A trail led through the reeds to the first of three punts and he saw the one the boy and his mother had used the previous evening. The oars were still in it and not leaning against a tree as were the others.
The trail became a footpath, wide enough for two to walk side by side. Railings of peeled poles had been nailed to tree trunks where necessary. There were even log steps, though these were badly in need of replacement.
The woods opened into a clearing – stacks of firewood here – then the path wound upwards beside a small stream. There was a footbridge, none too sound by the look, more steps, a turning off to the right, a bend, a rise and … he caught his breath.
The boy was at the other side of a clearing, standing beside the ruins of some beehives.
Was that guilt in the look he gave, or fear? Even from a distance of perhaps forty metres, the resemblances to Gabrielle Arcuri were noticeable but these were all in the finely boned face, the high and studious brow, the height and slimness, not in the colour of the eyes or that of the hair.
‘A moment …’ began St-Cyr, only to see the wraith disappear.
Twice more the boy hesitated, making certain he was being followed. In time they reached a high stone wall. Again the boy looked back. Gargoyles surmounted the wall – stone dogs begging on their hind legs, griffins with folded wings. The boy took no notice of them but twice again he waited to make certain the stranger was following.
Then he ducked away and St-Cyr was left alone, cursing his luck until, at last, he found the opening, a portal which led across a piece of lawn through statues and ornamental shrubs to an entrance of the maze.
Again the boy waited. He was at least seven years of age, so the photograph in Gabrielle Arcuri’s flat had been taken some time ago.
The boy let him start out then left him to find his own way through the maze.
Now there was only the fog, the tall and enclosing walls of the passageways, the ever-present smell of cedar, the sound of distant geese, and from somewhere distant too, that of poultry, most expressively, the harshness of guinea fowl.
When he found the rabbit, grey, fat and with very soft and floppy ears, he knew he was lost. And so was the rabbit by the look, for it led him down this passageway and that, into one dead end after another.
Now he didn’t know if he was going deeper into the maze or back towards the entrance. At last he came to a T-junction and the first of a long aisle which pointed straight towards the stone tower in the centre. It was still some distance from him.
St-Cyr thought the boy was up there watching him from the highest of the embrasures but when he reached the tower, it was empty.
And the spiral of stone steps that had, echoing, led up to a leaded skylight in the dome, now looked down to the floor below yet he was certain the boy hadn’t left the tower.
What have we got ourselves into? he asked but had no answer, only a sense of doubt he didn’t like. Quite obviously the boy had been told to lead him astray and, quite obviously, whoever had told him to do so, hadn’t wanted to be seen.
That could only mean there’d been someone else among the reeds.
* Paris and its environs.
4
Château Thériault, Clos de l’Oiseau de la Brume lay at the end of the gigantic plane trees whose greenish-grey and pistachio-brown spatulated branches reached eerily up into the fog.
As Kohler eased the Citroën down the lane, he looked off to the right and away from the river. Vines began on the lower slopes, the fog giving but glimpses. Perhaps forty hectares in all so far.
Some people had all the luck. This was money – very old money.
Moundlike shapes of box, yew and hawthorn stood sentinel nearest the arched stone entrance which was set in the base of one of the towers. Flanking stone walls held crenellated battlements. Where once there’d been a drawbridge, there was now a stone bridge.
There were no flags that he could see – a dovecot, yes, there was one of those. Towers upon towers but hidden by their shroud. The gate had three conical roofs, with slotted embrasures below them. Ivy climbed the walls.
Immediately inside the gate there was a house. Beyond the house, the central courtyard opened up in lawns and formal gardens, mothballed fountains and statues that were shrouded in the ever-present mist.
The place was huge, a bugger to heat. The five towers stood around, and between these there were defensive walls only at the opposing gates. Otherwise the château went from tower to tower. Cut stone, beautiful slate, copper eaves and lots of tall French windows – barns and stables to his left at the back, now the garages perhaps, so self-contained but all part of the enclosing pentagon.
Five greyhounds stood in a cluster. A tall woman in a dark blue overcoat with turned-up high collar held the leashes. The help had all gathered humbly about her for the morning’s instructions. Well, what the hell …
Still some distance from them, Kohler got out of the car to wait. The dogs fidgeted. She spoke quietly to them. One by one the help ducked their heads, clutching their berets in respect – clogs on some, blue denim jackets, overalls and bulky turtleneck sweaters, the fog drifting. As each man paid his respects and received his orders, she seemed to exist only for him and he left without so much as a glance towards the visitor.
Kohler knew he wasn’t just witnessing a daily ritual but the iron and benevolent rule such a place as this would demand.
She let the dogs go and he stood there not knowing whether to get back into the car as they came at him. Such graceful things …
‘Sasha!’ One word, that was all. The lead dog. Its name echoed from the towers as the dogs stopped.
Each one held its position, watching him, and he had the thought then that Sasha would have torn the heart out of any of them if they’d moved, and that the woman would have approved.
As she came across the courtyard, she gathered in the leashes and he saw that she wore black leather riding boots.
‘To what do I owe this visit?’ she asked.
Kohler took in the regal bearing, the dusky eyes, pale complexion, high forehead, thin, smooth, delicate, oval face – beauty, Gott in Himmel, this one had been a smashing thing. Now in her early sixties, she retained haunting traces of that beauty. Russian … was she of Russian descent? he wondered, thinking of the cigarette case.
She moved with grace and ease yet as if resigned to life. There was about her an aura of sadness that puzzled him. The shoulders were thin, the frame that of a willow wand, the open dark navy overcoat revealing several strands of amber beads and a needlepoint sweater of maroon and gold brocade. Very ornate, perhaps quite fashionable, and worth a small fortune. But … and of this he was certain … not exactly the sort of thing one would wear to get the work going on the farm.
‘I believe I asked you a question, monsieur. To what do I owe this visit?’
Had she been expecting company of another sort? That why the dress-up?
Was that the trace of a Russian accent?
The hair was raven – long and flowing loosely over the thin shoulders. Not a touch of grey and brushed to beat the Jesus.
‘Kohler, Countess. Gestapo, Paris Central. I’ve come in connection with a murder case. Actually,’ he raised his eyebrows, ‘it’s two murder cases and likely to involve a third if we’re not careful.’
At once the woman pulled rank and showed her irritability. ‘I know nothing of such things.’
‘But you might be able to help, Countess?’
The eyes were very striking.
‘Must I? You people … I’ve the quotas to see to, Inspector – you are an inspector, aren’t you, or do they give you ranks?’
‘Inspector will do just fine.’
She began to unleash the dogs, restraining each until it shot away to zoom around the courtyard, ranging far and near. ‘I only hope my grandson has had the good sense to lock up his rabbit. If he hasn’t, it’ll teach him a good lesson.’
One by one the dogs raced out through the far portal. Ko
hler and the woman began to walk that way.
‘My husband was killed in the last war, Inspector, and now my only son in this one. What more can I say but that I think all wars are lousy.’
‘Was your son the husband of Gabrielle Arcuri?’
The eyes found him again. ‘I think you know this, Inspector, so why ask it? She’s not here. Gabrielle and I …’ The woman shrugged. ‘We do not understand each other. We’re both fighting our loss but in different ways.’
‘We have reason to believe Mademoiselle Arcuri’s in grave danger.’
‘We?’ asked the woman.
‘Gestapo Central. The Sturmbannführer Boemelburg, my chief.’
‘Then you do have ranks. What’s yours – just so that I know with whom I’m dealing?’
‘Captain, Countess – a Hauptsturmführer.’
‘Captain … ah yes. My son had such a rank. It has a nice ring to it – conjuring images of dashing young men in uniform, isn’t that so? Do you prefer war to fighting crime?’
Was she trying to provoke him to hide the fact she’d been expecting someone else, was still looking for that visitor? ‘Crime doesn’t stop just because there’s a war, Countess.’
She gave him a brief smile as if to say, Touché. ‘I would have thought in your case, Inspector, the two were one and the same. Tell me something, Herr Hauptsturmführer Kohler, do you enjoy interrogating the French? Which are more fun? The men or the women? The young or the old? The Resistance …? Oh, we’ve some of them about here, too, and that’s why Gabrielle wouldn’t dare to come here.’
Kohler drew out his cigarettes and offered them. Surprisingly, the countess accepted one, and when he thumbed the lighter for her, she held his hand and let him feel how cold and calm were her fingers.
The dark eyes looked questioningly at him. She tossed her head and drew in gratefully, filling her lungs then blowing smoke up into the fog. She’d fix him. They’d visit the pigs.
‘Are you married, Captain?’ she asked, indicating they were to leave the courtyard by the back gate.
‘Very much so,’ snorted Kohler. ‘My Gerda keeps house in Wasserburg.’
‘That’s near Munich, on the River Inn?’
Was she toying with him? ‘Yes, yes, it’s on the Inn. Her father’s farm. She’s happier there. We’ve two boys in the Army, both in Russia, I suppose.’
‘You don’t keep in touch?’ she asked, smiling knowingly. She had his measure now.
‘The mails are not what they should be, Countess. I have to move about a good deal.’
Roasting the Gestapo – one ought to enjoy it! ‘Such a lame answer, Captain? Ah, Mon Dieu, be honest, eh? It’s a sort of holiday, an extended vacation? Yes, me I can imagine that is how it must be for you and lots of others. The clubs and cabarets, the girls, ah yes, and then touring about our beloved France in one of the Sûreté’s cars. King of everything. One of the master race. Have you a mistress, or are Gestapo inspectors allowed such things?’
‘We’re kept rather busy,’ said Kohler drily. ‘Apart from the odd prostitute to calm the loins, Countess, they don’t really give us much time off. Usually twice a month if we’re lucky.’
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if he preferred French whores to German ones. He’d like the young ones, that’s for sure. Men like this always did. Most men too.
So, she would say nothing more of it. She would lead him on a little walk and stall for time. Perhaps the general would arrive and put a stop to him. Perhaps.
Beyond the walls, the grounds opened into a park-like setting whose focus was the maze. But they didn’t head for it. Instead, they went off to the right along a road, the land dipping down to barren trees and scattered farmsteads, pig-pens, chickens, ducks, geese and guinea hens, a flock of goats.
Kohler was impressed. The sow was huge. They must have received special dispensation from the local Kommandant to raise as many pigs as they wished. The woman had friends in high places then. Normally only one pig was allowed. There’d been no sign of her having had to billet any officers either.
She put a boot right in the shit and he was forced to follow. As she closed the gate behind them, the sow snorted angrily and lifted its dripping snout from the slops.
The woman called out, ‘Judith, be nice to our Gestapo visitor, eh, my sweet? He likes you. You can pat her, Inspector. Tickle her behind the ears.’
Crossing the pen, they ducked as they entered a thatch-roofed shed, only to find the young ones still crowded inside. Perhaps forty or fifty of them. ‘Countess …’
‘Yes?’
‘Could we go somewhere else? A private talk …?’ he asked.
Had he had enough already? ‘Me, I thought being German, you’d like to see them.’
‘So, okay, I like pigs. Now maybe you’ll tell me what the game is?’
‘Game? But what is this, Captain Kohler? Each morning I must make my rounds. If you want to ask questions, then ask them but don’t take up my time.’
At least twenty piglets were at his shoes and trouser cuffs. There were no runny noses. Kohler stooped and gathered one under each arm.
Grinning, he said, ‘They need to be castrated, Countess. At home we bite them off.’
‘Here we are more civilized,’ she retorted. ‘So, what is it you want to ask?’
Kohler set the squealing piglets down. ‘First, the identity of this boy.’ He dragged out the photographs. Her breath steamed in the rank air. There was nothing quite like pig manure to clear the nostrils and the brain. All about them there was the squealing, butting, nudging turmoil.
The yearlings were kept in separate pens that gave on to the far yard. One boar had mounted a young sow. Grunts and squeals …
The woman’s dark eyes flashed professionally over the copulation before focusing on the photograph. ‘I don’t know him. He’s not from around here.’
Naked as the day he’d been born and such a pretty boy.
The Bavarian manoeuvred himself so that her back was to one of the pens and there was no easy escape.
‘Take another look – this one, eh?’ He handed her one of Thibault’s shots of the body.
For just a split second there was hesitation – he’d swear to it – then she shook her head, ignored the rutting that went on and on behind her. ‘I’ve never seen him. Perhaps the local Préfet of Police, Monsieur Hector Poulin, could help you, Inspector.’
Nothing in the eyes. How could a woman like this have become such a competent liar? ‘What about your daughter-in-law’s maid, Yvette Noel?’
‘A silly girl. Me, I’m sorry to hear she was killed but… I did not know her well. Gabrielle seldom brought her here.’
Kohler drew himself up. Her forehead was at eye-level. The piglets kept at his ankles. Was it the salt they liked? ‘And I didn’t say she’d been murdered, Countess.’
‘But you said …? Two murders? I have thought…’
The performance wasn’t quite good enough. ‘Why not level with me, Countess? It’ll save us both time and it just might save your daughter-in-law’s life.’
Merde! What was she to do? ‘A coffee, I think, and a marc. Look, I’ll tell you what I can but it isn’t much.’
He took her by the arm, was surprised at how readily she accepted the gesture.
He hasn’t seen the boy, she told herself. He doesn’t know Gabrielle is here.
Kohler, his hat and coat hanging in a closet somewhere, stood waiting in what the countess had called her Green Room. Though it was huge, high-ceilinged and draughty, there was about the room a sense of intimacy. Curtains made of seven-teenth-century French embroidery in creams, soft yellows, beiges and greens gave vegetable hangings that matched the coverings on the armchairs that had once belonged to the Duke of Tallyrand.
She’d said he could sit in them. She’d asked him to wait a few moments – now more than a half-hour. Three cigarettes! And why had she made him feel nervous?
A magnificent Bouelle armoire, in ornate gold and mirror
ed jet, matched the desk. An ivory humidor held pre-war cigars. It was all he could do to desist but he had the thought then that the woman would be watching for just such a thing.
The carpet, an Aubusson perhaps, was of flowers and vines. Bits of sculpture were everywhere, lending a slightly Roman touch.
From any of the windows he had a full view of the courtyard and he wondered if this had been intended. The Citroën looked decidedly out of place. The dogs still hadn’t come back and he wondered then, as he had off and on since she’d released them, if she’d done so deliberately.
The innkeeper where they’d stayed last night could easily have given the château a ring. The dogs had probably treed poor Louis. The morning wasn’t turning out as it should.
The Countess Jeanne-Marie (pronounced Jianne) Thériault was more than just a power to be reckoned with. She had them by the cold hard plums and she’d let him know it. Why else the cooler of her little salon? Why else the chance to go through her writing desk if he should choose – which he would, she’d assume.
Why else unless she’d known the desk had contained nothing incriminating?
Glancing towards the door she had left open, he had the thought then that perhaps she had been watching him all along. These old places … peepholes where you least expected them. Arsenic in your soup, belladonna in the cakes. No love between brothers, sisters and heirs … Lots and lots of places to hide a fugitive.
He left the desk alone and walked on. The coffee and brandy were taking one hell of a time.
She chose her entrance with a timing that was impressive. He’d only just seen the general’s staff car drive in under the stone arch, when there she was, standing in the doorway with a tray – huge and glittering – coffee-pot, cups and saucers, a bottle of Armagnac and crystal glasses …
‘You must forgive my keeping you waiting, Captain Kohler. Business …’ Again a shrug but now an apologetic smile, quite pretty too … ‘When one lives alone, there is never enough time.’
Kohler took the tray from her and set it on the verd-antique coffee table whose top rested on four golden cherubs. How nice …
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