Murder in Lascaux (9 page)

Daglan cut in. “This survey, what does it cover?”

“The basic history of Western art.”

“And where do you begin?”

Now I saw where he was going. “With prehistoric art,” I replied calmly. “
C'est logique
,” I added—trying to appeal simultaneously to the French inspector's faith in logic and to his national pride.

“So then you have a professional interest in our cave paintings?” It seemed an accusation.

“I suppose so, but I'm not a scholar in the field. The fact that I can give an introductory lecture on the subject doesn't mean I'm an expert.”

“Perhaps it is my ignorance of your profession, but I find your answer somewhat confusing.”

“Then I haven't expressed myself well, Inspector. I regret my French isn't good enough to make these fine distinctions, so let me try again. What I meant to say is that as far as teachers of art history go, I am not an expert in prehistoric art.”

“Then what was the purpose of your visit to Lascaux, when you applied to the authorities for permission?”

He had me there. I sidestepped the question. “Inspector, no one would pass up an opportunity to see the original paintings in Lascaux. They're world-famous. I'm not a Renaissance scholar either, but anyone interested in art would want to visit the Sistine Chapel if she were in Italy !”

“So you prevailed upon the authorities to make an exception to their rules and allow you to visit as a tourist.”

That might have been the case, but it wasn't a capital crime. I didn't reply.

“And your companion, Monsieur Sandler, is he also here simply as a tourist?”

That was a strange way of putting things. I felt heat rising to my face. If the inspector was trying to get under my skin, he was succeeding. “First of all, Monsieur Sandler is my husband, not my ‘companion,' and, yes, he is here as a tourist and also to shop for antiques.”

“Indeed. Your husband surely knows this part of France has yielded antiquities of great value. Anyone in the trade would know what riches in statuettes and rock carvings have come out of our limestone caves.”

What was he getting at? “Inspector, we simply wanted to see the paintings at Lascaux. Unfortunately, we became witnesses to a murder, about which we know nothing.”

“That is precisely what I am trying to determine.”

With this barb hanging in the air, Daglan's face underwent a transformation. His eyes widened, and he leaned forward confidingly.

“I'll tell you what I've been wondering. A young professor at a small American college in the provinces whose husband is an antiques dealer can hardly be making a fortune. It might be tempting for such a couple to use their knowledge of art and of antiques to profit illegally by a visit to Périgord.”

“I don't follow you, Inspector.”

“Then permit me to continue. We have a murder victim. In my experience, a victim usually has created a problem for someone, has become an obstacle to someone's plans.”

“Whoever that poor man was, he certainly was no obstacle to us. We never saw him before.”

“So you say. In fact, the man who was killed in Lascaux was Monsieur Michel Malbert, and Monsieur Malbert worked for the Bureau of Historical Monuments and Antiquities, the agency that authorized your admission to the cave on the day of the murder. In addition, the focus of his recent work was the recovery of goods stolen from archaeological sites in Périgord.”

“I hope you don't think my husband and I have stolen any artifacts!”

“We don't know that you have. And we are trying to determine whether Monsieur Malbert was working on a particular case. For now I am only speculating, but could it be he had information about your activities that made him suspicious? I wonder if that is why he arranged to join you at Lascaux when he saw your names on the visitors' list. Why else was he there that day? Was he following you?”

His questions bore down like a drill, each one with a larger size bit.

“That's ridiculous. I know nothing about any plans to steal valuable artifacts. And my husband sells antiques in the American sense—objects that go back only to the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.”

“That may be. But there are wealthy collectors in your country who will buy antiquities of questionable provenance at very high prices, isn't that so?”

“I tell you, we don't know anything about such things,” I answered with a catch in my voice. This interchange had unnerved me. I had not been prepared for it. We had witnessed a crime, but it was absurd to consider us suspects. Daglan gauged my reaction and drew back a little. He had been pushing hard.

“I am not making any accusations at this point. As I said before, I am simply speculating.”

I suddenly felt alone. But there was Toby, thank God.

“Monsieur Daglan,” I said, trying to keep my voice firm. “I'm wondering if we need a lawyer. Would you advise me to contact the American consulate in Bordeaux?”

“You are free to do so, but to be frank, I would advise against it. You don't need a lawyer just because I have asked you a few questions. You are not under arrest, and once the diplomatic bureaucrats become involved, everything gets more complicated. Try to have a little patience, Madame. Justice will prevail in due course.”

We exchanged volleys for a few more minutes, but Daglan's expression had relaxed, and his questions became less pointed, until at last he sat back and folded his hands in his lap. I took this signal as an end to the interview and rose to my feet. Since Daglan didn't object, but merely tilted back in his chair, I turned and left the room. When I checked my watch and saw it was only twenty after ten, I was astonished. It felt as if I had been in that room for hours.

The library gave out onto the salon, where we had sipped our champagne and where I had talked with Marianne that morning. Jackie now sat in the baron's chair, ramrod straight, waiting, apparently, for me to emerge. He leaped to his feet and came over to meet me.

“Madame Barnes, I must ask you to sit here for a moment while we call the next witness. We would like each person to approach the interview without having talked to someone whom the inspector has interrogated.”

This was beginning to feel more and more like a police station. It helped a little to see that Toby was the next one called, since that meant my wait would be over soon and we would be free to talk.

As Toby entered the library, Jackie asked, “Do you have something to read, Madame? This could take some time.”

“Well, then, I think I'll go to my room and read there.”

“No, I'm sorry but that won't be possible. I am to stay with you, and the inspector asked that we stay here, outside the library, in case he wants to call you in to his interview with your companion.”

“Why do you keep saying ‘companion'? He's my husband. Where are you getting these ideas?”

“Gurgle, Madame.” At least that's what it sounded like.

“Do you mean Google?” I asked.

“That's what I said.”

“And Google says Toby is my ‘companion?'”

“It does not say you are married.”

“Well, it's nice to know there's still some privacy on the Internet. Could we go get my book, then, and I'll read here under your surveillance?” That was acceptable.

On the way back from my room to the salon, I had a glimpse into the dining room, where Guillaume and Marianne were seated closely together engaged in a tête-à-tête. Literally. Their foreheads were almost touching as they talked intensely in low voices. The baron stood at a window with his back toward them. From my angle, I could see his face in profile. He seemed to be staring into the past, where the very old spend much of their time.

N
early an hour later, the library door opened. Watching the time slowly tick by, I had assumed Toby was getting the third degree, but he seemed relaxed as he emerged from the room.

“How'd it go?” I asked anxiously.

“I'll tell you about it. Let's go outside, and we'll compare notes.” With Jackie's permission, we walked out into the back garden and shared our stories. Daglan had put Toby through the same round of questions he had used on me, including the innuendos and sarcastic asides. He had wanted to know all about Toby's business, his supposed dealings in prehistoric artifacts, the reasons for our current trip to France, our prior connections in the region (none), and what we knew about the other guests at the château, particularly David Press. But Toby was convinced Daglan was going through the motions rather than seriously pegging either one of us as suspects.

“What makes you think that?” I asked.

“Just a hunch. The way he was asking the questions, I guess, sort of mechanically. Then toward the end he changed the subject and started asking me some random questions about our life.”

“What sort of questions?”

“Well, that's just it. They didn't seem connected with the case. He wanted to know whether we have any relatives in France, whether my father fought in the war, and how Americans feel about Germany now. He asked about California, and what kind of house we live in, and what my favorite television show is. I asked him why in the world he would want to know that. He said he was watching re-runs of
Santa Barbara
on French TV and he just wondered if it gave an accurate picture of life in the United States.”

“Sounds like he was trying to put you off guard,” I ventured.

“Maybe he was, and he seemed to be enjoying himself. But he can't really think we had anything to do with the murder. It doesn't add up.”

“So what did you tell him?”

“About what?”

“
Santa Barbara
.”

“Oh. I said it was just fantasy and that only a few rich Americans live in monster mansions by the ocean and drive fancy luxury cars, while the rest of us live normal lives like the average Frenchman.”

“Hmph. Well, he took a much more intimidating tone with me.”

“He's not as gruff as he wants us to think he is. He's clever, though.”

I shot Toby an irritated look. “What? You're not taking this seriously enough.”

“I am. It's just that I doubt we're going to end up in jail. And since we're not headed for the clinker, I have a suggestion.”

“Wait a minute. We very well could wind up in jail. This isn't a joke, Toby. We could be in trouble here.”

“All right, take it easy.”

“Don't tell me to take it easy. You mean keep quiet and leave everything to you because I'm getting all worked up over nothing.”

“Nora, you know I didn't mean that.”

“No? You cut me off every time I try to get you to see the seriousness of this situation. Someone has been murdered, Toby. We were there. Daglan thinks we had a motive.”

“Oh, come on!”

Now I was getting mad. “Look, just because you've led a charmed life doesn't mean that you're invulnerable. I've seen the inside of a jail. I don't want that to happen again.”

“That was a very different thing, Nora. Spending one night in jail for having occupied the chancellor's office during a student protest at Berkeley doesn't make you into a case for Amnesty International. And what do you mean, I've led a charmed life?”

“You know what I mean. Private school, help with setting up your business, everything you've ever needed.”

“I'm not ashamed of that, if you're suggesting I should be. I know you're upset, but don't take it out on me.”

“Upset? Well, it makes sense to be upset when you've just witnessed a murder, you're suspected of committing it, your mother's on your case from thousands of miles away, and your little sister is about to blow her trust fund on God knows what. And by the way, do I get any sympathy for the family stress? No. As usual, you act like my family is best ignored.”

“Hey, one thing at a time. I do care about your family. I just think you're a little too involved with them.”

“You wouldn't say that if you'd had a little sister to bring up. You never had anyone to look after but yourself.”

“That's a low blow,” Toby sighed. (True, it wasn't his fault that he was an only child.) “All right. Truce? Look, I hate it when we quarrel. Maybe you're right and I'm not taking this as seriously as I should. But it won't help to get all upset. I was going to say, let's put all this aside for a few hours and go out to lunch. How about it?”

Typical. But perhaps a good idea. I hate it when we quarrel, too, and I was sorry that I had jumped down his throat.

“Lunch,” I deadpanned sarcastically.

“Lunch,” repeated Toby, casting a doleful look requesting absolution. “In Castelnaud.”

“I
am
upset, and frightened too.”

“I know,” he said. “That's why we need a break. What do you say?”

I sighed, and the air began to go out of our argument. Toby went for the car while I whisked back to our room to pick up my purse and a sweater. As I came down the stairs, I could hear Toby bringing the car up to the front entrance, tires crunching on the pebbled driveway. Just as I ducked out the door, I saw David Press being ushered into the library. His attempt to look casual seemed forced.

O
nce we were in the car, the rest of my anger dissipated. “Sorry I chewed you out,” I said. “I think I lost it back there. Daglan really got to me.”

“We're good,” said Toby. “Look.” He nodded toward the passing scenery.

I willed myself to look out the window and enjoy it. The road followed the river through verdant fields planted with corn and tobacco and framed by honey-colored cliffs, four of them topped by imposing castles. The mightiest was Castelnaud. With its great round artillery tower baking in the sun, it dominated the valley. We passed a field of swaying sunflowers, crossed a bridge, and climbed a steep road up the side of a cliff with precipitous switchbacks, which brought us to the village.