Ah Nom de Dieu, was she lying? ‘When did you get here?’
Was he to be her judge? ‘Two days ago. Two days of trying to keep myself awake knowing he might come for me.’
‘Then who was it made love in Angélique Girard’s bedroom? Come, come, mademoiselle, I saw the evidence. Recent, so recent they can only have left the house as I entered the grounds by the back gate.’
The tears began – perhaps it was the sudden realization of what she’d almost done; perhaps the bitterness of what she’d found.
‘Angélique and my father, Carlo Buemondi. He was rutting at her like a boar in heat, monsieur, while that one cried out her thirst for more.’
‘Then he hadn’t come to kill you, had he?’
Why must he look at her the way he did? ‘No. No, he hadn’t come to kill me.’
St-Cyr fingered the polished ironwood of the crossbow’s stock. The thing was heavy but quite portable. She could have carried it in a rucksack. The arms of the windlass that pulled the powerful bowstring back had been detached. These could also be in that same rucksack. He’d seen it in the kitchen on the floor beside the stove. Ah yes. Merde!
‘Was your father the one to put the crossbow back where it belonged?’ he asked, and when she didn’t answer, he said, ‘Mademoiselle, you were hunting a man you believed would kill you, isn’t that correct?’ He dropped his voice to a gentleness she could only find unsettling. ‘You were very good at it, Mademoiselle Buemondi. In all my days as a detective, and there have been many of them, only once have I found myself pitted against someone like yourself.’
It was not praise; it was a warning. ‘My father put it back,’ she said, proudly facing him, ‘or Angélique. Me, I really do not know which of them did, Inspector. They are in it together. They both wanted mother to sell this place but she had refused absolutely to even discuss it.’
St-Cyr gave her a moment. She wiped her nose with the back of a hand – he knew he ought to get her something to drink, ought to let her sit down, but he could not do so. Not yet. No, someone … someone … Ah Nom de Jésus-Christ! Had he missed it completely? Had there been someone else in the house? The girl hunting for himself, the other one waiting … always waiting for the inevitable to happen. One dead Sûreté!
Nervously he glanced along the corridor past her, then back over a shoulder. No one. Nothing. Antiques everywhere, porcelains, Old Masters … exquisite paintings. The bric-à-brac of the wealthy. ‘Then if it was not them, mademoiselle, that you thought had come to kill you, who was it?’
She must return his gaze measure for measure. ‘The Inspector Jean-Paul Delphane. The one from Bayonne.’
In room by room the house flew across the screen of the cinematographer’s brain. He saw the bathroom with its copper tub that was flanged and had such a patina of age about it, saw the jewel case open in Madame Buemondi’s room, its spill of baubles interrupted – yes, yes. Angélique Girard had been about to plunder the place for herself.
He saw Carlo Buemondi as Hermann had described him, a walrus in mud rutting at the naked girl because he had found her stealing – yes, stealing!
‘Where is she?’ he gasped, still lost to the screen of his mind. ‘Where are they now, mademoiselle?’
Her shrug was instinctive and irritating. Immediately she was apologetic. ‘I watched them leave the house together, monsieur. It … it was then that I discovered the crossbow had been returned.’
Oh, is that so? he wanted to shout, but the camera of memory revealed the library’s drapes, the open French windows behind them and … and yes, footprints in the snow – not this girl’s. Not this girl’s.
Gripping her by the arm, St-Cyr propelled her swiftly along the hall and into Anne-Marie Buemondi’s bedroom. Delphane? he demanded of himself, his gaze racing over twin armoires to touch briefly on the canopied bed, the bureau with its mirror, a round table in front of the windows, chairs … a settee …‘Here … is he still here?’ he asked. And setting the crossbow down lightly on the coverlet, took out his revolver again.
They waited. There was little time. Already the day was coming to a close. He did not want to be in the house after dark.
‘Josianne-Michèle, you did not come here two days ago. Your tracks in the snow are far too fresh. Your boots are still wet.’
The crossbow, it was so dark; the oil of ages had been absorbed into its wood. Beaten silverwork was all along the stock and her father, he had been proud of it. She thought of her sister, of how she herself had always been his favourite, saw herself naked on the table in his studio, felt the Vaseline on his hands as he had covered her body with it and then had made a plaster cast of her. The masks also. The vessel of her virginity.
‘Mademoiselle, please! You must tell me. That man, the Inspector Delphane, wants to kill me and unless we are both very mistaken, yourself also.’
It was no use. She’d have to tell him, but was the one from Bayonne still in the house? Had she been so intent on this one, and he on her, they had both missed his presence?
‘I got here very early this morning. Me, I passed right by the cottage and saw you all asleep, my sister and Viviane on the bed together. I went first to Viviane’s house to borrow a bicycle, then came here to find Angélique still asleep. I thought I’d see what she’d do, because by then I knew she had been into mother’s jewel case, though she had not taken anything. Perhaps she was still struggling with her conscience. This I do not know, only that mother must have shown the things to her lots of times.’
St-Cyr signalled to her to keep talking. Cautiously he approached the closer of the two armoires, tall, beautifully carved pieces … Chamonix? he asked. Is it to be just like Chamonix, Jean-Paul? Just like that dressing-room at Les Naturistes, eh?
‘My father came to the house at around eleven this morning and they … they made love. She was so eager for him, monsieur. It … it is hard for me to have to say it, especially as she was also my mother’s latest lover.’
‘And the Inspector Delphane?’ he asked.
She swallowed. ‘After my father had given Angélique her archery lesson, I found the bow in the grand salon and realized that someone else had come into the house but had not let them know of his presence. The crossbow was not exactly where my father would have left it, Inspector, so I knew that someone must have moved it.’
There was no one in the armoire. Just dresses and more of them. He nodded for the girl to continue. ‘They had a little something to eat, Inspector, then Angélique went upstairs and my father, he has followed her into this room. Together they went through mother’s jewel case. Angélique wanted the diamonds; my father chided her and said she would have to wait, that soon she could have whatever she wanted.’
The second armoire also held no one. St-Cyr gave an exasperated sigh. Beneath a richly gilded mirror there was an escritoire whose hinged lid was open, revealing the many compartments. Had either of those two, or both of them, gone through the woman’s desk? Had they been searching for something, only to have their search interrupted by some sound?
‘There is a wall safe, Inspector, behind that painting of the pomegranates by Courbet.’
Apples and Anjou pears as well as opened and uncut pomegranates and raspberry leaves. The painting was magnificent, the depth of colours so real he wished for time to examine it, but knew there was none.
‘Its frame was tilted to one side, Inspector. I straightened it.’
‘Does your father know the combination?’ he asked desperately. Delphane was still somewhere very close. He felt it, was terrified of it and yet … yet could find no other place for that one to hide.
‘Only mother knew the combination, Inspector. Not Viviane or Josette-Louise or myself, not my father either. She kept all such things to herself and carefully hidden.’
‘Then the Germans will have to blow it,’ he said more loudly than necessary. ‘We will leave while it is still light, mademoiselle. Perhaps it would be best for you to close up your mother’s jewel case and hid
e it under the bed.’
That didn’t work either. There was no one else in the room yet he swore there must be. It was uncanny this feeling. It was more than a sixth sense. It was an uncomfortable realization of one’s vulnerability and a bond that went right back to Chamonix, yes, but had recently been present in that dressing-room at Les Naturistes. A knowing that his presence was very near.
Then suddenly the feeling was gone and he knew Jean-Paul had left the house.
Josianne-Michèle sat on the edge of her mother’s bed, silently watching as he examined the wall safe. He would turn the dial to the right, listening for the tumblers to fall into place; then, exasperated by his inability to hear them, he would turn the dial to the left and back again.
‘Mother kept something in the safe for Viviane,’ she said, letting him catch the note of sadness in her voice. ‘Viv wanted the combination desperately, Inspector. She was frantic for it and begged mother several times, all to no avail.’
‘Then Madame Buemondi came out to see you on her birthday?’ he asked.
‘Yes, only … only someone killed her.’
He found the girl unable to take her eyes from the crossbow. He saw her reach out to it in uncertainty only to withdraw her hand at the last moment. ‘How many spare bolts are there?’ he asked.
‘Six,’ she said, not looking across the room at him. ‘Six and the one that is in the attic door.’
He went back to the safe. Now he worked in earnest and she could not understand what she’d said to make him do so. But then he gave a sigh of triumph. ‘Voilà,’ he said. ‘There, it’s open.’
Pleased with himself, St-Cyr turned towards her only to find the girl and the crossbow had vanished. ‘Hermann,’ he gasped anxiously. ‘Hermann, what have I done?’
Carlo Buemondi’s studio made one feel uncomfortable. Body casts and masks in plaster and papier-mâché crowded the walls, were piled into the corners or hung suspended by wires from the ceiling. Stark-white, bone-white, often chillingly coloured and patterned in the face, they stared at one or slowly turned as stray draughts caressed them. And everywhere there were his lithographs in orange, in black or brown or red and yellow and green – penises, full erections, hairy lips that were parted, knees up or down; eyes that darted, tongues that licked, teeth, ears, breasts of all sizes and shapes, buttocks and anuses too. All in pieces, all broken as if by a demented child, then often broken again. The drawings first – merde! had he drawn them that way? – and then, when overprinted, the casts themselves.
One recent creation without a head lay smashed to smithereens on a bed of loose sand among cluttered work tables and the tubs of water, bags of plaster and piles of handmade paper. It was obvious Buemondi would pause from time to time, puffing on a cigarette or wiping plaster from himself, to rearrange the pieces. Art evolved that way. Every day the arrangement would cast some new light that could only be satisfied if a piece or two were moved.
No lover of the avant-garde, Kohler grumbled, ‘He’s sick. What’s he do? Get his students to throb their erections while he tries to draw them or lathers some sweet young thing with goo?’
He picked up an open jar of petroleum jelly and wondered how Buemondi had come by the stuff in such hard times. No one could possibly want to buy any of his creations, could they?
The weaver summed things up. ‘Carlo thinks he’s clever, Inspector, and he has the ego of a goat. There is this thing about his “work”. Thinking it controversial, he tries to draw out the snail of suppressed sexuality and nail the flesh of it up for all of us to see, but the man’s a charlatan. Neither master of drawing in a medium where skill is demanded, nor anywhere near one of sculpting – how could he be? He hasn’t a ghost of an idea of what art is all about. He’s simply a phony.’
On another bed of sand two female casts lay smashed to pieces, and Kohler thought he knew whence some of the weaver’s feelings came.
‘Has he always rebelled at the thought of his wife having female lovers?’ he asked.
‘Wouldn’t you?’ she demanded hotly.
She had a point but didn’t stop there. Soon she was rooting through things in a far corner, raising clouds of dust into the greying light.
‘There!’ she said at last. ‘Look at this one.’
It was the shell of a girl of ten or twelve. Completely blank. Just bone-white and with no head. ‘Now that one,’ she said. ‘No, no, Inspector, the one that’s hanging upside-down from that wire.’
Ah Jesus, Jesus. Kohler wet his throat. Overprinted on the plaster shell were the masks of so many faces. Some leered, others lusted; some grinned or simply stared blankly from among the full and half-erections or patches of flaccid limpness.
‘That … that is Josianne-Michèle,’ she said, turning suddenly away. ‘When she was at the age of twelve, he raped her here in this … this barn he calls a “studio”. But children do not tell us of such things, Inspector. Besides, she was his favourite and she did not want to bring trouble to him, poor thing. My poor Josianne. Ah God, God forgive me for not seeing it soon enough.’
Her head was bowed, the face covered by a hand. Kohler went to hold her by the shoulders but she shrugged him off. ‘Don’t!’ she said. ‘Please don’t. I’d only scream. I cannot bear the touch of a man, Inspector. I’m sorry, but that … that is the way it is for me.’
The detective was disconcerted, the weaver tense. Buemondi gave them a moment before launching himself into the studio. ‘Inspector,’ he boomed in a strongly Italian accent. ‘Mademoiselle Viviane, I’m enchanted. But … but why did you not telephone ahead?’ He threw out his arms gregariously. ‘Some wine. The lights – ah! you will need to see things properly. Take your time. Yes, yes, Inspector. Stroll at liberty. Study, my friend. Absorb. Question. The only secrets here are in the self. Lie naked upon the table and let the self come out. Be the body cast and the mask. Recognize the truth within and welcome it.’
‘Carlo, shut up! The Inspector’s no fool. He wants to ask you some questions.’
‘The murder. Yes, yes, of course. An unfortunate affair. A great loss.’
‘There. Don’t you see what I mean, Inspector? Now he moans about her death!’
‘Whereas before he couldn’t have cared less,’ said Kohler, welcoming the exchange. ‘You’ve been sexually abusing one of your daughters, monsieur, and I’ve the thumb to show for it. What other sort of hold have you got over her?’
Startled – alarmed – Buemondi threw the weaver a questioning glance. ‘Josianne-Michèle lied about it, Inspector. Me, I swear I never harmed the girl. She was my …’
‘Your sweetheart! Your little Josianne …’ began Viviane Darnot.
She was close to tears.
‘Viviane, get a hold of yourself, eh? Don’t lie to the Inspector. Don’t try to pin the murder on me!’
They were shouting now.
‘You bastard! You think I did it – is that what you’ve been saying? Oh, I understand you, Carlo. I must have seen Anne-Marie with that girl, that gorgeous creature in her arms, eh? Kissing and fondling Angélique Girard, one of your little pets! Well listen, my fine egomaniac. I understood your wife. Though she was always difficult, I loved her and forgave her. And,’ she dropped her voice, ‘I understand you also, Carlo. Ah yes, but I do, you old rooster. Lecher! Whore-master! If I could, it’s you I’d kill for what you did to that child.’
‘Then use my crossbow. Shoot me also!’ Buemondi leapt away to a drawing cabinet. Yanking on a drawer, he pulled a sheet of paper out and shouted triumphantly, ‘Here, Inspector. Here it is and I have saved it for just such a moment!’
The life-sized charcoal drawing revealed at once both the professor’s character and the skill of the artist who had done it, the weaver no doubt. Ah yes. Buemondi stood as if caught crossing a lawn about to deflower his daughter. The barrel gut was there, the fleshy hips, hairy shoulders and big lips, the bull neck and arms. Licentiousness was in every particle. He didn’t just lust after the girl he was after, he ravaged he
r with his eyes and Gott im Himmel, he looked exactly like II Duce. That same sense of omnipotence, that same comic posturing, yet behind it all, a real bastard.
In hole after hole those two women had shot the hell out of him with that crossbow he so cherished. Several of the bolts had hit the groin area and that prick he so loved to scribble. Two had passed right through the heart, another had hit him right between the eyes.
Buemondi took a deep breath. ‘Now, Inspector, ask this one who was the archer. Ask her to deny that she went often into the hills to see the herbalist Ludo Borel and to hunt with that one for the plants with which to dye the wool for her weaving. Ask why she took my daughter Josette-Louise, not Josianne-Michèle, to a clinic near Chamonix when your financier was killed. Ask what happened in the past to make the present so unpleasant.’
Ah damn! ‘Carlo, please! Enough is enough.’
The bitch! ‘Is it? Come, come, Viviane. Take off your things. Lie naked on my table. Let me make the cast of you and the mask, eh? Let the world see the truth you have hidden for so long.’
‘What truth?’ asked Kohler darkly.
The weaver’s troubled eyes sought him out. ‘It doesn’t matter. It has nothing to do with Anne-Marie’s murder. Ask Jean-Paul, Inspector. Ask that one. Maybe he will give you all the answers you want.’
‘And Angélique Girard?’ asked Kohler of Buemondi. ‘Where is she?’
The professor shrugged effusively. ‘How should I know? Me, I do not keep track of my students, Inspector. Not beyond the hours of study.’
‘And those of bathing in the mud? Listen, my fine, you’ve still got traces of ochre round your eyes. That receptionist I asked to find you knew exactly where you were. In the mud again.’
‘Then you will find Angélique there, Inspector. Her back, it was bothering her. A lower vertebra, I think.’
‘Her ass?’ snorted the weaver. ‘Admit that you’ve been fucking her, Carlo, and that the poor creature is simply worn out and sore right up to her lovely lips.’
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