Madrigal (18 page)

Some of Nino's treasures lay in a far corner. Pig bones, beef bones, duck eggs now in the half-shell and in bits and pieces, a bit of driftwood, a strap of leather … Rubbish all of it.

Crammed into the toe of a tennis shoe was one of the high heels from a pair of dress shoes. Jade green to go with the strawberry blonde hair and sea-green, smashing eyes, no doubt. Prewar and Italian-made by the look but purchased in Paris, for that's where Adrienne de Langlade had come from. Very classy, very expensive and overlooked by the bishop. Ah yes!

Again he turned to the photos and only then noticed what Louis would have seen straightaway, that in three of them the girl's nipples had been stiffened. ‘Wetted with alcohol?' he wondered, she so out of it otherwise. ‘Absinthe?' he asked. Drinking it had excited the central nervous system – in the addict, it had often caused fits of delirium, violent fist-fights and generally highly antisocial behaviour; in others, a blissful contentment, a numbness, a passivity.

If drunk on it, she wouldn't have felt a thing or remembered much. And as sure as he was standing here, someone had taken close-ups of her breasts and had cut off a few curls of her hair. Enough for how many postcards? he wondered, and decided Louis and he had better find out. But Louis was still busy.

Drawing on his pipe, St-Cyr took out the little black notebook that had always served him well, both for the apprehension it induced in a suspect – and Rivaille was most certainly that! – and for the record that would be made.

‘Bishop, pardon a simple detective, but could you state absolutely for me that there was an audition on Monday evening, 25 January 1943?'

So it was to be like this after all, the pedantic, cleat-booted mind of the Paris
flic
St-Cyr had once been. ‘Even such as yourself can rise up through the ranks to attend the Police Academy and earn laurels as a
pugiliste.
'

A
boxeur
who had won acceptance not just for the fists. ‘Bishop, please answer the question.'

‘Then, yes, at ten o'clock that evening.'

‘Wasn't that a …'

‘A little late? It was the earliest that could be arranged.'

‘You dined out, I gather?'

‘With the Kommandant and Maître Simondi.'

Offer nothing more than asked – was that it, eh? ‘You had details to discuss about an upcoming concert and a tour the singers were to make.'

‘Schedules,
laissez-passers, sauf-conduits
only the Kommandant could issue. The singers don't just entertain our citizens, Inspector. We have to think of our friends as well.'

The Occupier. The troops, their officers, and yet another warning …‘Was Frau von Mahler present?'

‘During the meal or before it?'

‘Both, and just afterwards. Let's get things straight so as to save time.'

‘Then, yes. For this occasion only. It … ah,
mais certainement
it wasn't that dear lady's custom to dine with others than her immediate family, or to show her face in public. The burns, the terrible scars most of which are not those of the skin but of the …'

Rivaille hauled himself to a stop.

‘But of
what
, Bishop?'

‘Must you write down everything I say?'

‘Forgive me. It's a habit from the old days. It's in a shorthand few but myself could ever read. My partner constantly complains. Please don't concern yourself a moment longer.'

Touché
, was that it, eh? Ah! It would be best to give the Sûreté an impatient sigh and admit defeat so that the
coup de filet
, the knife stroke, could come later when most unexpected. ‘Frau von Mahler is still extremely terrified of fire – in the mind, you understand. She had nothing but praise for Mireille and was deeply concerned that the girl should at last succeed and be allowed to join the singers. Therefore that good lady set aside her own difficulties to put forth Mademoiselle de Sinéty's case.'

‘And the third judge?'

‘Both César and I wanted the Kommandant to join us – it would've swung things the girl's way, but von Mahler is a man of principle and claimed rightly that he wasn't musically qualified.'

The Sûreté sucked on that pipe of his, seemingly to pass the hours in contemplation, thought Rivaille, a habit Paris had emphasized since it could also be used by the questioned to plan ahead.

‘The audition, Bishop. Could it not have been cancelled?'

Maudit
! He was a nuisance. ‘The girl was fully prepared. Everything that she wore, apart from her clothing, had been patiently assembled from a variety of sources. Each piece was authentic and most were of considerable value. To turn the clock back, to deny her the weeks of preparation, would not have been right.'

One should choose an olive now, thought St-Cyr, to savour its taste as well as that of the Dutch pipe tobacco Hermann had been good enough to find in Paris. ‘The identity, then, of the third judge.'

‘Albert Renaud, the
notaire public.
'

‘The rue des Teinturiers …'

Good for Matthieu. ‘Yes.'

‘An old friend of her family. One of Simondi's and yourself also, I gather.'

And a fellow
Pénitent Noir
, was that what this one was thinking? ‘A friend, yes.' And a believer, then, in the dream of returning the Papacy to Avignon – he could see St-Cyr thinking this.

‘Was it usual for the singers to wear scissors, bells,
enseignes
… irreplaceable rings with a hair from the head of the Virgin?'

‘
Maudit salaud
! How dare you doubt me? No! Such things would only detract from the music and cause jealousy amongst the singers, and since we do not have sufficient nor could we risk their loss or damage.'

‘
Bon
. Then tell me, please, why Mireille de Sinéty insisted on wearing them to this audition?'

Had she not worn them before? was in the Sûreté's expression and the bastard gave a satisfied nod to indicate as much. ‘Mireille … to understand her is to understand a commitment second only to that of her belief in God and the Church. The girl had tried everything, Inspector. It was her tenth audition – the eleventh perhaps. I can't remember but will have it written down. She thought that this time, if she appeared exactly as one from the past, we, her judges, would have no other option but to admit her.'

‘Then the audition was unique in this regard?'

‘Yes.'

‘And did you admit her?'

‘No.'

‘A brief answer, Bishop, for one who had prepared so diligently and had then been murdered. Did she take that to her death?'

‘I had nothing to do with her killing.'

‘I didn't say you had.'

But it's interesting I should state that I hadn't, eh? thought Rivaille. Well, listen then! ‘The girl was too nervous. Her voice quavered. One can't have that, can one? It's the supreme test. To sing alone in the Grand Tinel or in the Cathedral itself, with only God to guide the voice and strengthen the heart, is not easy. All of us are aware of this. But the test quickly separates those who can overcome their fears and distrust from those who can't. She also, on hearing the result, abruptly turned her back on us and left the hall which was, I must say, unforgivable of her.'

‘“Distrust”, Bishop? Please explain this.'

‘Ah! It was nothing. A matter from the past. The Avignon of those days wasn't the Avignon of today. Young girls … the one she was named after. Recently married, loved dearly – treasured, but desired by another …'

‘Ordered to do what, Bishop?'

‘Summoned to the Papal Court to take up but a temporary residence. An honour … a great honour.'

‘Under duress.'

‘It was a foolishness our Mireille wouldn't leave alone. Repeatedly I counselled compassion. The differences in our ways then, the forgiveness that is necessary if one is ever to come to grips with the past.'

Six hundred years ago …‘The girl's husband and the de Sinéty family tried to get her back, didn't they?'

‘And fell into disgrace, their lives in ruins, their properties confiscated even as she threw herself from the battlements of the Bell Tower.'

‘Was she murdered, Bishop?'

‘Why do you ask?'

‘Because I must.'

‘Then understand that nothing I could say or find in the manuscripts, court documents and letters of the time would satisfy our Mireille but the truth is, this girl from the past of her family simply jumped out of despair.'

A typical Provençal tale from the age of the troubadours, Hermann would have said, and snorted at the folly of such a waste. ‘Why couldn't Mademoiselle de Sinéty be convinced, Bishop?'

Was there something else, then, something far more recent and equally sinister? Ah
bon
! St-Cyr and his partner hadn't believed for a moment that Adrienne de Langlade had accidentally drowned. An
accabussade
… was that what he was thinking, the girl stripped naked and then given repeated dunkings in the river? Her piercing cries for mercy silenced only after Absolution as those who judged stood round with mud on their boots, the rain beating harder on her pale white skin, harder, the dappled light from the lanterns falling over her kneeling frame, the girl terrified and shivering uncontrollably even when in prayer, the cage ready. Her hair … her lovely hair …‘This interview is concluded, Inspector. I have duties I must attend to and unfortunately they cannot wait.'

Christ walked through lavender wearing clothing from the fourteenth century. Mary stood in the attitude of prayer wearing the same, her straw-coloured hair not the black or dark brown it might well have been. Her eyes were very blue, the plaster ‘sculptures' garish and unforgivable.

‘It's the Italian influence,' Louis would have muttered, but was still probably with the bishop or wondering where the hell his partner had got to. ‘Fair hair was prized so much, Hermann, the women who could would spend hours in the sun to bleach it and tried all manner of rinses, even mule's urine. They bleached their skins too, but covered up when attending to the hair, and wore white lead as a base to their cosmetics but couldn't change the shade of their eyes.'

An encyclopaedia of the times, snorted Kohler silently at the thought of his partner. From floor to ceiling, wall to wall, and on table, counter and shelf, the rat hole of
Les Fleurs du Petit Enfant
was a carnival of objects of piety. Bits of mirror and picture glass threw back the light. Candles burned in these hard times, perfuming the air with ersatz cinnamon behind tightly drawn black-out curtains. But still there was no sign of what he'd come looking for. Portraits of the Christ Child, in violent shades, clashed with those of the Virgin who held Him but was never seen here to suckle her babe like a normal mother. And in a stable, no less!

Crucifixes of zinc had been painted silver for those foolish enough to part with ten times the price of those that had been dipped in black. Madonna-and-Child medallions were so poorly stamped they echoed the one Louis had found on Mireille de Sinéty's dressing table.

Kohler picked up a framed portrait. Did some of them have postcards hidden behind their backings – bare breasts and curls, other things too, or was the switch made while taking the cash?

‘I can't decide,' he said, giving a helpless shrug to the
patron
who was in his late forties, short, rotund, and wearing gold-rimmed specs and a rumpled dark brown business suit. A failed novice, was that it? Life in the seminary too confining? The peach-down covered cheeks were pink and fair and had never seen the touch of a razor. Moles sprouted unclipped dark brown hairs. The greeny brown eyes had begun to water.

‘The wife's very religious,' said Kohler. ‘I promised to send her a little something.'

That wife of too many neglected years back home on the farm near Wasserburg had just recently got herself a divorce and had married an indentured farm labourer from France but no matter. This was Avignon where lies counted.

Dangling a Bakelite rosary in front of the
patron
, he grinned and asked, ‘How much?'

‘Two hundred francs.'

‘Hey, it's a bargain. I'll take it. Here, I've got lots in this canvas sack. I just came into a fortune.'

There were at least 25,000 francs in the bundle that was taken out. Armand Corbeau furtively looked over the rest of the clientele, all of whom had paused in their infernal pawing to listen as he gave up and sighed, ‘Inspector, one can't but recognize a policeman no matter his country of origin. What can I do for you?'

A wise man. ‘A few small words into the shell of your ear,
mon fin
. Nothing difficult, I assure you.'

The shop emptied. In one minute, two nuns, a priest, three soldier boys with their girlfriends and a couple of ordinary citizens looking as if they were after other things had fled.

‘
Papiere bitte. Schnell
! I haven't got all night.'

The residence listed on the
carte d'identité
was the shop, but where did he eat and sleep?

Kohler tapped the identity card with evident uncertainty before pocketing it only to hear the expected gasp of, ‘Monsieur …?'

The Kripo's representative leaned on the counter, pushing trash aside. ‘Hey, you'd already decided it was Inspector. Use some respect. It's
Herr
Kohler, Gestapo Paris-Central.'

The fleshy lips quivered. Pudgy fingers hesitated but moved secretively along the back of the cash counter to a hidden push-bell.

‘
Don't
! It wouldn't be wise, now would it?'

The Gestapo … Corbeau sucked in a breath and fought with himself not to let his eyes stray from the detective's empty gaze but the temptation was too great.

He darted a glance to the back of the shop, then waited.

‘So, we understand each other,' breathed Kohler, enjoying getting the jump on such leeches. ‘Now you're not to lock the front door and hang up the
fermé
sign. That wouldn't be fair. You're to leave that door open to all comers while we have ourselves a little chat.'