There were cases, too, Pernod et fils having built a distillery at Tarragona in Spain when the production of absinthe had been banned in France on 16 March 1915. Banned not just because it had erroneously been blamed for having caused the drastic drop in the birthrate before and into the Great War, but because, beyond initial feelings of exaltation and abandon, it had excited the central nervous system in ways little understood. Violently antisocial behaviour in the bars and cafés had often culminated in knife fights – its addicts often succumbing to spasmodic fits of delirium, of which, when sober, they had no recollection.
Numbness and passivity had affected other addicts, often masking a mind tortured by violent hallucinations and delusions. Ringing in the ears – the disease of Van Gogh – had been another side effect, as had feelings of constant anxiety and unquenchable thirst.
‘A hundred and thirty-six proof,’ he said tartly to himself, examining a bottle upon which there was neither dust nor cobweb. ‘Sixty-eight per cent alcohol.’
In this most recent shipment, there were ten wooden cases, 120 bottles, each of a litre. Four bottles had been taken upstairs last night. At least two of those, he knew, had been consumed.
Jammed on to a rusty iron spike that dangerously protruded from the end of a nearby wine rack were bills of lading, all of them written in Spanish no French customs clerk, unless paid off, would ever have seen.
The earliest of the bills dated from 11 June 1941. To enter the country, the shipments would have to cross the zone interdite, the Forbidden Zone that extended along all frontiers and seacoasts and inland for a good twenty kilometres. And that meant, of course, with the willing cooperation of the Occupier. A bribe paid, a nod given.
Cast aside, but often gone through in a feverish search for dregs, were empties from Pernod’s factory at Montfavet. L’Extrait d’absinthe. ‘1892 …’ he muttered. Picking up another, ‘1907 …’ There were dozens of empties, and several of the labels gave the names of other distilleries in France. Even at the height of its popularity, over 10,000,000 litres a year had been imported from Switzerland alone. The canton of Neufchâtel had been its most important centre of production. But the Swiss had banned absinthe in 1908.
When he looked up, a shadow moved and he suddenly realized he was no longer alone.
They sat on the edge of the bath with legs dangling in the water and the gossamer of their sheaths clinging to them. Kohler could just touch bottom when standing in the middle of the pool facing them, and maybe it really was like it had been back then in 1343 or thereabouts.
‘Of course we sold photos of our breasts to that shop,’ confessed Genèvieve unsmilingly.
‘Locks of our hair, too,’ offered her playmate.
‘Inspector, students always need money. Brother Matthieu and others like him simply stare at the cards and finger the hair in private. What harm is there in our letting them?’
‘A kindness, I think,’ said Christiane. ‘After all, our gueule cassée has suffered much and feels deeply that no woman or girl would ever wish to be intimate with him. And he a man of the cloth, we mustn’t forget.’
‘And Adrienne de Langlade?’ asked Kohler, making them both feel uneasy.
‘She would never have agreed to such a thing,’ said Genèvieve.
‘She was too modest,’ echoed Christiane.
‘But Brother Matthieu wanted a photo of her breasts?’
‘Xavier …’ began the raven-haired one only to be nudged into silence by the blonde who said levelly, ‘What she was about to say, Inspector, was that Brother Matthieu had made things very hard for Xavier. Brutally so. Nothing Xavier did was right. The bishop’s kennels were never properly cleaned. Night after night we’d find Xavier scrubbing the floors. Control of the hounds when on the hunt was never satisfactory.’
‘Nino was always causing trouble, always going off somewhere,’ said Christiane earnestly.
‘You have to understand how compelling is the desire in Brother Matthieu. But his fétichisme de cheveux is never totally satisfying, never complete, n’est-ce pas? Not like a man with a woman,’ said Genèvieve.
‘We would see him averting his gaze every time she entered a room, Inspector. We knew what he desired.’
‘He trembled in her presence.’
‘He sweated.’
‘Inspector, Brother Matthieu put the squeeze on Xavier so hard, we … we had to do something,’ confessed the blonde.
‘Xavier was losing his voice, wasn’t he?’ asked Kohler.
‘Yes, and this was causing trouble enough so we … we did what we felt had to be done,’ offered the Alto, lowering her eyes.
‘The picnic in early June.’
‘She never knew about the photos. I swear it,’ blurted Christiane.
‘But she sure as hell discovered she was pregnant, didn’t she?’
Herr Kohler wanted them to say Xavier wasn’t the only one who had used her, thought Genèvieve, nor was that the only time they had got her drunk on absinthe. He wanted to say, How could you have done that to her? But he didn’t say any of these things because he was thinking of something else.
‘I’m puzzled,’ he said. ‘You see, you madrigalists do everything as one. You follow orders, too. You have to, right? How else could that Basso Continuo of yours and his two pals have avoided the forced labour draft?’
The STO, the Service de Travail Obligatoire, a constant threat …
Herr Kohler swam up to them, his big, strong arms moving water back and forth to keep him in position. ‘Who suggested the picnic?’ he asked. ‘Was it Madame Simondi?’
When they didn’t answer, he said, ‘I think you’d better tell me.’
‘Before it is too late for us?’ blurted Christiane, her dark eyes rapidly moistening.
‘I suggested the picnic, Inspector,’ said Genèvieve levelly. ‘Guy had always wanted to see the mas César had leased to Mireille’s mother. It was a chance, then, for him to do so.’
‘But you’d seen it before, hadn’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’d gone out there to see if it would be suitable.’
‘No.’ How can you think such a thing? I …’
‘We … we rode out on our bicycles just after Easter, Inspector,’ said Christiane, not looking at him but steadily at her friend. ‘Mireille was with us. We had a lovely day because when … when one was with Mireille, one always shared her love of Provence, of its great beauty and … and history.’
‘Did she know you would take Adrienne there for a “picnic”?’
The Alto bowed her head and, subdued, answered, ‘She … she thought it a good idea.’
‘She trusted you both, didn’t she?’
‘Yes.’
‘She wanted to join us as a full member herself,’ said Genèvieve, ‘but knew that Adrienne had the better chance.’
‘She accepted this,’ said Christiane, still not looking up at him. ‘Mireille was goodness itself, Inspector. Dedicated always to our success. Praising it, too. Always.’
He began to mount the steps, and when he had stopped on the third one, he was nearest to Christiane, and Genèvieve told herself she knew what he was about to do. He would single Christiane out now, demanding answers only from her.
Be careful, petite, she said silently. He cares passionately about those answers and is not distracted in the slightest by our nakedness.
‘Tell me about Dédou Favre,’ he said and, as she had thought, held a hand up to silence her.
‘Dédou must have seen us at the picnic,’ confessed Christiane stupidly. ‘That … that is the only way Mireille could possibly have found out about the … the postcards and … and Brother Matthieu’s little affliction.’
‘Then Dédou knew, didn’t he, ma belle, exactly who had raped Adrienne and, yes, how many of them had gone at her?’
She tried to blink away her tears but they wouldn’t stop. ‘It was only Xavier, I swear it!’ she shrilled. ‘We … we were all up in the house except … exc
ept for him.’
‘And drunk.’
‘Drunk, yes.’
‘On absinthe.’
‘Yes, damn you! Like last night. Last night …’ She gripped her mouth.
‘Dédou was arrested well before dawn on Monday, wasn’t he?’
‘Inspector …’
‘Shut up! Speak only when spoken to.’
Water was trickling slowly down his legs through the hairs. There were other scars, old scars, wounds from shrapnel; from bullets too. ‘Xavier said that if it wasn’t done, Dédou and Mireille would confront Bishop Rivaille with the matter. The Kommandant might be there – this we didn’t know at the time. You must believe me.’
‘The audition …’
‘Yes.’
‘So you all agreed to let Xavier turn Dédou in?’
‘We are one, Inspector. One because we have to be!’
‘Then why didn’t you share up the reward?’
‘What reward? There was no reward.’
‘Oh, but there was, meine kleine Liebling.’
‘Genèvieve, what’s this he is saying?’
‘The hundred thousand francs, I think. That can take time, Inspector. Xavier simply hasn’t received it yet.’
He wouldn’t tell them, thought Kohler acidly. He’d let them think what they would. As sure as these two had bodies to bring joy to themselves and to others, their young lives were over should the Resistance discover what they’d done. ‘Four maquis have died because of this,’ he said, ‘and that’s not counting Dédou.’
A great sadness had entered his eyes. ‘And what of Adrienne de Langlade?’ he asked, seemingly condemning them.
‘Brother Matthieu,’ grated Genèvieve. ‘Why not ask it of him? Of him! We know nothing of that business. Nothing, do you understand? We were away on tour.’
He flicked water at her as he went up the steps. ‘Oh but you weren’t. You were in Avignon. And what’s more, Mireille de Sinéty wrote it all down and hid it away for my partner and I to find.’
They were alone at last, and in the all but silent room the sound of still-lapping bathwater came harshly.
‘Is it really true what Herr Kohler said?’ asked Christiane in despair.
‘That bitch would leave things for them to find. I knew it!’ swore Genèvieve, getting up to pull off her sheath and throw it into the water.
‘She wrote it down, he said.’
‘The enseignes, you little fool. The talismans and cabochons – the rebus every young maid wore to tease and taunt the hearts and minds of her admirers.’
‘Her killers. Those who couldn’t have her telling others what had really happened to Adrienne.’
‘A bonfire, another “picnic” last October – is that what your loosened tongue will spit out next?’ demanded Genèvieve, watching her so closely now she had to shiver uncontrollably and pluck at the sheath that clung to her breasts. She had to say foolishly, ‘I must look like a ghost in this.’
We were drunk on absinthe – is that the excuse you’ll give if asked, wondered Genèvieve, stepping close to her, so close each hesitant breath the little fool gave was felt.
Slowly the sheath was removed. Christiane would feel it curling up as it came away but when her arms were stretched above her head, it would stop and be held there, binding her by the wrists. ‘You had to let him know about Dédou’s watching us at the picnic. You weakened, damn you! And don’t start crying and begging me to forgive you, Christiane. Not after that!’
The sheath was left for her to remove. Cast into the water, it spread outwards to join the other one and slowly sink, more ghostlike now than before. ‘It … it looks as if we, too, had been drowned in an accabussade. Our screams—’
The slap was hard and fast. Stung by it, Christiane waited.
‘We have to think,’ grated Genèvieve. ‘Mireille must have planned it all. That’s why the bishop wanted the sisters to remove things from her body before the detectives found them. He knew what she might do.’
‘You hate me now.’
‘I don’t! I want you to think!’
‘Then let me tell you exactly what I think!’
‘Look, I’m sorry I slapped you.’
But are you really, wondered Christiane. ‘Mireille was a Libra, the House of Balance; Dédou was of the Archer, a Sagittarius.’
‘And Adrienne?’ demanded Genèvieve.
‘A Virgo. Carnelian and jade are the stones of her sign. Mine, unless you have forgotten, are agate, the moss variety especially, and chrysoprase, the more golden green the better.’
A Gemini …‘And I’m a Pisces, the sign of two back-to-back fishes and the wearer of amethyst. You will never have forgotten that.’
‘But Mireille didn’t wear her costume when she came to practise with us on Monday afternoon, did she?’
‘She needed time to get ready … She had hours until the audition.’
‘Oh bien sûr, chérie, but also she wouldn’t have wanted us to see the rebus. It was her insurance the truth would be told should anything untoward happen to her.’
They touched hands. Momentarily they came together to hold each other, then Genèvieve hesitantly said, ‘After practice, she presented me with a tiny chrysoprase. I … I thought nothing of it. Why should I have? The thing was chipped and ancient, a pale and dirty greyish green cameo she had found last summer while rooting around in the garden of that family house she lives in. I didn’t want it and told her so.’
‘But she made you take it?’
‘You saw me do so. Why, then, do you ask?’
And I’ve wounded you now, haven’t I, thought Christiane, but said, ‘Because it meant something.’
‘What, damn you!’
There were tears now misting those blue eyes that could be, and often were, so warm and compassionate. Tears of anguish and of uncertainty. Of fear. To shrug would only infuriate her, yet the impulse was there and had to be controlled.
‘What, please!’
‘I don’t know yet, except to say that it was thought of as a stone neither a Pisces nor a Virgo should ever wear, since it tended to bring misfortune.’
When Genèvieve didn’t say anything, but turned quickly away in despair, Christiane wanted desperately to reach out to her but hesitated. ‘It’s over, isn’t it, for all of us? We’re finished.’
Torn from her silence, Genèvieve said harshly, ‘César … We’re going to have to talk to him. It can’t be avoided. Not now.’
‘They’ll kill the detectives, won’t they? The Hooded Ones will have to protect themselves. They can’t …’
Struck twice and then again and again, Christiane fell to her knees to quickly press her face against Genèvieve’s bare feet and grip her by the ankles. ‘I’m sorry, so sorry,’ she wept.
‘Then don’t you ever say that again! We don’t know anything about those people. We’re not supposed to know.’
La Cagoule …
‘Ispettore, da quando siete quaggiú?’ asked Simondi warily. How long have you been down here?’
‘Long enough,’ said St-Cyr tensely.
‘But what brings you here, amico mio? Old bottles? A love of history?’
‘Absinthe, I think.’
‘Ah! L’assenzio.’ Simondi tossed a hand. ‘La moglie … Scusate, Ispettore, I constantly forget myself even after more than thirty-five years in Provence. The wife. L’absinthisme is a disease not seen these days. I understand your concern entirely. It’s terrible, isn’t it? An intelligent, once beautiful woman … But amico mio, what is this? You should have come to me. I would have told you everything. To search a man’s house without a magistrate’s warrant? To wander about in his cellars without permission? Non siete autorizzato.’ He wagged a reproving finger as he came closer. ‘You’re not authorized to do that.’
He was right, of course, and unfortunately the bills of lading were now much closer to him and he knew it too.
Simondi unbuttoned the camelhair overcoat with its wide thirties lapels
and, finding matches and a cigar, set his torch aside, and took time out to light them. The broad brimmed fedora was of a soft beige velour, the white silk scarf that of a Puccini.
‘La sala delle statue, Ispettore, the salon of the statues, or better still, let me show you one of my greatest joys. The library. When Marceline and I discovered this house it was in such a state. Old books … scattered manuscripts and papers – priceless letters dating from the very days of the cardinals when this and other houses like it were their livrées.’
Their palaces, but built on land that had been dedicated to the poor, the servants. Hence the name of livrée, and so much for the popular notion that its other meaning of the livery, or stables, applied, thought St-Cyr. ‘When, exactly, did you “acquire” the house?’
‘I will switch off my torch to conserve the batteries, Ispettore, but, really, why don’t we go upstairs? It’s too cold down here. The flu … One has always to watch the health, isn’t that so?’
Last winter’s flu had been terrible. Too many had died of it in Paris alone, but had the reference to health been a warning? Of course it had! ‘The date, please.’
Bastardo, non mi prendere in giro! Don’t mess about with me! ‘These old houses, Inspector. So few could afford them, but there was always the dream. Marceline had inherited a little money from an uncle she had favoured years ago. Nothing much, you understand, but enough to make the small downpayment its owner was willing to accept.’
‘After the house was ransacked?’
‘A small matter. A disagreement of some sort. Transients perhaps.’
Hired hoodlums, then.
‘The late autumn of 1940,’ said Simondi, watching him closely through cigar smoke and Sûreté torchlight. ‘Things were in great turmoil, as you will remember. The war had been lost; the country suddenly divided into free and occupied zones. All manner of people flooded into Provence to take refuge from what was going on in the north. We never found out who had caused the trouble.’
‘But its owner felt it best to sell up and leave.’
‘No, no, it wasn’t like that at all. The owner and his family had left the country before the Defeat and decided to remain abroad. America … New York, I think. Alberto was handling things for them; small matters of upkeep, taxes, household bills, the wages of a caretaker, gardener, chauffeur, cook and housemaids. He—’
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