J. Janes - Kaleidoscope

‘Monsieur, these are but simple villagers. They know nothing of such things. Until the body was found, they were content to think the war, it would pass them by.’

‘So now they’re worried, eh, and have to know what the murder means for their village?’

The priest nodded. The Abbe Roussel did not look like much – thin and gangly in sackcloth, a rake-handle with caved-in chin, hard dark brown eyes that were full of concern among other things. Ah yes.

‘The murder means the Gestapo and the SS will have to come and take over this place. Look, I’m sorry but that’s the way it is,’ said Kohler.

A collective gasp was quickly stifled by an impatient hand from the priest who expected more from the Gestapo’s agent.

Kohler let him have it. ‘Of course, if I could have honest answers to a few simple questions, we might be able to make allowances for … for the remoteness of the village.’

There were whispers, nods, tossed heads. Roussel drew up a chair and indicated that the Gestapo’s Bavarian detective should avail himself of the same. Another sardine tin was hastily fetched but hazardously offered – ah, what was this? Black-market sardines? Nom de Dieu !

A bottle of red wine was opened. Two glasses were filled by the proprietor who must fix machinery or something on the side, since there was grease right up his brawny arms to the elbows and one had to wonder where the hell he’d got it?

‘First, the corpse,’ said Kohler, fishing for his cigarettes only to discover none and have the abbe ruefully extend him one from an all-but-empty packet of Gauloises Bleues , the national curse when they could get them. Come to think of it, how had they got them, eh? ‘ Merci . Who was she?’

‘Madame Buemondi. Anne … Anne-Marie.’

‘From where?’

‘Bayonne and … and Cannes.’ There was no use in hiding things from this one, he’d find out everything.

‘And Monsieur Buemondi?’

‘Assistant-Director of the School of Fine Arts in Cannes.’

‘Do they still have such things?’ – the consternation was honest.

‘Yes … yes, Inspector. Monsieur Buemondi …’

Suddenly the priest dried up. Kohler drew on the cigarette and fingered his glass of wine.

‘Monsieur Buemondi, Inspector, he … he has quite the following, if you understand.’

‘ Mein Gott – fucking all the ladies, is he?’

Roussel winced; the others watched in absolute silence but was it to see if the bait had been taken, or simply because they could not quite understand the language and were having problems?

Kohler tossed a hand. ‘Cannes must be full of dusty bags just sitting out the war and wanting something to do.’

Again the priest was at a loss for words. ‘Dusty bags …? Madame, she …’

‘Madame Buemondi?’

‘Yes, yes, Inspector. That one, she …’

‘Knew all about the husband’s fooling around?’

‘Yes, certainly. But she was not one to leave her skirts unruffled, monsieur. That one had a temper and the determination to go with it.’

‘She had a lover?’

‘Yes … yes. Perhaps more than one. Me, I would not know since she did not come to me for the confession.’

‘Perhaps she only had urges?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Jealous – was she jealous?’ demanded Kohler sharply, only to hear the priest suck in a breath and hear him say, ‘Perhaps,’ again.

‘And the daughter?’ asked Kohler quietly.

Not a hair moved, not a pair of lungs was filled. The sawdust burner sizzled. A dog-eared cat scurried swiftly across the floor to get out of the way of trouble, reminding the Gestapo’s detective only too well of the last case and the concierge of the Hotel of the Silent Life.

‘Josianne-Michele Buemondi is very ill, monsieur. On puberty, she developed the uncontrollable fits. It is the curse God has placed upon the father and mother and now … now that curse has come to a head.’

‘Buemondi shot his wife, that it?’ snapped the Gestapo’s detective.

The priest hesitated, then crossed himself. ‘Yes … yes, that is how it must have been, monsieur. The accusations from Madame, her threats perhaps, and then the arrow.’

‘Not a hunting accident, then?’

Startled, the Abbe Roussel ripped his gaze away to look questioningly at Dedou Fratani, the hearse-driver, then tore it back and held it steady. ‘At first we did think it an accident. The shot-guns, monsieur, they are no longer allowed. One can only do so much with traps and snares. The wild boar of these hills, they are very dangerous.’

Kohler let a breath escape. ‘I’ll bet they are, Father, but all hunting and trapping is illegal, or didn’t your simple flock know of the decree of 1940? So now, my fine, ask young Bebert Peretti to come out from behind that thing you people call a bar. I want a word with him.’

‘The boy has gone home to his grandmother, monsieur. There is … Ah, why had he said it? ‘There is the trap door in the floor. Bebert will have used it.’

‘As he has before – is that it? Listening in, was he? For whom, Father? Come on, I demand to know.’

‘All boys listen in to their elders, monsieur. Surely you are not so old as to have forgotten that you, yourself, may have done such things?’

‘Then tell me about the daughter. Is she always tied to that bed?’

Who sleeps with her – is that what the Gestapo was implying?

Deeply troubled by the filth of such minds, Roussel said, ‘She walks in the fields and is at peace with God when not demented by her frenzy.’

‘Is it Georges Peretti who’s screwing her, Father? As sure as that God of yours made little green apples, someone’s been up to mischief with that girl.’

Kohler thrust out his wounded thumb. The priest jerked his head away and motioned frantically to Borel who seemed nailed to the door and uncertain of what to do.

At a curt nod from the Gestapo, the wine and the sugar were brought. Everyone still watched the proceedings intently. The teeth had not only punctured the flesh in three places, they had ripped it open.

Inflamed and still bleeding, the thumb was stiffening. Borel was grave. He fussed. He bathed the wound with the sugar and wine solution, then used the bottom of a glass to crush two cubes before sprinkling on the granules and binding things with gauze he apparently always carried. Among other things, was that it? wondered Kohler. The village medicine man. Head ju-ju boy?

Borel had a woman’s touch, a surgeon’s flair, and Kohler was impressed. ‘You ought to volunteer for the Russian Front, monsieur. You could do much fine work there. Me, I have two sons who would appreciate your company.’

The herbalist’s deep brown eyes took on the character of cold slag. ‘I am needed here, monsieur, and have the certificate and papers to verify this in my office, all duly signed and witnessed by the proper authorities in Vichy. Bathe the wound five times a day with the solution and sprinkle on a little sugar each time before applying a clean dressing.’

‘Where will I get the sugar?’

‘This I do not know, monsieur. Not now. Not with Madame Buemondi …’

‘ You fool! ’ hissed the priest.

The can of worms had been opened. Louis should have been here. Come to think of it, where the hell was he?

Kohler crossed to the door and flung it open. The wind sucked at everything. ‘ Louis !’ he shouted. ‘ Louis, I’m in here !’

‘He will not hear you, monsieur,’ said Borel. ‘Your friend will not be able to find his way.’

The boy was terrified. By the merest chance, their paths had crossed beside the fountain. St-Cyr could hear his teeth chattering uncontrollably above the spilling of the water and the tears. ‘Now, now, my friend. Hush, eh? I am not the Gestapo’s dragon or one of the Milice. I am a patriot a Chief Inspector of detectives on a case and cold.’