Season of Snows and Sins

by Patricia Moyes

  Henry said nothing. Veron put his hand into his pocket and brought out two small pieces of paper, which he laid on the table. “This,” he said, “is a check for twenty thousand Swiss francs, made out in your favor. This is a receipt for the money, stating that you have accepted it as payment for expenses incurred in investigating the Drivaz case. It also mentions that you are now satisfied that the verdict of the court was correct. If you will just sign it, we can forget the whole thing, can’t we? I am sure it will be a great relief to everybody.”

  “Except Anne-Marie,” said Henry. He spoke quietly, but I have seldom heard him sound so angry.

  “My dear Tibbett, I have already explained that she will be looked after.” He stood up, smiling contemptuously. “I’ll leave the check and the receipt. I quite understand that you will need to…persuade yourself. To grab at the money might damage your self-respect. Just let me know when you’ve made up your mind.” He looked at both of us as if we were less than dirt and stalked out of the room, leaving the two slips of paper, the pink and the white, lying on the dark table.

  As soon as the front door had slammed behind him, I burst out, “Of all the rotten…!”

  Henry smiled gently and said, “Don’t waste your breath, darling. It’s all according to plan.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Give them plenty of time. Let Veron go back and report. Then we’ll make the next move.”

  “You talk as if it was a game of chess,” I said.

  “In a way, it is,” said Henry.

  Nearly an hour had passed, with unbearable slowness, before Henry walked out into the hall to the telephone and dialed the number of the Chalet Perce-neige.

  “Chalet Perce-neige? May I speak to Mme. Claudet, please? Tibbett…yes, I said Mme. Claudet…that’s right… Mme. Sylvie Claudet.” There was a pause. Henry grinned at me over the receiver. Then he said, “Sylvie? Henry here. Would you be kind enough to tell Michel Veron that I do not accept his check?… Oh, I think you do understand…yes… No, I would rather you told him…yes, I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m going to the police. I think they will be interested in the check and the receipt, as well as other information I have for them…yes, I agree it was foolish of him, but… what?… Well, if you hurry…there’s not much time…very well, ten minutes…”

  He rang off and turned to me. “You’d better make some coffee. The next contingent is about to arrive.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Oh, she started off by pretending she didn’t know about the check, and then changed her tune and said she had tried to stop him being so foolish. I imagine there’s a certain amount of consternation at the Chalet Perce-neige just now. And some recriminations, if they have breath left for them.”

  “Henry,” I said, “we’re alone here. Jane is in Charonne. Suppose they decide that the answer is violence?”

  “They are almost certainly discussing that possibility at the moment,” said Henry calmly. “However, it would be messy, risky, and a last resort. Let us see what we shall see.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  PIERRE AND SYLVIE Claudet arrived together in the white Alfa. Claudet looked thunderous, and Sylvie haggard with worry. There was no beating about the bush. They sat down at the table, and Claudet said at once, “Tibbett, my wife is extremely distressed at this business of Anne-Marie, as you can see for yourself. Is it really necessary for you to continue with it?”

  “I think so,” said Henry.

  “I have already made financial arrangements for the girl.” Claudet became businesslike, the man of affairs. He opened a slim black briefcase and drew out a document. “You might like to look at this. After speaking to Sylvie on the telephone, I had my lawyer draw it up in Paris yesterday evening, before I flew down here. My lawyer holds a copy. It is a binding document, not an empty promise.”

  Henry took the paper and studied it gravely. Then he looked up and said, “This is a most generous settlement, M. Claudet. I am delighted to know that Anne-Marie will want for nothing. May I ask why you suddenly decided to take this step?”

  There was a small hesitation. Then Claudet said, “I cannot take the credit. It was Sylvie’s idea. I told you I had spoken to her on the telephone. She has been thinking a lot about the Drivaz girl.”

  “I know she has,” said Henry.

  “We are all sorry for her. I had been intending to make some such gesture, but I had not got around to it. Sylvie prompted my conscience—and now it is done. In two and a half years’ time, when Anne-Marie leaves the convent—”

  “I think she will be leaving sooner,” said Henry.

  “Alas, she cannot. The court ordered—”

  “M. Claudet,” said Henry, “I think I have made it clear that I intend to get that verdict set aside, by proving the identity of the actual killer. So your generous gift will be put to good use almost at once.”

  There was a heavy pause. Then Claudet said, “Now, Tibbett, naturally I am interested in seeing justice done, but this all seems rather unnecessary. The girl is well provided for. I happen to know that the Verons are also prepared to help her. When she is free again, she can start up a new life—maybe open a little business…”

  “Like a hat shop?” Henry’s words cut the conversation like a knife. There was a moment of utter silence. Then Sylvie began to cry.

  “You know, don’t you?” she sobbed. “You know about Chantal…”

  Quickly Claudet said, “My wife, Tibbett, has a notion that her goddaughter is somehow mixed up in this affair, and that it is Chantal whom you propose to accuse. Sylvie would do anything in the world to protect her—and so, for Sylvie’s sake, would I. Sylvie has admitted to me that it was for Chantal’s sake that she persuaded Michel Veron to visit you with a…a proposition, which you refused. Now we are here ourselves. Can’t you at least tell us whether or not it is Chantal whom you suspect?”

  Henry said, “It sounds to me as though it is Sylvie who suspects Chantal. I must confess that the possibility crossed my mind—but with the total lack of motive…”

  “You’re bluffing,” Sylvie sobbed, near-hysterically. “You’re trying to trap us! You know very well about Chantal and Frivolités and that blackmailing brute Drivaz…you said yourself she could have driven to Montarraz that day in the Alfa…”

  Claudet said, “Frivolités? What are you talking about, Sylvie?”

  “Oh, darling…I didn’t ever tell you… I didn’t want to upset you… Chantal was one of the…one of the girls. I…I got her out of that terrible place before it closed down, and I’ve tried to make it up to her…tried to help her to forget…and then Drivaz found out and began to persecute her…” Sylvie’s voice was rising dangerously.

  Claudet, looking thoroughly shocked, put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. Henry said evenly, “So you think that Chantal Villeneuve drove down here in your car on April 14 and killed Robert Drivaz, because he was blackmailing her? Is that correct, Mme. Claudet?”

  Sylvie was crying quietly by then. “What else can I think? But Henry, I beg you…”

  Henry said, “She did not drive your car down here, Mme. Claudet.”

  Sylvie’s head came up, in surprise. “She didn’t? Then how—”

  “She left your car at Orly Airport,” Henry said, “flew to Geneva, and hired a car there. Yours is so well known that it might have been recognized.”

  “You know this?” Sylvie’s voice was a whisper.

  “I know it,” said Henry, “but I can’t prove it.” Then, surprisingly, he turned to Pierre Claudet. “M. Claudet, do you happen to have your driving license with you?”

  “My driving license?” Claudet looked astonished.

  Henry said, “Yes—I’d very much like to take a look at it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a French license, and it would be interesting, for reasons of comparison—”

  “You are a policeman, my friend,” said Claudet, with a heavy attempt at humor, “and the policeman’s first instinct is to ask
for name, address, and driving license, as we all know.” He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out an alligator-skin wallet, and extracted the license, which he handed to Henry.

  Henry studied it for a moment, and then said, “This photograph—forgive me, M. Claudet—but this photograph must have been taken some years ago.”

  “Of course it was—when I was in my twenties. In France, a driving license never has to be renewed, so long as it remains clean.”

  “But a passport does?” Henry queried.

  “Naturally. Every ten years.”

  “So that a man may appear to be twenty-five on his driving license and fifty on his passport?”

  “Quite possibly. What of it?” Claudet sounded irritated by this irrelevance. “The driving-license photograph is a mere formality. Any checking can be done by comparing the signatures. There must be many Frenchmen who no longer resemble the photographs on their licenses. Just what are you getting at, Tibbett?”

  “Nothing, nothing. Thank you very much.” Henry handed the license back to Claudet, who replaced it in his wallet with a flourish.

  “Well, now,” Henry said, “I think the time has come for plain speaking. I know this must be very distressing for you, Mme. Claudet, but believe me, it will be best for everybody if you tell me all you know. For a start, I will be frank with you. I have proof that Chantal did fly to Geneva on the day of Robert Drivaz’s death, and that she hired a car from the airport. The car was returned the same evening, with the exact mileage to and from Montarraz on the clock. Now, I think you can fill in the details for me.”

  Sylvie had started to cry again, but she pulled herself together, blew her nose, and said, “I suppose I always knew it, really. I have been so terribly worried…it’s a relief to be able to talk about it…”

  “I’m sure it is,” said Henry sympathetically.

  Suddenly, in a rush, Sylvie said, “Chantal isn’t really my goddaughter at all. She was…oh, I don’t know where to begin. I’ve always been interested in social work, you see—long before I met Pierre. I worked for an organization which helped young girls and children in Paris. We heard rumors about this shop—Frivolités—but we had no proof to take to the police. I even took a job there to try to find out more about it. All the children—they were only children, you see, boys and girls—they were all kept most carefully secluded, nobody could get near them. But in the end…oh, it’s a long story, and I won’t bore you with it, but in the end I got Chantal out. It was horrible…she had been literally forced into prostitution at the age of twelve. You may think she’s a strange girl. I can assure you, Henry, the wonder is that she is not very much stranger. Can you imagine the effect of such experiences on a child of that age? I…I more or less adopted Chantal. I told everybody that she was my orphaned goddaughter.”

  “So you rescued Chantal,” said Henry, “but there were still the others, weren’t there?”

  “Of course. I couldn’t simply go to the police—I realized by then that the place was being protected by highly placed influence. The only hope was to play those monsters at their own game. So I managed to get Pierre Claudet interested in the matter.”

  “You—what?” Claudet’s astonishment was ludicrous. “You didn’t even know me then! You had nothing to do with Frivolités!”

  Even in her distress, Sylvie managed a glimmer of coquetry. “Chéri, I work in my own ways.”

  “But—”

  “You were told about Frivolités by your secretary, Jacques Lamaire, no?”

  “That’s right. And—”

  “And a little later on, Jacques introduced you to me, didn’t he?”

  “You know very well that he did. But you never—”

  “I did not want you to think I had anything to do with the horrible place,” said Sylvie. “I made Jacques promise not to tell you where his information came from. All the same, I did so want to meet you—especially when you were so brave and so determined to clear all that filth away.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” said Pierre Claudet. And then to Henry, with unmistakable pride, “And I thought I knew my wife after six years of marriage! What a woman!”

  Sylvie gave him a little smile, and went on, “Well, there you are. Pierre’s first wife had recently been killed in an accident, and Pierre and I got married. Chantal was better, psychologically, and I settled her in a little flat of her own. Everything seemed to be all right, and Frivolités was mercifully fading into oblivion. And then—it happened. Here in Montarraz.”

  “What happened?”

  Bitterly, Sylvie said, “That creature happened.”

  “Robert Drivaz?”

  “No, of course not. Not Robert. Mario Agnelli.”

  “Mario?” Henry sounded surprised. “What on earth had Mario to do with it?”

  “Just this.” Sylvie’s mouth was set into a hard line. “I didn’t know it, of course, but Mario had been one of the boys at Frivolités. When the place was closed down, he was sent to an orphanage—nobody could trace any family for him, you see. But he had been ruined—he was vicious and perverted and bitterly malicious, too. He ran away from the orphanage. Heaven knows how he got himself picked up by Giselle and Michel, although I can guess. Of course, I had no idea who he was—I didn’t know all the children by sight. But he and Chantal recognized each other at once. And, naturally, he took a delight in telling Michel and Giselle the whole story. He knew I had had a hand in the closing down of Frivolités, and he hated me for it.”

  “And so he blackmailed Chantal?” Henry asked.

  Sylvie shook her head. “No, not Mario. He had no need. He’s doing all right for himself with the Verons. There’s nothing Chantal could give him that he hasn’t got. He just amused himself. He knew I was frightened of him, and of what he might do or say. Oh—not for myself. But the two people I care about are Pierre and Chantal, and he was in a position to do terrible harm to both of them.”

  “But where,” Henry asked, “did Robert Drivaz come in?”

  “Giselle took up with Robert, as you know, and he started to hang around the Chalet Perce-neige. I don’t know who told him about Chantal’s past. It could have been Mario himself, it could have been Giselle, when she was—in one of her moods. Anyhow, somebody told him. You know what happened next. The Verons went back to Paris, and one day Robert turned up, drunk and offensive, demanding money. Naturally, they simply laughed at him and threw him out. Well—you can imagine the rest. There he was in Paris, humiliated, penniless, determined not to creep back to his wife with his tail between his legs. Where could he get more money in Paris? Why, from Chantal, of course. By blackmailing her. He didn’t know that she had none to give him, poor child. To Drivaz, we were all millionaires.”

  “You know he did this?” Henry asked quietly.

  Sylvie nodded. “She told me. She made a joke of it. She said she laughed at him and sent him away. But…I wondered and I worried. I couldn’t help it. Then came this conference of the Women’s Guilds. Chantal begged to be allowed to borrow the car that day. I knew she loved driving the Alfa, and I hoped it might cheer her up. I said she could have it. Later on, I regretted it. I had a dreadful sort of premonition… I don’t know how I sat through that morning of dull speeches. At lunchtime, I made an excuse and slipped away. I looked everywhere for Chantal. I searched Paris for her. I rang friends…nobody had seen her. Nobody knew where she was. I was in desperation—I just knew that something terrible was happening. I nearly cried with relief when Chantal arrived at my apartment that evening, about half-past ten. She looked tired, but—I don’t know—excited. She told me some story about nearly having hit a lorry near Versailles. And then—the police arrived.”

  Sylvie shuddered at the memory. “I thought I would die. I could hardly speak. They told me that Robert Drivaz had been stabbed—murdered. They asked me if I had made a phone call to Anne-Marie. Gradually, I realized that they weren’t after Chantal. That they thought Anne-Marie had killed Robert. I just told them the truth—that is,
I answered all their questions truthfully, but I knew…all the time I knew. And Chantal herself…so cool and collected. Flirting with one of the gendarmes. It was—uncanny. Ever since then…” Sylvie seemed on the verge of breaking down completely, then pulled herself together again. “I told myself she couldn’t have done the journey in the time—and then you pointed out that she could have—”

  “You didn’t think of checking on the mileage of the car?” Henry asked.

  “Oh, Henry, I am just a silly woman. Of course I thought of it, but I had no idea what the figure had been when Chantal took the car. Then the case came up, and the evidence against Anne-Marie seemed so strong. When Jane gave her evidence, that made it sure. You’ll never know how relieved I was. And then—”

  “And then I came along and stirred up all your doubts again,” said Henry.

  “Yes. Oh, forgive me, Henry—but I hated you for it. And now—” She gave a hopeless sigh. “Now, all is over. I know it. Chantal killed Robert, and I can’t cover up for her any longer. Oh, my little Chantal…”

  Sylvie had just buried her face in her hands again, when there was suddenly the sound of the front door being flung open and slammed. And in the open doorway of the sitting room stood Chantal, her eyes glittering, her face so distorted with fury that she looked demented. But her voice was steady and ice cold, as she said, “Very touching, Sylvie. Not a dry eye in the house. I could almost believe it myself, if I didn’t know it was a pack of Goddamned lies!”

  Chantal had changed out of her bikini and into a sort of flowing black robe, with scarlet embroidery and big bell sleeves. It was because of these sleeves that it took me a moment to realize that she was holding a small, businesslike revolver in her right hand.