The Fury of Rachel Monette Read online

  “I’ll take no more than three or four minutes. It’s just that I’m impressed by the painting and want to know more.”

  “Very well.” Lily DePoe unhooked the chain and Rachel stepped into the hall. In better light she saw a striking woman, almost as tall as she, and very thin; her wrists were like test tubes. Despite her age she did not look at all absurd in her almost Bohemian dress—black clogs, dark brown leather trousers, black turtleneck sweater. Her face allowed her to get away with it: white delicate skin stretched tightly over fine angular bones, so tightly that the lines of age did not penetrate the skin but seemed to have been drawn on its surface. Her long hair was collected in a bun on the crown of her head; it was a shiny jet black that no hair could naturally be. The whole, Rachel realized, clothes, skin, hair, was a dramatic setting for her eyes, blue eyes without the least hint of green. The effect was almost shocking. It made her think of the painting in her hand.

  Lily DePoe led her to a small sitting room off the hall. Evidently she had been there during the evening. A cigarette in a stone ashtray had burned to a long cylindrical ash; beside it a book lay open upside down. Huysman’s Au Rebours. There was a faint smell to which Rachel could not quite give the name. Incense? Perhaps the whole house was a setting for those eyes.

  They sat in matching velvet chairs. Now that she had seen the painting Lily DePoe seemed to have little more interest in it. “What do you want to know?” she asked.

  Rachel was surprised. She had been prepared for a line of questions about how she had known Lily DePoe was Lily Gris, how she had found her in Aix. “Well,” she said, off guard, “what’s it about?” She knew as she spoke that she could not have chosen a more stupid question to ask an artist, but it didn’t seem to bother Lily DePoe.

  “Death,” she answered.

  “Death of anyone in particular?”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  “Yes. Someone you knew, for instance.”

  Too much. Lily DePoe leaned slowly back in the chair, her blue eyes very alert. She should have taken more care in moving her from metaphor to reality. Now Lily DePoe had landed in it with a jolt.

  “Why should it be someone I knew? Artists live in the world of the imagination.”

  “But imagination can work with real events, surely?”

  “I suppose.” Lily DePoe was not interested in her esthetic theories.

  “I only ask because I was told you had been inspired by something which really happened.”

  “Who told you that?” Lily DePoe asked warily.

  “Pinchas Levy.” It was the first name that came to mind. Lily DePoe made a very French gesture with her shoulders, a shrug which said that the name meant nothing. “I’m sure the painting has passed through several hands since you finished it.”

  Lily DePoe thought about that. It seemed to please her. Her eyes went again to the painting, which lay on a small table between them. “It was the last one I ever did. I was still a girl, really.”

  “But why did you stop? It’s a very good painting. You must have known that.” Rachel spoke with real feeling.

  Lily DePoe heard it, too. “Thank you.” Rachel was surprised by the intensity of the gratitude in her tone, and the sudden wetness in her eyes.

  “Did it have to do with this painting?” she asked very quietly. “Did something upset you?”

  Lily DePoe lowered her gaze to the floor. “I saw a man kill a woman. He pushed her off a bridge.” Without looking she pointed to the painting. “That bridge.”

  Rachel tried to keep her voice quiet and casual. “Why did he do that?”

  Lily DePoe seemed to speak from far away. “They were drunk. And they had been quarreling.”

  “Quarreling?”

  “About the war.” Her head came up quickly, as if someone had entered the house. “The Second World War,” she explained. Her voice had lost its intimacy. She opened a little case that was studded with pieces of amber and took a cigarette. She lit it. “As I told you it was a long time ago.” Rachel felt her slipping away.

  “What did you do about it?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The murder.”

  Rachel heard a sharp intake of breath. Lily DePoe looked away; her eyes rested on the cigarette, watched it burn for a few seconds, and returned their gaze to the floor. Rachel thought that as long as she kept her looking at the floor she would be all right. She realized that Lily DePoe was one of the most highly strung people she had ever seen, highly strung and possibly addicted to tranquilizers. She was certainly full of them now.

  “Did you go to the police?” Rachel asked gently.

  “No.” The distant voice had returned.

  “Why not?”

  “I wasn’t sure. It might have been an accident. She was walking on the balustrade. He went to help her down.” Lily DePoe sat very still. The cigarette consumed itself in her fingers.

  “But he pushed her instead.”

  “I don’t know,” Lily DePoe replied in a whisper. “I never knew.”

  You knew, Rachel thought: look again at that painting. “And the others? What did they think?”

  “Others?”

  “With you on the bridge.”

  “There were no others. Only my fiancé and I. And the little boy. I was carrying him. Daniel.” The long cigarette ash curled at the tug of gravity and fell to the floor. “I never had a child of my own.”

  “And your fiancé?”

  “No.” Lily DePoe shook her head slowly. “It’s me. The doctor says I’m barren.”

  “I meant what did your fiancé think happened that night?”

  “He said it was all my imagination and never to mention it to him again. If I let my imagination control me it would drive people away.”

  “Did you tell him that you had heard them quarreling?”

  “Yes. He said that married people do that. He was right.”

  “Did you see the man after that night?”

  “Yes. A few times. He was a friend of my fiancé.”

  “Have you seen him recently?”

  “No. Not for years.” Lily DePoe seemed to become aware of the cigarette ash on the floor beside her foot. Time was running out.

  “You said he was a military man.” Rachel tried not to rush the words.

  “Did I?”

  “Yes. Do you remember what rank he held?”

  Lily DePoe nudged the white ashes with the toe of her clog, watching them carefully. “Captain, I think.”

  “Does your husband still see him?”

  Lily DePoe’s fine head snapped up. “Why don’t you ask him?” she said angrily. The anger did not hold her for more than a few seconds. “Forgive me. He’s not even here right now, of course. He’s still away on that field trip. He was due home yesterday.” She raised the corners of her lips in a weak smile: “Men. They’re so naughty when it comes to sticking to schedules.”

  Her words were as hollow as her smile. She had no talent for making ladies’ chitchat. Her talent was for painting.

  Rachel stood up. “I won’t keep you any longer. You’ve been very generous with your time.”

  “It’s easy to be generous with time. For me.”

  Rachel’s eyes were drawn to the painting. “I’d like to leave the painting as a present.”

  “Oh, no,” Lily DePoe said with horror.

  Rachel picked it up and left the house. The driver lay across the front seat, asleep. He had locked all the doors. Rachel knocked on the window.

  “Not now,” he muttered in his sleep, loudly enough for Rachel to hear.

  But it was now, and Rachel kept knocking until he sat up and let her in. “Orange,” she said. He sighed and turned the key.

  It was not a long drive, an hour and a half at most. When they had gone half the distance Rachel opened the window and threw the painting into a field. It was very good and had been painted by a very talented hand, but there were many reasons why she didn’t want it either.

  35<
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  The night was clear, cool, and very quiet. At first they saw a few other cars on the road, but later none at all. As the traffic thinned the old man seemed to drive more slowly, reluctant perhaps to be cut off from humanity. Once Rachel asked him to go faster; he pressed down on the accelerator for a minute or two, then eased off and drove even slower than before.

  Rachel did not bother him again. She knew that no speed could satisfy: her mind was racing faster than any car. She thought of Angela telling her of Dan’s recurring nightmare—his mother and father, towering over him, screaming at each other. They had a quarrel about the war, Lily Gris said. And she thought of Dan in Lily Gris’s arms on the bridge over the Seine, in the first hours of 1948, watching his mother falling a long fall into the cold dark water. Had the path of his studies, his whole career, been determined somehow in that moment? He had become an expert on the war, one of the two or three leading men on the subject of the French collaboration. He had discovered new evidence, developed new theories. Had it all been an unconscious but unrelenting effort to unlock his memory of that night? What did you do in the war, Daddy? Was that what he really wanted to know? Mummy found out. If not everything, at least enough to arouse suspicion. And she was too high spirited and independent to forget about it. Had she overheard him talking with DePoe, reliving the good old days of Mhamid? Or had he mumbled in his sleep, drunk and unguarded? Mummy found out so he pushed her off a bridge.

  As Lily Gris had said, it was a long time ago. Long before Xavier Monette had even heard of a man named Simon Calvi. How had it happened? Had he, like Hans Kopple, seen a photograph in a newspaper? A photograph of a man he knew as Victor Reinhardt. Private Victor Reinhardt of the Wehrmacht. Missing and presumed dead. Only he wasn’t dead; he had turned up in the new state of Israel, the reborn homeland for the Jews, the ones who were left, and was becoming a successful politician. A spokesman in the beginning for the Moroccan Jews, but later for all who were not of European origin. A useful man to know.

  Then he would wait. Wait and watch the course of Simon Calvi’s career. And at the right moment, the moment when Simon Calvi had progressed to the point where he had too much to lose, he would go to his house at night, or meet him in a cafe, and say, much as she had said, Hello, Victor Reinhardt. And when they had finished discussing old times he would say, Here are some interesting political ideas you may want to adopt. Nothing very dishonorable in the beginning of course: just carry on with what you are already doing, build your power base.

  Later he would make greater demands, and greater still, driving Calvi like a wedge into the new state. When had he brought in the Arabs? Surely they were not partners from the beginning; he would bide his time until he was certain Calvi was well hooked. There would never be any reason to even let Calvi suspect that the Arabs were involved. Which probably suited the Arabs perfectly: how delighted they must have been at the whole divisive affair. They would pay, and pay well.

  And Calvi would be allowed to go on believing, if he could, that he was a legitimate spokesman for a repressed minority. They would keep him on a loose rein, not push too hard. But in the end they had pushed him too hard. No longer content to play the patient long-term game, they had raised the stakes. Higher than Simon Calvi could stomach. So they had lost, and the game was over. Grunberg was right. For Israel it had finished very well. With a jolt she realized that was partly due to her.

  They entered Orange. The old driver slowed the taxi until it crept along at not much more than a walking pace. The town showed no sign of life. No insomniac walked the streets, no dog prowled the alleys for garbage. The houses were dark. The inhabitants were sleeping, the way normal people do in the dead of night. Instead of riding ninety miles in a taxi with a gun stuck to your thigh. Grunberg had been right about Israel, Calvi had been right about innocence. She had given up parts of herself which were gone forever. Tonight she wanted something to show for it. Adam, yes, if he were alive, and she was more sure than ever that he must be; revenge simply if he were not. She directed the driver to the rue de St. Jean-Baptiste.

  For the others it was over. Even for Xavier Monette. Simon Calvi had been his only card, and he had played it for the last time. Why had he become involved at all? To that she had no answer, but an understanding of the man was forming in her brain, a man who would kill his son but keep his grandson alive.

  The taxi followed the rue de St. Jean-Baptiste to the edge of the town. “Stop,” Rachel said to the driver.

  “Here?”

  “Yes.”

  He steered the car to the side of the road and stopped. He turned to look at her. “You have to piss?”

  “No. I’m getting out.” She preferred to keep her destination secret.

  He shrugged. “If that’s what you want.” Rachel gave him a fifty-franc tip, not in appreciation of his services, but for luck, although she did not believe in that sort of thing. Taking her suitcase and handbag she got out of the taxi. It backed across the road, turned and drove off in the direction from which it had come. It left her alone with the silence and a billion stars.

  Quietly she walked through the grass at the side of the road, past the last houses of the town and into the country. Vineyards lay on both sides: the leafless stalks of early spring looked like poor bent gravemarkers. The distance to the house seemed much greater than before. Rachel resisted the temptation to break into a run. She shifted the suitcase and the handbag to opposite hands and kept walking.

  From a slight rise a few hundred yards away she saw the high stone walls emerge from the darkness. She set the suitcase on the ground and took off her skirt. She unwound the tape from her leg, pulled on a pair of jeans from the suitcase and stuck the gun in her belt.

  “It’s very simple,” Pinchas Levy had said, “if you don’t mind killing a dog.”

  “I do.”

  Rachel emptied the suitcase and piled everything on the ground. Then she ripped out the inner lining. Underneath were a screwdriver, a small flashlight, a length of nylon rope with a hook attached to one end, a lead apron of the kind used by dentists to protect their patients during X rays, and a leather muzzle. Rachel repacked the suitcase, closed it and hid it and her handbag behind a tree, safe from any passing headlights. She wound the lead apron around her left forearm, fastening it tightly with the straps which were meant to fit over the shoulders. Then, putting the screwdriver and flashlight in her pockets and carrying the rope and muzzle in her right hand, she advanced toward the gate in the wall, where Xavier Monette had thrown a dead fox to the dog with no name.

  The gates were locked and bolted from the inside. The iron railings were spaced about four inches apart, and ended in spear points a couple of feet above her head. Inside the gravel lane reflected the starlight and her eyes followed it easily to the shadows of the peach grove in front of the house. No lights showed. The thought came to her for the first time that she might be too late: he had reason to leave this place, in a hurry. She forced the idea from her mind.

  Rachel squatted in front of the gate, placing the muzzle at her feet and holding the hook in her right hand. She poked her left arm through the railings and whistled once in a low tone. Somewhere in the darkness a cicada made a shrill reply. Then the silence returned. Rachel held her breath and listened carefully, but she heard no bark, no paws running through the grass. She was about to whistle again when she felt a soft breeze, and then a vise closed on her forearm with tremendous force.

  The Doberman jerked her forward sharply, knocking her head against the gate, and dragging her to her knees. His yellow eyes glowed cold and opaque, and a deep savage growl rumbled in his throat. Despite the layers of lead around her arm she could feel the pressure of his teeth. He would let go only if he had the chance to sink them into a more vital spot. “Remember that a dog in combat is very direct,” Pinchas Levy had said. “It has no guile.”

  Rachel struggled into a sitting position and braced her feet against the railing. Using the muscles in her legs she tried to pul
l the Doberman forward. He dug his paws into the ground and leaned back; she felt that her arm would be torn from the shoulder. But very slowly the dog’s head was drawn closer to the gate. He growled more fiercely than ever but did not let go. With all her might Rachel straightened her legs, slowly pulling the dog forward another inch, perhaps two. Her shoulder could bear no more. With her right hand she reached quickly through the railing and slipped the hook under the dog’s leather collar. Then she jerked hard on the nylon rope, bringing the dog’s head tightly against the gate. In response he bit deeper into the lead. Rachel wound the rope around one of the railings and then several times around the dog’s neck.

  She tied the rope to the gate, leaving several feet beyond the knot. This free end she wound again around the dog’s neck, and began to pull. The dog didn’t like it. He choked and gasped and struggled for breath. Finally he released her arm. Rachel grabbed the muzzle and slipped it over his head. She fastened the leather straps very tightly so he could not bark. Then she stood up and unwrapped the lead protector from her arm. One sharp tooth had penetrated all the way, through to her skin. A little wetness had oozed from the hole and already coagulated. She took a few steps away from the gate. The Doberman began to growl again, but could not even turn his head to watch Rachel put her hands on top of the wall and climb over.

  She dropped to the ground on the other side. Suddenly she thought of the possibility that she had arrived ahead of him, that he would come along the road any minute and see the dog with his head stuck in the gate. But it wasn’t likely: he had a comfortable head start, at least six or seven hours.

  She walked toward the peach grove, her feet making little sound in the soft grass. By the time she reached the trees she could not hear the dog’s growling at all. Ahead she saw the dark bulk of the house, and beside it and slightly in front the smaller shadow of the miniature Greek temple the olive oil merchant had built for his homesick mistress. A little marble building with no windows and a brass padlock on the door. She remembered Xavier Monette’s call from the telephone box at the gate. “Please be quick,” he had ordered the thick-necked housekeeper. Mademoiselle Hoff. And the coffee had been ready.