Danielle Arthaud had thought it best to tell Madame Fillioux the trunk had not only been put up for sale but had been bought by a person the woman would most certainly have hated. A man who had ridiculed her husband’s work but now had taken it for his own.
Yet how is it, please, he asked, that Danielle learned who had purchased the trunk? Three days lie between the time Courtet supposedly stumbled upon it in that shop and her postcard. A telephone call from the shop perhaps? The money was needed.… Yes, yes, it is quite possible Danielle was only looking after the matter for the parents — her grandparents — but was that the case? Did she not also tip off Courtet as to the whereabouts of the trunk?
Another card drew his attention — this one from the professor and dated 13 July, 1941.
Courtet, having discovered the longcoveted trunk on 17 June 1941, had finally let her know of this, a first approach. He could not have known Danielle had already written to tell her of it.
25 July, 1941 … Courtet requests a reply from Madame Fillioux and then again on 9 August.
Still no NEWS OF you.
‘On the 10th of September, 1941, he tells her he has just visited the parents.’
St-Cyr reached for his pipe and tobacco only to look uphill towards the house. ‘It is so silent,’ he said. ‘Are they all right?’
Not a sound came to him, save that of foraging swallows.
‘On the 11th of September, then, the Professor paid a visit to the Discovery Cave, a visit that he has so far failed to mention.’
Rapidly he picked through the cards until he had what he wanted. ‘On the 5th of October, 1941, Courtet writes to inform Madame Fillioux that he will be arriving in Beaulieu-sur-Dordogne on the 15th. On the 12th he again writes — he is worried she hasn’t received his previous card. Then on the 20th of November they are getting along so much better, he writes to ask if she has visited Lascaux as promised but … but we now know that Madame Fillioux had already paid that cave two visits. The first in November 1940, then again in August 1941, from the 4th to the 7th. What was it Deveaux said of that second visit? That she had told the owner she was doing “a scientific study. Research for her husband.”’
Again he looked questioningly uphill towards the house. Should he not check on them? Fillioux? he asked. Had Fillioux returned to find them there? Were Juliette and her father not now working together?
Guiltily he ignored the necessity of stopping his thoughts and thumbed another of the cards. ‘Then on the 17th of December, 1941, the Professor sends his last postcard.’
Madame Fillioux must have written to tell him she believed the Discovery paintings to be genuine and better even than those at Lascaux, yet she would have known only too well they were a forgery.
Except for those postcards Fillioux himself had sent, none of the cards mentioned him by name or even implied that he was alive. Fillioux could have returned after the Defeat of 1940 from hiding out in Belgium, as Jouvet had suggested. There had been hordes of refugees on the roads. No one would have noticed that he had slipped through to hole up in the family’s country house but surely his parents and Danielle would have been aware of this, surely they would have been told much earlier on that he was alive?
Yet, there was not even a hint of this. Instead, Danielle had told Juliette their father had returned.
Courtet had kept a loaded gun in his room. He, too, had been convinced.
‘Fillioux …’ said St-Cyr to himself. ‘Fillioux, ah damn.’
Gathering the cards, he strode up to the house to find the daughter absent and Hermann still asleep. Ah merde, had Fillioux come to get her, had she left quite willingly? Surely Hermann would have awakened?
Behind the house there was a small orchard, much overgrown and let go to ruin. A shed of bleached, warm yellow stone was at the far end, visible through a leafy tunnel between two rows of plum trees.
Juliette Jouvet was bathing at a well. Naked, she stood under the deluge from an overturned bucket she had lifted high above her head, and he saw her through the shade in strong sunlight. No fear … no fear at all of her father coming to kill her. Eyes closed, she gasped as the shock of the water struck her. She wiped it from her face with a hand and squeezed it from her hair. Taking up another bucket, she repeated the process and he had to think of her in that little valley on that Sunday, standing naked then, too, beneath the waterfall.
She had sensed someone had been watching her when she had entered the cave to retrieve the things for her mother — ‘I kept my hammer ready,’ she had said, but then the watcher had gone away and she had sensed this too.
She had then said of the valley and of someone’s watching her, ‘I often got those feelings even as a child. It’s that kind of place.’
Lowering the bucket into the well, she drew it up to repeat the bathe. Wringing the water from her hair, she went over to the stone wall to lean back against it and lift her face to the sun. Eyes closed again and she so lovely …
‘Nom de Dieu, I didn’t know you were a voyeur, Louis. Wait till your boss hears about this!’
‘Hermann, where is Fillioux?’
‘Not here, I think, but how would we know, eh, since we’re both too busy looking at her? Nice … she’s really nice, Louis. Oh mon Dieu, mon Dieu.…’
‘Please shut up, idiot!’
She turned to let the sun dry her back. She reached straight up high to clutch the stones and press herself against the wall and only then did they realize she was crying.
‘Louis, what the hell’s the matter now?’
‘The postcards from her father, I think. She believes he has named her in them and that this then proves beyond a shadow of doubt that she was a party to the forgery.’
‘And does he?’
‘Read them for yourself. Tear your eyes away from the pulchritude long enough!’
‘“10 October, 1941: Am not dead though wounded 1914 missing action amnesia. I beg your loving forgiveness and understanding. Am to work on film.”’
‘On the 15th, Hermann, Madame Fillioux was to meet Professor Courtet knowing her long-lost husband had finally returned, yet Courtet apparently senses none of this and on 20th of November he is asking her if she has visited Lascaux as promised. Go on. Look … look.’
‘At Juliette?’
‘Ah nom de Jésus-Christ, at the next postcard!’
‘Oh. “12 November, 1941: Daughter Juliette lovely but worried about her husband. News of him unavailable. Children well. Am returning Monfort-l’Amaury tomorrow.” Hey, Louis, this thing was posted from the Marais. The place des Vosges, eh?’
‘Ah yes, the link to Danielle Arthaud.’
In January of 1942 the printed messages had been done away with. Though still limited to a few lines, more freedom had been allowed.
‘“29 January, 1942: Am looking forward very much to seeing you again after all these years. What will I find? Will it be the same? We’ve so much to talk about, chérie. Lascaux … the cave paintings there are magnificent. Have you seen them? You must. Juliette was such a help to me, such a tower of strength. Throughout the fall we worked together tirelessly at the cave on several weekends. A neighbour took care of the children …” Ver-dammt, Louis. Working at the cave?’
‘Read on and curse yourself for being such a fool as to have trusted her.’
‘“She is every bit the assistant you once were. She has that eye for detail I so admired in you, that quickness of mind and deftness of hand.”’
A forger … ah merde.
Juliette had now turned around to rest her seat against her hands and lean back against the wall. She had seen them deep in the orchard yet could not seem to bring herself to move.
Pinned to the wall, she waited.
‘There are two other cards from him, Hermann, but they are more of the same until you get to the last one on 25th March, 1942.’
‘“Regrettably it is impossible for me to visit with you on 17th June without financial assistance. ”’
‘Now rea
d this one from Danielle. It’s dated 25th April, 1942.’
‘“Parcel has arrived with stuffing intact ”’
‘The 10,000 francs Courtet paid Madame Fillioux.’
‘Stuffed into a goose,’ sighed Kohler.
‘But to be handed over to her father who would then give it to a passeur who would guide Fillioux across the Demarcation Line between the zone occupée and the zone libre without any questions being asked. Presumably all his other visits to the cave had been accomplished this way.’
Such things happened all the time. For a fee, one got to walk through a vineyard or across a field at night and in the rain preferably, since the Wehrmacht patrols and the Vichy goons preferred to remain dry, ah yes. ‘Why send the 10,000 francs to Danielle, Louis, instead of to him at the Monfort-l’Amaury address?’
‘Why indeed? To signal to Danielle that our victim knew only too well what was going on or thought she did and that she had the sous-facteur Auger to call on if needed. That she was not alone.’
Juliette began to put her clothes on. First the leather thong with its amulet, as she looked towards them. Then the trousers she had borrowed from Courtet’s room, the shirt also, and finally, having tucked the shirt in, the espadrilles.
They watched her walk towards them. Condemned, she didn’t avoid their gaze but made straight for them with strides so strong they each could not help but envisage her naked as a savage of old.
‘Messieurs, what … what is it, please? The postcards of my father, have they. …’
‘Named you, madame?’ asked Louis. Sleep had cleared the blue eyes Fillioux had given her. Tears had misted them — yes, yes, but she was indeed ‘lovely.’
‘Please let me see them,’ she said.
Though cruel and harsh, he had to say it. ‘Later, madame. For now we must leave this place before your father returns.’
Ah damn him, why could he not understand that she had to see those cards, that she had to put an end to her agony? My father, she cried out inwardly. My father … a handaxe, a stonekiller. ‘It is not right of you to think such things of me! I loved my mother dearly.’
‘But she brought you up to worship your father, madame. Your father.’
They were on the road to Sarlat now and she knew they would leave her at the préfecture and that there was nothing she could do about it unless she could somehow get away from them. Instead of that carefree happiness, there was silence. Instead of racing each other down the hill, they rode with her between them, unsmiling, having again relegated her to the position of a suspect.
The next hill was steep but not so high. She would try to lag behind a little. She would let them reach the crown and perhaps start over it before she turned to escape. The woods … she must run into the woods.
Her heart sank as an ugly black car came over the hill to abruptly stop. A door was flung open at the sound of brakes. The sous-préfet Deveaux clambered out. Wiping sweat from his brow and wheezing painfully, he started downhill towards them. ‘Jean-Louis … ah mon Dieu, where the hell have you three been? I’ve been searching everywhere!’
‘sous-préfet …?’ began Louis.
‘It’s Odilon, my friend. Odilon and you had better listen to me. Madame,’ he said, dragging in a tortured breath. ‘Madame, a moment, please. Your husband.… First the Chief Inspector, yes, also Herr Kohler since I may yet be able to save their lives.’
‘Ah merde, Louis …,’ began Hermann only to hear his partner say, ‘Herr Oelmann, I think.’
‘Then think again,’ wheezed Deveaux, hauling out his cigarettes and lighter and pausing to fill his lungs with smoke. ‘Try the Sonderkommando of the Périgord, eh?’ He winced and coughed. ‘Try all eventualities and try to think what they might do because, my friends, I have it on the best authority — ah yes, I have my sources — that the Sonderkommando has been activated as of early this morning.’
‘Activated …,’ began Kohler.
‘Please don’t look so ill, Inspector. Vomiting on the roads is frowned on during the tourist season. The accusations of a forgery, you idiots. Herr Goebbels, Herr Himmler, Herr Hitler.… What the hell did you expect them to do?’
‘But … but we haven’t said the paintings are a forgery?’ tried Louis. ‘In fact, I said the opposite to the men who were checking things over at the cave.’
‘Perhaps, but perhaps not. Ah, it does not matter. It’s enough for them to fear such a thing.’
‘And Hen Oelmann?’ hazarded Louis.
Deveaux stabbed the air with his cigarette. ‘Found that one’s husband in his car and called in the troops.’
‘Louis, you should have asked me before you.…’
‘Hermann, be quiet!’
‘It’s all your fault. Verdammt! a fucking Sonderkommando. Oelmann must know the paintings are a forgery.’
Sparks flew as Hermann’s chest was stabbed. ‘He’s just not taking any chances, my friend. A stonekiller on the loose? The prehistorian Henri-Georges Fillioux? The Professor Courtet, he keeps a loaded revolver in his room — why … why, please, does he do such a thing unless … ah, unless he also knows the paintings are a forgery and that his former colleague and sworn enemy has suddenly decided to come back from the dead without his wings and feathers.’
Deveaux sucked in a breath and tore the top two buttons of his shirt open so as to allow his chest more room to expand. ‘Madame, my condolences. It appears that your father has used a handaxe to rip out the throat of your husband and save the world a whole lot of trouble. One could have wished for something a little more refined but …,’ he shrugged, ‘the result, it would be the same. Dead for at least …’ he counted the hours off on stumpy fingers, ‘for at least ten or perhaps twelve hours. My men are, of course, out in full force sweeping the countryside at the request of the Baron whose wife, it appears, is missing; the bit-player Toto Lemieux also. Filming is to begin in Beaulieu-sur-Dordogne late this afternoon, so you can understand the urgency of things.’
Kohler thought of the swimming pool at the château. Had the Baroness gone for another deep dive and taken her Toto with her, or had the stonekiller got to them?
‘No one has seen either of them since you three left the château last night but I am certain the Baroness found the body in Herr Oelmann’s car. Bloodied fingerprints were smeared on the leather upholstery of the passenger seat next the corpse. Her handkerchief was found on the floor. Blood on it also.’
‘Good,’ said Louis with that curt little nod Kohler knew so well, that shaking of the head too. Shh, idiot! Don’t tell him I killed Jouvet. Not yet.
‘Good?’ exclaimed Deveaux. ‘What’s so good about it?’
Odilon was really upset but not without due cause. ‘The Baroness will have gone to the cave with her Toto to have another look at the paintings.’
‘Ah merde, Louis … Fillioux may be there.’
‘I will drive you,’ said Deveaux. ‘It will be faster, yes? and together we can take him. Leave the bicycles. Someone will steal them, of course, but …,’ he shrugged, ‘there is nothing we can do about it.’
‘The bicycles, Louis.…’
‘Madame Jouvet, Hermann.’
‘The carpet-bag. She’s got it in her carrier basket’
‘Ah no, madame,’ began Deveaux. ‘The chest … the breath. Please, I cannot run after you.’
She reached the top of the next hill to leap off the bicycle and leave it lying in the road as she caught up the carpet-bag and raced for the cover of the nearby woods. ‘Gone,’ swore Kohler. ‘Ah nom de Jésus-Christ! Louis, she’s vanished.’
St-Cyr let go of him and calmed his voice. ‘Follow her. You will see where her trail is. Find her, Hermann, and bring her back for her sake as much as for our own. Odilon will return to meet you here.’
‘And you?’ asked Kohler, worrying about him.
‘The cave, I think. The Baroness and her dog.’
An hour … two hours … Had it taken so long? wondered Kohler apprehensively. Downslope
of him, moss-covered rectangular slabs and blocks of damp, grey limestone lay among oak and chestnut trees whose trunks were dark in the leafy shade.
There was still no sight of Juliette but he felt he had at last run her to ground. A twisted ankle — an espadrille had lain on a boulder — then the other one had been found and then the impressions of her bare feet in the moss. Limping … really limping.
She would have to hole up. Fillioux? he asked anxiously. Had she been heading for a rendezvous only the two of them knew?
Gingerly he took a step up onto a slab. Now he could catch a glimpse of the stream they had crossed and recrossed so many times. She had been following it, forcing him to struggle through the rubble of the ages.
The mossy smell of decay came to him and then the sight of twigs and saplings she had deliberately broken so that he would see them. Ah merde, what the hell had she in mind? The place was too still. Not a breath of air stirred, not the sound of a bird came, only the gentle murmuring of the water … the water.
The stream must eventually spill over the edge of the escarpment. Discovery Cave was not far now. A hundred metres, two hundred.… Would the lip of the waterfall be that far, a leap of a hundred metres or so to the rocks below?
She had wanted to kill herself in that abandoned mill at Domme. She had argued with herself, a woman in despair. ‘My children,’ she had said. They alone had stopped her.
Some thirty metres downstream, on the other side, a shelf of limestone jutted out. Was she hiding under it, in some cave only she and that mother of hers had found? She and her father too, or was she waiting for this détective at the very edge of the waterfall for a leap together into death?
Gingerly he crossed the stream. Louis would be down there in that little valley. Louis.…
When he saw the shirt she had worn, Kohler shuddered. It was hanging from a limb. There had been stone tools in that carpet-bag, tools the mother had had beside her bed. Tools the daughter had been forced to use to skin and butcher rabbits … Ah nom de Jésus-Christ! where the hell was she?
Stonekiller Page 22