Kaleidoscope

by J. Robert Janes

  There were three iron-tipped, wooden bolts in the centre of the target that was over by the far wall. St-Cyr looked anxiously around, said, ‘Mademoiselle, what is this?’

  The house and grounds were still. ‘Ah Nom de Dieu, Hermann, what am I to do?’

  From two to four centimetres separated each bolt in the cluster and all had hit the centre of the target.

  They were not antique but relatively new and with feathered flights, and he had the thought then that whoever had fired them, had had plenty of extras made.

  He took out the Lebel, and turning so as to face the house, gripped the revolver in his right hand.

  Then he started for the place, determined to get things over with as quickly as possible.

  The red Majestic he’d ridden from the weaver’s house on the first visit was leaning against a post in the solarium. Snow clung to its tyres and spokes. She’d made no attempt to clean it off – perhaps she’d wanted him to find the bicycle as it was.

  Her boots rested neatly side by side on the doorstep and she’d even left the inner door to the house open for him. ‘Mademoiselle …’ he began, only to think better of saying anything. She was not in the grand salon, not in the kitchens or in any of the other ground-floor rooms.

  The main staircase was wide, and it went up to two landings, so he could not see the second floor and would have to take things one step at a time. Ah Nom de Jésus-Christ! Why hadn’t he prepared himself better? That nail in the front left tyre; that slow leak. Of course she’d caught the morning’s autobus to Cannes. The ride down from the village could have been accomplished without them being aware of it. A chance, of course, but when one is desperate, chance is all one has.

  She was not in the first of the bedrooms he came to. Not in the second either. He reached the room Angélique Girard had used and found its door slightly open. Hermann, he said. Hermann …

  He gave it a nudge, threw his back to the wall, glancing both into the room and suddenly behind himself, along the hall.

  Silks and satins. A sky-blue slip. White lace underpants on the floor. An oval dressing mirror facing him. The bed unmade, the covers thrown carelessly back as before.

  No sign of anyone. He hesitated, then breathed in quietly and gave a muted sigh of exasperation.

  There was a condom on the floor, grey-white and looking as if a snake had just shed its skin.

  St-Cyr stepped over it, barely missing the wire and clasp of a gold ear-ring. When he reached the French windows, he looked briefly through the lace curtains and down into the gardens.

  As before, he found the target against the far wall, and saw again the bolts that had been fired into it.

  Carlo Buemondi? he asked. Or Jean-Paul Delphane? The front entrance? Had either of them been waiting for her? Was it even Josette-Louise Buemondi? Was it Viviane Darnot? Where was Angélique Girard? Why hadn’t he looked at where the archer had stood this time? Ah damn, he should have.

  Sixty metres and deadly accurate. The ‘mother’ extending the hand and threatening perhaps with the pawn ticket.

  A kaleidoscope. The letters DMXTG.

  They were burying the remains of the child in a corner grave not far from the ruins of the old abbey among which the weaver’s house stood alone. Kohler could see the three of them. Dédou Fratani and one of the men from the garage where they’d off-loaded the butter and eggs; two others – obviously grave-diggers – and, ah yes, the weaver. Viviane Darnot had broken her word and the express wishes of both the Sûreté and the Gestapo, this one anyway. She’d taken one hell of a risk and had followed them back to Cannes and he, in turn, had come after them, though none of them were aware of it.

  Turning from the window, he ran a finger over the harpstrings of the warp on the weaver’s upright loom. He touched a beechwood bobbin, noted that she used them as shuttles. There were nests and singles of them clinging to the warp above the finished cloth. Threads and threads; colours and colours; tonal variations that were superb. Once in a thousand years an artist like this would come along, but the point was, the New Order wouldn’t give a damn. Munk would smash her fingers and break her arms if he felt the slightest need. They’d strip her, kick her and kill her – things often went too far. ‘Don’t let them,’ he said, giving his thoughts aloud. ‘I’d hate to have it on my conscience.’

  Childhood memories of chasing balls of wool across a carpeted floor came to him, but he had no time for them. An ornate iron bed with canopied mosquito screen, armoire, chaise and dressing-table made the bedroom somewhat Spartan, and he saw at a glance that she’d not had much money. Not since her father had lost his wealth in the Stavisky Affair.

  Moving swiftly, Kohler went through the room, ignoring the scent bottles until he found a Roman one, pale green, opalescent and milky just like the one Louis had taken from the cottage.

  It was empty, but immediately he thought of the ruins of the fortress above the village. Shards of Roman glass and bits of pottery picked up on numerous little expeditions – collected by twin girls of age ten or twelve, adults too.

  Photos showed the weaver with them at the ruins. There were shots of several collections, shots of the views from up there, others of the picnics they’d had.

  Then, the girls bathing in that little pond at the cottage and laughing, splashing each other and their mother, their bodies skinny. Chummy shots of the weaver with her arms draped across their shoulders – they had loved her; both of them had. It was easy to see they’d both adored her.

  One of a hike in the mountains – Chamonix, he wondered? Anne-Marie Buemondi must have taken the photo, for a woman’s heavy sweater and alpine boots lay next to them.

  When he came to a photograph of Jean-Paul Delphane, taken perhaps fifteen years ago, Kohler let a breath escape as he pried it from the corner tabs. Uncle Jean-Paul had been written on the back. June 12, 1927. The twins would have been nine years old. ‘For “uncle” write “father”,’ he said, pocketing the thing.

  Still other snapshots were of Ludo Borel and the two girls – herb collecting in the hills and happy faces; others of the weaver and Borel with Madame Buemondi; then some, also, of the herbalist’s eldest son with the twins but there was nothing in the album beyond the age of twelve. Perhaps the photos were elsewhere; perhaps the camera had broken.

  It didn’t take a genius to see mischief in the girls’ eyes, but which of them had been the more daring? Both looked like imps and lots of fun, so perhaps it did not matter who had dared the other to get Alain Borel to spy on those two women as they made love. Ah yes.

  There were photos of the weaver and Anne-Marie that had obviously been snapped by inexperienced hands, i.e. those same two girls. In one photograph, the weaver playfully leaned her head against her lover’s chest. In another, unknown to them at the time, one of the girls had caught them kissing; in another they were holding hands.

  Again he had the thought that everything had stopped at the age of twelve.

  Rifling through an Empire-style desk that had obviously been bought at a flea market, he found her cheque stubs – books and books of them. Cheques drawn on the main branch of Barclay’s Bank in London. Lombard Street.

  £700 to a Monsieur Isaac Kelmann, dated 13 September 1942. This from a woman who had no money or had not been able to get it out of Britain in time?

  £500 to a Mademoiselle Judith Lund, 8 August 1942.

  He chose another bundle, dropped the first and quickly pocketed it. £1500 to a Meyer Biederfeld, 24 November 1941.

  Not all of the cheques had been made out to Jews. The weaver had been working a currency fiddle. Occupation francs in exchange for pounds sterling to be paid out of her account after the war or if and when the person managed to escape. The wealthy, fleeing to the south, had realized their money would be worthless if taken out of the country, and so had dealt it off in hopes of better times. At anywhere between 600 and 1000 francs to the pound sterling it was not much of a deal, but better that than nothing, yet quite obviously she’d never
spent a sou of it on herself. She’d been a damned fool to have kept the stubs. By just such little things were people caught.

  There’d been cheque stubs, too, in the Stavisky Affair but fortunately for those in positions of power and trust, some enterprising cop in the Sûreté had got to them and they had vanished. Pierre Bonny, now of the French Gestapo and the rue Lauriston. You’d think she’d have learned her lesson and burned them!

  ‘Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  Her voice grated. Kohler realized he hadn’t heard her come into the house or up the stairs, that he’d been too caught up in things, a bad sign. ‘Maybe you’d better tell me, mademoiselle.’ He indicated the stubs. Flustered, she pulled off her hat and gloves and tossed them on to a chair.

  ‘Those are none of your business. They’ve got nothing to do with … with things.’

  She began to unhook the cloak – couldn’t have kept her fingers still; glanced down at the carpet to avoid his scrutiny. Said, ‘Ah merde, look what you’ve made me do.’

  Mud and snow had been tracked in on her boots. She dragged them off and found a towel on which to set them.

  Undoing the last of the hooks, she removed the cloak but stood there with it in one hand, unable suddenly to think.

  He indicated the stubs and said a little sadly, ‘The only reason you haven’t been picked up is that Delphane still hasn’t blown the whistle on you. I can only surmise that he wanted Louis and me to find these, so you’d better tell me about them, mademoiselle, and while you’re at it, give me the identity of that child you just buried.’

  Agitated, she glanced uncertainly at the cloak, still not knowing quite what to do with it. ‘Have you got a cigarette?’ she asked. ‘Look, I haven’t used them in years but …’ She gave a shrug. ‘Ah, forget it. Most of you men these days are far too miserly. I shouldn’t have asked.’

  She went over to the bed and laid the cloak on it, said, ‘It’s so cold in this place.’ She’d get no sympathy from him; she’d have to tell him something. ‘The remains are those of Ludo’s eldest daughter, Thérèse. She died of influenza in the winter of 1930, at the age of twelve. It … it was the same year Josianne-Michèle contracted epilepsy.’

  Kohler wanted to say, How very convenient, but let it pass. He found his cigarettes and lighting two of them, passed one to her.

  ‘Merci,’ she whispered. Taking a drag, she filled her lungs and held the smoke in, a pause. ‘Look, everyone in the village has to give up the remains of a loved one. It’s that simple, don’t you understand? They draw lots, for God’s sake! The abbé makes sure no one cheats. It was Ludo’s turn, that’s all. None of it’s fair, is it?’

  ‘None of the war? No. No, of course not. But why leave the comparative safety of the cottage to follow us to Cannes when told not to?’

  There was nothing in his eyes but emptiness. ‘It is my responsibility to see that the remains are properly and unobtrusively reinterred, and that the positions of all the graves are recorded so that after … Well, after you people …’ Ah merde, why had she said it? ‘After this war is over, monsieur, the remains may be returned to the village where they belong. If I am not here to pay off the grave-diggers and see that the custodian turns a blind eye and signs the papers and the register, no one else can. Me, they accept because they have known me a long time.’

  That was fair enough. ‘And Josette-Louise?’ he asked.

  ‘Will stay at the cottage. Ludo will make sure of that.’

  ‘Borel, yes. It must be hell not having water rights, especially at a time like this.’

  The weaver stubbed out her half-finished cigarette but, as was the custom these days, saved what was left for another time. ‘Ludo didn’t kill Anne-Marie, Inspector. He was only too well aware of how much she meant to me. He is also my very dear friend and most valued associate.’

  ‘But you’d lost her to another?’

  ‘To Angélique, yes. Oh, you needn’t think you’re on to something, monsieur. Ludo knew very well what Anne-Marie was like. This one, that one … but through it all, there was myself and me, I remained steadfast. Ludo respects that in a person. He always has and unlike others in that village, he does not judge me beyond the sincerity of my commitment to my lover and my work.’

  She turned from him, but was undecided which way to go. Kohler saw her toss a hand and give a shrug. ‘Besides, Inspector, he and the rest of the village needed her and now … now must somehow pick up the strings.’

  ‘The threads,’ he said. ‘From you, threads would sound better.’

  So, he didn’t believe her, was that it then? She bowed her head, a spill of raven hair across shoulders that would still be too proud for him, ah yes, but would they make his voice gentle?

  ‘Mademoiselle Viviane, if my partner hadn’t found Josette-Louise in Paris, Jean-Paul Delphane would have silenced her. Why not tell me about the money?’

  Still she would not turn to face him. ‘Because I can’t tell you, Inspector. Not now. Maybe never.’

  ‘Was he the father of those two girls?’

  ‘How dare you?’

  ‘I dare because I must. I’ve seen too many witnesses who should have spoken out when asked.’

  ‘Then why would he wish to kill his daughter, eh? Pah! If you’re so intelligent, answer me that!’

  There were tears in her lovely eyes and she could barely keep herself together.

  ‘He’s desperate, mademoiselle. Jean-Paul Delphane is on the run and I think you know exactly why.’

  ‘Then I have nothing more to say to you!’ She started for the hall. Kohler grabbed her by the arm.

  ‘You can’t stay here,’ he said.

  ‘Am I under arrest? Is that it, eh? Come, come, Inspector, make the decision!’

  ‘Yes, yes, then, you’re under arrest. You are charged with the murder of Madame Anne-Marie Buemondi, mademoiselle, and with illegally dealing in a foreign currency, namely that of the enemy.’

  ‘Please, you don’t understand. No one really will. It wasn’t me.’

  He let go of her and she went to gather her things. On the way past the room she used as a private studio, she paused to take a last look at her weaving. ‘I want so much to finish it,’ she said – he’d never understand how an artist could ache to finish something; would never know why else it was important to her. ‘This, it was something special.’

  ‘Was it for Josette-Louise?’

  Hurriedly she wiped her eyes. ‘Yes. Yes, as a matter of fact it was.’

  ‘Not for Josianne-Michèle?’

  The weaver hesitated – it could not be helped. ‘No, not for her, Inspector. Josianne-Michèle loathes the touch of my weaving, but me, I have lived long enough to know I cannot please everyone.’

  ‘Was she jealous of the time it took you away from them?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Children … they can be … Well,’ she shrugged, ‘unreasonable sometimes.’ Ah damn. Children … why had she said that?

  ‘Come on then. My partner will be busy at the villa. We’d best find Buemondi and have a few words with him.’

  The villa …? Ah no. ‘Carlo?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, yes, Buemondi.’

  ‘He killed her. I know he did. He can shoot that thing of his better than any of us.’

  There were perhaps thirty rooms in the Villa of the Golden Oracle and in nearly every one, there were gorgeous things but still not a glimpse of its elusive occupant. Oh for sure, there had been the sudden rush of stockinged feet up a narrow staircase to the attic; open French windows behind drapes that had reached to the floor in a library that was magnificent. The chilliness of the air as he had stepped outside a moment; in the bathroom upstairs, the faint after-scent of a delicate perfume he had had no time to identify. Boots that had been so carefully removed and left on the doorstep. The coldness of a kitchen stove. Mirrors … mirrors; paintings … paintings; pearls, black opals and diamonds spilling from a jewel case whose rifling had been interrupted, ah yes. Nom d
e Dieu! Had he come upon a robbery?

  St-Cyr suppressed the urge to cry out, I’m here, damn you! Come and get me. He did not want to have to shoot her, was still uncertain if she meant to fire that thing at him. Thought again of the condom on the floor in that bedroom, said, Sex, eh? Sex before the killing?

  He reached the first staircase to the attic again, this time deciding to go up it and not wait for her to venture down the other staircase. One step was placed ahead of the last. There was a railing. He ignored it and cocked the Lebel, said silently, Mademoiselle, please don’t do this to me.

  Just when he realized she had trapped him was not certain. He did not hear her on the floor below. The bolt, when it came, gave a sudden rush of air, splintering the door at the top of the stairs!

  He fired once. The girl dropped the crossbow and began cautiously to raise her hands. ‘Monsieur, I …’ She lost her voice and tried frantically to get it back. ‘Monsieur, I … I have not thought it was you. Please, you must understand I hunted another. My father … I thought he had returned to kill me.’

  It was Josianne-Michèle. As before, the trousers were too big; her belt, that of a man; the heavy shirt and sweater also.

  Gingerly St-Cyr went down to her. She was very pale and badly shaken. ‘Please, I would not have wished to kill you,’ she said softly. ‘At the very last moment, I jerked the crossbow away. Ah, it was enough to have saved you! Forgive me.’

  She went down on her knees like a stone before him – trembling, shaking so hard, he panicked at the thought of her succumbing to another epileptic fit. But that didn’t come on and at last he was able to say, ‘Please pick up the crossbow for me, mademoiselle. I could so easily have killed you. The second of two mistakes rectified only at the last moment also.’

  They were both well aware of what they might have done. ‘Why did you kill your mother?’ he asked.

  She sought no defence in tears, was far too agitated and still in shock. ‘I didn’t! Me, I have found the crossbow in the grand salon beside the fireplace where it has always been kept until recently.’