Martin Walker - The Caves of Perigord

“Lydia,” said Manners. “I wonder if we could do two things at once. If you tackle the microfiche in the library, I can carry on talking to our friend here about his memories of my father and pick his brains about other old comrades. We’d get on twice as fast.” His tone was as friendly as ever, but there was just a touch of briskness about it, of someone accustomed to delegating matters, that Lydia realized she had not heard before. But the suggestion made sense. She nodded coolly.

“At what time does the library close, monsieur?” she asked.

“Officially, at five P.M. In fact, as long as I’m here, you may stay. But not the other members of the public, of course. But then, we keep special hours for old comrades, and the son of Capitaine Manners …” He gestured grandly.

As Lydia left with her pile of books and files, she noticed that Manners had taken one of the old Frenchman’s cigarettes, and they were pouring yet another glass of the sweet golden wine. Officer’s privileges, she grinned to herself. If they drank the afternoon away, then Manners would have to let her drive the Jaguar on to Les Eyzies. She was still smiling when she entered the library to find Horst perched on a desk and glowering at her.

“So you are the special project for whom the Perigord materials are reserved,” he said coldly. “There must be more money at stake than I thought in this cave painting if an auction house is investing its time like this.”

“I’m on vacation,” she began, then brought herself up short. She owed him no explanations. “And you must be convinced that this rock of mine comes from Lascaux, or you wouldn’t be here, pretending to be an American.”

“Not your rock, Miss Dean. The Manners rock, or, should I say, France’s rock? But yes, I think it’s real. I told you that. And the only place we are likely to find out where it comes from is to look into the wartime exploits of Mr. Manners. It was not difficult to find that he was in the Jedburgh teams in Perigord, and this is probably the best library on the Resistance in Perigord, so this is the place to start.” He pushed himself off the desk, a lithe movement, and gave a friendly smile that reminded Lydia that this man had been Clothilde’s lover for some time, and she was not a woman to waste her time on uninteresting men.

“May I look at the books that you aren’t using?” he asked, courteously enough. “I quite understand that a beautiful young woman will always take precedence in France, even leaving aside the fact that this is a Resistance shrine and I am a German.”

“Don’t be silly, Professor,” Lydia said. “Of course you can look at the books while I’m using the microfiche. And the librarian thinks you’re an American. I won’t give away the little secret of your nationality-if you think it still matters.”

“Among these old Resistance types, it certainly matters. And so it should. My countrymen behaved monstrously around here. I understand their attitude, and have to live with it. But let’s be practical. Have you heard anything more from the London police about the theft?” he asked. “It seems very suspicious, the rock disappearing almost on the very night that it is brought in.”

“It is suspicious, even though it was the next night. And all the police have told us so far was to give us the authorization to make the insurance claim. The whole art world and auction community know about the theft, so I doubt that it will surface in the salesrooms. We hope that the reward offer will persuade the thief to make a discreet approach in the usual way.”

“But you have heard nothing as yet?” he asked, leaning forward to leaf through the books she had brought.

“Not when I left London. I have been in Italy, but if there had been an approach, I would have known. I’m surprised-I’d have thought a thief would have worked out by now that twenty thousand pounds is about the best he’s going to get.”

“Perhaps the French will offer more.” He was riffling through the index of a book about Soleil, put it down and picked up Malrand’s memoirs.

“I doubt it-half of the reward money comes from the museum at Les Eyzies. The French won’t bid against themselves.”

“If the President of the Republic takes a personal interest, you might be surprised at what the French can do, Miss Dean. The Perigord is Malrand’s home region. This was his war. Manners was his comrade, and now it looks as if Manners was looting France’s heritage when he was meant to be fighting Germans. Did Malrand not know what his British friend was doing? Did he not care? Malrand’s war record as a Resistance hero was the key to his political career, and now this comes along to cast a shadow over the presidential past.”

“That seems a bit fanciful, Professor. You may be convinced that this rock is Lascaux work, but I’m not half so certain, and I have seen it. You have only seen the photos.”

“So why, my dear Miss Dean, are you wasting your holiday in the Resistance library?”

“Because I feel responsible,” she burst out. Calm, Lydia, calm. The man was only scoring points, infuriating and perceptive points. And surely that was a mocking smile on his face, the self-satisfied beast! Whatever had Clothilde seen in this fellow? She went on evenly. “What may have been an extraordinary piece of cave art was entrusted to us, and we lost it, and we have a duty to try and put that right. At least, I think we do. But I don’t see that presidential politics comes into it. And I came here because this was where my plane landed. I’m off to the Perigord region to look at lots of caves because I now think I don’t know nearly as much about them as I should.”

He looked at her quizzically and smiled easily, the practiced grin of someone who had often been told that his smile was charming. “Perhaps you are right, Miss Dean. Your motives do you credit. My motives are scholarly, but I’m sure we can agree that were we to find where this rock of yours came from, it would enhance both our reputations. I think we have much in common. Perhaps we can work together, share the burden. Who knows-perhaps even share the glory, if we are lucky?”

He slid into the chair at the desk before her, opening a laptop computer and pushing the button that whirred the thing into life. “Let me tell you my thoughts,” he went on distractedly, as he waited for the screen to settle. “I thought I would make a timeline of the locations we know that Manners visited, plot them against known sites, interview any former Resistance people he worked with, and see if that leads anywhere. What about you?”

“Nothing so organized, I’m afraid. I imagine he was all over the Vezere and Dordogne valleys, where most of the known caves are to be found. But I had thought of asking his old comrades, although if they knew anything definite about undiscovered caves, I presume they would have been discovered by now.”

She found herself looking at the books by Horst’s elbow. There was one she recognized, Das Reich, the account of the Resistance battle to slow down the march of the German SS panzer division from Toulouse north to Normandy. Some photocopies of a dense German text peeped from beneath the book. She made out the initial Kr and the letters B-U-C-H. Kriegesbuch -the war diary of a German unit. He had been busy.

“Can I buy you dinner this evening, Miss Dean?” He casually scooped his books and papers into a neat pile.

“I’m sorry, Professor, but no. I have an engagement.” Obviously Horst didn’t know Manners was in the next room. No reason why he should, but equally, no reason to let him know that Lydia’s quest was serious enough to be accompanied by the rock’s current owner.

“Well, perhaps another time. And you must call me Horst,” he smiled. “I’m sure we will meet again on our treasure hunt. You said you were off to Perigord soon-doubtless we’ll run into each other in Les Eyzies. I’m staying at the Cro-Magnon Hotel. How about you?”