Martin Walker - The Devil's Cave

He led the way past a rack of calcifying crockery and along the passage leading to Napoleon’s Bedchamber to the far side of the cave where stood the display called The Organ, an array of stalagmites of steadily diminishing height and width. Off to one side was a triangle of three gigantic stalagmites known as the Dragon’s Teeth, so close they were almost touching. Another few centuries and they would be. The Baron eased his way into the narrow space between them and the cave wall. There was no room for Bruno to join him, but he peered through a gap to watch the Baron bend down and began brushing thick layers of pebbles and rock dust to one side. A wooden trapdoor with an iron ring appeared and with an effort the Baron levered it open, took a torch from his pocket and turned it on so that Bruno could see stone steps descending steeply.

‘Follow me, and close the trapdoor behind you.’ The Baron descended carefully, facing the steps that had so much space between them it was like descending a ladder rather than a staircase. As Bruno followed, his own torch held between his teeth, he noticed dust thick on the steps. It had been some time since anyone had come this way. The Baron waited for him at the bottom, a circular chamber large enough for both of them to stand, and shone his light into a low tunnel that led uphill into the distance.

‘Nobody’s used this for years,’ the Baron said. ‘The Resistance used to hide guns here in the war.’

‘So anybody from a Resistance family could know about it?’ Bruno asked.

‘Not really. They weren’t fools, they had a need-to-know system, and most of the old Resistants are dead.’

‘Where does this come out?’

‘St Philippon, in the ruined chapel by the old cemetery. There’s another tunnel branching off that used to go down to the Grand Roc near Les Eyzies, but it was closed by a rockfall decades ago. We’d better get back before Marcel wonders what the hell we’re up to.’

‘You mean we’re not going to follow this tunnel all the way?’

‘Not today. Any time you want you can borrow my keys and explore it at your leisure, or try it from the other end. See if you can find the entrance. The Germans never did, nor the Milice ,’ the Baron said, referring to the notorious police of the Vichy regime.

‘Did they look for it?’

‘Oh, yes. One of the prisoners they took knew about it and died under torture without saying a word.’

The Baron turned to climb back up the steps, but Bruno put a restraining hand on his arm. ‘Tell me the truth, mon vieux , is this break-in genuine or is it some publicity stunt?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘You know what I’m asking,’ Bruno said. ‘The point is, if I’m to report this and ask for a forensics team, I’ll have to give Perigueux a good reason to dig into their budget. If it all turns out to be some kids giving you a bit more publicity, we’ll both be in trouble.’

The Baron, his face cast into ghoulish shadows by the upward glow from the torch at his waist, turned back from the steps and looked Bruno in the eye.

‘You know me better than that, Bruno. If I were trying to fool you, I wouldn’t have shown you the secret passage.’ He turned back and began climbing the steps. He spoke, almost to himself. ‘Anyway, that’s my duty done.’

‘You mean that you’ve convinced me nobody used this secret passage to get into the cave?’

‘No.’ The Baron stopped in his climb. ‘It means that I’ve carried out my duty to my father. He made me promise to pass on the secret to somebody I trusted. As he said, you never know when the Germans will come again. Or the English.’

Back at the Mairie , Bruno headed for the Mayor’s office to tell him of the break-in and found himself called in to attend a meeting with the regional bank manager from Perigueux. Bankers made courtesy calls every few months to discuss building projects and financing plans for each of the communes in the Departement . In the more important towns like St Denis the banker would first visit his local branch and afterwards invite the Mayor to the best lunch in town. But today was not so agreeable. The Mayor had removed the chair from in front of his desk and the banker stood before him like a naughty schoolboy.

‘Ah, Bruno, just the man I want to see,’ said the Mayor. ‘You know Monsieur Valentin from the bank, and you can tell him of the effort you have put into raising funds for a sports hall. Cake sales and vide-greniers , bingo evenings and collection tins, you name it and Bruno here has tried it. And now we’re being offered on a plate the sports hall of Bruno’s dreams.’

‘Get yourself a chair, Bruno. Monsieur Valentin here can remain standing while I explain to him why the commune of St Denis will no longer do any business with his bank.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ The banker’s voice almost choked.

‘You heard me,’ said the Mayor coldly. ‘No loans and no bonds. We’ll be closing the account we use to pay salaries and shifting the pension fund to the Banque Nationale de Paris. Along with my personal account and credit cards, and every other bank account in this town if I have anything to do with it.’

‘I don’t understand …’ The banker looked stunned. He cast his eyes appealingly toward Bruno, seeking some explanation. The Mayor’s voice ground on implacably.

‘I do not deal with my enemies, Monsieur Valentin. Least of all do I let them have access to my money.’

‘Enemies, Monsieur le Maire ? We’ve worked together for years, been the banker for St Denis for over a hundred years …’

‘And now you’ve turned against us, deliberately setting out to block one of the most important projects this Departement has seen in years, maybe in decades. It’s worth at least twenty-five million in the first phase and probably a hundred million by the time they’re through. Why are you against it?’

‘But I’m not, I haven’t heard … I mean, it sounds like just the thing we’d want to support, since it’s backed by you as one of our most valued clients. Please, I’d like to know more.’

‘And they’re going to throw in Bruno’s sports hall for free, just like that. An asset for our youngsters that we’ve been sweating over for years. The bank, to whom we’ve been loyal for years, is trying to sabotage the whole deal. What can you possibly have to say for yourself?’

The banker swallowed, apparently speechless, and waved his hands uncertainly in the air in appeal to whatever gods bankers worshipped.

‘Well, I suppose we’ll get some sort of explanation from the chairman of the board in Paris to this letter of complaint I’m writing him. We were at ENA together, you know,’ the Mayor went on, referring to the Ecole Nationale d’Administration , the elite graduate school founded by de Gaulle.

The banker’s face was shiny with sweat and he seemed close to tears.

‘I really don’t understand. Please, tell me what’s wrong.’

With narrowed eyes peering over his spectacles, the Mayor tossed a sheaf of paper onto the desk.

‘Read that,’ he snapped. ‘Just the first page will do.’

Bruno recognized the petition that Gaston Lemontin had drawn up against the plans for the holiday village. He realized that the Mayor was out to make a very public and cruel example. Anyone who opposed one of his pet projects would regret it, a simple lesson in the iron laws of politics that the Mayor felt it necessary to teach every decade or so.

‘What is the first name on that petition against a project that is so important for the future of St Denis?’ the Mayor asked, in the tones of a schoolteacher with a particularly dense pupil.