Madrigal (19 page)

Darkness had come quickly. The bishop's courtyard was pitch black, the mistral fierce and icy.

Hermann had departed with the car.

‘Ah
mon Dieu
…' muttered St-Cyr uneasily to himself. No stranger to the dark, he had to admit he was afraid. Adrienne de Langlade must have been murdered – he was all but certain of this now but as yet had no final proof.

Mireille de Sinéty must have been about to confront Rivaille and the other judges with the girl's murder or perhaps had done so.

‘And this is Avignon,' he softly breathed. ‘An Avignon which still hungers for and exudes its past.'

He started out. It could have been six hundred years ago. The smell and sound of the dogs were there on the air. Had Hermann found Nino dead? Had Xavier taken that dog up river a piece to make certain it wouldn't be found? Was that why Hermann had left his partner all alone?

The branches of the bishop's plane trees were in torment. The scent of burning olive logs and coal mingled with those of sage and thyme and ah! so many things that grew wild on Mount Ventoux and elsewhere to the north. The smell of the river was there too, that of decay, of cold black mud and dead reeds, and why had that girl been drowned?

Oh
bien sûr
, the singers were a closed group and very protective of their positions and Adrienne had been the newcomer. And, perhaps, even last autumn Xavier's voice would have shown signs of changing and the boy would have become increasingly desperate at the thought of losing everything.

But to kill her over something like that didn't make sense, did it?

Reaching the courtyard gates at last, he clung to them to steady himself. By continuing to the left up the rue Sainte Catherine, he could then keep to the right and hopefully reach the Palais. Once in its shadow, there would be some relief from this infernal wind.

And from there he could strike south along the rue de Mons to that religious shop, if he could find it.

The sound of steps behind him didn't come easily and it was some time before he realized he was being followed. Brother Matthieu, he wondered, or had the bishop or Alain de Passe sent someone else? A hired assassin?

Hermann, as keeper of their guns, had this Sûreté's treasured Lebel hidden under the driver's seat of the Renault. It was Hermann's responsibility to look after the weapon and to assign it to his partner only when needed.

There were no lights. God had even seen fit to shut out the stars and moon, perhaps to emphasize that at any moment an
alerte aérienne
could sound and drive everyone underground.

Everyone.

The steps had ceased. He was certain of it but their sound had come so tenderly on the wind he had to wait a little longer. Reaching deeply into his overcoat pocket, St-Cyr found and held the pomander. He thought of that other Mireille. Rivaille had said she'd thrown herself from the Bell Tower but had that been the truth? Had there not, perhaps, been far more to it and sufficient, yes, for the present Mireille to insist on appearing before her judges dressed
exactly
as this first Mireille might well have been?

Though partially covered under opened manuscripts and letters from the past in the bishop's study, there'd been recent newspapers.
L'Oeuvre
, the mouthpiece of Marcel Déat's pro-Nazi party,
L'Oeuvre rassemblement national populaire
, also the weekly,
Je suis partout
, that of
L'Action Française
since 1930. Monarchist, violently anti-Semitic, anti-Communist and profascist,
Je suis
had promoted outright hatred and fear of the foreigners who had increasingly sought refuge in France.

A new and far brighter Renaissance, Rivaille had called life under the Nazis. Fascist and ultrafascist sentiments had always been present, a little stronger in the south perhaps, but one had to be fair. Equally there were, and had been in the past, strongly opposing views.

But what of
La Cagoule
, he asked himself. The ‘action' squads of the
Comité secret d'action révolutionnaire
– were the bishop and the others leaders of Avignon's branch of that organization?

In the thirties there'd been so many far-right splinter parties. The
Croix de feu
(the Cross of Fire), the
Camelots du Roi
, and the
Voluntaires nationaux
. All in some manner had looked forward to the downfall of the Third Republic and the rise of a new era.

A new Renaissance.

When the steps started up again, he moved into the deeper darkness of a nearby house and waited.

Les Fleurs du Petit Enfant
was full of surprises, thought Kohler. Right at the back of the shop, and hidden completely from all but the closest scrutiny, was a curtained doorway to a tiny alcove.

Knitting needles stopped. A woollen scarf began to settle into a copious lap. Dark brown, narrowly spaced eyes under heavily kohled lids looked up at him and blinked in alarm.

In row after row, and on thin shelves that climbed on either side of the alcove and ran to the sheet-iron comfort of an oil-drum sawdust burner, were postcards of naked breasts.

Other things too.

Curls of female hair – black, brown, blonde, reddish blonde and red – male erections, scrotums, small clutches of pubic hair, peephole views of unmentionable female parts. Close-ups of copulating couples, of bare asses, of girls on their hands and knees and grinning as they looked over a shoulder, the fellows too, and often not with the girls. ‘Hey, I think I get the picture,' he quipped. ‘If there is no sin, what is there to confess?'

‘It's all quite legal,' shot the woman fiercely.

‘Inspector, Dénise and I share the duties of the shop.'

‘And the profits?'

Her expression emptied. ‘I am my brother's keeper, Inspector. As for these,' she indicated the merchandise. ‘Even God must make a living in such hard times.'

Sainte Mère
! They were a pair, thought Kohler. Corbeau was sweating; the sister, as cold as ice.

He took out the postcard of Adrienne de Langlade's breasts and said flatly, ‘Who sold this photo to you?'

Dénise Corbeau didn't even bother to throw a warning glance at her brother. She just started up, all gestures and spittle. ‘
Quelle folie
! How could we possibly know? Who shouts the name for the few sous that are paid? We buy from those who sell and no names are given.'

‘What a pity,' he breathed. ‘You see, the Kommandant isn't aware of this little service his soldier boys have been frequenting along with your other customers. Oh
bien sûr
, the man who has needs must go to where they can be satisfied best, the woman also, but—'

‘Armand, pay him off and get the fucker out of here. You people. You cows. You think you can constantly put the squeeze on us?
Pour I'amour du del
, we pay off the préfet, idiot! Now fous-
moi la paix
!' Bugger off! She tossed a hand.

Her ample bosom heaved. A knitting needle fell and as it hit the floor, the bell above the shop entrance rang.

‘
Mort aux vaches
, eh?' breathed Kohler. Death to cows, the cops.

‘Dénise, he's Gestapo,' blurted the brother.

‘
Couillon, ferme-la?
' Asshole, shut your trap!

They listened to the shop, these two. ‘Hey, it's probably my partner,' said Kohler. ‘Now there's more than one of us and he's the religious one. A fanatic. His sisters are both Mother Superiors.' Louis had been an only child, but what the hell.

‘Armand, go and see who it is.
Don't
stand there looking as if I had caught you with your trousers down.
Do it
!

‘Monsieur …' she crooned and snapped her fingers. ‘The card, if you please.'

Kohler handed it over and watched as she fondled the curl and studied the breasts before drawing in a breath. ‘A musician brought us the negative and some samples of the hair. He said she was a student and needed the money but was too embarrassed to come herself.'

‘You can do better.'

‘His name?' she asked, frowning now as he waited. ‘That I don't know and didn't ask but I think he was a singer.'

‘You're lying. I think you know exactly who sold that negative to you and when. You'd seen and heard that person singing often enough in the Cathedral. Even such as yourself must go to Mass.'

‘The baritone, Norman Galiteau.'

‘Ah
bon
. Now was more than one copy made?'

‘One only.'

‘That's not true. How come I've got one?'

‘Ten … no, twenty.'

‘Fifty.'

‘Perhaps. Some were sent to … to other shops.'

‘Where?'

Maudit salaud
! ‘Marseille … Aix … We often swap so as to meet demand.'

‘Okay, now who bought this one from you and for whom?' Each card carried a number and he had noticed this.

‘It was stolen.'

‘When?'

She shrugged. Her painted lips opened up with a torrent of
langue d'oc
, the last of which suggested the theft might quite possibly have taken place during the first week of December. ‘After the flooding. Yes. Yes, I am positive.'

‘By whom?'

She had him now but wouldn't rejoice. ‘Two girls, one of whom was a nun.'

Sister Marie-Madeleine …

‘Armand had gone out, Inspector, so I was tending the shop myself, you understand. So many customers, Christmas approaching … Those little thoughtfulnesses that mean so much. The—'

‘
Ja, ja
, get to the point.'

‘She was with a girl of about her age. Twenty, I think.'

‘The
petite lingère
who was murdered?'

‘The one who was married to God purchased some things, while … while the other one entered here to steal. To
steal
!'

But took only what she must have known exactly to look for.

Kohler found a cigarette and paused to light it before placing it between her lips. ‘Now I'm going to ask you once, and then it's up against the post for you.'

The firing squad …

He gave her a moment. ‘Who did you sell copies of this to?'

‘A priest.
Une gueule cassée
. No others. I swear it.'

She was lying again – several had been sold – but he had what he wanted. ‘Brother Matthieu, when?'

‘Late last June. He was very excited when he first saw it and trembled at the touch.'

‘Okay, I believe you, but let's cement our bargain. Was he a frequent buyer?'

May God forgive her and keep the knife from her back. ‘Yes, but … but only of the bosoms, never of the others which shamed him. He was not like most of the holy fathers who make their way to us, the sisters also, some of them. When he would come, I … I would have to cover everything else up before he would dare to enter
la caverne de joie
to … to make his selection.'

A collector, and not the bishop. Not Rivaille.

St-Cyr held his breath. Subtle differences of darkness gave silhouettes. The one who had been following him hesitated. The urge to cry out,
Sûreté, you're under arrest
!, was there but suppressed. Uncertain if the quarry had been lost, the man moved off, the darkness of the street swallowing him.

Two minutes later, the Sûreté began to follow him. Hermann was better at this sort of thing. No one could touch Hermann when being followed by him, or being allowed to follow him. It was uncanny how such a giant could walk so lightly. The poacher in him, perhaps.

The man hesitated. St-Cyr hesitated. Here and there, but at some distance, were tiny, furtive, blue-shaded lights – other pedestrians – and then, its wheels squeaking as it fought the wind, a
vélo-taxi
.

The bicycle-rickshaw, one of the Occupation's greatest indignities, trundled past, its driver cursing the mistral as the couple in the back giggled and laughed. A German soldier or officer and his Avignonnaise, his
petite amie
.

Silence overcame all sounds save those of the wind, but then the droning, muffler-banging, incessant throb of a motorcycle patrol plundered the silence. Four bikes with sidecars, their headlamps squinting blue-shaded slit-eyes into the darkness, roared up the narrow street, the sound of their engines crashing from the walls until …

The sound had faded and he realized again – how often had it been since the fall of 1940? – that for Hermann and himself it was only a matter of time.

We have survived so far, but no one else really cares about common crime, not any more, he said to himself. And those who get in the way only get removed.

Far to the west, along the whole of the Spanish Frontier, the Wehrmacht had stationed some of its finest alpine troops. Whereas in 1940, '41 and even in '42, night crossings to freedom had always been difficult, now they were exceedingly hazardous. Gone were the days of a 12,000-franc
passeur
, a guide. Now it was 1,000,000 francs. Hermann knew it, too, but kept talking about taking Giselle and Oona to safety before it was too late. A bar, a tobacco shop … the retirement options were always well off on the horizon and always golden.

‘Inspector, is that you?'

‘Ah
merde
!' he cried. ‘Madame …'

‘Sister. It's Sister Marie-Madeleine. Forgive me for following you but … but I had to see you before it was too late and this … this was the only way.'

Armand Corbeau stood on tiptoes clasping the bell above the door, but he hadn't been quick enough. Some of the sound had escaped to reach the back of the shop.

Kohler reminded him of this. The shop bell was hesitantly released, Corbeau warily looking over a shoulder and down the long, narrow tunnel of the shop to where they stood as if in judgement of him.

Dénise Corbeau hesitantly wet a hairy upper lip and let a breath escape. ‘You fool,' she softly exhaled.