Free Madrigal by J. Robert Janes Page A

‘Yes.’
    Jules Pernod had had an absinthe factory at Montfavet not six kilometres to the east of Avignon … St-Cyr indicated the card with its accountings. ‘Was Madame Simondi known to all of them?’
    â€˜Including Mademoiselle de Sinéty?’ fluted the patronne , her eyebrows knitted fiercely again.
    This one was deep, thought St-Cyr, but no well should ever be overdrawn lest there no longer be water to drink. ‘Including her.’
    â€˜Then, yes. The girl did sewing for Madame Simondi as well as for the Kommandant’s wife and others.’
    A small token would have to be offered in expectation of more information later. ‘She wasn’t violated but I am curious as to why you should think she might have been.’
    Now she had his ear, and now he wouldn’t give up trying to get her to whisper little things into it! ‘Because she was pretty and full of joie de vivre when so many these days are not, and because … Ah! What can one such as I say, Inspector?’
    He waited. Again he held his breath – was this a sign with him, she wondered. Every muscle was tense, so, bon; oui, bon , she had him hooked. ‘Because I have seen the way others have looked at her. The singers, especially the two girls among them. Monsieur Simondi aussi – ah! One can see such a thing in a married man’s eyes, is it not possible? Brother Matthieu also, but only when she and others couldn’t see him doing so and then the eyes quickly averted.’
    She compressed her lips, grunted firmly and nodded tersely.
    â€˜And Bishop Rivaille?’ he asked, wincing at the possibility of being totally out of his depth with her.
    â€˜That one also. From time to time in the dark of night, even the Bugatti Royale of a bishop can draw up to a café such as this and its owner enter to enquire of where he might find a young girl to mend a robe, sew on a button he has somehow misplaced, or sing a little to soothe a soul in torment. God forgives all such thoughts, is that not so, Inspector?’
    The table was at the left side of the café, and halfway to the back. It was surprising how intuitively one sought such seating but, like the réfractaires , the draft dodgers of the Forced Labour, and others in trouble with or simply avoiding the Occupier and the Vichy police, one tended automatically to sit where one could observe and yet blend into the crowd. It was never customary for a patron or patronne to give credit to students and seldom if ever to others, so there had to be a little something on the side, but one didn’t ask of such things. One sat quietly minding one’s business and, in between one’s thoughts, observed.
    Madame la patronne had realized that to take too evident an interest in him would only draw further attention to herself. Satisfied he’d be left alone, St-Cyr took out his pipe. Letting his mind drift back to the largest of the keys that had hung from the girl’s belt, he recalled that it had been all but free of decoration, as was typical of fourteenth-century keys. But, of course, the lock to the entrance of the Palais couldn’t possibly have survived. Yet had this ancient key and the others been worn to indicate that she had a key to that door, or to something else? Did everything about her person present a riddle, or had the door been left unlocked in expectation of her arrival?
    Finding the tin of sardines and the pomander, he took them out as he drew on his pipe and asked, Why had she carried the sardines in her purse, if not to give it to the person she had come to meet, if indeed that had been why she was there?
    Why had she gripped the pomander so tightly if not to keep it from her assailant?
    Suddenly the entrance door to the café was violently sucked shut by the mistral. Few could not help but look up. Some briefly sought out the newcomer whose back was thrown against the etched glass. ‘ Mon Dieu !’ exclaimed