Murder in Lascaux (22 page)

It was plausible that the Château de Cazelle had played a similar role during the war as a hiding place for art, especially if there were rumors to that effect. But how could we find out? The old baron didn't want to talk about those years, and I wondered if Marianne would be willing to shed more light on the past.

Meanwhile Nigel was becoming agitated. “And I'll tell you something else about that lot. Mean misers, they are. Guillaume and his sister have both been to my studio and never bought a thing. You'd think they'd be willing to support a local artist, but no. Just cheap, I tell you.” By now, he was slurring his words as multiple gin and tonics took their effect.

“Nigel,” Toby interrupted, “where did you hear these stories about paintings that were hidden in the château during the war?”

“Hmm? Common knowledge,” he mumbled. “Just ask around. Would you like a refill?”

“Thanks, but no,” I said, glancing at Toby. I was beginning to think we ought to leave.

Toby looked at me, mumbled something about the time, and thanked our host for the drinks. We paid for our purchase and edged toward the door. Before we got there, Nigel clapped Toby on the shoulder and began offering advice about antique shops in the region where a dealer might find a few good pieces. Toby feigned interest, and the men shook hands.

Outside, the air was still hot and dry. As we drove off, Nigel Simmons stood in the doorway and waved goodbye with a tipsy up and down motion of his fingertips.

For dinner that evening we were on our own. We drove into Sarlat and joined the throngs of tourists who roamed its medieval lanes lit by lanterns that cast pools of yellow light on the cobblestones. We found space at an outdoor table at the Café du Centre, which anchored a courtyard surrounded by half-timbered buildings with wooden balconies. In the soft lamplight, it seemed a stage setting for a play by Molière. We asked for a kir, lingered over its bittersweet taste, and put off ordering for a while. We eventually settled on the classic bistro dinner of steak frites. The thin steak came with a baguette, a bowl of French fries, a salad dressed in walnut oil, a pitcher of local red wine, and no surprises.

“What do you make of Nigel's story?” I asked Toby, trying to slice into my rather tough steak.

“It depends on how much credit you can give to rumors.”

“I wouldn't put it past that family to come to some sort of arrangement with the Germans.”

“They wouldn't have been the only ones.”

“Right.” I was thinking of the Château Rastignac. “If Guillaume is selling paintings from a hidden cache, they have to be stored somewhere, either in the château or on the family grounds. What about that cave we've heard about? Is that why the family is keeping it off limits? It would be worth finding out.”

“It would if we knew where it was, which we don't,” said Toby. “But you've given me another idea. What about the attic? We know where that is, and we can get up there from our room without anyone knowing.”

“If the door's unlocked.”

“True, but either it is or it isn't. There's one way to find out.”

“I'm game, but what if they catch us?”

“Look, I'll go by myself. I'm already in hot water with Marianne, so what's the worst that can happen? I'll apologize.”

“I don't know, Toby.”

“Nora, there might be something to Nigel's story. I'm going up there.”

“All right, but not without me,” I said, “and not without dessert.” Our waiter had arrived bearing cups of crème brûlée prepared with a hint of walnut liqueur in the caramel sauce.

“Deal,” said Toby, tucking into his custard. “Scrumptious.” He made a show of licking his spoon upside down.

I
t was half-past ten by the time we got back to the château. All was silent and dark, except for a few lights in the family wing. We let our voices carry as we climbed the stairs to our room and went through the usual preparations for bed: we closed the shutters, ran the water, flushed the toilet, stretched out on top of the bed with our clothes on, and doused the light. We lay there quietly for thirty minutes, before rising stealthily. Toby went to the dresser and dug out the pocket flashlight he carries around for examining antiques. Though smaller than a pack of cigarettes, the light has a high intensity bulb that casts a brilliant white beam. “Knew this would come in handy on the trip,” he said in a pleased-with-himself tone of voice. “Let's go.”

We eased into the hallway, lightly closing the door behind us, and made our way shoeless to the door at the end of the corridor. Toby tried the handle. It was unlocked. “That means there's nothing to hide up there,” I whispered. “I think we should go back.”

“You're probably right, but I'm going up for a peek. You can stay here if you like.”

“No way. I'm not going to stand here in the hallway looking guilty. After you.”

The door creaked open on old hinges to reveal a spiral staircase made of iron leading up into darkness. Toby beamed his light up, sweeping the stairs. “Come on.” I eased the door closed behind us, and we mounted slowly and as quietly as we could. The iron treads were solid, but the armature supporting the suspended stairwell swayed slightly under our weight. We stopped and listened. Nothing. We continued. After four complete turns around the central pole that held the stairway up, Toby reached the top. “Trapdoor,” he whispered down to me. He gave it a push. “It's unlocked. Here, take the flashlight.”

I held the beam vertically as Toby pushed with both hands at the trapdoor, raising it open. He climbed a few more steps until his head and shoulders disappeared from view. “I'm in. Hand me the light.” He reached down to take it from me. The open trapdoor rested against a post at an angle, but it was stationary. Toby disappeared into the dark space above. “Okay, come on up.” He shined the light on the steps between us and extended a hand. In another moment I was beside him.

We were standing under a peaked roof supported by enormous beams of bowed oak that gave the appearance of the framework of some upside-down ship. Motes of dust danced in the flashlight's glare, while moonbeams filtered through tiny triangular windows built for ventilation just a few inches above the floor. The combined smell of old wood and animal musk was powerful. Toby's light swept the attic floor, penetrating into obscure corners and illuminating odd pieces of furniture here and there: old night tables, hanging clothing under plastic wraps, and not much else. Even from where I was standing, I could see that our quest for art stashed under the eaves was fruitless.

Suddenly I froze. There was a door creaking below, followed by tentative footsteps on the spiral staircase. Someone was coming up. Toby instantly killed his light and stepped back into a dark corner, gesturing that I should do the same. An old steamer trunk was near me, standing on its end. I ducked behind it, waiting for inevitable discovery. Soon a yellow beam of light played across the side of the open trapdoor, and in a moment a head appeared in the opening on the floor. Another step, and the intruder stood half in and half out of the attic. I glanced in Toby's direction. For now he was invisible, and I hoped I was, too. The figure moved up another step, and his features became recognizable in the moonlight—it was David Press. Had he followed us? If not, what was he doing here?

Almost at once, there came another sound from below, and David started. Quickly he doused his light. He hesitated, listening, and retreated backward down the stairs. I heard the door below open and close, followed by absolute silence. I was certain he hadn't seen us. Some minutes passed, then Toby was at my side. “That was close,” he whispered. “What do you think he was up to?”

“Who knows? What do we do now?”

“Wait. Something spooked him, and that might mean someone else heard us come up here.” So we waited in the dark, with pounding hearts, as the minutes dragged by.

“Let's chance it,” Toby finally said. “I don't think anyone's down there now.” Gingerly, he stepped through the open trapdoor, placing his hand on the iron railing of the stairwell. “Come on,” he whispered. “We're going.” He flicked on his light, and I followed him down, pulling the trapdoor shut behind us.

The dark corridor was empty. “Quick,” Toby whispered. We tiptoed to our room like villains in a pantomime. Once back inside, we locked our door.

I
t was three o'clock in the morning. After a restless start, I'd been sleeping soundly. Suddenly I was alert. The light in the corridor was on, and someone was at the door of our room. I could hear the floorboards creaking and could see the shadow of a pair of feet in the crack of light at the bottom of the door.

“Toby!” I whispered. “Wake up. Someone's trying to break in.” I shook him lightly on the shoulder.

“What?”

“There's someone out there. Listen.” The creaking stopped. And at the same moment the timer light in the corridor went out.

“I don't hear anything. What time is it?”

“It's after three. There's someone out there. I know it.”

“David Press?” Now Toby was alert as well. He sat up, rolled out of bed, and tiptoed toward the door. Dim moonlight fell across his naked back. Outside in the hallway I heard footsteps shuffling away. That's not David, I thought; the sound brought to mind the old baron hurrying out of the library in his slippers. Toby reached for the door with one hand and balled his other fist.

“Wait!” I called out in a hushed voice. “What if whoever's out there has a weapon?” I could see Toby scouring the room for something to protect himself with. “And put something on.” He strode to the bathroom and wrapped a towel around his middle. Then he walked quickly to the fireplace and grabbed an iron poker, stepped back to the door, pulled it open, and leaned out. The hall was dark, and whoever had been at the door was gone. Toby slipped into his pants and stumbled out into the corridor. He was back in a minute.

“No one's there now except the ugly customer in that portrait. You sure you weren't imagining things?”

I was sure.

“Then someone was trying to scare us.”

“He succeeded. But why was the light on in the hall, unless he was checking on the portrait?”

“At this hour of the night? What for?”

I couldn't imagine a reason.

“Anyhow,” said Toby, “there's no one there now. I need to sleep.” Toby made sure the latch was securely closed, shucked his pants, and crawled back under the covers. Soon he was breathing deeply and evenly. I tossed and turned for a long time, and it was much later when I finally dropped off again.

W
E WOKE TO BRIGHT SUN
and the prospect of a blistering day. I did my best to banish the memory of last night in order to enjoy the morning's class, but the baron was standing at the foot of the stairs.

“Good morning, Baron.”

“Good morning, Madame. I trust you slept well last night.”

Was he being polite, or sly?

“Yes, I did, thank you,” I lied. “And you?”

“Pah! At my age one never sleeps well. Old men are up at all hours from necessity.”

I must have looked blank.

“The WC. And then I find myself wandering the halls.”

“Ah.”

“Besides, there are curious sounds in these old houses late at night, you know. Sometimes they prevent one from sleeping.”

“That's a pity. We didn't hear anything. We got back late from Sarlat and went straight to bed.”

“Yes, I heard you come in.”

“We didn't disturb you, I hope.”

“Not at all. I was awake.”

“Even so, I'm sorry if we were noisy.”

“No, no.
C'est normale.
Your room is comfortable?”

“Oh, yes, quite comfortable. And quiet too.”

“
Bon
.”

There was an awkward pause. I felt like a mouse at the mercy of a cat. I decided to press my luck. “Baron, may I ask you another question related to my research?”

“
Oui
,
Madame.
”

“It's about the transport of paintings during the war. I read somewhere that several important collections were sent from Paris to the Dordogne to keep them safe. Did anything like that happen here?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Not to my knowledge. We heard such rumors after the war, but whether they are true or not, I cannot say. Why do you ask?”

“I was only wondering whether Jenny Marie might have been involved in any project to protect important art during those years. Her notebooks seem to end before that period.”

“Nothing of that nature happened here, so far as I am aware. I thought your research concerned the paintings of my aunt. Yet you keep asking about the war. I think I told you I cannot help you very much on that account.”

Madame Martin appeared in the doorway of the salon. “Ah.” As if he had been expecting her, the baron dipped his head and made off in her direction. “
Excusez-moi, Madame. Bonjour
.”