It was no use. The Inspector must know everything, thought Christiane. He was watching Genèvieve closely, was afraid she would try to make a break for it. He was watching Xavier and the others, even Nino too.
She gave a nod and said hollowly, ‘They … they had come into the Jésus’ Room through the entrance that gives out on to the Main Courtyard. They … they were all wearing cassocks and hoods as black as mine, but … but I didn’t see this until later.’
So silent had the hall become, she felt she could hear the candles.
‘There were four of them, weren’t there?’ sighed Louis, his voice carrying and causing Kohler to wince at its intrusion into the Tower.
The girl must have swallowed tightly and nodded, was probably still trying to beg her lover to understand and forgive …
‘One of them took the sickle from you,’ sang out Louis. She was heard to answer faintly, ‘Yes.’
‘And one of them killed Mireille de Sinéty,’ he continued. ‘It wasn’t Genèvieve Ravier because she hadn’t been able to get to the Palais.’
‘Ispettore, what is this you are saying?’ demanded Simondi.
‘Only that Genèvieve failed to reach the Palais.’
‘Then where was she?’ demanded Renaud, his glasses winking in the candlelight.
‘With Madame,’ said Genèvieve bitterly. ‘Madame had made it as far as the Villa Marenzio. She was frantic, incoherent, highly agitated and shaking like crazy. Like crazy! Chérie, that is why you couldn’t find me when you went to my room after I had found you “asleep.”’
‘Ah no. No!’
‘And now you’ve told the Inspector that you were here with them, petite. With them!’ said Genèvieve in tears.
The echoes ran. They seemed to chase one another and for a time no one moved in the upper chapel and in the narrow staircase that led to it.
Cautiously Kohler let the fingers of his left hand explore the rough stone wall ahead of him, and when he touched the cassock again, he waited once more.
It was Louis who said clearly and sharply, ‘Four men, Mademoiselle Bissert, but were our three judges and Alain de Passe those four? That is the question. Bien sûr, they each know who did the killing, but did those who judged her so harshly not leave the Palais as claimed after the audition? Did they not turn their backs on that girl and let others do the task they wanted?’
WANTED … WANTED …‘Who really killed Mireille de Sinéty?’ he sang out suddenly.
DE SINÉTY … DE SINÉTY …
In the pitch darkness of the upper chapel, one name was said softly but urgently by Frau von Mahler. ‘Kurt …’
And then, ‘Ingrid, I tried to warn you that I couldn’t countermand an order from Berlin. We weren’t supposed to be here. It was all to have been left up to them.’
‘But Mireille …’
‘Was a terrorist, eine Banditin, was she not?’
Ah nom de Jésus-Christ! swore Kohler silently.
But then the point of a stiletto dug itself in under his chin and the gun in his hand was teased away. Others were behind him. Others had come up the staircase so silently.
‘Go on up, Inspector. The time for all such singing is now over.’
The Grand Tinel had grown so silent, even Nino cringed at Hermann’s feet. Von Mahler, furious with what had happened, had been forced to relinquish his pistol. He’d objected coldly and with threats that were far from hollow, but Alain de Passe, who had been the last to arrive, was totally in command. Berlin would understand. Berlin.
The one in the black cassock stood out, with hood thrown back, but not a monk, by the look, not one of the brothers. Tough, grim-faced and in his mid-thirties, had he been the killer? wondered St-Cyr. Marie-Madeleine had glimpsed him only once and that had been enough for her. Terrified now, her lips moved silently in prayer, for she knew only too well what was going to happen to them and to herself.
But this one alone wore black. On both sides of the hall, and at equally spaced intervals with glowing candelabra between them, some sixty of the Hooded Ones stood in two long lines facing each other. They blocked all exits. No weapons showed – they didn’t need those to strike terror into their victims. And the white hoods they wore hid their faces except for the eye, nose and mouth holes. And on the left breast of each white robe, each shroud, was the silvery dark blue brocade of a fleur-de-lis with gold piping.
Mireille de Sinéty had had to make these ‘costumes’ and would have known only too well what she and Dedou and the rest of his maquis had been up against.
Only the turn-ups of stiff, coal-black trousers showed beneath the hems of these robes, and then … then the black leather, hobnailed boots Vichy must have given them. The Milice? wondered St-Cyr and glanced at Hermann, only to see his partner grimacing with distaste and know the stomach was tightening at the thought of Vichy’s newest police force playing dress-up as cagoulards. Ah nom de Dieu, to be kicked to death by those boots – and they would be; he could tell Hermann was thinking this – would not be nice.
Strong hands, perpetually tanned by generations and generations of Mediterranean sun, were there, but so, too, were those of the fairer. Peasants, small businessmen, shop clerks and bankers, the extreme far right, the Comité secret d’action révolutionnaire.
Here, at last, was its Action Squad and its leader, Préfet de Passe.
‘Your revolver, Jean-Louis,’ said de Passe, and though his voice hadn’t been raised in the slightest, it was heard throughout the hall.
Kohler could see Louis hesitate. Those big, dark brown ox-eyes watered. The moustache that had been grown long before the Führer ever thought of wearing such a thing was twitched, a sure sign the former pugiliste and champion of the Police Academy was furious.
The singers were clustered, but not about Christiane Bissert who stood alone, dejected, lost and terribly afraid.
Marie-Madeleine had gone quickly to join Frau von Mahler and to take the woman by the hand.
Von Mahler waited by the entrance to the Saint John’s Tower but was defiantly blocked from entering it.
The judges were standing beside their chairs, each of them looking on with bated breath.
‘Don’t be foolish,’ breathed de Passe to Louis. ‘Just hand it over. You and Kohler can do nothing.’
‘Then that’s it, is it?’ demanded the Sûreté coldly.
‘You know it is. Why argue?’
Louis tossed a gesturing hand in defiance. ‘At least allow us to settle this matter so that all may go their separate ways knowing the truth.’
Verdammt! Don’t push your luck, mon vieux, thought Kohler. Stall for time – ja, ja, of course, but watch out.
The Lebel was taken. ‘Proceed,’ taunted de Passe acidly. ‘Please let us have the benefit of your “truth”, knowing well that you ignored the warning I sent you.’
Louis indicated that he wished, at least, to enjoy his pipe and tobacco, only to remember Frau von Mahler, to look at her with concern and empathy, and say, ‘Forgive me, madame.’
She nodded tightly. She watched him closely. Mein Gott, the strain in that woman’s expression, thought Kohler. The grief, the anger, the tension …
‘Ah bon,’ acknowledged the Sûreté, tossing his head a little. ‘Now let us begin. Mireille de Sinéty thought as one would have done in the fourteenth century. Bishop, you of all of us know this best. You lingered over her body while giving the last rites. You tried desperately to read the rebus you knew she must have left for others like us to find, but until now I didn’t fully comprehend how deeply she felt and lived that century, nor how complete was her foretelling of this affair.’
He began to walk about, cupping that cold pipe in his left hand and gesturing with it now and then. ‘She had laid it all out for us, hadn’t she, Bishop? The Cross of Saint Bénédict, the tiny silver bells, the pentacle and others were there to tell us she knew she was in great peril. The keys were to signify that something was locked up – a secret. But she knew you could and would quite
probably read and perhaps even remove a part or all of the rebus, so lost among the coins she included a maze you might not see if in haste. That maze, Bishop, and the tin of sardines were there for people like myself and my partner to divine.’
‘Get on with it,’ shouted Rivaille angrily.
‘Of course. She named you, Bishop. To her you were at the heart of the matter because as God’s emissary you should have been sitting at His right hand and not caught up in your own dreams and aspirations. You’re the Capricorn at whose sign Dédou Favre points the Archer’s arrow. But, please, Préfet, be so good as to tell us what sign you were born under. Was the moonstone yours?’
‘What moonstone?’
‘The one that was pinned next to the friar who sprinkled holy water on the devil of the Goat!’
‘Enough!’ shouted Rivaille. ‘Alain, stop him this instant!’
INSTANT … INSTANT … came the echoes, to be chased by ENOUGH!
Get to the point, Louis, swore Kohler silently as he tried to edge his way closer to Frau von Mahler, but Nino … Nino was sensitive to the slightest move and would questioningly lift her head and look at him with sorrowful eyes.
‘Then let us accept,’ continued Louis, ‘that all present will find themselves spelled out in the comet’s tail that trailed so beautifully and mysteriously across that young woman’s belt from the sign she wore high on her left hip, the sign of herself.’
It was coming now, thought Christiane, her heart sinking further at the thought of what awaited them. Genèvieve was ashen and had sensed it too, and when the Chief Inspector said, ‘But what, really, was the answer to the rebus? We know now that the killer couldn’t have been born under the sign of the Fishes or that of the Twins. Xavier could well have done it, but she had worn an emerald, a beautiful deep green, crystal-clear stone to signify that she had seen well into the future. And when you called out to her through the darkness of this tragic place, Frau von Mahler, she told you to leave at once because by then she had realized exactly how true that emerald’s voice had been.’
‘Jean-Louis, this is all hearsay, a figment of that girl’s imagination no magistrate or judge would accept. We gave you a suspect—’
‘As you tried to give us Brother Matthieu, Prèfet? That girl’s comet’s tail ended with a moonstone over which fell a rain of pearls.’
‘Pearls?’
‘Tears, then, for that is what they represented in the Renaissance. The assembled. Your cagoulards.’
Louis gave them a moment, and then, like the judge he had become, said sadly, ‘Which of you ordered them to kill her, Bishop? Was the choice drawn by lots as when a new Pope is elected?’
‘By lots,’ said Rivaille condescendingly. ‘And in the old way, as during the Babylonian Captivity.’
‘The Second Babylon,’ acknowledged the Sûreté with a curt nod. ‘You drew the white slip, Bishop. That girl had even foreseen this. A single pearl was pinned next to your leaden Goat, and on the right hand.’
‘I did not kill her.’
‘Of course you didn’t. Your kind never do, not when you have cowards like these at your beck and call. They wore black, not white, those assassins you sent. They swiftly entered via the Jésus’ Room and we know the rest, Bishop. Xavier, coming back from a night of poaching rabbits on the Îie de la Barthelasse, found the door to the Palais open and let Nino loose. He knew what was to happen, didn’t you, boy?’
‘I knew,’ taunted Xavier.
‘And may God forgive you for what you did to Dédou,’ said Louis. ‘The Resistance won’t. I’ll make certain of it. Believe me, mon fin, La belle France will be well rid of you.’
The candles flickered, throwing soft shadows over the Hooded Ones. And why did he have to emphasize his patriotism? wondered Kohler. A last taunt, was that it? Had he completely forgotten what awaited them?
Nino fidgeted. Unnoticed by the others, von Mahler had somehow moved much closer to his wife.
‘Last October,’ said Louis, ‘your little friend led you to Adrienne de Langlade’s body, to where these four and others had hidden it underwater. You took some of her hair, Xavier. You might never know if it would be needed but, just as in your hiding of the sickle and the martinet, it would give you such a hold over Bishop Rivaille. You rejoiced, I think, in your good fortune.’
‘What if I did?’ sang out the boy. ‘It means nothing now to you.’ YOU … YOU …
‘Keeping silent about a murder is punishable by a stiff sentence!’ shouted Louis.
‘One I’ll never see!’ SEE … SEE …
Frau von Mahler and Marie-Madeleine had somehow moved themselves a little away from the Colonel. What the hell was going on? wondered Kohler. Verdammt! How were they ever going to get out of this?
Louis wanted desperately to light that pipe of his, even to taking out his matchbox, only to acknowledge the mistake. ‘Of course, you’ll never see prison,’ he went on. ‘We’ve other plans. But let us finish with you so that we can taste the Châteauneuf-du-pape of this whole affair. Everything you do, Xavier, is done first to protect yourself and gain the upper hand, and secondly to keep the bishop content. Adrienne de Langlade’s hair was presented to Brother Matthieu as a parting gesture of contempt. You told that poor unfortunate he had best do as the bishop had instructed and put an end to himself.’
‘You raped Adrienne de Langlade,’ said Kohler. ‘She was as much of a threat to you early last June as she was to your Primo Soprano.’
‘I wasn’t the only one.’
‘I didn’t think you were, did you, Louis?’
‘Norman had a go at her twice,’ said the boy, ‘to prove himself capable of being a man.’
‘You little bastard!’ shrieked the cherub, BASTARD …BASTARD …
‘Enough!’ shrieked de Passe. ‘Take these two from Paris and dispose of them. The river, but first the garrotte and the knife.’
The Hooded Ones began to converge on them. Hastily Louis stuffed that precious pipe of his away.
Kohler …
‘Stop! Don’t any of you move!’ shrilled Frau von Mahler. ‘Let … let him finish.’
The Belgian FN was in her hands. De Passe was so taken aback, he frantically looked to Rivaille for help and was signalled caution.
She motioned to the cagoulards to retreat to their former positions. ‘Please continue, Inspector. Let us have the benefit of your analysis. Kurt, stay where you are.’
YOU ARE … YOU ARE …
‘Madame,’ said Louis, still standing some distance from her and therefore not able to get that gun from her, thought Kohler ruefully. ‘Madame, we know Bishop Rivaille, in a drunken rage, had Adrienne de Langlade brought to his room at the mill. We believe he did things to that girl, perhaps after first purging himself with the martinet for being so foolish as to think her “pure”, and that he forgot his vows and then blamed her for encouraging him.’
‘Alain, tell him it wasn’t so! She refused to name the father of her bastard, damn you! I … I repeatedly asked her.’
‘But she couldn’t! She didn’t know, Bishop, and no one, not one among those she was to join and call her friends and associates, would tell her because they didn’t want her with them. “She didn’t work out.” And for her “sins”, Bishop, you sentenced her to the accabussade. What happened, Maître Simondi? You’ve listened to all I’ve said and known it was the truth, yet have said so little.’
‘It was an accident. That infernal cage was far too heavy and awkward. The rope broke and we … we couldn’t raise her in time.’
No one moved. Frau von Mahler glanced apprehensively from one to another of them, and to the long lines of cagoulards who waited as before.
Far from sure of herself, did she really know where to go next? wondered Kohler sadly.
‘Ah bon,’ said Louis with that little toss of his head his partner had come to know so well. ‘But then, Maître, the four of you had a problem on your hands, one that Mireille de Sinéty refused to let you hide. Dedou wanted
her to use the information to gain the maquis a small reprieve, but couldn’t be here to back her up. Instead, she had to face you all alone.’
‘She wouldn’t listen! She defied the Mother Church!’ seethed Rivaille.
‘No, Bishop, she defied the four of you, one of whom, I’m certain, deliberately detained the concierge until the deed was done.’
‘Messieurs,’ quavered Frau von Mahler, and there were tears she had yet to realize. ‘You robbed me and my family of a light when it was most needed. Did you not think of this?’ THIS … THIS …
‘Louis …’ began Kohler, only to see the Sûreté raise a cautionary hand.
‘Robbed?’ said Renaud, deeply puzzled.
They faced her, the four of them. They still didn’t know quite what to make of her. To a man, the Hooded Ones waited, the singers also.
Von Mahler started towards her, only to find himself held back by Marie-Madeleine.
‘Dio mio, do something, Alain,’ breathed Simondi. Renaud just stared at her as if he couldn’t yet comprehend her intentions. De Passe took a step toward her, saying, ‘Frau von …’
‘Don’t come near me!’ she shrilled. ‘I’m warning you!’
Rivaille hastily crossed himself and went down on his knees, his hands clasped in prayer.
‘Now give me the name of her assassin. Call it out to me, Préfet.’
Merde alors, she wouldn’t really use that gun, would she? demanded de Passe of himself. ‘Duverger … Vincent,’ he sang out.
DUVERGER … DUVERGER …‘Remove the hood,’ she shrilled. ‘Let me see your face.’ YOUR FACE …
He was not old, nor young, nor anything but ordinary and when she shot him, he simply collapsed as the sound of the gun boomed and echoed all around them. Other shots quickly followed it. One by one, and without hesitation. De Passe tried to get to her. Renaud turned away to run and was hit in the back. Simondi begged her not to kill him, but she wouldn’t listen.
‘Ingrid!’ cried out von Mahler, but her hand refused to shake and she still didn’t listen.
Madrigal Page 29
