Madrigal (23 page)

‘And?' he asked.

He could be so gentle, this detective, so sincere, but would he really understand? ‘You must have seen that my music stand lies broken. When that happened, Mireille burst into tears. She was exhausted. They had hammered at her incessantly all through practice. To the singers she was never right, always wrong – terrible, awful. She had been up night after night preparing for that damned audition. I insisted she confide in me. They didn't want her joining them. She was certain of it. “They don't want me with them,” she said. “I know they don't.”'

‘And?' he asked again. How cautious of him.

‘Dédou was to have been with her at the Palais. He was to have waited, hidden from those who were to judge her, but as you've said, he failed to show up.'

It was coming now, and to give him credit, the Chief Inspector had some inkling of it, for he again waited for her to continue. ‘Dédou didn't want her joining the group, Inspector. He was very possessive of her, very jealous … but also there was this other business of his belonging to the Resistance, the “terrorists”. To them she must have presented a grave and constant danger that could not have been overlooked any more and would have to be dealt with. His comrades, his chief, would have insisted. A collaborator, a friend of the
Bodies?
Had he not agreed to do something about it, they would have banished him. You know it as well as I.'

The boy had killed her – was this what the woman believed? ‘At dinner that evening, madame, you made what for you must have been an extreme sacrifice. You dined with Maître Simondi, Bishop Rivaille and your husband.'

‘I wanted Kurt to be that third judge in case Dédou should show up. I was afraid Préfet de Passe might have planned to take the boy. With Kurt there, things would go easier for the couple, but my husband refused to do what the husk of his wife begged. Oh
bien sûr
he had his reasons. Perhaps he felt he shouldn't interfere any more. Berlin … who knows what ears Berlin have or what they will think? I knew Mireille was very afraid and not just of their decision – ah no, that was nothing new, really. She had failed many times before, but this other matter was something else. What I didn't know at the time.'

‘Her intention to accuse them of the murder of Adrienne de Langlade or of its cover-up.'

‘To her it must have been a repetition of what had happened six hundred years ago. That's why she dressed the way she did. I'm certain of it. The unmitigated arrogance of those – the Church especially – who, for whatever reason, would take the law into their own hands. But how could she possibly have known who did it?'

‘We don't know yet. My partner may have something. I …' He shrugged.

‘Bishop Rivaille suggested they ask Monsieur Renaud to be the third judge, and a call was put through to his house but …'

‘But what, madame?'

‘But I was certain César had anticipated my husband's refusal and had already taken steps to fill that post.'

‘With Madame Simondi?'

How quick to suspicion the Inspector was. ‘He said nothing of it. Monsieur Renaud agreed to be there. The time was given, and still César said nothing of that wife of his. I worried. The woman would have been drunk – “not well”, as César is so fond of saying, but if not drunk, what then, I asked myself. Kurt had to return to the Kommandantur. He often works late. The telexes and coded messages from Berlin, from General Niehoff in Lyon. I—'

‘A moment, please,' interjected St-Cyr. ‘This Madame Simondi … why were you so concerned about her being there?'

‘
Why?
She knew Adrienne well, knew that girl inside out, I think, for she forced her to visit with her constantly. Paris … always they talked of Paris, but secretly Marceline Simondi is a very jealous, very conniving woman, or so I'm given to understand, and César … César was entranced with the girl. He wanted her, Inspector.'

The
marmite perpétuelle
, the constant soup that simmers on the backs of all stoves in the provinces, was getting thicker.

‘She knew Mireille, too, Inspector – of course she did – and had presented her with little gifts in payment for work done. Gifts Mireille swore she couldn't bring herself to touch, so repugnant did she find the woman. You see, Marceline eggs the singers on. Mischief … wild parties. She insists they do her bidding or face dismissal and they, in turn, are afraid of her.'

‘You forced yourself to go to the Palais.'

‘I felt I had to.'

The
salon
of César Simondi's
pied-à-terre
was like the sun seen at its setting beyond the dust storms of Oklahoma. It was fiery red in plush, velvety carpets and armchairs with footstools where triflings of gilding flamed to long vertical shafts of saffron yellow on the walls beyond them. Gold was everywhere in draperies and hangings that rose to an expansively timbered, carved ceiling and let the night come down with visions of loveliness. Forest nymphs playing lutes, flutes and recorders. Satyrs leering at mischief among the undergrowth while a well-hung Bacchus bathed with several voluptuous things in a secreted pool and lifted a delighted young creature out of the water by the hips.

There were marble statues, bronze busts, amphorae … islands of privacy among the furnishings. And oh
mein Gott
, what a place, breathed Kohler as the usherette, her shoes left at the door, finally brought them to a halt.

‘César …' she hazarded, for the two men had been caught closeted over their wine glasses and papers. ‘César, forgive me, please, but I have had to bring you a visitor who would not take no for an answer,'

‘
Figlio di puttana
!' Son of a bitch! ‘I
spettore
,' boomed Simondi. ‘What a pleasant surprise.
Buona sera, amico mio
. You are just the man we want to see.

‘
Merda
, Renée.
Proprio a me dovevi fare questo?
' Did you have to do this to me? ‘Bring another glass and quickly, eh? Then leave us. Vanish.
É finito per te
, do you understand?
Finito
!' It's finished for you. Finished! ‘We must let the Inspector taste the milk of Provence.

‘
Entrate, prego, Ispettore
. Come in, please. Alberto …' He indicated his companion. ‘You know of Avignon's premier
notaire public?
You don't? Ah, how can this be? Alberto, this is the Detective Inspector Hermann Kohler from Munich first, Berlin second, and Paris at present and for the past two and a half years. A man who lives with two exquisitely beautiful women, I am told.'

Simondi settled back to hook a thumb into the left armhole of the soft cream waistcoat he wore. The black suit jacket was open, the white dress shirt had been freshly laundered. The polka-dot bow tie was of another age, one of refinement, culture and the
belle époque
, if one cut out the swearing. A throwback, wondered Kohler. A showman certainly. A man in his mid-fifties. Shrewd, tough, ambitious, a schemer and dreamer, a manipulator, the look Simondi gave him was one of penetrating assessment. The face was wide and strong, the brow high. A cigarette, forbidden to his singers, held a good centimetre of forgotten ash. The lips were wide, the moustache dark brown and bushy, the nose Roman and pronounced, the greeny-brown eyes swift to sense trouble, the hair well-groomed, unparted, pomaded and without a wave.

‘Herr Kohler, before you jump to conclusions, let me say how upset we both are at the loss of our beloved Mireille. Frankly, I don't know how I'm to replace her. She took care of everything. A brilliant girl, so talented, so conscientious.' He clenched a raised fist. ‘A tower of strength. You know, of course, that costume is half of great theatre;
la voce, la musica
, it's equal.'

‘A few small questions, Maître. Nothing difficult.'

It was the line Paris had said would begin each interview. ‘Ah! Renée, how thoughtful of you. A glass of the Châteauneuf-du-Pape, Inspector, the 1940. Still in the barrel where it will stay, God willing, for at least another four years before bottling.'

While the girl, nearly in tears now, poured, Simondi's gaze never left her nor did the tenor of his mute condemnation alter. Albert Renaud was far more the professorial-looking type. A grey-haired, pipe-smoking man in a rumpled beige tweed suit of the early 1930s, a green plaid tie, wire-rimmed spectacles, dark blue eyes and with the perpetual expression of having just delivered a profound question or answer.

The hair was silky and thinning rapidly, the brow deeply furrowed, the moustache full, the mouth small. ‘The wine is from the Clos du Clément Sixth, Inspector,' he said, as if this Kripo should know how important that was.

‘It's on its way to surpassing the 1934 and the 1926,' acknowledged Simondi. ‘Renée,
angelo mio
, you're forgiven. Take a little sip and tell us what you think. Ah!
C'est bon, n
'
est-ce pas? Nettare puro
from the breast of mother nature herself.' He kissed his fingertips.

Pure nectar. Well, maybe, thought Kohler. The girl said what was expected of her and was allowed to leave without a farewell glance from her boss.

‘I trust her judgement,' confided Simondi with a flick of his cigarette to clear it of ash.

A jade green, velvet-covered double sofa was flanked by Carrara marble damsels that held gilded candelabra above their heads. Home turf, was it? wondered Kohler. The cushions were plump and soft, and when he sat down in the sofa, he sank deeply into it.

‘This terrible murder. Please tell us how the investigation is progressing. Spare nothing. Alberto and myself are here to help.'

Like vultures over carrion, was that it, eh, snorted Kohler to himself as he took out his little black notebook and flipped it open to a blank page they couldn't get a look at. ‘Let's see what we've got. Three judges. The two of you and Bishop Rivaille. Time: ten p.m. Location: the Grand Tinel and one young lady singing her heart out from the far end of an otherwise empty hall.'

He let them think about this, then said, ‘One dog that answers to the name of Nino but is a beagle bitch that wanders and brings home little treasures she finds so that her friends, male and female, can share the joy of them. A girl's tennis shoe … The jade green heel from a pair of expensive dress shoes that were bought in Paris, I think.'

‘
Ispettore …
'

‘Got your attention, have I? I want the truth, Maître. The wine's okay, by the way. A bit heavy, but of a nice deep colour. Maybe it suffers from being too inexperienced.
Ja, meine lieben Herren
, it's like a young virgin. Slow to develop, but given the fullness of time, will come into its own.'

They waited. Simondi had returned to surveying him with that thumb of his still hooked into his waistcoat. Renaud was calm.

‘I take it those are the deeds to the vineyard?' said Kohler.

‘And the mortgages,' offered Renaud eagerly. ‘Bishop Rivaille has always expressed an interest …'

‘A passion, Alberto.'

‘A passion, yes, for returning the Mother Church to her former glory in Avignon. We try to assist in whatever ways we can.'

‘The vineyards lie on land that is immediately below the ruins of the papal summer palace, Inspector,' said Simondi, taking up the unlabelled bottle to refill Kohler's glass. ‘Keep the memory of this with you while I get us a bottle of the 1926. It's no trouble. Alberto and I were about to share one anyway.'

‘Forget the wine. Suppose you start by telling me why Salvatore Biron, the concierge, wasn't told of the audition.'

‘But he was! I'm certain of it,' exclaimed Simondi. ‘Didn't Bishop Rivaille tell you this?'

‘Biron claims he didn't know there was to be one.'

‘Then he lies for reasons of his own. Strike only for the truth, Inspector, as you've stated yourself.'

Again, Simondi, adopting the same pose, settled back to study him.

‘Salvatore loves the cinema,' offered Renaud apologetically. ‘César is too kind. It's not the first time our
grand mutilé
has lied, nor is it the first time he has been absent from his duties. When I couldn't find him, I simply drew the black-out curtains myself and set up the chairs.'

‘I found the candles,' said Simondi. ‘The bishop and I lighted and placed them about the hall. The girl entered. She was obviously extremely nervous. I asked her if she wished to put off the audition until another time.'

‘You begged her to do so, César. I heard you. Why not say it?'

‘
Scusate, Ispettore
. Forgive me. Yes, I was, I must tell you, uneasy. Mireille … Ah! She had the voice, the manner, the bearing. Her costume was perfect.'

‘Perfect!' said Renaud softly. ‘Magnificent!'

‘Evocative. The past personified in every detail, yet I knew in my heart, Inspector, things would not go well for her.'

‘Who else was present?'

‘Only the three of us and herself. Why, please, do you ask?'

‘What about the singers?'

‘Them? Most certainly not. Each understands totally that such an interference would lose them their position. When one does what I do, Inspector, one has to insist on absolute obedience. A commitment that is total. Auditions are always private and, as much as possible, held in confidence.'

‘It was too close to curfew in any case, Inspector,' said Renaud. ‘None of them would have had
laissez-passers.
'

‘What about Brother Matthieu?'

‘That one?' exclaimed Renaud. ‘Ah no, Inspector. By that time of night, our
gueule cassée
would have been alone in his cell with his God and his thoughts.'

‘He has a small problem, Inspector,' confessed Simondi, reaching for his glass. ‘It's harmless, I assure you. When one has suffered so much, others must make allowances, isn't that so?'