Kaleidoscope (28 page)

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 de 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.'

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.'