Mayhem

by J. Robert Janes

She’d given the hair more brushing but still wore it loose, had composed herself if ever one such as this needed to. The needlework turned out to be the ornate and beautifully worked front panel of her dress. The amber beads made sharp little noises as she indicated he was to sit. ‘So, these murders, Captain. Tell me about them, please. Leave nothing out.’

  The stall then, until the general arrived. The use of his rank instead of Inspector. A put-down, or to set the stage for a later confrontation with the higher rank of the general?

  He had the idea there were carefully arranged rings of defence around the Château Thériault and that she had a network of informants only too loyal to her.

  But he liked the way she poured their coffee. Absolute control – hesitation, glances, dropped dusky eyelids, slight touches of slender fingers. Was the woman flirting with him? Gott in Himmel…

  ‘Please, I must insist, Captain Kohler. All the details.’

  As she sat back in her armchair, she crossed her long legs and he liked that too. Still gunpowder in the old barrel, eh? A woman who had liked to have her lovers and probably still did.

  He set his coffee aside and laid out all the photographs for her. ‘That willow the boy’s lying under must be down by the river, Countess. Whoever took the photographs knew him only too well. When we examined the body, he was fully clothed as you can see, but dressed as if from one of the seminaries. A boy of some means, I think, Countess. The clothes were good.’

  ‘He had entered the priesthood – there’s a Benedictine monastery not far from here. Brother … Brother Jérome had enrolled as a novice but if you ask me, Captain, he had no inclination whatsoever towards the priesthood.’

  ‘Just a dodge then, from the military call-up?’

  Was that genuine sadness in those dark and dusky eyes?

  The nod was almost imperceptible. ‘My son had no patience with him and refused to speak to him when he heard of it.’

  Quite obviously the general had been told by someone to cool his heels.

  ‘Was his wife’s maid in love with the boy?’

  ‘Yvette Noel was his sister, Captain Kohler. The family are not wealthy – they’ve been employees of the Domaine Thériault for some ninety-seven years, this coming spring. Riel Noel is my Chef de Culture, the keeper of our vines. His brother, Morgan, is our wine master and oenologist, so you can see, I hope, that the matter is of a delicate nature and that I had, of course, to search my heart before answering your questions.’

  Gott in Himmel, she was fantastic! Louis should have been witness to this. ‘I quite understand, Countess,’ he said humbly.

  Reaching for his coffee, he took a sip – glanced over the rogue’s gallery of naked shots of the boy, the young David with his pecker asleep in the sunshine of the Loire or of Fontainebleau Woods.

  ‘Jérome Noel …?’ he asked, just to get it right.

  ‘Alain Jérome Noel. The Alain was taken from my husband’s name as a gesture of sympathy and honour.’

  ‘How old was the boy?’

  The sad eyes lifted, the fingers traced the line of her right thigh to which the material clung. ‘Twenty-four. He looks much younger and that was a part of the trouble, I think. He was young for his age. And silly.’

  ‘Like the maid?’ he asked.

  He had remembered. ‘Yes … yes, like his sister, Yvette.’

  Kohler affected the seriousness of a high-court judge. ‘With all due respect, Countess, that’s not the impression my partner got of your daughter-in-law’s maid.’

  ‘Your partner …?’

  Gott in Himmel, she was good! Genuine surprise … questions in the look she still gave him. ‘We always work in pairs – on criminal investigations. It’s safer that way. My partner and I deal with common theft, bank robberies, arson and murder mostly.’

  Again she said, ‘Your partner …?’

  ‘Jean-Louis St-Cyr of the Sûreté Nationale.’

  Lost in thought, she said, ‘The owner of the car.’

  ‘I’ve only borrowed it for the duration. Actually, it isn’t St-Cyr’s. He had the use of it and a driver before the Armistice but manpower being scarce, we’ve had to dispense with the driver.’

  ‘And where is this partner of yours now?’

  Kohler found himself secretly relishing the moment. Had they really got the better of the woman? ‘He’s in Paris, on another case, Countess. The manpower thing.’

  He gave a futile shrug; she, a pleasant little smile. ‘Have you any suspects, Captain?’

  Was she being coy? He found the use of his rank a pain in the ass. ‘Two as a matter of fact, but I’d rather not say who they are at the moment.’

  ‘Two but … ah, I see. Yvette’s killer might possibly also have killed her brother. Is that what you mean?’

  No mention of the Resistance. ‘Something like that, yes. You see, Countess, it can’t have been the sister, can it?’

  Her coffee was cold and there was no place to dump it. ‘Then who?’ she asked but couldn’t find the will to look at him – she knew she must! He had no proof! Just supposition. A shot in the dark. The police were all the same!

  ‘Who indeed, Countess?’ Nothing yet about the diamonds, nothing about monogrammed cigarette cases from Russia and bottles of perfume in beaded silk purses or condoms in their little silk sleeves.

  ‘He was a silly boy, a foolish boy. So foolish. Gabrielle …’

  ‘Gabrielle what, Countess?’

  ‘Nothing. It … it doesn’t matter now in any case. Nothing matters. It’s finished – finished for the two of them, Inspector, and me, I have somehow to pick up the pieces for the family.’

  ‘Is your daughter-in-law really in danger from the Resistance or was Yvette’s murder merely made to look that way?’

  ‘I… I don’t know. I wish to God I did!’

  Kohler poured the brandy and handed her a glass. Their fingers touched, again that same icy calm and yet those dark eyes … had they touches of violet in them?

  ‘You must excuse me, Inspector. I’ve kept the General Hans Ackermann waiting far too long. I can spare you no more time this morning but if you wish, I will be only too glad to see you again.’

  In hell. ‘That’s decent of you, Countess. Please give the general my regards. We’re old friends.’

  St-Cyr poled the punt through the last of the reeds then let it glide out into the backwater pond. The greystone mill and silent water wheel reeked of Balzac’s novel, The Lily of the Valley. The tall, steeply pitched cedar roof had dormer windows in the loft, skylights and lots of moss.

  Again he was surprised he and Kohler hadn’t seen the mill from the other side of the river but the well-treed island had been behind the one with the ruins and almost a part of the far shore. Their attention had been distracted.

  Giving the boat a final shove, he steered it up to the wharf and in beside the punt he was certain Gabrielle Arcuri had taken.

  Had it not been for the boy’s rabbit, the dogs would have torn him to pieces. The rabbit had drawn them off and he had retraced his steps through the maze and back to the river only to find one of the punts missing.

  The island with the ruins had yielded nothing. Balzac’s mill would be different.

  Quietly he pulled the punt along the wharf and leaned out over the water to secure it. Then he climbed on to the wharf and made his way alongside the water wheel.

  Ivy grew about the heavy wooden door. He took a moment – she’d know of his presence. She’d be listening for him.

  Nudging the door open, he stepped inside the mill, stepped into the gloom. It was as if a hundred years ago. Dust lay everywhere. The husks of wheat littered everything but once a flour mill, always one. The smell of the grain never really disappeared. It reminded one of brewer’s mash.

  Sunlight streamed down the far stairwell, touching each heavy pine step and the honey-amber of its sturdy railing. The machinery, the leather belts, pulley wheels, shafts and giant grindstones, lay still and silent.

  As he
crossed the floor, St-Cyr eased the Lebel in its holster.

  The stairwell angled up to the first floor before jogging abruptly to the second. ‘Mademoiselle Arcuri, my name is Jean-Louis St-Cyr of the Sûreté Nationale. I have reason to believe your life is in great danger.’

  It sounded so melodramatic. The mill gave back the censure of its stony silence.

  One foot and then another. Step by step – more machinery on the first floor, more of it on the one above. Gearboxes and bearings, subsidiary pulleys, shafts and wheels, even a small woodworking shop, complete with lathes and shavings on the floor.

  He raised his bushy eyebrows to the timbers above and knuckle-dusted the moustache. So, she would hide on him. Okay, mademoiselle.

  Crossing the floor, he opened the hoist door to check the pond below. There was no sign of her leaving the place. Good!

  A last set of stairs led up into the loft, into the stronger sunlight. He had started up them, was reaching for another grip of the railing and looking into the sun when she levelled both barrels of a shotgun at him and said, ‘That’s far enough.’

  Ah, Mon Dieu, to be caught like this! Thank God Hermann wasn’t around. ‘Mademoiselle, please, there is no need for that.’

  Still he couldn’t get a good look at her – that blasted sun. She’d chosen her place well.

  She pulled back the hammers of the fowling piece, first one and then the other. ‘Remove the revolver, “Inspector”, and leave it on the steps.’

  This was a chanteuse, a mirage? A woman with the voice of an angel and a body fit only for the gods?

  Gabrielle Arcuri motioned him to step away from the stairwell. ‘Back,’ she said but not in panic. ‘Over there, by that window. Yes … yes, that one.’

  She went down the steps to retrieve the revolver, had returned before he could move.

  The gun she tucked into the waistband of the brown whipcord jodhpurs she wore.

  There was an open hacking jacket, a knotted paisley silk scarf, soft yellow mohair pullover, no lipstick, no make-up of any kind but … and he was surprised at this … the thick, shoulder-length hair was not blonde as he’d thought at the club, but the soft shade of a fine brandy. Tied back in a pony tail with a bit of dark brown velvet ribbon.

  The eyes were, of course, violet but such a shade … Ah, Mon Dieu … the face, bone structure, aquiline nose, lovely smooth brow and ears – even the lips – those of the son.

  She said, ‘So, okay, you’ve found me. Now what? I didn’t kill her – I’d never have done that. Yvette was too close to me.’

  ‘That’s what they all say, mademoiselle, but me, I think it was the Resistance.’

  ‘Those bastards? Pah! What do they know? Little black coffins in the mail? The trick of cowards, isn’t that so?’

  Perhaps five metres and some leather belting separated them, the belts angling upwards. He’d like to get that shotgun away from her.

  ‘If you think to impress me with your hatred of the Resistance, mademoiselle, then forget it. I’m not one of the Gestapo’s informers. I’m not a collaborator.’

  The look he gave was one of flint. Steady … so steady. A dangerous thing to have said to the wrong person. So, he’d gambled, made up his mind about her quickly. This she liked. It pleased her immensely to be so flattered.

  The brandy eyebrows arched. The lovely eyes seemed to grow as she studied him. One thing was certain. She wasn’t as young as he’d thought, was perhaps in her late thirties or even her early forties.

  But, a woman who took great care of herself. ‘Did you meet my son?’ she asked.

  He nodded. ‘A clever boy. He had me completely fooled.’

  The smile she gave was instantaneous – a brief insight, one so soft and yet … ah, what could he say? Complex? Filled with sadness too?

  ‘René,’ she said. ‘His name’s René Yvon-Paul and he’s a Thériault through and through so, monsieur, what do we do? I didn’t kill Yvette and I didn’t kill Jérome either.’

  ‘Did Yvette kill him?’

  ‘Yvette? Are you crazy? Ah, Mon Dieu, you cops are all the same. Yvette, in the name of Jesus, why? She was his sister, idiot! She loved him and forgave him time and again. He drove her crazy.’

  ‘Why not put the shotgun down? Those old hammers …’ St-Cyr gave a shrug … ‘Use the revolver if you like. It matches the one I found in your bureau.’

  ‘Merde! Ah no. What right had you to …’

  It was no use. In a way she was glad the hiding was over.

  Thumbing the hammers into place, she leaned the shotgun against the wall by the stairs. ‘There’s a thermos of coffee, some bread and cheese in my rucksack. Look, I’ll tell you what I can but it won’t help much, and as for the Resistance being after me, all I can say is that it’s crazy of them. I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of and neither had Yvette.’

  It was on the tip of his tongue to say, And neither have I yet they’re interested in me, but he let the matter go and picked up the rucksack. ‘Then who killed her?’ he asked.

  She was either flustered by the question or a very good actress. ‘I … I don’t know. I wish I did, but I honestly don’t.’

  He took out the thermos and handed it to her. ‘Then perhaps you’d tell me how it is that your purse was found at the scene of the boy’s murder?’

  ‘My purse … but …?’

  He could see that the news was genuinely unexpected and distressing yet she knew exactly which purse he had meant. ‘That purse … I hardly ever use it, Inspector. It’s a prop – it goes with my outfit. I usually leave it in the dressing-room at the club.’

  ‘Empty?’

  ‘But of course,’ she snorted. ‘I don’t exactly like getting up there in front of all those men. Their grins, the catcalls when some of them see me for the first time… Would you, Inspector, if you were me and married to a man you loved very much?’

  ‘Then you were framed?’ said St-Cyr, speaking his thoughts aloud. ‘And my partner and I have been completely fooled.’

  ‘Have you got a cigarette?’ she asked, watching him so closely he dropped his eyes to pat his pockets and fish out a crumpled packet.

  As he lit her cigarette, her eyes found his. Pools of violet innocence, a cross for any man to bear. He hoped Kohler would have better luck but somehow doubted it.

  ‘Are you married, Inspector?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, I’m married.’

  ‘Happily?’

  Was there laughter in her eyes, or the swiftness of cruelty? ‘Exactly how much do you know about me, Mademoiselle Arcuri?’

  She unscrewed the thermos and filled the cap, which she handed to him. ‘Enough to know, Inspector, that your wife has run off.’

  St-Cyr laid the cheese and bread on the knapsack and used his penknife to cut them. ‘I should ask, how is it that you know this, Mademoiselle Arcuri, but,’ he gave another shrug, ‘me, I don’t think you’d tell me the truth.’

  ‘Try me.’

  She had such a nice smile, warm and sensitive and very quick. But was it understanding? Ah, how could one hope for such a thing?

  ‘The General Hans Ackermann?’ he said.

  ‘The Hero of Rovno and Berdichev, the Knight of Krivoy Rog. He telephoned us last night. We’ve been expecting you.’

  ‘Is the general a friend?’

  It was her turn to shrug but she did so with complete innocence. ‘Of a sort, yes. One needs such friends these days, Inspector. Look, it’s nothing sexual so don’t get the wrong idea. My husband’s dead – he was killed at Sedan in 1940 but me, I’m still married to him and intend to stay that way.’

  The coffee was good, not ersatz, and laced with cognac. The cheese was a chèvre crottin, a small circle that had been dusted with dill and chives. Very dry and strong in flavour. Real goat’s cheese, three, maybe four weeks in the ageing.

  The bread was crusty and, with the cheese, a meal. If only there’d been some of the château’s wine. He’d have liked to try it.

  So she
would stay married to a dead man? For love or money or some other reason? ‘Mademoiselle …’

  ‘Why not try calling me by my name? It’s easier.’

  ‘Gabrielle …’

  ‘That’s better. You’ve a son and I’ve one, Inspector, not much older than yours if what the general says is true.’

  He passed her the coffee, turning the cap so that she might drink from the clean side. ‘Lovers kiss and think nothing of it, Inspector, but I appreciate the gesture. A singer has to.’

  ‘Mademoiselle … Look, I want to help.’

  ‘Don’t all cops?’

  ‘Why not tell me exactly what happened? As you see it. Leave nothing out, no matter how insignificant it might seem.’

  ‘Have you been an inspector long?’

  ‘The past seventeen years.’

  ‘And before that?’

  ‘A cop on the beat – Montparnasse and Montmartre. Whores and their pimps, bank robbers and their banks.’

  ‘A chief inspector. And the war?’ she asked suddenly. ‘The first one.’ She had to find out everything she could about him.

  ‘Signals Corps, as a sergeant. I was wounded twice. Once in the thigh, and once in the shoulder. My left side seems to be the vulnerable one.’

  He could laugh at himself, a good sign. ‘Then you’ll understand how we feel about the Germans, Inspector. The sooner they’re gone, the better.’

  ‘Yet General Ackermann is a friend?’

  ‘He’s also a relative. A distant cousin of my mother-in-law.’

  The bushy eyebrows lifted. The coffee was replenished. ‘I didn’t go to Fontainebleau with Yvette, Inspector. When she came back, she was in tears, tearing her hair, wanting to pray and yet so afraid of doing so. She knew the police would accuse her of the murder. She was convinced of this but … but when she found Jérome, he was already dead.’

  St-Cyr asked the obvious. ‘How did she know where to find him?’

  Mademoiselle Arcuri looked away. ‘She found the bicycle first, at the side of the road, and then the body. She tried to “wake him up”. She turned his head so that he’d be comfortable – you can imagine what it must have been like for her. Panic, terror – her brother, for God’s sake! She even placed his arms at his sides – tried to tidy him. Look, I didn’t kill him, Inspector. I swear I didn’t and neither did she.’