Season of Snows and Sins

by Patricia Moyes

  “More? How can I do more?”

  “I’ve been reading the verbatim reports of the trial,” Henry said.

  “What has that to do with it?”

  “I am not at all sure,” said Henry, “that Anne-Marie did kill Robert.”

  “But…” Sylvie was sad and puzzled. “Oh, how I would like to believe that, Henry, but it just isn’t possible. I’m sorry, I have to say it. The evidence was quite clear. And then—” Suddenly she changed vocal gears, and said loudly, “And you promise you will take me for a raclette picnic? Promise! Come on, promise!”

  I opened my eyes and propped myself up on one elbow. Giselle Arnay had come out of the house again. Jane was with her, and they were talking animatedly. As they went over to the drinks table, Sylvie whispered urgently to Henry, “Please. No more. Not in front of Giselle.”

  “Why not?”

  “It…she gets upset. You know that she was…well… involved, in a way.”

  “I’d like to talk to you some more about the case, Sylvie. If Anne-Marie—”

  “Ssh. Please.” There was no mistaking the seriousness in Sylvie’s voice. Panic, almost. “I will come tomorrow to Panoralpes. We will talk then. Eleven o’clock.”

  Henry said, “If you will promise, I will promise.”

  “I will, I will,” said Sylvie.

  Giselle turned, glass in hand. “What is all this promises?” she asked.

  Henry said, “I have promised to take Sylvie on a raclette picnic, if she will come and have a drink with me in her own apartment tomorrow.”

  “Oh.” Giselle had lost interest. She turned back to Jane. “When will the figurine be ready? Tomorrow?”

  Jane laughed. “I work fast, but not so fast as that. Give me a few more days.”

  “I too have to work fast,” said Giselle. She took a long pull at her drink, and then said again, “Fast. Always fast.”

  Michel Veron and Mario came scrambling out of the pool, laughing and arguing over who had won the swimming contest. “You are a great liar, caro Mario,” said Veron, and put his arm around the Italian’s bare, wet shoulder. Giselle turned her head away and began talking to Jane about colors and textures of marble. Michel and Mario began toweling themselves down, laughing and indulging in mild horseplay.

  There was nothing to it, of course, but Giselle Arnay was like a finely tuned, sensitive radio receiver, quivering to pick up the smallest tension, the hint of an emotion. And maybe amplify it? I could not be sure. Perhaps I was imagining the whole thing.

  Once again I was beginning to experience that sense of unease, of not belonging, of being out of my depth, which always seemed to come over me at the Chalet Perce-neige. I could not for the life of me decide whether there was anything sinister about this group of people, or whether they were merely unfamiliar, with their fame and wealth and easy mastery of life. Was I like the psychiatric patient who was brutally told that his inferiority complex could easily be explained—he was inferior? I thought of the young ski instructors—Robert Drivaz and Jean Bertrand and Henri Whatever-his-name-was—and how easily and unselfconsciously they apparently had fitted into the Arnay-Veron circle. They had the virtues of simplicity. I was horribly middle-class, neither one thing nor the other. I couldn’t adapt.

  Anyhow, I was delighted when Giselle announced, in her usual abrupt way, that it was too cold to stay outside, and that she was going to change. At once I said that we should be going. We had only been invited for a drink, after all. Jane did not look too pleased, I thought, but nobody pressed us to stay.

  As we were leaving, I heard Henry say to Sylvie, “Remember your promise?”

  And she said quietly, “Yes, Henry.”

  Sylvie was as good as her word. Promptly at eleven o’clock the next morning she rang the doorbell of her own apartment—a beautifully mannered touch, for of course she had her own key. Henry and I were alone in the flat—Jane, as usual, being closeted in the studio with Giselle.

  The first thing I noticed about Sylvie Claudet was that she looked worried. Not obviously, of course. Her precisely groomed surface was much too smooth to show the sort of ruffled nervousness which would betray an ordinary person. She greeted us charmingly, sat down on the sofa, and answered Henry’s query by saying that she would love a glass of champagne. When Henry looked taken aback, she laughed and assured him that he would find a case of excellent Brut in the cave, and that she was offering us a bottle, as it was the only thing she liked to drink before lunch.

  Henry went off to get the wine, and Sylvie shrugged off her silky broadtail jacket and lit a cigarette. That was when I noticed that her hand was just slightly unsteady, so that she had to flick the gold lighter twice before the cigarette was burning steadily, and her movements were just perceptibly quicker and jerkier than usual.

  She took a pull on her cigarette, smiled at me slowly, deliberately stroking out any wrinkles in her behavior, and said, “Henry tells me you saw Anne-Marie. Poor girl. You must tell me all about her.” She gave me no chance to do so, however, but went on at once. “Henry seems—I don’t know—I had a feeling last night that he somehow disapproved of me. What have I done wrong, Emmy?”

  “Nothing, as far as I know,” I said. “It’s just that Henry wants to do something for Anne-Marie if he can, and we thought you might be able to help.”

  “Me? How can I help?”

  I smiled. “I’m not the detective. You’ll have to wait till Henry comes back.”

  When the champagne had been poured, Henry sat down in an armchair opposite Sylvie, and said, “Thank you for coming, Mme. Claudet.”

  “ ‘Sylvie,’ please.”

  “Sylvie. Emmy has told you…?”

  “What do you want to ask me?” The faint aroma of nervousness was back. “I don’t see how I can help you.”

  Henry said easily, “First of all, we can run through just exactly what you did on the day Robert Drivaz was killed.”

  “Me? I was in Paris.”

  “I know you were. It’s just to get a complete picture—”

  “It’s very simple,” said Sylvie. “It was the day of the conference of the Federation of Women’s Guilds—once a year, delegates come from all over France to this great meeting in Paris. It is of a boredom—you would not believe! But as Pierre’s wife, I have to appear. I even made a speech—just a little one. I was there all day.”

  “You lent your car to Chantal, I believe?”

  “How did you know that?”

  “She told me. She says she had a near-miss accident near Versailles.”

  “She drives like a little demon when she…sometimes. I don’t lend her the car any more.” Sylvie wrinkled her forehead. “I worry about Chantal. She is more like a daughter to me than a goddaughter, especially since her mother died.”

  “But you let her have the car that day?”

  “I knew I would not need it—I was the whole day at the conference, how you say, cooped up? I took a taxi home afterward—that must have been about six, I suppose. I had a cold meal by myself in the apartment—Pierre was away, you see, at some meeting in Vienna. Soon after ten, Chantal turned up, to return the car. She told me about her—her escapade. When the police arrived, I thought it must be about Chantal’s accident—but no. They told us Robert Drivaz had been murdered.”

  “And the telephone call—could it have been made from your apartment in Paris?” Henry asked.

  “Certainly not.” Sylvie almost snapped out the words.

  “How can you be sure? Your maid—”

  “It was her day off. The manservant was with Pierre in Vienna. The apartment was empty.”

  “Does Chantal have a key to your apartment?”

  Sylvie looked up suspiciously. “What has that to do with it?”

  “I just wondered. Does she?”

  There was a perceptible hesitation. Then Sylvie said, “Yes, she does.”

  Henry said, “Yours is a very fast car, I understand.”

  “It is a good car, yes.�
�

  “How long does it take you to drive from Paris to Montarraz, Sylvie?”

  Sylvie laughed. “My car goes fast, Henry, but I do not—or very seldom. I always allow six hours, so that I need not hurry.”

  “But the car could do it in less time, couldn’t it?” said Henry. “In—what? Five hours? Four?”

  Sylvie considered seriously. “There are the Jura Mountains to cross,” she said. “So much depends on the state of the roads. In winter, I suppose a lunatic driver could do it in five hours. In summer—rather less.”

  “It occurred to me,” said Henry, “that Chantal could have driven down here and back that day, and still arrived at your apartment sometime after ten in the evening.”

  “But she was near Versailles, Henry—making a nonsense with a camion. She told you.”

  “So she did.”

  Sylvie put her glass down on the table, and sat up very straight. “I do not like,” she said, “what you say. Chantal may be a little crazy, like all young people, but you hint that she—”

  “I’m sorry, Sylvie.” Henry rubbed the back of his neck with his hand—always a sign that he was concentrating. “You say Chantal is an orphan?”

  “Yes. That is—Chantal may have a father somewhere, but she never knew him, and he has never shown any interest in her. Her mother was a great friend of mine. She was killed in an accident six years ago… Henry, what has all this to do with Anne-Marie?”

  Henry laughed, a little ruefully. “Nothing, Sylvie. Nothing at all. Chantal knew Robert Drivaz, didn’t she?”

  Sylvie shrugged. “In a place like this,” she said, “everybody knows the ski instructors. But Chantal never…that is to say, it was Giselle…” She stopped.

  “Ah, yes,” said Henry. “Giselle. Who is now so sensitive about the whole subject. Why?”

  “I should have thought it was obvious. She was…well, she behaved rather foolishly. Then Robert turned up in Paris and made a stupid scene. It was all very embarrassing for Giselle.”

  “You were there?” Henry was obviously intrigued.

  Sylvie hesitated. Then she said, “No, I was not there. Giselle telephoned me and told me. She was very upset. She said he had been…most offensive.”

  “What exactly did Robert say to her?” He asked.

  Sylvie blew out a long, lazy cloud of smoke from her cigarette. Then she said, “I really think you should ask Giselle that question, Henry. There is an English mot about a poilu —no? I have heard Pierre say it. What le poilu says cannot be in the court—is that it?”

  Henry grinned. “What the soldier said isn’t evidence,” he said. “You’re quite right. I’ll ask her. You don’t think she’ll object?”

  “How should I know?”

  “I only ask because yesterday evening you were so very emphatic about not mentioning the Drivaz case in front of Giselle.”

  Sylvie smiled. “You did not quite understand, Henry. I think if you were to talk to Giselle alone, it might be different.”

  “You mean—Giselle’s husband doesn’t know about…?”

  “Oh, my Henry.” Sylvie smiled slowly. “You are naïve, no? Just talk to Giselle. And now, is the interrogation finished? May the witness have another glass of champagne, Maître Tibbett?”

  “Of course.” Henry opened the eighteenth-century inlaid secretaire, which now housed an icebox, and brought out the bottle. He refilled our glasses, and then raised his. “To you, Sylvie. Thank you. You’ve been a great help.”

  “I have?” Sylvie laughed. “Oh, if it was always so easy to be a great help to somebody, how pleasant life would be.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “No reason.” Sylvie sipped her champagne. “Well, Henry, I have kept my promise. Will you keep yours? The raclette picnic? Tomorrow?”

  It was all very well for Sylvie to tell Henry that he should question Giselle Arnay directly, and alone; there seemed little prospect that the opportunity would ever arise. After all, Henry was not making an official investigation—he was merely, to put it bluntly, nosing about in other people’s business. I said as much to Henry after Sylvie had gone, and he agreed rather gloomily. So we were both very surprised when, half an hour later, the doorbell rang, and there stood Giselle, looking like a guttersnipe in her faded jeans and old T-shirt. She strolled into the drawing room, sat down in a big armchair which seemed to engulf her, tucked up her bare feet under her buttocks, and said, “Jane will be in the studio for some time. She needs me not for the moment. Sylvie said you wanted to talk about Robert Drivaz and that girl. Why?”

  A little taken aback, Henry said, “I am trying to help Anne-Marie.”

  “You are reopening the case, you mean?”

  “I’ve no right to do that,” said Henry. “This is purely unofficial. But if I come across any fresh evidence—”

  “There is no way I can help you.” Everything that Giselle said was a flat, direct statement, difficult to contradict.

  “I think you can,” Henry said. “That is, if you don’t mind talking about your relationship with Robert Drivaz.”

  “There was none.”

  “I understood—” Henry began.

  “You understand nothing. This is a small village. I am Giselle Arnay. If I engage a private ski instructor, of course there will be gossip.”

  Henry said, “But later, Robert came to see you in Paris.”

  “Yes—I believe he did.”

  “What do you mean—you believe he did?”

  Giselle smiled slightly. “I was out,” she said. “When I came home, Mario told me that Robert had come to the house. He was drunk and abusive. Mario sent him packing.”

  “That,” said Henry, “is not my information.”

  Giselle sat perfectly still, but her eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. “Your information? What is that, please?”

  “That he did see you, that there was a stormy interview, and that you were very upset.”

  Quite expressionless, Giselle said, “I see. Sylvie has been talking to you.”

  “You know she has.”

  After a moment’s hesitation Giselle said, “Sylvie is a silly woman. I suppose she told you lies because she is frightened.”

  “Frightened? Why should she be frightened?”

  Giselle stretched elegantly and yawned. “Oh, you know. Pierre is a minister of the Republic. Caesar’s wife must be above suspicion. Above all, from Caesar.”

  “What does that mean, exactly?”

  “You are the policeman, Henry, not I. I am not a—what is it?—a sneaker. What Robert may have said to Sylvie in Paris—”

  “Robert? He didn’t see her in Paris.”

  “Didn’t he?” Giselle yawned again. “Well, I expect you have your information. Poor Robert. He did not see me, he did not see Sylvie, and Mario was very rude to him. Perhaps he see Chantal?” Then, almost to herself, she added, “Perhaps so. Perhaps that is why Sylvie is afraid.” Then, to Henry, “And then he came home, and his wife killed him with a carving knife. What a silly, silly boy. Is there more you wish to ask me?”

  “Yes,” said Henry. “I’d like to know just where you were and what you did on the day Robert was killed.”

  “So inquisitive, the little policeman. I don’t remember what day it was.”

  “April 14.”

  “April…April… Oh, yes.” She broke into a dazzling smile. “Of course, I was here. That is to say, at Perce-neige. With Mario. Just the two of us. Michel was in Paris, singing at Le Fromage Sauvage. Does that make me a—a suspicious?”

  Henry said, “I know you were in Montarraz. I meant—what did you do on that particular day?”

  “Oh, how can I remember? It was so long ago.”

  Henry said, “You must remember that day. When Mario came home and told you—”

  “He did not.”

  “He didn’t?”

  “He was at the police station nearly all night. I went to sleep. I heard nothing of Robert until next day.”

  �
�All the same,” Henry said, “in retrospect, that day must stand out. Don’t you remember…?”

  Giselle stood up. “I don’t remember. I shall go home now.” She walked out of the apartment.

  Henry looked at me and smiled. “Interesting, isn’t it?”

  “You’re certainly stirring them up,” I said, “but I can’t quite see where it’s getting us.”

  A few minutes later Jane came in from the studio. For a change, she seemed cheerful and sociable, accepted a drink, and started to talk with animation. When I asked her how her work was going, she smiled brilliantly and said it was fine.

  “I’ve solved the problems—at least I think I have. For the moment, I can relax.” She paused. “I owe you an apology.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “I must have been impossible to live with the last couple of days. It’s always like that when one is—how can I put it?—fighting. Knowing that something good is there, hidden in the clay, and struggling to get it out intact. Do you see what I mean?”

  I didn’t, of course, but I said that I did. I was delighted that Jane was back with us again. I had been really worried.

  At lunch Henry steered the conversation around to Anne-Marie, and told Jane that he had been talking to Sylvie and Giselle, although he did not repeat what had been said.

  Jane said, “So that’s what Sylvie meant.”

  “What Sylvie meant?”

  “Yes—she came barging into the studio about an hour ago, which didn’t please me, but I couldn’t very well object. Fortunately, I had nearly finished with Giselle for the day. Sylvie simply walked in and said to Giselle, ‘When you’re through here, go over to Panoralpes, will you, and have a word with Henry? He wants to talk to you.’ Giselle said, ‘What about?’ and Sylvie just said, ‘Your big blue eyes, darling.’ Of course, Giselle’s eyes aren’t blue, but I suppose it was a figure of speech. Giselle laughed and said, ‘What’s he been talking to you about? Frivolities?’ Sylvie looked quite put out, for some reason. She just said, ‘Oh, don’t be silly’—and pushed off.” Jane helped herself to more salad. “Do forgive me, I’ve been so wrapped up in work, I haven’t been functioning properly as a person. You’ve seen Anne-Marie, haven’t you?”