Madrigal
A St-Cyr and Kohler Mystery
J. ROBERT JANES
A MysteriousPress.com
Open Road Integrated Media ebook
Contents
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2
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4
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10
Preview: Beekeeper
This is for Nancy Duncan
whose keen mind, quick wit and ready laugh
always cheered me on.
To the singer there is the song;
but to the truth, a very different tune.
Author’s Note
Madrigal is a work of fiction. Though I have used actual places and times, I have treated these as I have seen fit, changing some as appropriate. Occasionally the name of a real person is also used for historical authenticity, but all are deceased and I have made of them what the story demands. I do not condone what happened during these times. Indeed, I abhor it. But during the Occupation of France the everyday crimes of murder and arson continued to be committed, and I merely ask, by whom and how were they solved?
1
As the sound of high and ancient iron wheels constantly hammered at him, Jean-Louis St-Cyr tried to find a moment’s refuge to dwell on the murder investigation. But the coach’s wooden benches were bolt upright, the buttocks numb, and there was hardly room to squirm. The Germans had taken over sixty per cent of France’s rolling stock, thus pressing relics like this into service, even for the first-class carriages. And all around him, through the smoke-hazed, dim blue, fart-and-sweat-tainted air, the battered, dented steel helmets touched one another, and all around him there was the muffled sound of men not knowing what to expect.
Russia had taught these boys a lesson. The Battle for Stalingrad had been lost.
Hermann Kohler played Skat in the narrow corridor. Crowded around a Hindenburg Light, a stove that had been dredged from the trenches of that other war in 1914–18, he and two others held the cards. And the phalanx of silent men who were ranked on the nearby benches or stood or crouched, either stared at the guttering flame that brought no warmth but dreams of home, or at the cards, knowing only too well that after four hours of non-stop play, the Vorhand among them was a master.
He was not handsome, this partner of his, thought St-Cyr. He was a Fritz-haired, greying giant with a storm-trooper’s lower jaw and chin, sagging jowls, and bags under pale blue eyes that seldom revealed anything when they didn’t want to. A bullet graze, still too fresh to be forgotten, creased the heavy brow. The scar of a rawhide whip ran from below the left eye to the chin – the SS had done that to him for pointing the finger of truth. Another case.
There were shrapnel nicks from that other war and the years, particularly these past two and a half in France as partner to a Sûreté Chief Inspector, and as one of practically the only two honest cops left, had not been kind.
He was fifty-five years of age, a good three years older than himself. A Detektiv Inspektor from the Kripo, from that smallest and most insignificant branch of the Gestapo, but not like one of those, ah grâce à Dieu.
No, they fought common crime. Hermann was a citizen of the world and, yes, they had become friends. War does things like that, said St-Cyr to himself, but seeing Hermann sharing such a camaraderie made him think of that other war. Hermann had been in the artillery. Hermann had been taken prisoner in 1916 but not before the shells his battery had fired had come whistling over to bring the taste of mud, shit and rotten flesh or sour boot leather or mustard gas that would stick so fast in the gullet one could never forget it.
When a thin, cheap blue scrap of paper was passed from hand to hand, St-Cyr took it without a nod. Recognizing the PTT paper, the Poste, Télégraphe et Téléphone stationery, Kohler set his cards down, gave up the loot to be equally shared among the men, and got up to pick his way across the coach.
‘Well, what’s it this time, Chief?’ he asked. Hermann had deliberately let the men know he was subordinate in rank to a Frenchman. He was like that sometimes.
‘A love-note from an old friend.’
The flimsy tissue was proffered and quickly read.
Jean-Louis, though the circumstance is tragic, I welcome our working together again and recall the fisherman’s wife. Everything has therefore been left exactly as you would wish it, and I have placed men on guard to ensure that nothing will be disturbed. May the Blessed Saviour keep you safe and bring you to us.
Alain de Passe,
Commissaire de Police d’Avignon
et du Vaucluse
The Sûreté’s bushy, unclipped moustache was guiltily tidied with a pugilist’s fist. The large and dark brown ox-eyes sought him out from beneath the brim of a battered brown fedora.
‘He hates me, Hermann, so please read between the lines.’
These days everything was in code, even the day-to-day chatter between a husband and wife, or among other members of a family. No one knew who might hear and report or read and report. The SS, the Gestapo, a Pétainist, a Vichy ‘inspector’, a collaborator … it was the age of the anonymous letter or phone call, of old scores being settled, of the payoff and reward. A tragedy. It was 26 January 1943, a Tuesday.
‘The fisherman’s wife was a petite lingère,’ confessed St-Cyr, still not taking his gaze from Hermann.
A seamstress – one who did sewing for others. ‘You sure she wasn’t someone’s petite àmxe?’
Trust Hermann to think of it! Someone’s ‘little friend’, someone’s mistress. ‘We could prove nothing. Her husband, a simple man, loved her as much as he did his fishing.’
‘For the pleasure, eh?’
The blocky shoulders momentarily lifted. ‘Mais certainement. It’s the only way to fish, n’est-ce pas? Doing it for a living would be far too hard.’
‘I meant the other,’ said Kohler.
Hermann’s French was really very good. He had made a point of learning it in that prisoner-of-war camp.
‘The other?’ said St-Cyr. ‘That, too. At forty years of age, and twenty-seven years younger than the husband, she was still possessed of a delectably eloquent figure, though when first seen on the beach at Cassis in the late summer of 1934 and then naked in the morgue, such things are always wanting. She’d been strangled and then for good measure her throat had been savagely opened with—’
‘Okay, okay, spare me the details, eh? Why remember ancient history? Why not Avignon and the present?’
Patience was always necessary with Hermann. The Bavarian temperament often lacked it. ‘Because, mon vieux, history is inevitably involved in murder, and because the Church has power. Corrupt and otherwise.’
‘The Church?’
The telegram was indicated. ‘That crap about the Blessed Saviour keeping me safe. He’s really saying, Let the warning be enough. Break glass and you will be cut. Tamper with the Host and the Blood of Christ and watch out.’
‘And the petite lingère?’
‘Maybe he’s found another one.’
In the dim blue light of the railway station one man stood out beside the clock tower whose Roman numerals gave 11.59 p.m., all but an hour after the curfew in these parts. The doors had been locked. Most would have to spend the rest of the night in here and wouldn’t be allowed to leave until 5.00 a.m. Berlin Time, which was 4.00 a.m. the old time in winter.
His face hidden by semi-darkness and by the cowl of a coarse grey woollen cloak, the man looked not at them when confronted but away.
‘The carriage awaits,’ he grunted in langue d ’oc, the language of Old Provence. ‘I am to take you to her.’
Merde, was he a monk? wondered Kohler. The ash-grey sackcloth was frayed at the cuffs and patched at the elbows
. The bell-rope around the waist was old.
There were no sandals, only worn black leather boots, hobnailed and cleated like the thousands Louis and he had seen in use all over France.
Without another word from their guide, they passed on into a wind that took the breath away and caused the eyes to smart. The curse of Provence and the Rhône Valley, that wind of winds, the mistral, was in full force. ‘Jésus,’ cried Kohler. ‘Why us?’
‘Why anyone?’ lamented Louis.
The calèche was open, but unfortunately its only passenger seat faced forward into the wind. They threw up their suitcases themselves and as they and their driver mounted, his stick was used. Urging the tired old nag into the night, they left the kerbside.
The wind froze the cheeks and brought tears. There were no lights. The streets were empty. Muffled by the incessant racket, the sound of the hooves was hardly heard.
‘The cours Jean Jaurès,’ managed St-Cyr.
‘Save it,’ shot his partner. Impatiently Kohler tugged at the cloak. There was no response. He got up and tried to put a word into the driver’s ear, but felt a grip of iron on his wrist. ‘The Palais des Papes,’ was all the man said.
And is this the way it’s to be? wondered St-Cyr. The silent treatment?
‘Nothing is colder than leather in the cold,’ he grumbled. ‘Not even a blanket has been provided.’
The nag took its time. Perhaps it was rebelling against being left behind when most of its fellows had been sent to Russia, perhaps it was simply old age which made it so uncooperative.
When the road began to climb, the stick was applied more rigorously. Ice soon caused trouble and their driver, thinking it would be better perhaps, took a slight turning on to a much narrower street where the cobbles were every bit as icy.
The darkness increased. Houses closed in on either side – many were substantial and had been built in Renaissance times and at the height of Avignon’s power. From 1309 until 1377, the Papal Court had ruled from a city which had teemed with over 80,000 residents, by some reports, but had also had a ‘floating’ population of jugglers, minstrels, carnival dancers, thieves, con artists and prostitutes, thus earning it the sobriquet of the Second Babylon, or more politely where the popes were concerned, the ‘Babylonian Captivity’.
At present there were perhaps no more than 50,000 residents and travellers were few, except for the Occupier and his minions. Yet the town was still very much a centre of wealth and power, of old money and old ideas.
‘Louis, take a look behind us.’
Blinking, St-Cyr cleared his eyes. Faintly in the near distance, blue-shielded, slit-eyed headlamps were following.
‘Three cars,’ he mused.
‘But whose?’ demanded Kohler.
‘The préfet, the bishop and the Kommandant – who else in these days of so few automobiles?’
It was an uncomfortable thought.
The Palais des Papes was as labyrinthian as he’d remembered it from years ago, thought St-Cyr. Brutally cold, insufferably dark, dank and fretted constantly by the wind, its many cavernous rooms and corridors seemed never to end and one had to ask, Why here, why now? And one had to answer, Was this not often a place of murder?
Hobnails ringing, their driver strode on ahead and at a turning, the shadow of him was flung upon a wall from whose thick and flaking, chipped and hammered plasterwork appeared the stark face of another age: 1343 perhaps.
From 1822 until 1906 the Palais had been a barracks, its wealth of early Renaissance frescoes plundered by soldiers so certain of profit they had even designed a tool to better cut and prise the paintings away.
A ruined scrollwork of grapevines gave the delicate green and brown of those time-faded days. ‘She’s in here,’ grunted their guide impatiently, and tearing the shade from the lantern, flung light over a magnificent fresco of songbirds and swans, gardens and flowers, and a clearing from which a hare bolted before the threat of a pontiffs gloved hand on which was perched a hawk.
‘Mon Dieu,’ exclaimed St-Cyr, the breath escaping him.
‘La Chambre du cerf,’ grunted their guide dispassionately. The Stag Room.
She was lying on the floor, on her back but with her face turned away from them, and her long golden hair was bound by a tight headband of silver brocade in which there were insets of pale blue enamelled violets.
The right arm had been flung aside, its hand open, the beringed fingers now rigid.
Bent at the elbow, the left arm lay across her waist, its fist clenched tightly as if, in a last subconscious gesture of defiance, she would not give up its contents but would hide and hug them to herself even as her body collapsed.
Much blood had flowed from her to pool and darken on the glazed and soldier-ravaged tiles. Arterial blood had been pumped so hard, it had sprayed across the floor and over the wall to stain medieval fishermen and run down the long white neck of a swan that was about to be trapped for the table six hundred years ago.
Blood was spattered down her front – had she been on her knees and begging God to intervene? Had she fled to here? Had she run from her assailant? Why had she been in the Palais at all?
‘Leave us. Leave the lantern,’ breathed St-Cyr to their guide but not averting his gaze and aghast at what lay before them, for she was not dressed as she would have been today, but was in the finery of the very early Renaissance and as a maiden of substance, a petitioner to the Papal Court perhaps.
Time clashed – the present, the past, those intervening epochs when the palace had been a prison during the Revolution and then a barracks.
Time folded in on itself, he seeing the victim against the faded frescoes and broken tiles but seeing, too, in the imagination, the furnishings that once would have decorated the Palais, the tapestries, the velvet of its carpets – triple pile, it had been reported – the gold, the silver.
Faintly Kohler said, ‘Our boy has already buggered off.’
‘Good.’
‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Merely that, like those who made a point of following us, he was meant to be unsettling at a time when we can least afford it. Now go and find him. Pry what you can from him.’
Leave me alone with her.
‘You’ll need me here.’
‘Then please don’t vomit all over the place. If you have to throw up, head for the Latrines Tower. It’s near the far corner of the old palace. It’s where the Revolutionaries dumped the bodies of the sixty Royalists they had imprisoned here and then murdered in a moment of passionate fervour in 1791. If you think this is blood …’
‘Look, I won’t be sick. Not this time.’
St-Cyr had heard it all before. It wasn’t just the bodies they had had to examine. It was the roll call of them right back to 1914 and that other war. Hermann had recently lost his two sons at Stalingrad. He’d had a breakdown during their last investigation, had been on Benzedrine for far too long.
Always it was blitzkrieg for them, and almost always there were things like this to confront them.
‘Please hold the lantern up. Let us see her as completely as possible.’
Her throat had been savagely opened. ‘The windpipe, Hermann. The gullet and main arteries, muscles and nerves – the wound must continue to the cervical vertebrae. A little more and she would have been decapitated. She wouldn’t have moved after this. Her assailant had to lower her to the floor.’
Kohler crouched to point out a few short strands of hair that had been cut and left clinging to the blood. For a moment he couldn’t say anything, then at last he blurted, ‘Un sadique? Jésus, Louis, why us? Why here? Why now?’
He was referring to a previous case and another sadist, but it was odd that her killer – if it had been the killer – had found it necessary to take a sample of her hair. ‘Nineteen years old, I think,’ said St-Cyr to calm his partner.
‘Nineteen it is.’
The lantern was brought closer to the body, Louis removing his fedora so that it
wouldn’t shade her as he went to work. He loved the challenge, could stomach anything, thought Kohler. Not short, not tall, but blocky and, even with the starvation rations of the Occupation, still somewhat corpulent, the Sûreté’s detective crouched and began to get to know their victim. He’d be ‘talking’ to her soon. He always did that and always it seemed to help.
‘Ah merde, Hermann, it’s as if she had stepped right out of the pages of history. The dark green woollen cloak is trimmed with white ermine tails. The gown is of saffron silk and decorated with a faint design, but over this kirtle, whose tight sleeves, collar and hem are visible, she wears a cote-hardie of cocoa-brown velvet whose bodice is of gold brocade and laced up the front from the waist to the softly curving, now much blood-spattered neckline.’
The cote-hardie had sleeves that came only to above the elbows and were piped with gold brocade. At the hem, it was cut jaggedly so that upwardly-narrowing wedges of the saffron underdress would show through to a height of about thirty centimetres.
The shoes were as no others Kohler had seen except in museum collections. They had no heels, no laces either, and were like modestly pointed slippers of fine black kid, and they fitted perfectly, as did the rest of her costume.
‘It isn’t right, Louis. It’s too weird for me. Her belt—’
‘The girdle, yes.’
Of exceedingly fine suede, the belt was studded with silver and gold, with brooches and pins of emerald, lapis lazuli, amber and moonstone. And this comet’s tail of trinkets began high on the left hip, falling to well below the right hip, in the fashion of the times.
‘There are tiny silver bells,’ managed Kohler, forcing himself to ignore the wound. ‘There are little silver and gold buttons. There’s a—’
‘The “buttons” are enseignes – signs. But among them there are also talismans which were to ward off evil and disease. The bells were to frighten away the devil.’
‘The purse wasn’t taken.’
‘Her aumônière sarrasine. It probably contains the alms she would willingly have handed to the beggars in the streets had she lived back then.’
Madrigal Page 1
