Mayhem

by J. Robert Janes

  There was the shrug of the unconvinced and then the woeful eyes of the same. ‘If not you or she, then who?’

  ‘One of the monks, I think.’

  ‘One of the monks?’

  Was it so incredible a thought? ‘Jérome hated the seminary. He was always getting into trouble – that’s why Yvette had to ask for time off and why I let her go home to look after things. If you ask me, Inspector, I think he spied on the other monks and when he threatened to expose them, one of them killed him.’

  ‘In Fontainebleau Woods?’

  ‘Yes. Isn’t that a good place for murders? I’m always reading about them in the papers.’

  Never mind the necessity for a car – they went on bicycles perhaps. Never mind that there were plenty of closer and far better places, or that there’d been a diary in her purse, a record of liaisons and little tête-à-têtes.

  St-Cyr finished the coffee and wrapped up the last of the cheese. ‘For now we will let it be, Mademoiselle Arcuri. Your revolver is safe from prying Gestapo eyes but I would like the return of mine. And if I were you, I’d put that shotgun safely away.’

  ‘You’re angry with me.’

  Was that a pout? ‘A little, yes. Me, I had thought we might be square with one another since neither of us particularly likes the Germans.’

  ‘But your partner’s a German?’

  ‘War throws the strangest people together. Don’t be fooled by him. He’s far cleverer than he lets on. It’s a way with him. Munich and then Berlin, now Paris Central. A damned good cop.’

  And a warning? she wondered. ‘I didn’t kill Jérome, Inspector, and I wouldn’t have killed Yvette. I chased after her, yes, but when I got there, she … she’d already been killed.’

  No mention of the diary yet or of how she had known where to look. ‘So now it’s a time for some thought, eh? And a few tears. You can reach me at the Sûreté, number 11, the rue de Saussaies.’

  Must he be so tough about it, so obviously disappointed in her? ‘Look, if it means anything, Inspector, I hope your wife comes back.’

  ‘So do I.’

  Dwarfed by the courtyard and the enclosing walls of the château, Kohler stood waiting beside the car. He would leave the keys in the blasted ignition! A lousy habit the General Ackermann had been quick to take advantage of.

  And waiting on generals – any of them – had always been a bind.

  He glanced at his watch only to see that the time – now 11.18 a.m. – had advanced a mere three minutes since the last look.

  Ackermann was letting him cool his heels. Perhaps he and the countess were having a good laugh about it. More likely the general had simply said, My dear, please allow me to deal with this.

  Ah yes, you son-of-a-bitch!

  Surprisingly there was no flagpole in the centre of the courtyard. If there had been, he’d have stood under it just for old times’ sake. Parade grounds and all that garbage!

  When Ackermann, less his greatcoat, gloves and cap, stormed out of the château, the bastard walked so swiftly he threw the fear of God into one, and wasn’t it a marvel how generals could walk?

  ‘Your marching orders have been moved up, Kohler. If I were you, I’d return to Paris and pack your bags.’

  He’d been on the phone to Boemelburg and to Berlin. Kohler knew he ought to shut up but this Prussian flame thrower with the hard eyes, this hero of whatever, had got under his skin.

  ‘General, neither you nor Herr Himmler will stop us from finding out who murdered that boy. I may be Gestapo, but long before that I was a cop. I always have been and I always will be.’

  Slim, tall, straight at attention – a ramrod – Ackermann longed for his gloves. He’d have struck this bastard gumshoe across the face for such insolence! ‘Pretty speeches will do you no good, Kohler. Your revised orders are being signed by the Führer himself.’

  Oh-oh. ‘Spare me the invincibility of our illustrious Führer, General. When von Schaumburg hears what I have to say, not even the Führer will put a stop to our investigation.’

  Ackermann sized him up. ‘How dare you …?’

  The scars were twisted, the half-eaten nostril flared. There were furrows and gouges in the withered cheek.

  ‘I dare, General, because that’s my business. Now go and mesh heads with your lady friend but remember, please, she’s a suspect and so are you.’

  Ackermann swung. Kohler’s hand flashed out to grab the withered wrist. ‘You incompetent lout!’ shrieked Ackermann. ‘I’ll see you’re dealt with!’

  The Bavarian released the wrist. ‘I’m going, General, but I’ll be back, and when the questions start coming, I’ll expect your fullest co-operation or else.’

  ‘Get out of here.’

  Kohler nodded. ‘As soon as you give me the keys.’

  Ackermann sucked in a breath. ‘Try looking in that drain. I’m sure you’ll find the keys if you do.’

  No one can turn on his heels quite like a Prussian. Kohler swore under his breath. The general reached the drive which ran in front of the main entrance. A servant, a butler – a broken-down retainer, God knows what the French called them – came out with his coat and things.

  The countess came to say goodbye. As they shook hands, she glanced across the grounds towards him.

  Then the general left sedately, the Daimler purring past the Citroën, and the lady started towards him.

  ‘You mustn’t mind the general, Captain Kohler. Our Hans is not himself these days.’

  The keys were in the palm of her outstretched hand.

  Lamely Kohler shrugged. ‘I never did get on with generals, Countess. That one’s only worse than most.’

  ‘Louis, did the general do it?’

  ‘I don’t know, Hermann.’

  ‘He’s showing all the signs but making such a mess of it.’

  ‘Murderers often do.’

  ‘Not when you’ve had tanks and flame throwers at your command. No, my friend, Ackermann is deliberately being stupid so as to take the heat off someone else.’

  ‘The countess?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Not our chanteuse, our mirage?’

  Kohler finished his cigarette and flicked the butt out of the car window towards the ChâTeau Thériault that lay above the woods on the other side of the river. ‘You’ve not fallen for the woman, have you, Louis?’

  ‘Me, ah no, of course not. Traces of sympathy, yes, Hermann. I’d like to think her innocent. But no, such feelings won’t interfere with the course of justice.’

  ‘Let’s go and have a word with the monks. It’ll fill out the reports and give Pharand and Boemelburg something to chew on.’

  ‘I wish I knew who wrote that little diary and who had the meetings. I’m not at all certain they are one and the same, Hermann. I didn’t get a chance to ask Mademoiselle Arcuri, but she denied leaving her purse, so someone else must have planted it.’

  ‘Or she’s lying, Louis, and those violet bedroom eyes have got to your brains which have sunk to your balls.’

  St-Cyr heaved a sigh. By all accounts, it had been quite a morning. ‘In another time but not in another place, me, I would have to agree with you, Hermann, but are we seeing the truth or is she but the mirage she is forced to play out?’

  Kohler switched on the ignition. As he eased the car on to the road, he said, ‘When we get back to Paris, I’m going to have to settle things with von Schaumburg. It’s our only chance.’

  ‘You don’t need to apologize, Hermann. I quite understand.’

  ‘Good, because the fur is going to fly!’

  The road to the Abbey of St Gregory the Great seemed to take for ever. It wound up into the tufa hills behind the terraced village of Vouvray, before angling off to the west. Each ridge led down into another valley. It was all the same. Second gear half the time. Goats, barren trees, distant watchful, isolated, cowled monks who exuded only suspicion as they worked the soil or tended their flocks.

  Then an old stone bridge fit only for
a cart and horse. Narrow – Jesus, it was pinched.

  The arches beneath the bridge leapt from a ragged gorge.

  Kohler drew the car to a stop. The engine ticked as he hunched over the steering wheel, looking across the bridge and up the winding Roman road to the abbey.

  Beehives lay beneath the naked branches of an orchard. Rows and rows of vines reminded him of the military graves in Belgium.

  ‘Louis, this place … It gives me the creeps. Gott in Himmel, were the monks afraid of something?’

  ‘They built to last, Hermann, and in the twelfth century, they had plenty to fear.’

  The place was stark – right on a hilltop. A massive turret of bleached stone, whose portals stared out and down at all visitors, was surmounted by a cake of low-roofed stone buildings and capped by a square bell tower that could only be described as brutal.

  ‘Then those monks knew what they were doing,’ said Kohler, easing his crotch. A pinched testicle again. Son-of-a-bitch! ‘Ah, this underwear of mine, Louis! It’s like a novice whore’s first touch.’

  The door burst open. He winced as he eased himself out of the car. ‘That left ball of mine, it’s never been right since the war. Swelled up ten times its proper size – did I ever tell you, Louis? An infection … a cold in the balls from all that mud.’

  ‘A thousand times,’ said St-Cyr.

  ‘Like a Corsican lemon. Hard as a walnut,’ went on Kohler. ‘One squirt, Louis. God but it …’

  The tall black wooden cross above the bell tower drew their attention. ‘We’re being watched,’ said St-Cyr. ‘The Benedictines’ bush telegraph is at work.’

  ‘Shall we leave the shooters?’

  ‘It’s not necessary. They’ll expect them. Please remember my car keys, though.’

  Kohler tugged at his trousers to ease the underwear down. ‘Never mind the bullshit, Louis. I won’t forget them again. You can bet your last sou on that.’

  ‘Good!’ St-Cyr looked up at the rustic signboard that stood beside the bridge. ‘They raise mushrooms, make goats’ cheese, sell the wine they produce and the honey. Perhaps we can stock up, eh?’

  ‘Personally, I can’t see us lugging a couple of sacks of clinking bottles down that road. Come on, let’s get on with it. We’re lucky it isn’t raining, that’s all I can say.’

  The abbey was perhaps a kilometre from where they had been forced to leave the car. From time to time they paused to look back. Monks pruned the vines. The last of the harvest was in. Some tilled the soil, others tightened the wires along which the vines had been trained, or replaced the stout wooden posts. No idleness, of course. Five … perhaps six or even seven hours of manual labour a day. Cold bare hands, raw splits in the knuckles. Cold rooms. No heat but God’s and vesper candles.

  The road wound beneath the tower. As yet the gate was out of sight.

  Then there was the Loire in the distance below them across innumerable rows of vines and shelving terraces.

  ‘Château Thériault, Louis. Gabrielle Arcuri could have told you how close this place was to it.’

  ‘It’s not in her nature to have warned us, Hermann. After all, we’re not exactly on the same side, eh?’

  The low stone walls of the abbey’s vineyards ran downhill towards those of the Domaine Thériault. Woods, stony patches of pasture, a stream, two apple orchards, a road … all these things they took in.

  ‘Would she be a friend of the abbot, I wonder?’ commented Kohler. ‘If so, Louis, we’ll never pull that woman in if we have to and neither will the Resistance.’

  Everywhere they looked there were potential hiding places and routes of escape.

  St-Cyr yanked on the heavy iron chain. A distant bell thudded in cloistered warrens. An eternity passed before the bolts clashed and at last the iron-studded door was eased open.

  A silent rock of ages with bright, mischievous eyes, stooped shoulders and a toothless grin motioned them in as if in secret.

  The House-guest Brother.

  ‘It’s a day for silence, messieurs. Our humble apologies but none are allowed to speak until after the service at midnight.’

  His eyes lit up at the prospect of such a late service. Kohler simply lost patience. ‘Gestapo, you ancient fart! Take us to the abbot and I’ll show you the worth of your “vow” of silence! We’re on a murder case.’

  The mischievousness disappeared. Brother Andrew calmly studied this German as if such a thing had never been seen before. Without another word, he beckoned them to follow. He even left the door wide open. Perhaps it was too heavy.

  An easy exit? wondered St-Cyr, glancing sternly at Kohler before saying, ‘Hermann, I think you’d better leave this to me.’

  ‘My patience is gone, Louis. Half those bastards in the fields are of military age, and most of that half are in their twenties.’

  ‘Why else would France have lost the war? If not at the breast then at the prayers, eh? A nation of shits, Hermann. I don’t like it any better than you.’

  All this, of course, the monk overheard.

  Columned cloisters led to others and others. Open portals let in all weathers and the wind up here sighed as their steps echoed.

  They passed a scriptorium where monks diligently copied centuries-old writings or made fervent little notes to themselves on scraps of paper – odd bits of old envelopes, the backs of letters from home.

  They crossed the main dining hall beneath arched beams and carved stones. The heavy, dark oak tables and their benches were the original ones. Kohler would swear to it.

  Great black iron rings on heavy chains held candles that hung from the ceiling but how the hell could they possibly light the things? They were way up there among the gods.

  Down a narrow passage, now thoroughly lost, they came to a black oak door upon which a fierce and much-bearded Adam held the gnarled club of a branch in one fist and a shield in the other. Some poor bugger’s head was clutched by the hair. Now what the hell … had that been in the Good Book?

  The corridor resounded to the banging the monk gave the door. A slot shot into place – black letters on white wood: BUSY.

  Nothing else.

  The monk indicated two narrow benches. You must wait, he motioned, touching his lips in the gesture of silence.

  Kohler stepped past him and tried the door. ‘It’s bolted. He’s busy,’ whispered Brother Andrew. ‘I must leave you now, messieurs. May God forgive me for speaking on this holy of holy days.’

  His departing figure fluttered down the draughty passage. Sandals and bare feet … Jesus Christ! ‘They’ve got us right where they want us, Louis. So, why the cold shoulder, eh?’

  ‘Because of this, I think, Hermann. Did you not notice them?’

  Kohler looked at the fist-sized boulder St-Cyr placed in his hand. ‘Flint,’ he heard himself saying. ‘A brownish, off-white, cream-coloured flint.’

  The Bavarian lifted questioning eyes to his partner.

  St-Cyr fished out his pipe. Hermann needed a little time – one must not appear too intelligent.

  He lit up, got the furnace going, then ran his eyes over the Adam and Eve. Such differences the progress of civilization had made in the perception of those two. They were very savage, very Germanic-looking. At war with the world.

  ‘The boulder that killed the boy, Hermann. I should have seen it. It was stupid of me not to have.’

  ‘A hunk of flint like this?’ asked the Bavarian incredulously.

  The Frenchman nodded. ‘At the time, I thought nothing of it – river transport, glaciers – gravel from somewhere. It comes from many places when it’s spread along a road. But I have to admit, Fontainebleau Woods is blessed with much dark brown and grey sandstone. That boulder came from here.’

  The rheumy, sad dog’s eyes lifted in their pouches. ‘Louis, just what the hell have we got ourselves into this time?’

  St-Cyr savoured the moment. Crime never ceased to fascinate him. ‘We have a real murder on our hands, Hermann. What was once apparently so simp
le has now become a quite different matter.’

  ‘Then you no longer think we had it pegged?’

  ‘Far from it. No, my friend, we are almost certainly going to be forced to strip back the layers of the fungus, teasing out each slender thread until we have unravelled the whole thing.’

  Louis loved nothing better than a good case but … ‘I only hope von Schaumburg will listen.’ Glotz … there was also the problem of Brother Glotz to contend with, and Boemelburg, of course.

  ‘Von Schaumburg will listen, Hermann. It’s the Resistance that bothers me.’

  ‘They won’t have sent you a little black coffin, Louis.’

  ‘Me, I’m afraid that is just what they’ve done.’

  ‘The flint is what gives our wine its noble flavour, messieurs,’ said the Reverend Father, gazing sadly at the boulder the French detective had plunked down in the middle of his desk.

  St-Cyr knew the business of the boulder was still very much a gamble but a little emphasis wouldn’t hurt, and as for the vows of silence, the boulder had shattered them. ‘It’s what led us to your abbey, Reverend Father. That and my humble knowledge of the Vouvray, that greatest of the Loire wines, next to the Anjou of course.’

  The Anjou … pah! ‘Our silicious clay, Inspector – the perruches – produces a delicate wine, very light, you understand, but exceedingly noble, whereas the aubuis, our other clay, has much limestone in it. The fruity flavour of its grape is therefore very piquant and the wine a good keeper. We do not blend them. The one cancels the other, but I suppose you know all this?’

  The abbot searched the faces of the two men. He must be careful. God grant him the grace and wisdom to deal with the matter. So much was at stake. The boulder had come from the perruches on the hillside below the abbey but had the one which had killed the boy also come from there?

  ‘Brother Michael was the Novice Jérome’s mentor. You will. want to talk to him, Inspectors, and I must release him from his vow of silence.’

  The heave of his robust shoulders was one of, You see what a man of the cloth has to do? ‘Our Lady Scholastica, messieurs. The brothers are always having their little visitations. Ever since this past summer, in the heat of August. First one dreams of her and then another. All plead for a day’s silence and me, I can see that it can do no harm to allow them a certain penance.’