Murder in Lascaux (5 page)

“Yes, but he is as careful as I am. He's my nephew, and I have trained him to be vigilant in protecting the cave.”

“His name?”

“Marc. Marc Gounot.”

“Jackie, get the address of this nephew and arrange for us to visit him.” Then, turning back to Gounot: “Who else had access to the cave besides you and your nephew?”

“No one. Not a single other person.”

Daglan thought a moment and then asked, “Is it possible someone could have sneaked in behind the group today as you led them down into the cave?”

Toby shot out, “Impossible. We would have noticed it.”

“What about after the murder?” Daglan asked. “If someone was hiding in the cave, is it possible he could have escaped afterward without your noticing it?

“I don't see how,” Toby replied. “We've all been together here since then.”

“Monsieur, from here I can't see the entrance, so you could not have either,” Daglan asserted calmly.

Daglan was right. From here in the hut, we didn't have a view of the cave entrance.

Daglan turned again to Gounot. “When you led the group out of the cave, did you secure the door?”

“Of course I did. It's routine to lock the door immediately after exiting. I didn't lose my head. I locked the door, as always, the moment the last person in the group exited. That was Monsieur.” He was nodding toward David. Having conveyed that information, Gounot fell into a coughing spell. “I don't feel well,” he said.

“All right,” said Daglan. There is one other thing I need from you. What can you tell me about the dead bird? Monsieur Sandler says you described a drawing of such a creature, which the group was not allowed to see.”

“Yes, down in the pit a bird is represented below the hand of a man falling backward. What it symbolizes nobody knows. One theory is that the drawing represents an effigy of a bird that a shaman may have carried on a wand—in other words, not a living bird. But, then again, the fact that the drawing looks like a bird run through by a spear might mean the object is associated with the hunt. Another possibility is that it was the totem of a clan.”

“Hmm,” pondered Daglan, his chin supported by his fist. “How well known are these theories?”

“Everyone in the professional community knows them. Archaeologists. Anthropologists. Prehistorians. The image is famous, and there is no end of theories as to its meaning.”

“I see. So, what do you suppose could be the message of a killer in leaving such an object at the scene?”

“I have no idea,” Gounot replied. “None at all.”

In the silence that ensued, I felt a sense of impasse, followed by curiosity, followed by worry that no answer would be found. Until someone could decipher the killer's motive, we were all under suspicion. At the very least, we were witnesses, which meant our return home could be delayed. That was a selfish reason for wanting to know who the killer was. Even stronger, though, was the primitive urge for justice. A man had been murdered. Someone must be held accountable.

All of us, Gounot included, instinctively turned our eyes to Inspector Daglan. We wanted reassurance that he would find the killer. But Daglan's features were closed. He checked his watch. “I must consult the medical examiner,” he said evenly. “We'll continue this questioning tomorrow.” He rose and, and turning his back to us, started for the door. At the threshold, he called back to Jackie: “For now the Americans are permitted to return to the château. Please see that they do. And collect the passports of Monsieur and Madame Press.” Our own passports were tucked into a folder he was carrying as he strode briskly back toward the cave.

It's funny how the mind plays tricks when under stress. Right then what I couldn't get out of my head was the road sign we'd passed yesterday on the drive from Bordeaux to Montignac. The head of a Lascaux bull was on the panel. “You are now in the Dordogne,” boasted the sign. “Welcome to the home of man.” I remembered thinking “man the artist” as we drove by. “Man the killer,” I was thinking now.

I
N HIS HIGH-PITCHED VOICE
, Jackie instructed us to go straight to our lodgings. He would follow us. As we walked down to the parking lot, David's composure cracked, and he grumbled audibly about being ordered about like a suspect. Toby and I kept our own counsel. We were rewarded by David's apologetic offer to lead us to the château, since he knew the way.

We followed the silver BMW over the ancient bridges of Montignac, then down a long woodsy highway, which led into the traffic-clogged medieval town of Sarlat. After its vexing entanglements, we climbed up and over a series of ridges opening onto the broad basin of the Dordogne Valley. The river flowed between poplar-lined banks and curved around cliffs topped with fairy-tale castles. Jackie brought up the rear in an old-model black Renault with police markings.

As he negotiated the narrow road, Toby turned to me. “How are you holding up?”

“All right, I suppose, considering.”

“Well, I'm still shaking,” admitted Toby.

“Me too.”

“What the hell happened in there? And what do you make of those two?” he asked, nodding toward the windshield.

“David and Lily? I have trouble imagining either of them as a murderer. Lily is out of the question. She could never have fought with a man like that. Remember how long the thumping against the wall went on? But David is big enough. What do you think?”

“To me, it doesn't make sense. Why would a well-fed lawyer from New York strangle a Frenchman in a cave and leave a dead bird next to him? It's bonkers. Besides, David doesn't strike me as a killer. And he's too smart to have tried something so risky in such a tight space.”

“It may have been risky, but if he had planned the murder that way, it worked.”

“I don't think so,” said Toby, shaking his head. “Whoever did this was desperate and probably a little nuts.”

“That's what it looks like,” I admitted. “But what if that was part of his plan, to make it look like the act of a madman? And how about his wife? She seemed nervous from the start. If they weren't plotting something, what was that all about?”

“I can't believe either one of them was involved in that struggle. Which means Daglan was right—there must have been someone else in the cave.”

“You know, I had a feeling we weren't alone in there. It's creepy to think about it, but maybe we were being stalked the whole time we were inside.”

“That's probably what happened. Otherwise, we're all suspects, which is what the inspector thinks,” Toby replied.

A moment later he added, “I'd feel better if we had our passports back.”

“Me too. What if we'd been scheduled to return home tomorrow?”

Toby nodded grimly. “We'd be stuck, that's what.”

We fell silent, worrying. While Toby concentrated on his driving, I remembered my mother's call from home. Once we were on a stretch of road that looked like a straight shot for a while, I checked the phone and found there was no message. This would be my first attempt to place a call using the international cell phone I'd borrowed from my well-traveled friend Elizabeth, but after consulting the directions, which I'd stashed in my purse, I succeeded in getting through.

Mom started with a string of apologies—for interrupting our vacation, for calling so soon after our arrival, and for waking us up. Mom has trouble with time differences.

“No problem, Mom. It's just before dinner here. What's up?”

“It's your sister. She's doing it again. She's getting ready to spend all your grandfather's trust money on some crazy scheme of hers.”

“Did Angie tell you this herself ?”

“No, no. You know Angie. She never tells me anything. But she does talk to your father. Just out of the blue, she told him she's found out she can get money out of her education trust without using it for college, since she's over twenty-one. When Dad asked her what she wanted the money for, she wouldn't say. But I know it'll be like the last time, when she joined that yoga cult and pledged all her money to that guru guy. You know, your grandfather didn't work like a dog all his life to have his little legacy squandered by a bunch of ungrateful kids….”

It went on like that for a while and would have gone on for longer, but I cut through to say this was not a great time to talk.

“Why, what's wrong?”

“Well, there's been an accident here. No, we're fine ourselves, but we were witnesses. I can't talk much longer because we're dealing with the police. I'll tell you all about it later, but don't worry, Toby and I are okay. No, not us. We were just bystanders. Yes, we're fine, but I have to go now. France is beautiful, yes. Okay, Mom, talk to you later. He sends his best. Bye. Maybe I'll do that. All right, I will. Promise. Okay, I will. Probably not today. Yes, Mom, bye.”

She wouldn't hang up till she got me to promise to call Angie.

As I put the phone away, Toby glanced over. “Angie trouble?”

“Looks like it. I'll fill you in later. We're coming into Beynac, and the turnoff to the château comes right after that.” In the car I'm the one who reads the signs. When Toby's driving, he just watches the road and daydreams. If I didn't say when to turn, we'd be in Toulouse before he noticed. But the system works—when he listens to me, he's a great driver.

A
pproaching Beynac, we had a full view of the castle stronghold, high on its cliff. I was glad we weren't headed there. Against the lowering sky, the castle looked threatening, and I had had enough threat for one day. We concentrated instead on the attractive drive through the riverside village. Just as we left its shops behind, David signaled a right turn. We rounded a curve of the cliff with the river on our left, and just as the curve straightened out, I spotted a small white wooden sign, waist high. On it were the hand-lettered words “Cazenac-Cazelle.”

“That's it,” I said. “Sharp right.” The sleek BMW made a quick turn, then slowed to make sure we were behind it. When it confirmed we were following, it resumed its rapid pace, climbing a long and twisting road. We mounted for several kilometers, passing a hamlet and the side roads to some farms, and finally pausing at an ancient church at the top of the hill. From that perch, we could see across to the next hilltop, which was graced by a small but elegant château. It was built in the Renaissance style, with two conical towers capped by peaked roofs covered in slate. The château's cream-colored stone facade stood out against the gray sky, while dark, wooden shutters framed six large windows open to the air.

Ahead of us, the BMW climbed up a steep lane bordered by stately sycamores, pruned just the way the French like them, so as to produce a perfectly rounded crown. We followed up the hill, through a gate, and over to the pebbled parking area to the right of the château, with Jackie close behind. Two cars bearing rental tags were already garaged in the stalls of what once must have been the stables. They were built from the same light-toned stone as the house. Each stall door was topped with a straight stone lintel, decorated with an enigmatic symbol: a peculiar cross, seemingly with little balls on each of the four points. I couldn't tell exactly, since the soft stone had weathered over the years.

As we pulled into the last empty stall, Jackie parked in the lane, sprang from his car, and approached the welcoming party waiting on the wide, low steps of the château. As if posed for a family photograph, an old man and his middle-aged son and daughter stood with hands clasped in front of their waists. The daughter was the first to break formation, moving forward, extending her hand to the policeman, and nodding somewhat abstractedly to us, as she absorbed the news of the murder. After a long consultation with Jackie, she approached us with a tense smile, offering what welcome she could, given the circumstances.

Marianne de Cazelle was an attractive woman, in her fifties perhaps, with long, auburn hair and a trim figure. “We are desolated to learn what happened today,” she began. “But in spite of everything, we will do our best to make you comfortable.”

Marianne's English was excellent, though her word choice was distinctly French (“desolated” instead of “sorry”). Curiously, her accent had a touch of an American southern drawl overlaid on a Parisian glide. She introduced herself and said she was anxious to present us to the rest of the family. But first she noted the approach of her assistant, Fernando, who would take the luggage from our car to our room. With surprising agility, the wiry young man lifted our bags from the trunk and swung round to bring them into the château through a side door. Despite his dark good looks, he was not attractive. The air of acrobatic grace in his action was marred by a rude turning away of the head after he had given us one frowning glance. Bad-tempered, I thought to myself. Too bad. He'd be movie-star material without that scowl.