Flykiller (19 page)

Slices of dried apple had been tossed on to the worn Aubusson carpet to keep the creature quiet. Beyond it, there was a plain wooden coffee table, a carpenter's bench in years gone by perhaps, with books, ashtrays, a japanned chest, a bronze model of the place Vendôme's column, an Empire-style desk lamp with jade-green shade and, at either end of the table, two china mugs: blue as well, to match that of the carpet.

Steam issued from the mugs but there were no knees or hands in sight.

Beyond the table, beyond a narrow space with piled tin trunks, cluttered shelves with square openings rose all but to the ceiling. More books, some porcelain – Chinese perhaps – a few figurines, a soft purple tulip-glass with white silk narcissi and, at the very top, four experiments in beginner's taxidermy: a dove, a rook, a starling and a seagull.

‘
Un moment
,' confessed a faint but carefully modulated female voice, the accent perfect. Not a trace of the rolling, singsong accent of an Auvergnate, more of Paris and the Sorbonne. Of wealth and place and the long, long tumble from it. Of hesitation too, and fear? he wondered.

Fabric moved to block his view as the key was collected. She didn't tremble when fitting it back into the lock, was outwardly calm. ‘Monsieur?' she said, the look in her dark blue eyes empty.

‘Kohler, Kripo, Paris-Central.'

Her throat was lovely and slender, what he could see of it, the collar of the black and crimson brocade dress all but touching the delicately smooth fantastic line of her lower jaw and chin. About thirty, he told himself, the hair a dark, rich auburn and long but pinned up and worn in the style of the
fin de siècle
, her brow partly hidden by it, the face thin and sharply featured, aristocratic, yes, the whole of her being from that other time and nervous. Yes, nervous.

‘Well, Herr Kohler, to what do we owe this pleasure?' she asked.

It would sound foolish, but he'd have to say it. ‘A moment of your time, Madame …'

‘Mademoiselle Blanche. Everyone calls me that, but I suppose you will need another label. Varollier. Grand-papa was an architect. The
mairie
, the
hotel de ville
– how do you say it in
Deutsch
, Inspector?'

The town hall. ‘
Das Rathaus
, but my French is good enough. Please continue using it and don't worry.'

‘Forgive me. It's just that … that so few of our visitors speak our language. Japanese, of course, at their embassy, Spanish, too, at theirs, and Italian at theirs, but seldom what is so often required, which makes me of some small service when needed. The
mairie
of the eighteenth
arrondissement
has magnificent stained-glass windows which cover its courtyards. The Église de Notre-Dame-de-Clignancourt, opposite it, was finished at about the same time, in 1896 and four years later, I think.'

She was almost as tall as he was, and the dress went right to her ankles, belted by linked art nouveau silver plaques with intriguing patterns in dark green, red, blue and white enamel.

‘My brother, Inspector. Paul … Paul, darling, this is Herr Kohler.'

Open book in hand, back to the door and facing one end of the shelving, the brother continued to read.

‘Paul … Paul, you heard me. Please don't be difficult.'

‘We've done nothing. Why, then, does he have to bother us?'

Whereas she tried desperately to be calm, the brother was highly strung and wary and didn't seem to give a damn if it showed.

‘Well, come in if you must,' he said. Her twin, he had the same height and build, the same blue eyes but much lighter, more reddish-brown hair, a hank of which had flopped down over the left side of his brow, the expression intense. ‘Blanche, please ask the Inspector to be seated. Offer him some coffee, otherwise ours will just get cold.'

‘It's made from wild-rose petals Paul and I. collected and roasted, Inspector. It's sweetened with a purée of chestnuts we also gathered.'

The water was hot, the stove warm. Trays of the papier-mâché balls most people used these days as fuel were in various stages of drying. A few twigs were on the verd antique sideboard whose style Kohler couldn't determine. Floor-to-ceiling curtains – Russian Imperial, he thought – were parted and of a steel-grey blue. Lace hung behind them, and through it he could see a grimy window, no balcony and, probably from there, the river and Boutiron Bridge.

Paul Varollier seemed all bones and knuckles as he sat awkwardly in a brass-studded armchair with brocade cushions jammed in on either side and behind him, one mug now cradled for warmth in thin, long-fingered hands.

Kohler took the proffered mug from the sister. ‘Our “coffee”,' she said, managing to smile faintly.

‘A tis sane. My partner loves them.'

‘Was Céline really killed by this assassin everyone whispers of?' she asked, still standing before him. ‘You see, we were good friends, Inspector. I often looked after Michel for her and now must salve his loneliness. He misses her terribly, poor thing. Rabbits have feelings, don't they, Paul? They're not just God's dumb creatures as Père Paquette preaches. They're almost like us.'

Knowing she had said too much, she found her mug and gracefully composed herself in one of three dining-room chairs. The rest of the set and its table and sideboard had either not been available at the sale or had been sold when the family's estate had been settled and the bailiff had taken damned near everything. Louis XVI, he thought.
Directoire
period anyway.

He'll flip open his little black notebook now and balance it on his knee, thought Blanche. He'll be very proper, isn't really like a Gestapo. Usually it isn't hard to tell with those, but this one
is
different and therefore far more dangerous. But such a terrible scar on his face. How had he got it? Duelling? she wondered and told herself, He's not of that class. Barbed wire from that other war, then? It's far too fresh. The slash of broken sugar, she said firmly. A pimp or …

‘Céline Dupuis left early on Tuesday morning,' Kohler heard himself interrupting her thoughts. The hotel was still all but as silent as a tomb.

‘The older students,' said Blanche. ‘She was always so conscientious. This job, that job. She lived entirely for the day when she could return to Paris to be with her daughter. Will we soon be allowed to send letters to the former
zone occupée
, Inspector? Céline wanted so to write them to Annette. Every day if she could have. Now I'll have to do it when possible. Paul, I must send the child a postcard. How will I tell her what's happened? She'll be devastated.'

‘She's not our responsibility. How many times must I tell you stray cats and rabbits are definitely not our concern unless we are to eat them?'

‘Annette is not a stray,' she said petulantly, the Inspector noting the exchange and writing a terse comment.
Brother heartless: sister deeply caring
, or something like that. Impolitely, Paul started to read again. Not aloud as often, thank God. Balzac, a banquet scene probably. Oysters, chicken and fish, or is it cakes and ale and naked whores, my darling?

‘We're not being of much help, are we?' she hazarded before taking a sip and, finding the coffee to her brother's liking, gave a curt nod his way.

The rabbit was looking for more to eat.

‘I often cared for it. Céline was away so much, she gave me a spare key to her flat. Paul and I would gather grasses and other things for it. Sometimes a carrot or a few leaves of lettuce.'

Has key to Céline's room
– was that what the Inspector scribbled? she wondered, wishing he'd leave. Just leave!

‘Where is it?' he asked, and for the first time since their meeting, a lifelessness filled his pale blue eyes – eyes that until this moment she had felt certain would keep a woman happy, or several.

The key was found in the top drawer of the sideboard. Briefly their fingers touched and just as briefly warmth came back into the detective's gaze. ‘
Merci
,' he said.

‘Your French is good,' she countered only to hear him reply, ‘I learned it as a guest of your country in 1916. I was one of the lucky ones and have always been grateful for the holiday. Now the French is useful.'

I'm sure it is, she wanted so much to add in High German because his would definitely be Low, but didn't.

‘Did you see or hear anyone go into or out of Céline's room on Tuesday?' he asked.

‘Only myself. To … to feed and water Michel and give him a bit of daylight and company.'

‘And on Wednesday?'

How sharp his voice was. ‘Wednesday …? Paul … Paul, didn't you say you'd heard someone up there?'

‘The Secrétaire Général de Police and Dr Ménétrel, idiot. Why ask when you know?'

‘He reads every day at this hour, Inspector. It's his only form of relaxation. Please forgive his appalling lack of manners.'

‘
Blanche, just tell him!
'

‘Twice we heard someone on the stairs, Inspector. At first I thought it was Céline and that she must have stayed overnight at a friend's to avoid being out during the curfew, but those steps faded away. Later the Secrétaire did come, as Paul has said, and with the doctor.'

First visit: the identity card. Had Herr Kohler scribbled this? wondered Blanche, or had he written: Killer ducked into room before Camille's lover and Pétain's
éminence grise
?

‘And today?' he asked sharply.

‘Once. Before … before you and … the other one came here.'

Before our first visit to the hotel – did he write that? wondered Blanche.

‘How long have the two of you lived here in the hotel?'

‘Since the beginning'

‘Jobs?'

How brutal of him! ‘Translator, and croupier, though the casino is open only on weekends, with a consequent loss of promised wages which has, I am afraid, made my brother somewhat bitter.'

‘Blanche!'

‘Paul, we should be thankful for what is ours. Others have it far worse!'

Nom de Dieu
, they were a pair. ‘Do you know Albert Grenier, the groundskeeper?'

‘Everyone knows Albert, Inspector,' said Paul spitefully. ‘The fool makes a point of saying hello even when not wanted.'

‘To those who like him, and to those who don't,' confessed the sister. ‘Paul, you mustn't think Albert stupid. He's really very intelligent, just a little awkward perhaps, but in his own way he's himself. That is more than one can say for a lot of the others in this town, Inspector.'

Again the sister realized she had said too much. ‘Who did the birds?' Kohler asked, indicating the stuffed one.

‘I did,' she quickly admitted. ‘I had such plans when a child, didn't I, Paul? But as you can see, my talent was sadly lacking. Céline loved birds – live ones. They were free to fly, she used to say when thinking of Annette and building dreams for when the two of them would be together again. She wanted me to give her one of the tail feathers from each of those. Paul wanted her to take the birds and be done with my memory of them, but she wouldn't do that and … and never brought the matter up again.'

‘A quail,' muttered Herr Kohler, flipping back through his notebook. ‘A male hen harrier …'

‘A merlin, a peacock … Céline was going to try to write to her daughter using a tail feather from each. That way her words would appear as though they'd flown to Annette and every time the girl visited the zoo at the Jardin des Plantes, she'd think of her mother. Your coffee is getting cold, Inspector. Don't you like it?'

‘Can't you see you've prattled on so hard he's been too busy?'

‘Paul, please. I want to help.'

‘Then why not tell him where Céline would have got the tail feathers! Go on, idiot. Can't you see that's what he's fishing for and he'll soon find out anyway?'

Ach!
had the sister been trying to avoid doing so?

‘Herr Abetz, your ambassador in Paris, keeps a château nearby, Inspector,' said Blanche. ‘Its … its custodian and former owner tends the birds he once collected.'

There, she said sadly to herself, now he's writing that down too. A
château
, his expression grim at the thought of Herr Abetz being even remotely connected to the killings. In a way she felt sorry for Herr Kohler, sorry for herself and Paul too, of course.

A mist of fear and anxiety was in the detective's eyes when he looked up at her to ask, ‘Just how the hell did Madame Dupuis get to visit our Otto's birds?'

Paul should have kept quiet. ‘The parties,' she said not daring to look at Herr Kohler. ‘The dances and nights of games and … and other things.'

‘And your brother and you, Mademoiselle Varollier? Did the two of you also attend these evenings out?'

These orgies, was this what Herr Kohler thought? To deny it would be foolish; to admit it, suicidal. Why did Paul have to force the issue? To get everything out in the open and over with in spite of what might happen to them? To get back at her, his sister, his twin?

‘Occasionally, Inspector, but … but not in some time. Wasn't it well before Christmas when we were last there, Paul?' she asked acidly. ‘My brother to deal the cards or tend the roulette wheel, myself to translate when necessary.'

Speaks
Deutsch
fluently – was this what Herr Kohler now scribbled? wondered Blanche, but when he looked across the table at her, it was to ask, ‘Who else was there?'

Had Paul wanted this to come out too? ‘Céline and … and others.'

‘Lucie Trudel? That is her portable gramophone on the bureau next to your brother's chair, isn't it? When was the last time you saw her? You first, Monsieur Varollier, then you, Mademoiselle Blanche.'

Ah
Sainte Mère
! Herr Kohler had led them into believing he hadn't noticed the record on its turntable, hadn't thought it important. He had laid a little
souricière
for them.