Madrigal

by J. Robert Janes

  ‘The bishop’s Bugatti Royale.’

  ‘Sì. Henri-Baptiste loves to drive it, but for reasons of prudence, chooses not to do so himself in daylight.’

  ‘That way he can’t be blamed for having the privilege of an SP sticker few others could obtain.’

  ‘Scusate, Ispettore, but such things as the Service Public sticker and the car I myself enjoy also are judged essential by the Occupier, are they not?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Ispettore …’

  ‘A moment, mon ami.’ The Sûreté flipped through the pages of his little black notebook. ‘Ah yes, here we are. Brother Matthieu gave Mireille de Sinéty his key to the Palais …’

  ‘I gave her mine.’

  ‘But Mademoiselle Bissert assured me the girl had been given it by the brother.’

  ‘She was mistaken. She couldn’t have known in any case.’

  ‘Then what you claim agrees with what Xavier told me, that Mireille had told him you had given her your key. The only puzzle is …’

  ‘Ah porca vacca, what now?’ Damned cop!

  ‘The girl wondered if the third judge would be your wife, Maître, since Frau von Mahler had told her the Kommandant would be certain to refuse your request at dinner.’

  So they were back to that. ‘And?’

  ‘You denied your wife the absinthe she had to have and you did so for five days prior to last Monday. Five days, Maître!’

  And perfect for murder, the one task she was to fulfil – was this what he was thinking? ‘All right, I had hoped my Marceline would pull herself together long enough to be with us as the third judge, but this wasn’t possible.’

  Why hadn’t Kohler been brought to the library? wondered Simondi. Had he managed to get to Marceline? ‘Ispettfore, my wife was very fond of the girl. While such feelings wouldn’t have influenced her judgement – she was once very musical – it might have helped a little with the rough edges. Il portamento, the deportment; the stage presence also. I wanted Mireille to join my singers. Dio mio, why wouldn’t I have? She was my right hand.’

  Lies … were they all lies? ‘She would have fitted in well as mistress of this villa, wouldn’t she?’

  ‘Che cosa dite – what are you saying?’

  ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? One of the finest, if not the finest of the remaining livrées. A beautiful young girl who understood and appreciated everything here and the madrigals as well. Things your wife has apparently come to hate.’

  No response was forthcoming. ‘Did that girl come here often, Maître, to search through these old books and manuscripts, the letters you mentioned – letters concerning her family’s past perhaps? She did needlework for your wife who gave her things from Hédiard’s …’

  A page of that infernal notebook was sought.

  ‘Yes, here it is. Your wife was generous, but …’

  ‘But what, damn you?’

  Six Early Renaissance folding chairs were arranged on either side of the table. Simondi sat in the only armchair at the head of it. The table itself was one of the first perhaps to have replaced the trestle design of those early days when most furniture had to be portable. Ivory reliquary boxes held goodly supplies of cigarettes, small cigars and matches.

  Lighting his pipe, St-Cyr said, ‘Your library, Maître. It has all the appearances of being a medieval boardroom gone modern.’

  ‘I asked you a question, Inspector. Surely I’m due an answer.’

  ‘Ah bon! Mais certainement. In spite of a rationing system that has never worked and gives increasingly inadequate nourishment, Mireille de Sinéty refused to even sample the delicacies that wife of yours gave her in payment, no doubt, for services rendered.’

  ‘And?’

  There was a nod. ‘And in spite of knowing others could well use and appreciate the food, she hid the items.’

  ‘The girl was embarrassed. She didn’t want others thinking she was privileged.’

  ‘Maître, let’s cut to the quick of it. Your wife was, I believe, insanely jealous of that girl and terrified of the threat she posed.’

  A former dancer, a drunkard. ‘Marceline understands me, Inspector.’

  ‘I’m sure she does, but Mireille de Sinéty would have been perfect for you and for this house. Perfect, Maître, in every way if given time but she knew too much, had too many questions about you and the bishop and the Church, and you couldn’t have that, could you?’

  Merda! Why had Kohler not been brought to the library?

  I could give him a moment, thought St-Cyr, and then ask it of him. Yes, that would be best. ‘Why not tell me what really happened after the audition, Maître? We’ll only find out. You know it as well as I do.’

  St-Cyr and Kohler … bastardi both of them. ‘The girl failed, that’s what happened. This time far worse than ever before. She was nervous. The lines from Marenzio’s Petrarchan madrigal which begins with “Solo e pensoso i più deserti campi” – Alone, thought-sick, I pace where none has before – were muddled; those from Caccini’s Amarilli mia bella – Amarilis my beautiful one – were not even in tune and lacked vitality. These were very simple pieces for her to sing, Ispettore, but her voice quavered and broke. A Primo Soprano can never afford to break or sing out of tune.’

  ‘A Primo Soprano … but Genèvieve Ravier is your First Soprano.’

  To breathe a sigh of relief would not be wise, not yet. ‘And you didn’t know, did you, Ispettore, that Genèvieve was to be replaced?’

  ‘But Xavier is losing his voice. You needed another soprano.’

  A reproving finger would be wagged at this Sûreté who thought he had all the answers. ‘Both were to be replaced. Why else do you think I would take the trouble to write parts in for a mezzo-soprano last summer? It’s an entirely different system of music and not easy, let me tell you. One has to think completely as they did in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. Genévieve was to go. Adrienne was to join us and so, too, I had sincerely hoped, as had Bishop Rivaille and Albert Renaud, would Mireille. We didn’t kill either of those girls. We had every reason not to and everything to lose if they were taken from us.’

  A saint again. ‘Why was Genévieve Ravier to be dismissed, Maître? Was her voice no longer good enough?’

  ‘You doubt my word? You think I am lying? Merda, what is it with you? Constant disbelief? “Good” is never enough. Squisita – exquisite – is the word you want, but we Italians would also use its other meanings and give other words to them. Raffinatezza – refinement, e vita – joy and pleasure. Yes, gioia e piacere. A gift from the gods.’

  ‘Then she wasn’t to be dismissed because the quality of her voice had lessened?’

  Ah bravo, now you can feed on the crumbs! ‘As happens sometimes in such close quarters, our Alto had become too attached to our Primo Soprano. Such a thing will inevitably break apart the solidarity a group such as ours demands, and one can’t have that.’

  ‘Too familiar sexually? Too possessive, eh?’

  It would be best to give a guarded answer. ‘That and in other ways, dependent totally.’

  ‘Then why not dismiss the Alto?’

  Suspicion still lingered. ‘Because, caro Ispettore, Mireille was to have replaced both Genèvieve and Xavier, but could never have replaced Christiane whose voice, among altos, is not just exquisite, but unique.’

  ‘You told Mireille she had failed.’

  Bene, they would now settle that business once and for all! ‘I did so from the other end of the Palais’s Grand Tinel, yes.’

  ‘And what was her reaction? Refresh my memory.’

  ‘She stood as if struck dumb, her head bowed. I tried to be encouraging. Another time … another chance, but she just stood there like that. Beaten, defeated, in tears and ashamed – yes, yes, she was ashamed of her paltry efforts. She was good. She could so easily have passed. We had deliberately not asked much of her.’

  Good? Hadn’t the proper word to use been squisita? ‘And afterwards, Maître?’


  ‘The three of us left the hall together.’

  ‘A moment, please.’

  Note pages were flipped out of the way until St-Cyr had what he wanted.

  ‘A small matter, Maître. It’s only that Bishop Rivaille’s accounting of those final moments doesn’t agree with what you’ve just said.’

  ‘Not agree? In what way, please?’

  ‘The girl didn’t bow her head in shame. On hearing the result, she abruptly turned her back on the three of you and left the hall. Rivaille thought this unforgivable of her.’

  ‘But … but that is nothing. A mere moment in time. First she bowed her head as I’ve said and then, on hearing the result and my attempt to be encouraging, turned her back and abruptly left the hall as Henri-Baptiste has said.’

  ‘You didn’t put out the candles?’

  ‘It didn’t seem appropriate. Salvatore would do so in any case. I knew he would be there shortly to make his rounds. Even when we reached the entrance, I felt, and I can never forgive myself – never – that he would find and escort her safely home, but … Why could he not have been a moment earlier? He could have prevented it, could have interrupted things.’

  The tears were very real but could hardly be the truth. ‘You forgot to mention something,’ breathed St-Cyr. ‘When you and Albert Renaud were questioned at your flat by my partner, you stated the possibility of your wife’s having come to the Palais at the last minute. Renaud then said he was certain there had been someone else present – in the stairwell where he went to get the chairs. A sound, a presence … but when he shone his torch around, there was, apparently, no one.’

  ‘Alberto didn’t think any more of it at the time and failed entirely to mention it to us, but it was good of him to have come forward wasn’t it? And yes, Mireille could well have left the door unlocked behind her when she entered the Palais, but unfortunately none of us will ever know if she did.’

  ‘But let me ask again, Maître, could this other person have been your wife?’

  Ah grazie! ‘Marceline? It’s possible, yes … but you will get little from her now, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Then one last thing, Maître. When Mireille de Sinéty was found, there was a tin of sardines in her aumônière.’

  ‘Sardines?’

  ‘A gift from Frau von Mahler, I believe.’

  ‘Then it’s true what the Kommandant thinks. Dédou Favre was there to meet her after the audition but … Ah sì. The boy failed entirely to steal the contents of her purse or to find the nourishment she had denied herself for him, her killer.’

  And not the wife – was that it, then? Not Genèvieve Ravier, either, or Christiane Bissert? ‘But … but Dédou couldn’t have been there, Maître. Alain de Passe had arrested him early that morning.’

  It was freezing up on the walkway that ran alongside the roof of the Grande Chapelle of the villa, thought Christiane, and still the Hooded Ones hadn’t come to kill Herr Kohler.

  Wet with her tears, the collar of her blouse touched his cheek as she clung to him.

  ‘A partouse?’ he asked of the picnic last October on the Îie de la Barthelasse. An orgy …‘We did things,’ she wept. ‘Scandalous things. Absinthe at first releases one from one’s inhibitions, and quickly. It makes one wild. Adrienne we drove crazy in front of them, but … but she was pregnant and … and some among them noticed this and … and took offence.’

  Ah merde, Rivaille. ‘The bishop?’ he demanded.

  She would swallow and nod, would stand right up on her tiptoes now. He’d be thinking of how enraged Bishop Rivaille had become, of how, when he’d seen them first like that he had coloured rapidly and hadn’t been able to take his eyes from Adrienne who was supposed to have been so pure, so virginal, with her belly beginning to swell. Adrienne with Marius and Genèvieve and the others, herself included. She would let Herr Kohler feel her body clinging to him as the stiletto was driven into his back. She would feel him stiffen in shock, would hear his gasp and hold him tightly as he shuddered and coughed blood which would run down her cheek. But he’d be too heavy for her and both of them would collapse.

  ‘Rivaille, de Passe, Renaud, César and … and others of their group. The hunters,’ she said.

  ‘De Passe heads the Cagoule, doesn’t he?’ breathed Kohler softly and heard her faintly say, ‘Yes. Some of those were there, too, with their … their women.’

  Her arms were still wrapped tightly about his neck. ‘What happened?’ he asked, so gently she was afraid she would weaken and tell him, but knew the sunlight couldn’t be fully in his eyes and that they still must be alone up here, just the three of them. The three! No one else would know what she’d done to save the group, not Genèvieve who mattered most, not Marius or Guy or Norman. Not even Herr Kohler’s partner. Only Préfet de Passe and the assassin he had sent. The assassin!

  When she flinched, Kohler threw them both to one side. They hit the tiles and rolled. Several times she shrieked, ‘Not me! Not me! Oh God, what have I done?’ He shook her hard. He was too heavy for her, too strong, had her by the arms and was forcing her down … down …

  ‘Where is he?’ she spat fiercely and tried to free herself.

  The girl ducked her eyes away in doubt and caught a breath. ‘Where’s who?’ he asked.

  Sunlight glinted from his scars. She couldn’t force herself to look at him. ‘One of them. I don’t know who, damn you! Antonio, maybe. César’s gardener. The one with the … the stiletto.’

  There’d been no one, thought Kohler. Her imagination had simply run away with her. ‘Oh, him. Down below us, I think. Let’s have a look, shall we?’

  He hauled her up and, holding her by the back of the neck and an arm, forced her to look well over the battlement and far down into the courtyard below.

  ‘Well?’ he demanded, the sound of his voice breaking over her.

  Pulled back, she fell to a sitting position, couldn’t bring herself to look up at him, was so ashamed, so afraid and waiting for his condemnation. ‘Please, they’re not nice, these men of the Cagoule. They can be so very cruel to a girl like me or to Genèvieve. One does what one is told to do, n’est-ce pas? One looks the other way and doesn’t question. I … I thought they … they were going to kill you.’

  ‘Things got a little out of hand, didn’t they, at that picnic on the Îie de la Barthelasse last October?’

  ‘I … I can’t really remember. I was drunk. Dead drunk! And so were Genèvieve and the others. Absinthe isn’t kind, Inspector. It makes some men insane and they do things to a girl they, too, have little or no memory of.’

  ‘And afterwards?’ he asked, crouching before her so that she had to face him.

  ‘Adrienne went away to Paris … but … but couldn’t have done so.’

  From a covered veranda where, in ancient times, the laundry would have been dried and on summer evenings the cardinal would have taken the air, Kohler looked down into the courtyard. Behind him was the roof that ran at a right angle to that of the Grande Chapelle. Hand in hand, he and the girl had travelled the length of it. Pale and shivering and still very afraid for her life, the Alto waited for him to decide what to do next.

  ‘Our friends are in disagreement,’ he said of those in the courtyard. ‘Apparently there’s some argument as to whether they really should put the knife into a member of the Führer’s Gestapo.’

  Grabbing the girl by the arm, he hustled her to a side door and from there, hurried down a spiral staircase to the floor below. When they reached Madame Simondi’s room, he locked them in and let her walk on ahead, only to see her hesitate.

  ‘Madame …’ she began, only to suddenly lose all faith in herself.

  ‘What have you been saying to him, you little fool!’ grated the woman.

  ‘Nothing! He demanded it of me. I …’

  ‘Nothing? But if nothing, then what … is there … for you …’

  To distress yourself about?

  Kohler knew he’d have to fill in the blanks. Madame Simondi had b
een bathed and dressed. Ear-rings and a three-strand pearl and garnet cameo choker were worn with a dark crimson dress. There were silk stockings, too, and matching high heels. Very much the Parisienne, she was languidly stretched out on the divan, propped up by cushions. Her jet black hair had been combed and brushed and was pinned back, her lips and dark eyes were made up.

  Drip glass, bottle, bowl of broken sugar, ice bucket and pitcher of water were close to hand. An hour of drinking already, he thought ruefully. Spaggiari and the others must have been told to bugger off long ago.

  ‘My little friends,’ she said and fondled the glass when she caught him looking at her side table. ‘They keep me … going.’

  A sip was taken, her lips pursed as it went down, she studying the milky-green liqueur in the glass before adding a touch more water. ‘An audition …’ she said, and then after a long pause, ‘at the Palais. I understand two detectives …’

  Are in my house.

  ‘Did César sleep with you last night, chérie?’ she asked sharply, acidly. ‘Did you let that husband of mine stick that sausage of his into your ass, eh?’

  ‘Madame, one of the detectives is here now!’

  Her lips tightened, her eyes became momentarily livid. ‘I’ve seen this putain de bordel at it, Inspector. I know what she lets my husband do to her. She and Genèvieve are lovers, but … César, he … He has the use of them both and often together.’

  ‘Madame …’ tried Christiane.

  Kohler moved the girl out of the way. ‘Kripo, Paris-Central,’ he said firmly.

  ‘At last you’ve found your voice. Do I …’

  There was another long pause. ‘Shock you, Inspector? A little, perhaps? Ah! You’re from Paris. Laperouse … Do they still have …’

  She tried to find the words and pursed her lips. ‘Their cabinets particuliers?’

  Their private little dining cubicles.

  Taking a long pull at her glass, she gave him a fleeting smile, half disarming, half knowing. ‘I scratched my name …’