J. Janes - Carousel

‘Then he made certain the poor bastard went to Devil’s Island.’

The villa, the room, that bed, Michele-Louise’s perfume, the sketches of her lying in the nude … ‘She was wild, but … but Antoine still thinks of her.’ She gave a shrug. ‘Again you see I have no illusions. The girl was the absolute reincarnation of the grandmother. Christabelle looked exactly like Michele-Louise must have looked.’

And had dyed her hair to do it. ‘What did you think went on in that hotel room?’

‘Sex, what else? He bought her things. He took her things from here, never much, but I know they went to bed. Why else would he have gone to her so many times and she to him?’

It made her nervous to have to stand under scrutiny. It made her wipe the liqueur from her chin at last.

‘Would it surprise you, madame, if I were to tell you the girl was a virgin?’

‘A what ?’

Anger, rage – jealousy, for she’d been cheated of the one thing she’d wanted so much to believe – so many things flashed before him in that moment.

The woman conquered them by vehemently shaking her head. ‘He loved the girl – did you think I wasn’t aware of this, eh? The trips to Paris, monsieur. They were more than just for business and to play with a new mistress. Ah, yes, he’s had several. Antoine is like a boar in rut. It’s the vraie truffe he hunts so avidly. An aphrodisiac, Inspector, as well as a major source of income.’

She tossed a hand. Another cigarette was found and lit, her head tilted well back as she drew in and blew smoke towards the ceiling. ‘Just how certain are you that girl was a virgin?’

‘Let’s be brutal about it, eh? Is that it?’

‘Yes, that’s it!’

‘Reasonably.’

‘Pardon? Reasonably ? Surely the coroner’s report would have spelled it out for you, Inspector? Did you not look for God’s sake? Ah, you did , eh?’

‘Yes, we did. At least, someone did.’

The cigarette was crushed into the ashtray with a brittleness that surprised. ‘Then she held out the offer of it to my husband, monsieur, and he’s an even bigger fool than I have given him credit for!’

At dusk the yellowish hue of the limestone deepened and the walnut mill with its turning water-wheel exuded that quiet sense of timelessness for which Perigord was justly famous.

St-Cyr drew on his pipe. There was a small wooden bridge across a turning of the flume and he’d chosen this as his point of observation. The boy had led the pigs away. There’d been other hunters working designated parts of the region, but they’d long since left. Even the truffles had gone off in the truck to Sarlat to be made into pates, sorted, shipped to Paris, Berlin and elsewhere. One day’s haul had more than equalled a Surete detective’s annual stipend. So much for making money by solving crime!

Something had happened at the mill. The girl who tended the geese had come out only to be told sharply to disappear. Now, again, she timidly approached Audit. They talked in earnest, the girl broke into tears. An angry word was said. They looked his way.

He drew on the pipe and waited. Antoine Audit had lived up to his every expectation. The man was wily, exceedingly shrewd and, at times, ruthless. Ah yes, my old one, he said. Witness the killing of that rabbit and how the glint of triumph and greed came into your eyes on seeing its struggles and hearing its last high-pitched screams.

The wire had been tight around a hind leg – not new wire, ah no, nothing like that, but very finely braided, very flexible steel. Quite unlike – and he must remember this – quite unlike the wire that had garrotted Christabelle Audit.

The boy had found a suitable stick, then he, too, had watched with rapt attention the rapid strangulation, the deftness, the flinging of the little corpse to the ground on release of the wire. The patient resetting of the snare. The lack of comment as if the whole thing had been as nothing.

At a shout, he crossed the bridge, but took his time so as to cause impatience.

Audit and the girl led him to the barn and up into the loft. The girl handed her employer the lantern and Audit hung it from one of the beams. ‘That friend of yours,’ he began.

‘My partner, yes.’

‘He had no right to search this place or to question my wife.’

St-Cyr lifted a tired hand of apology. The girl stepped aside, the lantern-light burnishing the swollen welt on her cheek. Ah now, Hermann, what has happened here?

‘It’s magnificent,’ he said of the coin cabinet. ‘French Empire, monsieur, but why have you put it away like this? A priceless antique …?’

Why indeed. ‘Out of sight is out of mind, Inspector. Ah, you know the Germans. Questions, always questions.’ Audit gave a shrug. ‘Sometimes our friends are hard of hearing. Jeanine, you may leave us now.’

‘But – ’ began the girl.

‘I said go , Jeanine. I will be staying at the chateau tonight. The Inspector – I must walk back with him. I’ve things to do, eh? Don’t provoke me at a time like this.’

A last glimpse of her climbing down the ladder revealed the desperate uncertainty of a young girl in trouble. St-Cyr glanced questioningly at Audit, who gave a shrug of You know how it is, eh? but said nothing further on the matter.

The silverwork was exquisite. The cabinet, while it had all the elements of the First Empire Period, had very strong ones of Art Nouveau.

‘The action of the drawers is superb,’ he said, running his fingers lightly over them. ‘When exactly did you first begin the collection?’

Audit silently cursed the Surete for its meddling parasites, but there’d been no sense in hiding the cabinet from him, since the other one had found it and they’d be certain to talk.

‘In 1930, Inspector. As the Depression came on, good pieces began to appear. Coins that had been kept for years. I bought wisely, always choosing perfection and rarity above all else. Ah, it’s like anything else, is it not? Once the collecting bug is acquired, one strives to do the best one can.’

‘Four hundred and eighty-seven coins, all of them gold and Roman. That’s pretty good for being “best”.’

‘I planned to donate them to the Louvre on my death – purely for tax purposes, you understand.’

Ah but of course, the Louvre … ‘Who built the cabinet?’

‘I’ve no idea. There is a mark, but that’s of Percier, the designer.’

First Empire then, under Napoleon. The Louvre, the Tuileries … so much of the interior designing of those days had been Percier’s. ‘Might I see it, please?’

‘It’s on the bottom. We would have to tip the cabinet over, Inspector. Is that really necessary?’

The cabinet was heavy and the mark, a signet brand, was hidden well underneath the thing. ‘Percier,’ grunted St-Cyr. ‘Yes … yes, it is as you’ve said, monsieur. Perfect in every way. Mahogany like this is simply not seen any more. When they did things in those days, they did them right.’

Audit was not impressed.

The poularde cuite a la vapeur d’un pot-au-feu was so excellent it momentarily overcame the pangs of worry. A steamed chicken beneath whose tender skin had been inserted thin slices of the vraie truffe !

St-Cyr waved an appreciative fork. It would be best to keep Madame Van der Lynn’s mind on other things in any case. ‘The pot-au-feu is first cooked for three hours, madame. Then the prepared chicken is hermetically sealed in its earthenware vessel to steam in the vapours of the boiled beef and vegetables. Served with a cream sauce such as this, it is more than a poor man can bear.’

‘Or stomach,’ snorted Kohler. ‘Give me the cabbage and sausage, with a side order of borsch and a beer!’