Dark Interlude, page 15
The bank was gouged with muddy footmarks that had slithered and been able to obtain a foothold. Just above, a tree stood, and one branch overhung the estuary. Volanon had been pushed, or had slipped, into the water; possibly the push had appeared to be accidental. He had moved along to the tree, seized the branch, tried to climb up. Someone standing above him, on the bank, had allowed him nearly to reach the top, and then, when Volanon was engaged in trying to obtain a foothold, stabbed him in the throat. Volanon had fallen backwards to die in the water.
O’Mara reached up for the branch; pulled himself up the bank; examined the grass verge at the top. There was no sign of any struggle, only one or two indistinct footmarks on the dusty grass.
Something white caught his eye. He bent down and picked it up. It was a small paper envelope an inch square. Printed on it in French were the words “Dr. Veniot’s Headache Cachet.” O’Mara stood on the edge of the bank, the tiny envelope in his hands, his eyes searching the ground.
A few inches down the bank, towards the water, caught in the grass, was a silver pencil. He leaned down, picked it up. O’Mara thought that the headache cachet and the pencil might have fallen from the pockets of the killer as he had bent over the bank to finish off Volanon.
He took off his coat, rolled up his shirt sleeves, climbed down into the water. He stood away from the bank, the water nearly up to his knees. He put his right hand beneath the water, immediately under the place where the footmarks showed. He ran his hand over the sandy bottom of the estuary, picking up pieces of twigs, seaweed, stones; examining them, throwing them away. He continued searching.
His fingers touched something, closed on it, brought it to the surface. It was a small book, bound in black leather. O’Mara looked at it, put it in his pocket. He searched under the water for another five minutes; then climbed out, put on his coat, shook the water from his wet legs and shoes, began to walk back to the garage.
For the first time in his life a certain hopelessness began to possess O’Mara. The sensation was a new one. He did not like it. Nothing went right. Nothing worked. O’Mara, who had always been the producer of action, now found himself in the position of an onlooker whilst others acted. Each attempt to create a situation from which logical action might emerge was thwarted by a quicker step from the other side.
He went into the garage by the side door, bolted it behind him. He searched the lower floor carefully. The place was undisturbed. He went upstairs, looked into the upper rooms, turned off the light in Volanon’s room. He came down the stairs in the darkness, went into the garage office, switched on the light.
He took the leather book from his pocket; opened it. In spite of the water he could read the words on the title page distinctly: A pocket edition of The Works of William Shakespeare.
O’Mara began to look through the book. The corner of one of the pages was turned down. The play was Romeo and Juliet. He examined the page carefully; then began to read, scanned through the close type, stopped. The words before him burned in his brain. . . . “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet . . .”
So Volanon’s killer had been interested in the Works of Shakespeare, and the page was turned down at that quotation.
O’Mara remembered the Polish translation that he had read in Taudrille’s cottage. Korsak’s Polish translation, done in Vilna in 1840, the translation which, put into literal English, read: “What’s in a name? A rose, although its name be altered, will it not crimson for me with enchanting colour?”
Not a very good translation; not as good as the original English of William Shakespeare, but nevertheless a translation of a sort.
The translation was in fact characteristic of its Polish translator. An artist in words, Korsak. It had sounded prettier to him to say that a rose “crimsoned with enchanting colour” rather than it “smelt as sweet.” Perhaps he did not like the word “smell”; perhaps he was fond of the word “crimsoned”—a word beloved by poets.
O’Mara began to think about the word “crimson.” For some mysterious reason the word stayed in his mind . . . crimson . . . crimson. . . . What was there about the word?
O’Mara sat in the dusty, paper-littered office, under the dim lamp, the book in his hand, looking straight in front of him. He fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette, lit it. If there was a connection between the Shakespeare of Taudrille—the Nazi who read only the Life of Napoleon and Korsak’s Polish Edition of Shakespeare—and the English pocket edition of the killer of Volanon—what was it?
If there was a connection.
And there must be. The long arm of coincidence could not be as long as that!
O’Mara repeated to himself the original lines from Korsak—Korsak, who preferred to talk about “roses crimsoning for him with enchanting colour” instead of roses smelling as sweet:
“Co po imieniu? Roza choc naz wisko mieni
Czyliz sie, mniej powabnym kolorem rumieni?”
He said to himself: “By God!”
He began to grin. He drew his lips back over his teeth like a wolf.
He put the leather book in his pocket.
He reached out for the telephone; sat waiting, his eyes scanning the rubbish on the table in front of him, but not seeing it.
Yvette’s voice came on the telephone.
O’Mara said: “Yvette, ask Madame to come to the telephone quickly. This is Monsieur O’Mara.”
She said: “Yes.”
He waited impatiently, his foot tapping the floor. Tanga came on the line.
He said: “I’ve had a bit of luck. We’ve got to move quickly.”
She said: “I am glad.”
O’Mara went on: “Is Larue there?”
“Yes. He was early. He was here ten minutes ago.”
He asked: “What do you think of him?”
“I like him. He is a Breton. I think you will find he is very hard—what you call tough—formidable.”
“Why was he early?” asked O’Mara.
“He had some work to do,” she said, “at Saint Lys. He is a photographer. He also does work for the police. It is rather amusing, but apparently he has been making photographs of the bodies of our friend Taudrille and the man Nago, whom it seems was discovered in a wood. So he had to be at Saint Lys. He came straight from there on his bicycle.”
O’Mara said: “I wonder if my luck’s going to hold. I wonder if he’s got his camera with him.”
She said: “Wait a minute. I will find out.”
He waited. When she came back she said: “Yes, he has everything on the back of his bicycle.”
O’Mara said: “Good. That’s going to save a lot of time. I want you and Larue to come down here. I’m speaking from Volanon’s garage. How can you get down?”
“Larue has his bicycle. Yvette has another. I can ride a bicycle. I do not like the process, but I can do it at a pinch.”
O’Mara said: “This is a pinch. You’ll ride the bicycle.”
She laughed. She said: “Very well, M’sieu.”
He went on: “Put on a coat and skirt; alter your appearance just a little—not too much. Alter your hair style; wear a blouse or something that is unlike what you usually wear. I want you to look different, but yet to be recognised as you. You understand?”
She said: “Perfectly.”
“Come down by the Gourant Farm road,” said O’Mara. “There is no one about here. Volanon’s not here. I’ve left the car against a wall down at the end of the estuary road. You’d better leave the bicycles there. Tell Larue to bring his camera with him. Come here on foot. Keep out of sight. Try not to be seen. Come in by the side door to the garage.”
She said: “Very well.” She sighed. “Is there going to be a little excitement?”
O’Mara said: “Plenty.”
“I am glad,” she said. “I was getting a little bored.”
O’Mara said: “I’m sorry to hear that. Perhaps your guests bore you.”
She said: “Not at all. On the contrary—only the situation. In fact I was thinking—” She hesitated.
O’Mara asked: “What were you thinking?”
She said airily: “I was thinking that if the situation progressed a little, possibly my guests—as you call them—might be more amusing. Au revoir.”
O’Mara hung up. He sat in the dusty office, smoking a cigarette, thinking of Rozanski, trying to visualise what he looked like.
It was ten-thirty. Guelvada, leaning against the wall opposite the stage door of the little theatre in Saint Lys, watched Ernestine as she tripped along the passage that led from back-stage to the stage-door entrance. He went to meet her.
He said: “Man petit chou, every time I see you, you look more delightful. You are a wonderful person. You are full of energy; you radiate happiness. You enchant me.”
She smiled. She said: “I think it is funny your name should be Ernest and mine Ernestine.” She spoke softly, with the trained diction of an actress. He thought she had a charming voice.
They began to walk towards her house. Outside the theatre, a little crowd of people stood on the pavement before dispersing to their homes.
She said: “They have a great deal to talk about. Everybody is now talking about the discovery of Nago’s body. Everybody is talking about my poor Jules. They are connecting the two things.”
Guelvada said: “Yes? Why should they do that? There is no necessity for the two things to be connected.”
She looked at him. She said: “Don’t you believe that the same man has killed both of them?”
Guelvada said: “It may well be, but one is never certain. That is a thing which I learnt years ago when I began the work I am doing now. One must never be certain until one is quite sure. It is so easy to jump to conclusions.”
She said: “Ernest, I assure you that my instinct is right. The murderer is the same.”
Guelvada asked: “Why do you think that?”
She said: “Obviously—the two suicide notes. The note found on Nago’s body was apparently written in his own handwriting. The sergeant at the police, who is my friend, tells me that there was a notebook on him. The handwriting in the notebook and the suicide note was the same—or appeared to be the same. You understand that?”
Guelvada nodded.
“Very well,” she went on. “Consider the fact that the suicide note found on Jules was also in his handwriting—or appeared to be in his handwriting.”
Guelvada said: “Do you think that Taudrille did not write that note himself? Do you think that somebody may have forged his handwriting and also Nago’s; or alternatively, do you think that somebody forced Taudrille to write that note?”
She shook her head. “No one could force Jules to do anything,” she said. “He was a splendid man. I think someone imitated his handwriting. I think that the murderer knew Nago well. I think he knew their handwritings. I think that he was an expert with his pen, possibly a forger—someone who had been used to forging documents—a spy. You know how well these Nazis are trained.”
Guelvada said: “You really think this is the work of a Nazi spy? You think there are lots of them about?”
She put her arm through his. She said: “Of course. You ought to know that, especially in this part of the country. Think of the hundreds and thousands of men who were employed by that filthy Hitler in his Gestapo; think of the hundreds and thousands of men who were used by the vile Himmler—men whose whole lives had been devoted to every sort of sordid business. Don’t you realise that there must be thousands of these men who are still free; thousands of them trying to believe that the régime under which they lived and worked is still possible; deluding themselves into the belief that they can create it? You know what the Germans say—‘Once a Nazi always a Nazi.’”
Guelvada nodded his head. He said: “That is true.”
“What is more reasonable,” she went on, “than that they should come here—here in the country? These desolate places like Saint Brieuc, and the country round about, were made for them. They can hide. They can plot. My poor Jules was working here. He knew they were here. You should know that.”
Guelvada thought he was on delicate ground. He trod carefully. He said: “I would not say that Jules knew they were here. He had an idea that they were here. He was trying to find them.”
She said: “I believe it is my duty to go to the police. I believe that I ought to tell them about Jules. I believe I ought to tell them that it was I who found his body; that I removed that suicide note. I ought to show it to them; to let them see that the two suicide notes are identical.”
Guelvada pretended to consider the matter. They turned into the lane, hedged on each side, that led towards her small house.
He said: “Perhaps that will be a good thing for you to do. But not yet.”
She said: “No?” She raised her eyebrows. “Tell me why, Ernest.”
He said: “I will tell you. Perhaps I should not be talking about this, because my work, like that of my poor friend Taudrille, is secret, but I have an idea that I may be able to put my hand on the murderer. I do not want interference at this moment—from the police or anyone else. I want only two or three days. Then I think I shall strike. You must wait till then.”
She said: “Very well, I will do that.” She took out her key; opened the door. He followed her into the passageway; switched on the light.
She said: “I wonder why I do just what you tell me.” She looked at him.
Guelvada thought that her eyes were soft. He said: “I’ll tell you—or rather I won’t tell you. I’d like to tell you—but—” He shrugged his shoulders. “If I did you wouldn’t believe me.”
She smiled. She said: “Tell me, Ernest; then I will tell you whether I believe you or not.”
Guelvada arranged his voice so that it exuded sentimentality. His eyes became soft. He said: “The reason is simple. In your heart, my delightful Ernestine, there is a little affection for me—just a little. Unfortunately, you do not give that affection full play. You do not allow it to possess you because always you are remembering your dead lover.” Guelvada looked very sorrowful. “I remember him too. He was my friend—my companion. We had lived and worked together. But it is not good for me.” He sighed. “I would like you not to remember him too much,” he went on. “I would prefer to believe that you wanted to think of me.”
She said: “It is funny you should say that. I do think of you. I found myself thinking about you last night.” She cast down her eyes. “I found myself thinking about you too much.”
Guelvada took his cue. He reached out for her. She put her arms round his neck. They stood in the shabby little hallway embracing each other, their mouths pressed together.
Guelvada thought she kissed very well. He thought there were moments when his work had its compensations.
The clock in the church tower on the far side of the estuary struck eleven. The sound came over the quiet waters, accentuating the stillness of the night. O’Mara, sitting in Volanon’s office, an unlit cigarette in his mouth, heard the soft tap-tap on the side door of the garage. He got up, stretched, crossed the garage floor, opened the door.
Tanga and Jean Larue came into the garage. O’Mara closed and bolted the door behind them.
She said: “This is Monsieur Jean Marie Larue.”
O’Mara held out his hand. “I’m glad to meet you,” he said. “Monsieur Guy Varin of the Second Bureau said that I could count on your assistance.”
Larue said: “I am at your disposal. Monsieur Varin has conveyed a message to me about you. I am instructed to do everything I can. It will give me great pleasure to do anything against those pigs.”
O’Mara liked the look of Larue. He was short, dark, intelligent. His eyes were quick. There was a scar of a knife slash across his face.
O’Mara said: “Come with me.” He led the way across the dark floor to the office in the corner. He sat down on the chair, lit the cigarette in his mouth. He looked at Tanga.
She wore a dark coat and skirt, a shirt blouse with a small bow at the neck. She had dressed her hair up to the top of her head in soft curls. She had made up her eyelids with a middle-blue colour, extended the eyes, narrowed them by a suggestion of colour at the ends. The shape of her mouth had been altered slightly by the clever use of a different shade of lipstick. The dark pencil-lining under her eyes, carefully shaded down, had sunk them a little; gave her the appearance of being a little older and a great deal more wicked. She had lined out her nostrils with a lake-coloured grease-paint which enlarged them, altered slightly the shape of her nose.
She said: “Well . . . will I do?”
“It’s good,” said O’Mara. “You look like you—yet you are different.”
He got up. He gave cigarettes to Tanga and Larue, lit them. He brought in two stools from the garage. They sat down.
O’Mara said: “Larue . . . the man Taudrille who was found at the foot of the cliff at the church was a Nazi agent. There was an enlargement of a micro-photograph on him. The police will have it. Can you get it?”
Larue grinned. “I have it,” he said. “You do not know, of course, that I am the police photographer. During the Occupation I managed to photograph most of the S.S. and Army chiefs in this area. Those pictures helped to bring them to death or trial. I photographed Taudrille on the slab at the police morgue in Saint Lys. I also photographed the body of the man called Nago.”
O’Mara said: “All this is lucky. Do you think you could fake a photograph? Could you take a picture of me, transpose the head of Taudrille from the photograph you have so that it would look all right?”
“Not from the picture that was found on Taudrille,” said Larue. “But from another picture I took of him. I took three pictures of the body in the morgue. A full-length and two pictures of the face. The last one could be used for the fake picture. Half of his face was good and the other half smashed in. I can retake a photograph of the good side picture which I have, and put it on your body. That is easy.”
