was delighted to learn I was an art historian and flattered that I appreciated his work. He also seemed genuinely interested as I described my research project on Jenny Marie Cazelle.

  Did he know of her? Was he familiar with the family and their château?

  Yes, he was aware of her work, but he’d seen only one painting of hers. As for the family, he didn’t know them well but certainly knew of them, especially the baron’s son, Guillaume, who had something of a reputation among the arty set.

  “Really? In what sense?” I asked.

  “Well, it’s all just rumor,” Nigel replied, “but he’s been selling old paintings for years at the Bordeaux auction houses, and people have been wondering where they came from.”

  “Why is that? They live in a château,” I pointed out, “so there’s obviously wealth in the family, and it wouldn’t be unusual for them to have acquired a number
of works of art over the generations.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about,” Nigel said. “It goes back to the war, at least that’s what people around here say.”

  Pushed for an explanation, Nigel spun a tale about Nazi-looted art during the occupation and the suspicion—it was common knowledge, he said—that the Château de Cazelle was used to store some of the stolen works during the waning days of the Third Reich. “Too friendly by half” was the phrase he used to describe the family’s relations with the occupiers. By war’s end, the works had been moved elsewhere or dispersed, but local gossip had it that the family retained a portion of the secret cache from those days and that from this cache Guillaume pieced out works to auction.

  “What kinds of paintings?” I wanted to know. “Were the works museum-quality?”

  No, Nigel said, they were paintings for the most part by less well-known artists, but still paintings that can bring a good price, the kinds of paintings the Nazis expropriated from people’s homes when they were rounding them up.

  I listened with a queasy feeling, recalling Inspector Daglan’s observation that before Malbert was killed, he had visited the château to discuss the status of a private cave located somewhere on the Cazelle grounds. What if this hidden cave had nothing at all to do with prehistoric art but instead concealed paintings that had been stolen during the Holocaust? If so, had Malbert been killed to prevent him from uncovering that secret?

  Of course, I knew that the Nazis had looted art from both public and private collections during the war. One famous episode came to mind. Before the war, the Bernheim-Jeune family had operated one of the most prominent galleries in Paris, featuring a stunning array of impressionist art. With the fall of France, the owners, who were Jews, faced the prospect of German confiscation, and worse. And the worst happened: the Nazis seized the gallery, and while some family members escaped, others were sent to concentration camps where they met their deaths. However, before the Nazis arrived, the family managed to send the best part of their collection to friends who owned the Château Rastignac in the Dordogne. At the beginning of the war, the Dordogne was part of the so-called free zone, run by the Vichy government rather than governed directly by the occupiers, and the family had reason to believe the paintings might be safely hidden there. But toward the end of the war, as the German army suffered reversals and the French Resistance stepped up its activities, German troops began exacting reprisals in the Dordogne. In 1944 the Nazis ransacked the château and burned it to the ground. Just before they set the place ablaze, several German army trucks loaded with loot were seen leaving the site. To this day, no one knows whether those trucks contained the hidden paintings or whether they perished in the ashes. The paintings have never been found, including a famous Renoir and a van Gogh.

  It was plausible that the Château de Cazelle had played a similar role during the war as a hiding place for art, especially if there were rumors to that effect. But how could we find out? The old baron didn’t want to talk about those years, and I wondered if Marianne would be willing to shed more light on the past.

  Meanwhile Nigel was becoming agitated. “And I’ll tell you something else about that lot. Mean misers, they are. Guillaume and his sister have both been to my studio and never bought a thing. You’d think they’d be willing to support a local artist, but no. Just cheap, I tell you.” By now, he was slurring his words as multiple gin and tonics took their effect.

  “Nigel,” Toby interrupted, “where did you hear these stories about paintings that were hidden in the château during the war?”

  “Hmm? Common knowledge,” he mumbled. “Just ask around. Would you like a refill?”

  “Thanks, but no,” I said, glancing at Toby. I was beginning to think we ought to leave.

  Toby looked at me, mumbled something about the time, and thanked our host for the drinks. We paid for our purchase and edged toward the door. Before we got there, Nigel clapped Toby on the shoulder and began offering advice about antique shops in the region where a dealer might find a few good pieces. Toby feigned interest, and the men shook hands.

  Outside, the air was still hot and dry. As we drove off, Nigel Simmons stood in the doorway and waved goodbye with a tipsy up and down motion of his fingertips.

  For dinner that evening we were on our own. We drove into Sarlat and joined the throngs of tourists who roamed its medieval lanes lit by lanterns that cast pools of yellow light on the cobblestones. We found space at an outdoor table at the Café du Centre, which anchored a courtyard surrounded by half-timbered buildings with wooden balconies. In the soft lamplight, it seemed a stage setting for a play by Molière. We asked for a kir, lingered over its bittersweet taste, and put off ordering for a while. We eventually settled on the classic bistro dinner of steak frites. The thin steak came with a baguette, a bowl of French fries, a salad dressed in walnut oil, a pitcher of local red wine, and no surprises.

  “What do you make of Nigel’s story?” I asked Toby, trying to slice into my rather tough steak.

  “It depends on how much credit you can give to rumors.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past that family to come to some sort of arrangement with the Germans.”

  “They wouldn’t have been the only ones.”

  “Right.” I was thinking of the Château Rastignac. “If Guillaume is selling paintings from a hidden cache, they have to be stored somewhere, either in the château or on the family grounds. What about that cave we’ve heard about? Is that why the family is keeping it off limits? It would be worth finding out.”

  “It would if we knew where it was, which we don’t,” said Toby. “But you’ve given me another idea. What about the attic? We know where that is, and we can get up there from our room without anyone knowing.”

  “If the door’s unlocked.”

  “True, but either it is or it isn’t. There’s one way to find out.”

  “I’m game, but what if they catch us?”

  “Look, I’ll go by myself. I’m already in hot water with Marianne, so what’s the worst that can happen? I’ll apologize.”

  “I don’t know, Toby.”

  “Nora, there might be something to Nigel’s story. I’m going up there.”

  “All right, but not without me,” I said, “and not without dessert.” Our waiter had arrived bearing cups of crème brûlée prepared with a hint of walnut liqueur in the caramel sauce.

  “Deal,” said Toby, tucking into his custard. “Scrumptious.” He made a show of licking his spoon upside down.

  It was half-past ten by the time we got back to the château. All was silent and dark, except for a few lights in the family wing. We let our voices carry as we climbed the stairs to our room and went through the usual preparations for bed: we closed the shutters, ran the water, flushed the toilet, stretched out on top of the bed with our clothes on, and doused the light. We lay there quietly for thirty minutes, before rising stealthily. Toby went to the dresser and dug out the pocket flashlight he carries around for examining antiques. Though smaller than a pack of cigarettes, the light has a high intensity bulb that casts a brilliant white beam. “Knew this would come in handy on the trip,” he said in a pleased-with-himself tone of voice. “Let’s go.”

  We eased into the hallway, lightly closing the door behind us, and made our way shoeless to the door at the end of the corridor. Toby tried the handle. It was unlocked. “That means there’s nothing to hide up there,” I whispered. “I think we should go back.”

  “You’re probably right, but I’m going up for a peek. You can stay here if you like.”

  “No way. I’m not going to stand here in the hallway looking guilty. After you.”

  The door creaked open on old hinges to reveal a spiral staircase made of iron leading up into darkness. Toby beamed his light up, sweeping the stairs. “Come on.” I eased the door closed behind us, and we mounted slowly and as quietly as we could. The iron treads were solid, but the armature supporting the suspended stairwell swayed slightl
y under our weight. We stopped and listened. Nothing. We continued. After four complete turns around the central pole that held the stairway up, Toby reached the top. “Trapdoor,” he whispered down to me. He gave it a push. “It’s unlocked. Here, take the flashlight.”

  I held the beam vertically as Toby pushed with both hands at the trapdoor, raising it open. He climbed a few more steps until his head and shoulders disappeared from view. “I’m in. Hand me the light.” He reached down to take it from me. The open trapdoor rested against a post at an angle, but it was stationary. Toby disappeared into the dark space above. “Okay, come on up.” He shined the light on the steps between us and extended a hand. In another moment I was beside him.

  We were standing under a peaked roof supported by enormous beams of bowed oak that gave the appearance of the framework of some upside-down ship. Motes of dust danced in the flashlight’s glare, while moonbeams filtered through tiny triangular windows built for ventilation just a few inches above the floor. The combined smell of old wood and animal musk was powerful. Toby’s light swept the attic floor, penetrating into obscure corners and illuminating odd pieces of furniture here and there: old night tables, hanging clothing under plastic wraps, and not much else. Even from where I was standing, I could see that our quest for art stashed under the eaves was fruitless.

  Suddenly I froze. There was a door creaking below, followed by tentative footsteps on the spiral staircase. Someone was coming up. Toby instantly killed his light and stepped back into a dark corner, gesturing that I should do the same. An old steamer trunk was near me, standing on its end. I ducked behind it, waiting for inevitable discovery. Soon a yellow beam of light played across the side of the open trapdoor, and in a moment a head appeared in the opening on the floor. Another step, and the intruder stood half in and half out of the attic. I glanced in Toby’s direction. For now he was invisible, and I hoped I was, too. The figure moved up another step, and his features became recognizable in the moonlight—it was David Press. Had he followed us? If not, what was he doing here?