J. Janes - Tapestry

‘Inspectors,’ said Delaroche, indicating the chairs in front of his desk, the room lighted by a rock-crystal chandelier-how had he acquired it, wondered St-Cyr, this colonel who didn’t stint himself and had such an obvious passion for the finer things in life?

‘This is a sixteenth-century portrait of the Magdalen as a young girl of substance, Colonel. It’s breathtaking.’

Though one didn’t want to dwell on it, one had best be gracious. ‘Please take a closer look while I find us a little something to drink. I’d value your opinion.’

And if that wasn’t pleasant, what was? The painting was worth at least 250,000 old francs. Perhaps this red-haired girl who wore a turban of the softest gold and beige had been fifteen. Penitently the eyes were downcast, she reading an illuminated breviary, a corner of whose spine rested on the smallest of beautifully carved desks before her, and hadn’t the colonel found exactly the same sort of desk-not a prie-dieu-and positioned it just a little to one side so that the viewer saw the one then automatically was drawn to divert the gaze and thoughts to a similarly velum-bound breviary beside which lay an identical pomander to the one in the painting and the same gold rings whose modest cabochons of bloodstone were similar to those worn on each of her forefingers. There were no other rings in the painting.

‘Droplets of the blood of Christ,’ said St-Cyr, throwing the words over a shoulder. ‘That’s what the people of those times believed that type of stone must hold. The jewellery and garments are of the very middle of the High Renaissance, Colonel. Perhaps the year 1500, or very close to it. I commend your taste. One sees at once the sharp contrasts of colour that so delighted and intrigued with their unspoken messages. The under-sleeves are crimson and juxtaposed with the kirtle’s cocoa-brown silk, whose folds have an almost metallic sheen and whose trim …’ He would point it all out as if a buyer in a gallery or patron of the Louvre.

‘Propriety is total, Colonel, modesty complete, the reformation of the fallen absolute, even of one so wealthy, but the hints of what helped to cause the trouble are definitely there all the same. Vanity, n’est-ce pas ?’

Bob would be disobedient, cursed Delaroche silently. Bob would let him down at a time like this and sit at Kohler’s feet. ‘Your cognac, Inspector.’

‘ Merci . Two gold chains are about her neck. The shortest of them is beaded and that, too, would have had meaning, and from it hangs an emerald and gold pendant whose droplet pearls shed the tears that are to remind her and all who view her that when chastity or the vows of marriage are broken, the reward can only be disgrace, no matter how enjoyable or profitable the moment.’

And on and on, was that it, eh? ‘It’s by Adriaen Isenbrant, of the Flemish School.’

‘Also given as Ysenbrant, a pupil of Gerard David. One sees the master’s influence but this is definitely a major work in its own right. She reminds me of the madrigal singer and costume designer whose murder in the Palais des Papes we unfortunately had to investigate.’

In Avignon during the last week of January. ‘You and Kohler never seem to stay long in one place, do you?’

‘That way we never get bored. Hermann and myself need answers and it’s time we had them.’

‘You have only to ask. We’re here to help.’

They walked in silence. M. Jeannot Raymond said nothing . Did he count off the lampposts as she always did and reach out to touch them? wondered Suzette. He had no need of the pocket torch she knew he never left the agency without, had gone into his office and then that of Hubert Quevillon to see if anything had been disturbed, had stayed in there several minutes and then had come back to escort her home after first having spoken quietly with the colonel.

Everywhere along the rue de Ponthieu the blackout was complete, except for the occasional glow of a cigarette or the sudden on-and-off of a blue-shaded torch in an uncertain hand. A velo-taxi went by, the dimness of its taillight receding.

‘It’s this way,’ she heard herself saying, the voice overly sharp but frail on the cold, damp air. Had she doubts about the Agence Vidocq? he must be wondering. Fears? she asked herself. Hubert Quevillon had not apologized and this, too, was making her nervous and when they started to cross the rue Paul Baudry, there was no hesitation on M. Raymond’s part. He simply took her by the hand.

The passage cloute ’s white marker studs were all but hidden, his fingers cold and stiff. Her street was next and when they came to the rue La Boetie, he didn’t hesitate.

‘Hubert will have left the lock off the flat,’ he said. ‘Since you haven’t your handbag, I presume he didn’t give it at thought.’

Ah, merde , her papers …

‘The fifth, at the back. I’ll just come up to make certain everything is all right.’

Did he know the building that well?

Hole for hole, laddered run for run, the warm-up stockings were compared, Hermann deliberately letting Bob smell them. Slightly built and in his mid-thirties, with small, slim hands, closely trimmed nails and no bite marks that could be seen even on the wrists, Hubert Quevillon stood looking down at him while Flavien Garnier, in his late fifties and also lacking these but with big enough hands for the Trinite assault, watched his subordinate with a grim wariness that implied he’d had to do so constantly.

‘Good, Bob. There’s my soldier,’ said Hermann, seemingly ignoring everyone as he folded the stockings and placed them in Elene Artur’s fitted case.

He scratched Bob behind the ears and under the chin. ‘You’re beautiful,’ he went on. ‘ Bien sur , I’ve known a lot of dogs and loved every one of them, but never a prince like yourself. I’m envious, Colonel.’

As his hand dropped, he looked up at Hubert Quevillon, let that emptiness his partner knew only too well fill his gaze and give warning of its own. ‘So how is it, my fine one, that you had that stocking in your desk?’

‘Kohler …’

‘Colonel, let him answer.’

To smirk would infuriate this Kripo the SS had marked for life, thought Quevillon, so he would do that and then tell him how it was. ‘I’m constantly gathering things that might be useful.’

A smart aleck-was that it, eh? The hair was dark brown and carelessly parted so that a hank of it fell rakishly over the brow. The dark-blue eyes were hooded, the expression at once intense and looking always for signs of the mischief his words might cause, the perpetual evening shadow something the girls might or might not like, but a regular at any number of brothels so that he could make his choice and do as he liked. ‘And is it that you simply stole it while that girl was hurrying to get dressed because you had told her to?’

Hermann, urged St-Cyr silently. Don’t accuse any of them yet. Wait! ‘The time, please, Agent Quevillon?’

Please … ? What the hell was this? ‘Louis, you leave him to me.’

‘Hermann, there’s likely a plausible answer. Colonel, from time to time I have to remind my partner that the blitzkrieg our friends demand must still have its little pauses.’

Though taken aback, Hermann was still ready to charge blindly forward and could not be warned of what had been discovered in that desk, nor on it or under it, nor could he be told yet of what had been on and in Flavien Garnier’s. For now this information, especially the sawdust and wood shavings that must have been emptied from the turn-ups of Quevillon’s trousers, would have to be kept from him, since these last were identical to those encountered in the Jourdan household and the gerbils would have loved them.