Mont Ventoux and the plateau de Vauduse, home to some of the maquis.
‘What else did you find in the Latrines Pit?’
‘Anxious, are you?’
‘Why should I be?’
‘Because maybe I found something you didn’t expect. Maybe whoever tidied up and dumped those things of hers should first have taken a damned good look through her handbag.’
‘What, damn you? Tell me. I have a right to know.’
‘Nothing, then. Absolutely nothing.’
‘Maudit salaud! Cochon, how dare you defy me?’
Livid, de Passe turned abruptly away and headed for the exit rather than embarrass himself further. Left to the rooks which would haunt the battlements after a siege, Kohler thought again of his two sons. He thought of Giselle and Oona in Paris, the two loves of his life. And he thought of Louis who had lost his wife and little son to a Resistance bomb not so long ago, a mistake if ever there was one – that bomb had been meant for Louis who was not and could never be a collaborator – and he thought of Avignon and of men like de Passe.
‘Ah merde,’ he croaked, ‘have I gone too far this time?’ The lady’s wrist-watch he had found in her handbag was from Carder’s and, though it was tastefully modest and had but a plain brown leather strap, the watch would have cost from 30,000 to 50,000 francs in 1938, the year it must have been purchased.
Ovid Peretti gently stroked the girl’s breasts using a swab of cotton wool. He did her hips and arms, the inner thighs. He wasn’t going to miss a thing and that was good. Because I have, thought St-Cyr, cursing himself. There had been three rings on the fine gold chain that had hung about her neck – he was positive of this and had reread his notes – and now, unfortunately, there were only two of them.
Search as he had, no sign of the third ring had been uncovered. ‘The sisters,’ he said. ‘One of them made off with a trinket.’
The cotton swab was added to others in a labelled glass vial. ‘Le bijou par excellence, eh?’ snorted Peretti. ‘Are you still certain the youngest of the sisters was vomiting only because of this place, or are you now wondering if God’s servant, in all of her innocence, also did it to distract you?’
‘That was no act. The younger sister was suffering deeply from grief as well as a queasy stomach, but the older one must have used these against me. The ring had a ruby cabochon of at least four carats.’
‘Pigeon’s blood and free from flaws?’
‘Why did they take it?’
Had Jean-Louis now realized that, at the very least, the younger sister must also have known what they had been told to retrieve?
‘Was it the bishop’s?’ hazarded St-Cyr.
‘And on loan? You’re asking the wrong person, mon ami.’
‘Then what about this?’
At least six hundred years old, the pendant box that was attached to her girdle next to the sewing kit was ovoid in shape, and not more than six centimetres long by about three in width, and one-and-a-half in thickness. Foiled crystals, in silver gilt, threw back a golden light when the box was opened to reveal a thorn.
‘Christ wore a crown of thorns,’ murmured Peretti, ‘but this one bathed herself before going to her death. After the bath, an oil of some kind was used.’
‘One that she had made herself?’
‘Perhaps.’
In the pendant box, in translucent enamel, Christ was depicted on the Cross, and being lifted gently down from it. The tiny figures wore vivid colours of blue, green, red and saffron yellow. The clothing of the Virgin Mary and of Mary Magdalene and the Disciples was medieval and of a style probably worn fifty to one hundred years earlier than the Babylonian Captivity.
‘Louis the Ninth led the Seventh Crusade,’ muttered St-Cyr, his mind lost to the relic. ‘In 1250 he was defeated at El Mansura and held for ransom, after which he remained in the Holy Land until 1254. He died of the plague in Tunis in 1270, soon after landing at the head of another crusade. History has it that he purchased the Crown of Thorns from the Emperor of Constantinople.’
‘Even canonized kings can be conned,’ said Peretti dryly.
‘Ah yes, but did the bishop lend it to her? The fastener was loose as though an attempt had been made to take it back.’
And hidden away among the folds of a black habit. ‘Then you’d better ask him in the presence of those two sisters.’
‘I’ll attempt to, but first I must catch up with my partner.’
‘Then before you go, please take a look at this. It was caught in that broken fingernail.’
The image of a single hair rushed up the ocular to meet the eye – short, stiff and tan-coloured, and most probably from a dog.
‘I’ll need to make microscopic comparisons, and of sections too,’ said Peretti, ‘and for this I must have samples. But I leave the matter in your good hands lest the bishop question my sudden interest in his hounds.’
‘Be careful.’
‘You too.’
3
Mullioned windows, punished by hoarfrost, overlooked the place de Horloge in the centre of town. St-Cyr didn’t remove his overcoat, scarf and fedora. One seldom did these days due to the lack of heat and threat of theft. ‘A tisane of rose hips, madame,’ he called out.
‘At this hour?’ she shot back from behind the brass scrollwork of her cage. It was not yet eleven in the morning.
‘At any hour,’ he said.
Ah! A Parisian as well as a Sûreté – the blind could have sensed it; for herself, it was written all over him, but to his credit, he didn’t attempt to hide it. ‘The girl …’ began Madame Emphoux, indicating the headlines of the Occupation’s thin and tightly controlled Provençal. ‘ “Découverte du cadavre d’une jeune fille au Palais,”’ she read the headline aloud as if for the first time. ‘Is it true, Inspector?’
She would have heard plenty by now but he met the gaze she gave, one of brutal assessment, given from under fiercely knitted brows, as if she had heard nothing. ‘True,’ he said warily.
‘Violated?’ asked the woman, leaning closely so that unclipped nasal hairs and florid cheeks unbrushed by rouge or powder were more than evident beyond the scrollwork. There was butter on the double chin. Butter! He was certain of it. The hair was frizzy, a mop of tired auburn curls that hung over the blunt forehead. The cardigan, of wine-purple wool, had frayed holes at the elbows and was too small for her. Tightly buttoned, it gave glimpses of a turquoise blouse and a flannel shirt. ‘Violated?’ she prodded.
‘That I cannot say,’ came the still wary response, the Sûreté not budging unless … unless, perhaps, the offer of something useful was made. ‘They come here,’ she confided, her voice still low but her hard brown eyes flicking over the clientele who, disinterested or otherwise, appeared to keep entirely to themselves.
These days such a manner was mandatory. ‘They?’ he asked, giving his head a slight upward lift.
Her pudgy, ringless fingers moved things aside. ‘Les chanteurs de Monsieur Simondi. The madrigal singers are habitués of Le Café de la mule blanche affolée.’ The cafe of the panic-stricken white mule.
As proof, she found a greasy, sweat-stained bit of cardboard on which had been written a list of six names. Beside each one, the latest credit extended was shown next to all other additions and cancellations. Two hundred and seven francs … four hundred and thirty …‘Mademoiselle de Sinéty’s name isn’t on your list,’ he said.
‘That one seldom had the time, or the money. Nor would she beg for credit like the others. Too proud, if you ask me. She only came here if in need of one of them.’
‘And Monsieur Simondi?’
Had the Sûreté smelled trouble already? ‘Sometimes he joined them. Sometimes he took one of them away with him, or two, or three as the need demanded, the others always letting their eyes and thoughts hunger after those who were departing. He has, of course, a wife.’
The taint of trouble with that wife was all too clear. Swiftly Madame Emphoux watched him to see if her con
fidence had registered and when he returned nothing, she let escape, ‘An absinthe drinker.’
‘That’s impossible. It was outlawed in 1915.’
Her rounded shoulders lifted with an uncaring shrug. ‘So it was,’ she said, fingering her left cheek as if in thought, ‘but one cannot help but overhear students. Absinthe was often discussed.’
‘In relation to Madame Simondi?’
And to the students themselves? She could see him thinking this, but said simply, ‘Yes.’
Jules Pernod had had an absinthe factory at Montfavet not six kilometres to the east of Avignon … St-Cyr indicated the card with its accountings. ‘Was Madame Simondi known to all of them?’
‘Including Mademoiselle de Sinéty?’ fluted the patronne, her eyebrows knitted fiercely again.
This one was deep, thought St-Cyr, but no well should ever be overdrawn lest there no longer be water to drink. ‘Including her.’
‘Then, yes. The girl did sewing for Madame Simondi as well as for the Kommandant’s wife and others.’
A small token would have to be offered in expectation of more information later. ‘She wasn’t violated but I am curious as to why you should think she might have been.’
Now she had his ear, and now he wouldn’t give up trying to get her to whisper little things into it! ‘Because she was pretty and full of joie de vivre when so many these days are not, and because … Ah! What can one such as I say, Inspector?’
He waited. Again he held his breath – was this a sign with him, she wondered. Every muscle was tense, so, bon; oui, bon, she had him hooked. ‘Because I have seen the way others have looked at her. The singers, especially the two girls among them. Monsieur Simondi aussi – ah! One can see such a thing in a married man’s eyes, is it not possible? Brother Matthieu also, but only when she and others couldn’t see him doing so and then the eyes quickly averted.’
She compressed her lips, grunted firmly and nodded tersely.
‘And Bishop Rivaille?’ he asked, wincing at the possibility of being totally out of his depth with her.
‘That one also. From time to time in the dark of night, even the Bugatti Royale of a bishop can draw up to a café such as this and its owner enter to enquire of where he might find a young girl to mend a robe, sew on a button he has somehow misplaced, or sing a little to soothe a soul in torment. God forgives all such thoughts, is that not so, Inspector?’
The table was at the left side of the café, and halfway to the back. It was surprising how intuitively one sought such seating but, like the réfractaires, the draft dodgers of the Forced Labour, and others in trouble with or simply avoiding the Occupier and the Vichy police, one tended automatically to sit where one could observe and yet blend into the crowd. It was never customary for a patron or patronne to give credit to students and seldom if ever to others, so there had to be a little something on the side, but one didn’t ask of such things. One sat quietly minding one’s business and, in between one’s thoughts, observed.
Madame la patronne had realized that to take too evident an interest in him would only draw further attention to herself. Satisfied he’d be left alone, St-Cyr took out his pipe. Letting his mind drift back to the largest of the keys that had hung from the girl’s belt, he recalled that it had been all but free of decoration, as was typical of fourteenth-century keys. But, of course, the lock to the entrance of the Palais couldn’t possibly have survived. Yet had this ancient key and the others been worn to indicate that she had a key to that door, or to something else? Did everything about her person present a riddle, or had the door been left unlocked in expectation of her arrival?
Finding the tin of sardines and the pomander, he took them out as he drew on his pipe and asked, Why had she carried the sardines in her purse, if not to give it to the person she had come to meet, if indeed that had been why she was there?
Why had she gripped the pomander so tightly if not to keep it from her assailant?
Suddenly the entrance door to the café was violently sucked shut by the mistral. Few could not help but look up. Some briefly sought out the newcomer whose back was thrown against the etched glass. ‘Mon Dieu!’ exclaimed Madame la patronne. ‘Be more careful. And don’t come in here unless you are prepared to pay your bill. Enough is enough!’
Shock registered. Flashing dark eyes under finely arched jet black brows rapidly searched the faces of the clientele, the warning taken. ‘Forgive me, madame. I … I only wanted to ask if … if the others had been in.’
A lie if ever there was one, thought St-Cyr. The charcoal corduroy overcoat was of the thirties and trim, the jet black cloche matched the protruding curls.
Clutching a small parcel that was wrapped in newspaper and tied with old bits of string, she hesitantly approached the caisse. A girl of more than medium height and light on her feet. ‘Enfant, I have told you,’ seethed Madame la patronne under her breath. ‘Don’t be an imbécilel’! She jerked her head to one side to indicate the company from Paris.
Outside on the place, the local detachment’s brass band began to sound the noon hour. As the belfry’s clock rang it out, strains of Preussens Gloria faltered in the mistral. The swastika above the entrance to the Hotel de ville and Kommandantur was nearly being ripped to shreds by the wind. None of the pedestrians took any notice. Why should they?
The fullness of the girl’s gaze left him. ‘Just let me leave a message for them,’ she said demurely to the patronne.
‘I’m not the PTT!’ shrilled Madame Emphoux.
The package was placed on the counter. ‘A pencil, if you have one, and a scrap of paper,’ and when these were reluctantly slid under the scrollwork, the girl quickly wrote a few words, then, tossing her pretty head at the clientele, made her exit but deliberately held the door open so that all would hold their breath and she could then ease it shut without a sound.
When confronted, Madame Emphoux knew there was little sense in arguing, for already the Sûreté was unwrapping the parcel. ‘That was Christiane Bissert, one of the singers,’ she said tartly.
‘Age?’
‘Twenty, I think.’
‘Let’s not think about it. My partner and I already have too many questions and are being given no time to consider them.’
‘Twenty, then.’
The parcel contained four paperback detective novels from the thirties. On the cover of one, a cigarette wastefully smouldered its life away in an ashtray full of butts Hermann or anyone else would have given their eyeteeth for. On another, a semiautomatic Colt .45 lay next to a pool of blood and a purse which had been torn open and dumped in a mad search for whatever the killer had been after.
An interrupted petite infidélité, no doubt, but had the killer been a woman wronged?
Feeling foolish at being so easily sucked in by a jacket illustration, he said, ‘Does Mademoiselle Bissert understand English?’
‘No. These have been offered in exchange for some of her debt.’
‘How much?’
Madame Emphoux teased the books away from him. ‘What, then, does this one say?’
‘That’s The Maltese Falcon. It’s one of Dashiell Hammett’s very tough, no-nonsense pieces. Bang, bang.’
‘And this one?’ she asked.
She was being coy, thought St-Cyr, and said, ‘An Erle Stanley Gardner, a Perry Mason, The Case of the Caretaker’s Cat.’
‘Four hundred francs for the lot.’
This sum was well below the trade in such things – detective novels were avidly sought, but in English would they not command less? he wondered.
‘For the Kommandant,’ she confessed. ‘And … and others.’
He’d have to let it be but wondered if the girl had deliberately left the parcel so as to distract him. ‘Where did she get these?’ In addition to British nationals who had sought refuge in 1940, there had been plenty of Americans in the Free Zone before 11 November of last year. Many had come to Provence from Paris when the Führer had declared war on the United States on
11 December 1941 and they had had to leave for the south.
‘How could I possibly know where they came from, Inspector?’
No questions were ever asked in the black market. One didn’t haggle or complain lest one never get another chance to deal. But it was interesting that credit was extended in exchange for such things since this implied there had to have been other deals.
‘The note,’ he said firmly, and she knew that the Sûreté, like a cobra in its little basket, would let the matter lie only until ready to strike.
Inspector, please find me at the hôtel particulier called the Villa Marenzio. It is on the rue Banasterie where I await your questions with a heart that is open.
Hermann … where the hell was Hermann?
The Oberst Kurt von Mahler hadn’t come in with the tide on 11 November 1942 when the whole country had been occupied. He’d been here since the blitzkrieg in the West, had been in Avignon since the Defeat and partition of 1940, both as head of the Reich’s legation and as the Wehrmacht’s liaison officer with the Occupied North. But now the Allies were on his doorstep, a constant worry.
‘I’m telling you, Kohler, I want no trouble with this matter. The girl was like family. My wife and children adored her.’
Yet how was it von Mahler’s family had been allowed to join him? That wasn’t official Wehrmacht policy. Wives and kids were to be left at home.
‘She’s young,’ said von Mahler, having anticipated the question. ‘She’s not well. The rape of Köln was too much for her.’
Nearly 60,000 had been left homeless by the RAF raid on the night of 30/31 May of last year. Hundreds had died, thousands had been injured, many of them horribly. Incendiaries – the resulting firestorms – had consumed twelfth- and thirteenth-century half-timbered houses. Over 20,000 buildings, the very heart of the historic city, had gone up in flames. ‘Colonel, my partner and I will do everything we can to apprehend the girl’s killer. We do need help. Transport, for one thing.’
‘A Renault has been arranged.’
‘Food and lodging …’
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