As the policemen approached, Yola pressed herself into the ground and began to pray.
The first policeman stopped three or four feet away from her. ‘Can you see any dead trees?’
The second policeman switched on his torch and swung it in an arc above their heads. At that exact moment his cellphone rang. He tossed the torch to his companion and felt for the phone. As the torch passed near her head, Yola could feel the light from its beam skimming across her body. She stiffened, sure of discovery.
‘What’s that you say? We’ve got to pull out? What are you talking about?’ The second policeman was listening intently to the voice at the other end of the line. He grunted from time to time and Yola could almost sense him glancing across at the first policeman, who was holding the lighted torch with its beam focused down along the seam of his trousers.
The second policeman snapped the cellphone shut. ‘That Parisian Captain they’ve sicced on us thinks he’s found out where the guy lives. Reckons, if he really has slipped the net, that he’s sure to make for there. We’re all wanted. This time all we’ve got to do is seal off the whole of the St-Tropez peninsula, from just outside Cavalaire-sur-Mer, via La Croix-Valmer and Cogolin, to Port Grimaud. Can you credit it? That’s sixty fucking kilometres.’
‘More like thirty.’
‘What do you care? There’s no sleep for us tonight.’
Yola turned on to her back, when they eventually walked away and gazed up in wonder at the first star of the evening.
73
Somewhat to his surprise Calque found himself regretting the lack of Macron’s presence as he made his way across the courtyard and back towards the Comtesse de Bale’s house. Calque did not consider himself a sentimental man and Macron had, after all, largely brought his death upon himself - but there had been something magnificently irritating about him as a person, an irritation which had, in its turn, fed Calque’s over-emphatic sense of self. He concluded that Macron had acted as a kind of straight man to his iconoclast and that he was missing having an excuse for being grumpy.
He recalled, too, his delight when Macron had leapt to his defence when the Countess had questioned his knowledge about the Pairs de France and the French nobility. You had to hand it to the man - he might have been a bigot but he had never been predictable.
The soignée private secretary in the tweed and cashmere twinset emerged from the house to greet him - this time, though, she was wearing a silk one-piece dress in burgundy, which made her look even more like a countess than the Countess herself. Calque searched through his memory banks for her name. ‘Madame Mastigou?’
‘Captain Calque.’ Her eyes skated over his shoulders to take in the detachment of eight police officers bringing up his rear. ‘And your assistant?’
‘Dead, Madame. Killed by the adopted son of your employer.’
Madame Mastigou took an inadvertent pace backwards. ‘I am sure that cannot be so.’
‘I, too, trust that I have been misinformed. I have a search warrant, however, for these premises, which I intend to exercise immediately. These officers will accompany me inside. They will obviously respect both Madame la Comtesse’s property and her privacy. But I must ask that no one interfere with them during the course of their duties.’
‘I must go and warn Madame la Comtesse.’
‘I shall accompany you.’
Madame Mastigou hesitated. ‘May I see the warrant?’
‘Of course.’ Calque felt in his pocket and handed her the document.
‘May I copy this?’
‘No, Madame. A copy will be made available to Madame la Comtesse’s lawyers when and if they desire it.’
‘Very well then. Please come with me.’
Calque nodded to his officers. They fanned out across the courtyard. Four of the officers waited patiently at the foot of the stairs for Calque and Madame Mastigou to enter the house, before clattering up the steps behind them to begin their search.
‘Do you seriously intend to implicate the Count in the killing of your assistant?’
‘When did you last see the Count, Madame?’
Madame Mastigou hesitated. ‘Some years ago now.’
‘Then you may take it from me. He has changed.’
***
‘I see that you have discarded the arm sling, Captain Calque. And your nose. It is healing. A great improvement.’
‘It is kind of you to notice, Countess.’
The Countess sat down. Madame Mastigou fetched a chair and placed it behind the Countess and a little to one side - she seated herself demurely, both knees pressed together, her ankles tucked beneath her and lightly crossed. Finishing school, thought Calque. Switzerland, probably. She sits just like the Queen of England.
This time, the Countess waved the footman away without bothering to order coffee. ‘It is nonsense, of course, to suspect my son of violence.’
‘I don’t suspect your son of violence, Countess. I formally accuse him of it. We have witnesses. In fact I am one myself. Thanks to the condition of his eyes, he does, after all, stand out from the crowd, does he not?’ He glanced across at her, his head tilted to one side in polite enquiry. With no answer forthcoming, Calque decided to press his luck. ‘The question I must ask - the question that really troubles me - is not whether he has done these things, but why?’
‘Whatever he has done he has done for the best.’
Calque sat up straighter, his antennae flaring. ‘You cannot be serious, Madame. He has tortured and killed a gypsy in Paris. Committed grievous bodily harm on three people, including a Spanish policeman and two casual passers-by. He has killed a security guard at the shrine at Rocamadour. Tortured and killed another gypsy in the Camargues. And two days ago he shot dead my assistant during a siege in which he was threatening to hang the sister of the man he killed in Paris. And all this to discover some prophecies that may or may not be true - that may or may not be by the prophet Nostradamus. I suspect, Madame, that you are not as unaware as you would have me believe of the true reasons behind this horrendous chain of events.’
‘Is that another of your formal accusations, Captain?
If so, I would remind you that there is a third party present.’
‘That was not a formal accusation, Madame. Formal accusations are for the courts. I am conducting an investigation. I need to stop your son before he can do any more harm.’
‘What you say about my son is grotesque. Your accusations are entirely without foundation.’
‘And you, Madame Mastigou? Have you anything at all to add?’
‘Nothing, Captain. Madame la Comtesse is not well. I consider it in the worst possible taste that you continue this investiga
tion under such conditions.’
The Countess stood up. ‘I have decided what I shall do, Mathilde. I shall telephone the Minister of the Interior. He is a cousin of my friend, Babette de Montmorigny. We shall soon have this state of affairs rectified.’
Calque also stood up. ‘You must do as you see fit, Madame.’
One of the uniformed officers burst into the room. ‘Captain, I think you should see this.’
Calque shot the man a scowl. ‘See what? I am conducting an interview.’
‘A room, Sir. A secret room. Monceau found it by accident when he was investigating the library.’
Calque turned to the Countess, his eyes glittering.
‘It is not a secret room, Captain Calque. Everyone in my household knows about it. Had you asked me, I would have directed you to it.’
‘Of course, Countess. I understand that.’ With both hands anchored firmly behind his back, Calque followed his subordinate out of the door.
74
The room was approached through a tailored entrance, masterfully concealed within the library shelving.
‘Who discovered this?’
‘I did, Sir.’
‘How does it open?’
The officer swung the door shut. It sealed itself flush against the stacks. The officer then bent forwards and pressed against the ribbed spine of three books, situated near the floor. The door sprung back open again.
‘How did you know which books to press?’
‘I watched the footman, Sir. He came in here when he thought we weren’t looking and fiddled with the catch. I think he was trying to lock it so that no one could inadvertently trigger the mechanism. At least that’s what he told me.’
‘Do you mean he was worried for our safety? That the door might spring back and strike one of us unexpectedly?’
‘That was most likely it, Sir.’
Calque smiled. If he had read the Countess’s character rightly, that footman was for the chop. It was always a good thing to have a disgruntled employee cannoning around. Valuable information could be gleaned. Backs might be stabbed.
Calque ducked through the entranceway. He straightened up inside the room, then gave a low, appreciative whistle.
A large rectangular table formed the centrepiece of the room. Thirteen chairs were collected around it. On the wall behind each chair was a coat of arms and a series of quarterings. Calque recognised some of them. But they were not those of the twelve Pairs de France one would have expected, given the tenor of his present company.
‘This room hasn’t been opened since my husband’s death. There is nothing in here of any interest to your people.’
Calque ran his hand across the table. ‘Dusted, though. Someone must have been in here a good deal more recently than your husband’s death.’
‘My footman. Of course. Keeping the room tidy would form part of his duties.’
‘As would locking the doors if strangers come around?’
The Countess looked away. Madame Mastigou tried to take hold of her hand but found herself brushed off.
‘Lavigny, I want these heraldic shields photographed.’
‘I would rather you didn’t do that, Captain. They have nothing whatsoever to do with your investigation.’
‘On the contrary, Madame. I believe they have everything to do with my investigation.’
‘This room is a private place, Captain. A club room. A place where people of like minds used to meet to discuss serious issues in discreet and conducive surroundings. As I said, the room has not been used since my husband’s death. Some of the families to whom these coats of arms belong may even be ignorant of their presence in this room. I would be grateful for that state of affairs to continue.’
‘I see no billiard table. No bar. It’s a funny type of club room. What’s this, for instance?’ Calque pointed to a chalice, locked inside its very own tantalus. ‘And these initials engraved on it? CM.’
The Countess looked as though she had been bitten by an adder.
‘Sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s a roll of parchment here. With seals on it. It’s heavy, too. It must have wooden rollers or something.’
Calque indicated that the parchment should be spread out on the table.
‘Please don’t touch that, Captain. It is very valuable.’
‘I have a search warrant, Madame. I may touch anything I please. I will endeavour not to smear it with my fingers however.’ Calque bent forwards and perused the document.
The Countess and Madame Mastigou stood frozen against the interior wall of the sanctum.
‘Lavigny. Would you kindly escort the Countess and Madame Mastigou out of the room. This may take some time. And fetch me a magnifying glass.’
75
The first thing Sabir did when Bouboul dropped him back at the Maset was to light the fire for comfort. The night was cold and he felt an indefinable frisson overtake his body as he glanced up the corridor towards the place where Macron’s body had lain. Shaking his head in disgust at his own susceptibilities, he began the search for candles.
The old house seemed to echo back his footfalls as he padded round the room - so much so that he found himself curiously unwilling to venture further up the corridor towards the kitchen. After a desultory five-minute search he was relieved to discover three candles still lying on the floor, where they had been overset by the eye-man’s use of the fire extinguisher, two nights before.
Lighting them and then seeing his shadow reflected around the room like a torchlit danse macabre, Sabir wondered, not for the first time, how he had ever allowed Yola to persuade him to come back and use the Maset? The rationale was certainly there - for Les Saintes-Maries remained tightly sealed by the police in their search for the eye-man, with egress relatively easy and ingress more controlled.
But since he had last been here the Maset seemed to have transformed itself into a place of doom. Sabir now felt distinctly uncomfortable in using the location of someone’s brutal murder for what he understood might well turn out to be a flippant journey up a no-through-road. In fact it brought home to him, yet again, just how differently the Manouche viewed death when compared to the rather sentimental, post-Victorian way he still viewed it himself.
It was all very well for him to sit here and fantasise about the nature of the prophecies - in reality there was a fair chance that the bamboo tube didn’t even contain them and would instead prove full of dust. What if the weevils had got in? Four hundred and fifty years was a long time for anything to survive, much less parchment.
He sat down on the sofa. After a moment he straightened up the French dictionary which he had brought with him until i
ts edges accorded with the border of the table. Then he lined up his pen and paper beside the dictionary. Bouboul had loaned him a large-faced, gaudy watch and Sabir now laid this on to the table next to the other accoutrements. The familiar movements provided him with some measure of comfort.
He glanced back over his shoulder towards the corridor. The fire was burning well by this time and he began to feel a little more secure in his isolation. Yola would find the prophecies if anyone could. When she arrived at the Maset, he would take the prophecies, from her and send her straight back to Les Saintes-Maries with Reszo. He was fine alone here. He would have the rest of the night in which to translate and copy the prophecies. From that moment on he would not let them out of his sight.
Come morning, he would send the originals by courier to his publisher in New York. Then he would work on the copies until he had milked out their full meaning. With the prophecies skilfully interleaved with the story of their discovery, he would have a sure-fire bestseller on his hands. It would easily bring in enough to make them all rich. Alexi could marry Yola and end up Bulibasha and Sabir could write his own ticket.
Twenty more minutes. It couldn’t take longer than that. Then he would have one of the great untold secrets of the world within his grasp.
THE NOSTRADAMUS PROPHECIES Page 38