Kaleidoscope (27 page)

Hermann grunted as he and Fratani went to work. The Abbé was striding rapidly downhill. The boy Bébert Peretti and his grandmother had come out of the
mas
.

The skeleton still had scraps of desiccated flesh clinging to it and bits of badly stained clothing.

‘A child, Louis. Male or female. Probably about ten or twelve years of age. She's been in the ground several years. Maybe ten at least.'

‘Let us take it out. Let us see what is below it.'

‘Messieurs, please. The false bottom has been glued in place. If we break it open, another will have to be made. You can see for yourselves at the garage that I have only been telling you the truth.'

‘And to which cemetery are the remains to be consigned? Come, come, monsieur. An answer is demanded.'

Fratani blinked to clear his eyes. ‘The one that is beside and behind Mademoiselle Viviane's house.'

‘Louis …?'

‘It's all right, Hermann. Unless I am mistaken, the kaleidoscope has just taken another turning.'

Both of the women had gone back to the cottage.

Beyond the Villa of the Golden Oracle, the hills above Le Cannet climbed into open pine woods now dusted and caked with snow. St-Cyr breathed in deeply. He wished he could walk beneath those boughs and feel that childhood sense of wonder such a forest brings to all who harbour innocence. He longed to be free of crime, to banish the sordid and the tragedy from his life; to blot them from memory. He wanted to put his feet up, to get to know Gabrielle and her son, to enjoy Christmas and the New Year as they ought to be.

But there was no time. God mocked his little detective; the Nazis watched, and somewhere in that villa or in its grounds lay answers they had to have, answers that others would wish to keep from them. Ah yes, unfortunately.

Angélique Girard, Carlo Buemondi and Jean-Paul Delphane. The letters DMXTG, what did they really signify? A code, as they'd thought, or something quite different?

Two flat tyres en route to Cannes had caused unpleasant delays. The first had been a simple puncture, that of a nail a kilometre from the village and not where it should be – who had carpenter's nails to spare these days? The second had been a slow leak that had suddenly chosen to burst and rip at a boulder they'd bounced over. The repairing of the first had taken an hour; the second had been impossible until Hermann, with Bavarian stubbornness, had braided roadside straw into ropes and they'd stuffed the tyre with these and managed to limp into the city.

He'd left Hermann to watch over the opening of the casket at the garage. One could not be in two places at the same time no matter the need or desire.

And now? he asked. Has it all been to separate us again so that Hermann cannot watch my back nor I his?

Uneasy at the thought, he began to climb alongside the eastern wall, ducking under branches when necessary. There were no footprints in the snow. It was as pure as if only just fallen. The land fell away behind him and towards a neighbouring estate, perhaps some 800 metres to the east, among cypresses, olive trees, oaks and sycamores of its own. But to the north, there were the woods and soon the smell of pines. He took a moment to touch a pine-cone and brought a branch to his nose.

Then he went into the woods anyway, and when he found the tracks, followed them down to the small, rough-hewn door that was in the centre of the north wall. She'd either not had a bicycle, or had chosen to carry it.

Once inside the grounds, the footprints made their way through the kitchen gardens, pausing every now and then to view the winter beans, the snow-caked Brussels sprouts on their sturdy stalks, the cabbages and onions.

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.'