‘The Baroness says Courtet may have taught her.’
‘The Professor, ah yes. But Danielle has visited my father’s parents at their house in Paris. She knows all about what has happened to them since the Defeat. Is she not the one who encouraged them to sell the trunk after first learning everything from it, or is it that she did not learn from these journals at all but directly from my father?’
‘And not from Courtet?’
‘No, not from that one. But if you like, I will ask him to fashion for us a stone tool even of the simplest kind. My thought is he cannot do it but we shall see.’
8
MOONLIGHT LIT THE WELL-TREED GROUNDS OF the château as St-Cyr heard beyond the symphony of insects, the muted whispers of an urgent love. ‘Come in me, darling. In me now, please.’
Ah nom de Dieu …
‘I can’t find my rubber.’
‘Then shoot the stork in flight before it lands. Jump from the train while it is still in motion. Don’t stop now. Please don’t. Just keep going, Erik. I don’t want to lose it.’
Breathless in their tangle, the couple went at it and he stood not two metres from them. Pale white, all arms, legs, buttocks and breasts, they gave to the dewy grass a primordiality that made him uncomfortable. Their grunts and groans, their sighs grew until they filled the night and he had to move away to stand under an oak whose spreading limbs all but hid the moon.
Am not dead, wrote Fillioux. Wounded 1914 missing action amnesia. I beg your loving forgiveness and understanding. Am to work on film.
The postcard had been dated 10 October 1941. Five days later Madame Fillioux visited the cave with Professor Courtet who had then returned to find the second chamber and its paintings.
A mortar and some lumps of pyrolusite had been taken from the cave by the daughter on the day before the woman’s death, the Sunday and the very same day the sous-facteur had been killed. Auger hadn’t been aware of the danger nor had Madame Fillioux. Fools … had she been so foolish as to trust completely?
She had intended to poison that husband of hers as well as the son-in-law.
Rolls of tracing paper held the sketches she had made at Lascaux on at least two of her three visits, the last of which had been in mid-November, presumably after the Professor’s discovery.
Animals other than those at Lascaux had been included, as were three sets of handprints — tracings of a man’s and a woman’s hands most probably — and her own sprayed imprints as well for contrast or proof positive.
10,000 francs were missing. Postcards from the parents, from Fillioux, from Courtet and from Danielle Arthaud might settle everything but for now they would have to wait. He had to warn Hermann and Madame Jouvet. He could not lose the contents of the carpet-bag. Without it, there was nothing.
Steps sounded on the gravel drive as someone hurried through the gates. A muffled male voice said in German, ‘She’s in there with Kohler. That makes things much easier.’
Ah nom de Jésus-Christ, it was Oelmann and Jouvet!
‘What do you want me to do?’ asked the husband.
‘Stay out here. Get that wife of yours away from Kohler and kill her. Do it with a stone. Open her up just like her mother but do it where she won’t be found for a while. The stables — yes, that would be best. They’re over there.’
‘What if they don’t come out?’ hazarded Jouvet tensely.
‘They will. They’ll have to. I’ll make certain they do.’
‘Don’t you want me to question her first?’
Oelmann sucked in an impatient breath. ‘Just kill her, dummkopf. Kohler doesn’t have a gun.’
Again there were steps on the gravel. The moon hid itself and for a time Jouvet stood alone looking towards the gates, waiting until instinct drove him to pivot swiftly on that bad leg of his and demand, ‘Who’s there? Come out now or I’ll fire.’
Ah merde, Hermann … Hermann, why must things be so difficult? ‘Monsieur, it is only me, St-Cyr.’
Gilded swans craned their necks into staircase railings that lost themselves among the hanging tapestries and chandeliers of the floors above. From somewhere distant came the sound of a piano — Chopin perhaps — and then, elsewhere, that of a girl running her voice through its range for no other reason than that she felt like it at 2:00 a.m. and the tower she was in resonated beautifully.
In room after room members of the cast and crew slept, sometimes four to a bed or on the carpets, in chairs, anywhere they could doss down.
Kohler cursed their luck. They were lost and Oelmann, having caught sight of them on the main staircase, was right behind them.
‘The stables must be this way,’ he said, only to see Madame Jouvet falter in doubt. He had thought the stables best for a speedy exit. Verdammt!
‘That way?’ he asked. The château was huge.
‘We have come too far. We should have turned off back there.’
‘That narrow corridor?’
‘Please don’t let him get me. Please!’
She started back and when Kohler caught up with her, he ran with her to the corridor and then darted down it into darkness. ‘Look, this isn’t it,’ he said, convinced. ‘It’s a dead end.’
Panelled walls enclosed them on three sides. Anxiously she ran her hands over them even as steps in the other corridor signalled Herr Oelmann’s approach. Why is there no door?’ she whispered. There has to be one.’
‘It’s a laundry chute, that’s why,’ he said and she heard him opening its doors even as the girl with the voice ran through her scales and the piano player rippled the keys.
Kohler put the woman behind him and cocked the Webley. Shooting an SS, even if a member of the Propaganda Staffel, wasn’t such a good idea, but.…
The steps went on to vanish in some other corridor or into one of the rooms. ‘Come on. Don’t wait.’
Running, they made it to the swan-staircase and went up it and along a mirrored corridor past vases of white silk lilies to stand uncertainly between two life-sized sculptures of Aphrodite.
‘A bath,’ said Madame Jouvet in despair.
Gently Kohler pulled her aside to ease the door open and then to softly close it behind them.
There was water on the floor in little pools, bare footprints too, and towels, a white robe, another and another but only the first of them was a man’s. So vast was the room, so tall its fluted columns, the marble tub with its gold taps was all but lost on a dais behind a flimsy curtain.
‘No one,’ he breathed. ‘Bath oil, soap, sponges, wine and biscuits. Three glasses but where the hell did they go? Wait here.’
‘No. Please.…’
‘Stay close then.’ Oelmann must have beaten them to it and, seeing who the occupants were, had panicked and emptied the tub but had not yet pulled the plug.
There was no one in the adjoining room. Pyjamas hung on pegs. ‘Boys’,’ he breathed. ‘Ah merde … A pair of specs.’ He held them up to the light.
‘Herr Eisner,’ she said sadly, a whisper. They’d be naked, those two boys and this man. They would be hiding in some secret passage or cupboard from Herr Oelmann. Why could he not leave her alone? Not now, she said bitterly. Never now. I know too much and this … this business here is only one more thing he cannot allow.
Sickened by what they had stumbled into and trying to steady herself, she felt a clothes hook beneath her hand and let it take some of her weight. She was exhausted. Her children would be so worried about her.…
Softly the panel opened. Wet footprints on the parquet floor led down a darkened corridor no wider than her shoulders.
One after the other, they came out into what must, at one time, have been the bedroom of a concubine.
But it, too, was in darkness.
Under lights, in total silence now, vans, lorries, mounds and orderly stacks of equipment, wardrobe trunks — all the plethora of the film trade — were jammed into the stables where once horses and livestock had been kept and a carriage or two remained.
/> Jouvet made St-Cyr thread his way among the coils of electrical cable and spare generators, motion-picture cameras in aluminium cases and past tall stagings of boards atop which camera and cameraman would be seated in better times.
For St Cyr, a consummate lover of the cinema, it was a Herculean downfall, a policeman’s disgrace.
Tossing the carpet-bag with its load into a corner of the stall Jouvet had forced him into, St-Cyr turned and said, ‘Now look, my friend, interfering with a police officer in the course of his duties is most unwise since he is the only one who can save you.’
‘Pardon?’
The walking stick was in his left hand and this Jouvet leaned on. The Luger was in the hand that, though badly scarred, was still far too useful. You were under suspicion of murder but … ah but, there is now perhaps sufficient evidence to suggest you may not have done it after all.’
Sufficient evidence … Had he time to listen? wondered Jouvet. The Obersturmfuhrer would want him out there watching for Juliette and Kohler.…
‘First,’ said St-Cyr, ‘Madame Fillioux, on seeing who had come to meet her, would have tried to save herself if it had been you. Admit it, though, you were only too aware she intended to poison you.’
‘The bitch. Always bellyaching, always listening to that daughter of hers.’
‘She deserved to die, didn’t she?’
The grin was broken. ‘What if she did deserve everything she got? I didn’t kill her.’
‘Perhaps, but you see,’ said the Sûreté, tossing a dismissive hand, ‘my partner firmly believes you did.’ This was not true — at least, he didn’t think it was — but useful. Besides, Hermann could not yet know of Jouvet’s having been in Sarlat at the time of the killing.
‘I’m waiting for the other reason.’
The dark brown eyes held nothing but emptiness.
‘The second reason is more difficult and that is why I cannot let you see the contents of that bag.’
The Luger came up. The shot shattered the silence, terrifying some pigeons among the rafters. Madly they flapped about up there. Feathers … feathers were falling so slowly, but then something plummeted to the ground at St-Cyr’s feet and he saw the plump little body with blood all over its breast.
‘Don’t tempt me, Inspector,’ said Jouvet tightly.
‘It’s Chief Inspector, Captain.’
‘Just tease the words from your lips as a whore sucks juice from a fig or urine from a helmet.’
Ah merde … ‘Henri-Georges Fillioux has returned from the dead.’
The Luger jerked. Life came momentarily into the eyes only to vanish as the lips spread into a wolfish grin. ‘Returned,’ sighed the veteran. ‘So she meant to kill the two of us but he got to her first. She always swore he hadn’t been killed. What did he do? Hide out in Belgium?’
‘That we do not yet know.’
‘But he’s definitely back?’
‘So it seems.’
Jouvet thought a moment, then said, ‘They’ve been paying me. The one called von Strade. Yes, yes, Chief Inspector, I am an adviser on this film of theirs. She was only going to cause them trouble. I warned them. I told them she would stop at nothing to protect her lover’s reputation. Her lover? Hah! Does Juliette know her father has returned?’
‘Perhaps.’
Jouvet’s eyes narrowed. ‘Her father and mother were in contact, weren’t they, but Juliette did not know of it because that bitch was too afraid to tell her.’
‘You knew she would poison you if she could but you failed to realize there was someone else. Fillioux, my friend. Henri-Georges Fillioux!’
The filthy black beret jerked, the shot splintered the oak panelling above his left shoulder, the carpet-bag came up and was ripped open and dumped out. ‘Look for yourself then. Read if you can!’ shouted St-Cyr.
Stone tools, photographs of the young man that … that woman had married, lay among rolls of tracing paper and bundles of postcards, a scattering of louis d’or and some other things. Letters and bits of jewellery.
‘Show me.’
‘Of course.’
One room led to another, from darkness into a chamber holding back-lit figures who stood in a row in front of an overturned lamp between two complete skeletons, the one of a massively-boned, furrow-browed Neanderthal, the other of a Cro-Magnon who was quite like present-day humans. Tables held stone tools seen only out of the corner of the eye.
‘None of these are very good specimens, are they?’ said Oelmann, his tone of voice betraying how much he despised what he had stumbled into.
The Radom moved slightly to indicate the others but returned to Madame Jouvet. He’d kill her. Kohler knew this.
The two boys, of ten or twelve years, were naked and so terrified at having been found out, they shivered uncontrollably in tears. Herr Eisner was between them and looking decidedly uncomfortable. Stripped of even a hastily grabbed towel, the prehistorian from Hamburg was wet and worried and not without good reason. His life, liberty and career were up for grabs. Homosexuality of any kind was officially a no-no with the Nazis.
‘I didn’t mean to …,’ he stammered. ‘We were only sharing a bath.’
‘Of course,’ said Kohler, ‘but you see, I’ve two boys in Russia, my friend, with von Paulus and the Sixth. As a father I have to take exception to people like yourself, as a détective.… Well, what can I say, eh? but that it’s interesting von Strade should want to give you everything just to keep you quiet about that cave of his.’
Oelmann teased the Webley from his hand. Juliette Jouvet sighed with anguish.
‘So, what now?’ quipped Kohler. ‘Am I allowed to ask our friend a few things … things that might perhaps clarify that SS mind of yours?’
‘Such as?’ snapped Oelmann, backing away until he found a chair half-way between the visitors and the others.
‘Such as why the Professor Courtet thought it necessary to keep a loaded gun in his room.’
‘Fillioux … my father,’ blurted Madame Jouvet. ‘He has returned and the professor is afraid of him. Danielle.…’
‘Is Fillioux’s daughter,’ said Eisner.
‘His daughter? Please, what is this you are saying, monsieur?’ She blanched. ‘That my father, he was married when he met maman? That he had already had a daughter to call his own?’
‘A child and a wife. Courtet was well aware of it and told me.’
‘A child … Ah no, this … this I cannot believe. Why Arthaud, please?’
She was going to pieces and couldn’t stop herself.
‘The child’s mother applied for a divorce, madame, but by then your father had been declared missing in action and presumed dead. Three years later she remarried. The parents refused to accept the new marriage and disinherited their former daughter-in-law and Danielle. They wanted her to remain a war widow but she refused because your father was going to leave her for another. Arthaud was the new husband’s name and Danielle took it. She was only six years old at the time and had little choice.’
‘What do you mean, they disinherited Danielle?’ asked Kohler.
‘Just that. She’s bankrupt. She gets nothing.’
‘And now?’ he asked. Eisner would sing to save himself and Oelmann would have to listen because … ah yes, because the bastard should have known all about it long ago if he had been doing his job.
‘Now Danielle is perfect for the part she plays and an excellent instructress for the others. I don’t think anyone else is aware of who her real father was. Willi might be. It’s possible. But none of the others, apart from Courtet, of course.’
‘Please let the boys go to their rooms,’ said Madame Jouvet. ‘They are so little. Not much older than my son.’
‘Photograph them first. There is a Graflex and flash on Herr Eisner’s desk. Use it, Kohler. Become a Press photographer.’
He found the camera but had to ask how to use it. He fiddled with the film pack and finally got it in. Focusing on the group, he told Madame Jouvet
to move the lamp from behind them. ‘Back-lighting will only spoil the shot.’
‘Don’t even think of trying anything,’ snorted Oelmann. ‘Madame, do as he says and then come to kneel on the carpet before me.’
Ah Gott im Himmel, could nothing go right? Blinded by the flash, Oelmann would have been at a decided disadvantage.
Juliette picked up the lamp by its standard but lost the shade and had to go back for it. Tears filled her eyes … Her father married and not telling maman a thing about it! A girl of seventeen and so in love with him, she would spend the rest of her life waiting and would remember every word he had said, every smile, every tenderness.
Kohler saw her accidentally swing the lamp towards him from behind the naked figures and when Eisner leapt as the hot glass touched him, he tripped the flash at Oelmann and threw the camera.
There was a shriek from one of the boys. Plunged into darkness, blinded momentarily, Oelmann fired. Flashes stabbed the darkness. The chair went over backwards. He fought to get away from Kohler … Kohler.… The back of his head hit the floor. ‘Once, twice … a third time and out! OUT, YOU SON OF A BITCH!’
The boys wept, the woman held her breath. The stench of urine and cordite filled the room. ‘So, okay, everybody?’ he breathed.
‘Okay, I think,’ hazarded Juliette.
‘Okay,’ said Eisner. ‘Look, I really was only sharing the bath.’
‘Save it for the tribunal back home, eh? Madame please try to find us a light.’
Oelmann lay on the carpet with his head under a table. Eyes shut, mouth open and bleeding. ‘Christ, have I killed him?’
She shook her head and through her tears, saw Herr Kohler grin. ‘It’s been quite a day,’ he said. Tired, are you? Here … Here, wait a minute. I’ve got just the thing. Find us something to drink and we’ll each take three or four of these.’
Her questioning look made him say, ‘Messerschmitt benzedrine. The fighter pilots use it to stay awake and alive.’
They sat Herr Oelmann up and brought him round with brandy and a cold compress. The boys she released with a warning to say nothing. Herr Eisner she told to get dressed.
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