Flykiller (32 page)

‘
Gott im Himmel
, Louis. Paradise instead of prison and the firing squad!'

‘Don't count on it.'

‘No sign of Gessler.'

Fin-de-siècle
decor was everywhere if a trifle moth-eaten, the main dance floor huge, its timbered ceiling smoke-stained from the turn of the century and before. Probably 1890, or 1880.

‘I'll get us a couple of drinks and see if there's any food left.'

‘You won't get through the crush.'

‘Pastis, right? Beer for me. It's straight in from home.'

Hermann was like a small boy greedily eating stolen chocolates at his first film. Mesmerized by it all, rejoicing and automatically joining in because that's the way he was. Giselle and Oona would certainly have their hands full if he ever
did
get that ‘little place' on the Costa del Sol.

‘Your hat, monsieur, and coat?'

She wasn't any more than fifteen, reeked of cheap perfume and underarm talcum powder. ‘I'll keep them. These days that is often best.'

‘Suit yourself. Monsieur le Secrétaire Général Bousquet makes the telephone call while that one, he …' Her bare arm pointed to a distant corner table all but hidden by the dim lighting and the smoke. ‘He awaits your pleasure. Personally … and I'm just saying this for myself, you understand,' her childlike eyes widened mischievously only to duck away at the fierceness of a Sûreté frown, ‘he can have you.'

Alone, Alain Andre Richard, Ministre des Vivres et du Rationnement – Supplies and Rationing – seemed impervious to the grey-green uniforms of the Occupier intermingling with the Occupied, the constant commotion, the comings and goings of cigarette girls selling everything including tobacco, and waitresses who should have known better than to wear such draughty costumes among soldiers and Government employees who only wanted to forget the war and their humdrum lives.

An intense little man in his mid-fifties, the face was pinched, the black hair thinning and carefully groomed, its dye-job perfect just like the rest of him. Even the blue serge suit had a gold
Francisque
pinned to its lapel.

‘Ah
merde
,' muttered St-Cyr under his breath as he all but reached the table. ‘Must our top civil servants always be so difficult?' The glass before Richard had remained untouched, perhaps because it was dirty or because he simply didn't think a gin and
gazeuse
would help the stomach that had been giving him trouble of late. The cigarette that wasted its little life in the chipped ashtray had company of the same, but what, really, had Marie-Jacqueline Mailloux seen in this one besides money?

‘Monsieur …'

‘You're late! Why is this, please?'

Even the voice was tight. ‘A small matter, Monsieur le Ministre. Unfortunately detectives can't always determine beforehand if their time will be used unnecessarily. Please pardon the delay.' And never mind that we weren't even aware we were to meet you!

‘St-Cyr, Sûreté. I know all about you.' Richard sniffed in as if wishing a pomander were to hand.

‘Good. That's as it should be.'

The despicable fedora was summarily dropped on the table, the dishevelled overcoat removed to be perfunctorily dumped over the back of a cane chair.

‘It's hot in here,' said St-Cyr. ‘Now perhaps, monsieur, while we have a moment to ourselves you would be good enough to provide me with a clear statement of your illegal activities?'

‘
Cochon! Imbécile! Bâtard!
Do you think you can mess with me?'

Pig, and the rest of it, and not bad for a start. ‘Ah
bon.
Let's see now. How can I put this down?'

A little black notebook was opened to a half-scribbled page, the Sûreté, with that black-stitched bulge above his left eye, wetting the end of his pencil, to write and say: ‘Opportunity given.'

That bushy moustache was touched with a knuckle, the fist clenched.

‘A few cigars, Inspector. A little flour and sug—'

‘Ministre, we've heard it all before. One blows the dust away,
n'est-ce pas
, only to find that the floor needs to be washed, only to then find that the varnish is cracked and the boards are in need of replacement, the joists also.'

‘I came here to discuss the murders, damn you, and whether they're the work of one or more assassins!'

Spittle, too, had erupted. ‘Then please proceed.'

‘And we'll get to the other later, is that it, eh?'

‘Begin, monsieur, by telling me about Marie-Jacqueline Mailloux.'

A hand was irritably tossed, a shrug given.

‘The silly bitch made a mockery of me. Always flaunting her ass when at the office on one of her impromptu visits. Always cheeky. Did she think others would not notice?'

‘Your wife and children perhaps?'

‘Are among those who noticed, yes. Scene after scene. I had constantly to warn her that she was going too far. She shouldn't have ridiculed my wife in front of others.
That
was unforgivable but Sandrine should also have understood Marie-Jacqueline meant nothing to me. Nothing, absolutely!'

‘Elaborate, please.'

Again a hand was waved. ‘It's not important.'

Patience,
mon vieux
, patience, St-Cyr counselled himself. ‘Everything is important.'

‘A party. A small gathering. A little fun – what could have been more innocent?
Nom de Jésus-Christ
, the stress has to be relieved now and then, does it not?'

Mon Dieu
, the arrogance! ‘Where?'

‘Le Château aux Oiseaux Splendides.'

‘And your wife turned up. A little surprise?'

‘
Oui.
It … Ah …' He threw out both hands, gesturing with them and raised a cautionary finger. ‘It was nothing. Marie-Jacqueline and I on a …'

‘A staircase?' It was just a shot in the dark.

‘To the small tower that was off the bedroom we were using. The beam of Sandrine's torch found us. Instead of trying to cover her
parties sexuelles
, Marie-Jacqueline leaned back on the stairs, laughed at my wife and … and spread her legs. We'd … we'd just had sex.'

‘Unprotected?'

‘Inspector …'

‘It's Chief Inspector, Monsieur le Ministre, and unless I'm mistaken, which I'm not, you are already guilty of misuse of your office and misappropriation of goods you yourself are in charge of rationing, so let us have the truth.'

‘Not protected.'

One could imagine the rest, the wife with her gaze riveted on the offending female, jealousy, hatred and unbridled rage in her eyes and acid on her tongue. But it would be best to sigh and say, ‘Let's have the date and time.'

‘The Saturday six weeks before she drowned. As to the time … perhaps my wife found us at midnight, perhaps a little after that.'

‘And she had clearance to be out after curfew?'

Ah damn this one! ‘I have a pass, the car its
Service Public
sticker.'

And signed by the Commissaire de Police, a petrol allocation also.
Party, chateau, 24 October 1942
, was jotted down. ‘These parties, Monsieur le Ministre, who else was there and how often were they held?'

Maudit salaud!
‘One never really knows at such gatherings.'

‘Just tell me.'

‘René and the others, as well as still others. Maybe forty, maybe a few more. It depended on …'

‘On what?'

‘The success of …'

‘Your little enterprise?'

‘
Oui
.'

‘So, a party every fortnight?'

‘Perhaps.'

‘Netting how much a month, please, this enterprise?'

Was St-Cyr a saint? ‘Four or five hundred thousand francs, seldom more.'

‘A
week
?' asked Hermann, setting a double pastis without water on the table before his partner and chum, and two of Paulaner's Münchner Hells for himself.

‘A week,' sighed Richard, realizing only too clearly that Bousquet had buggered off and had left him to face the music on his own.

‘One and a half to two million a month, Louis. Between eighteen and twenty-four million a year. Among how many shareholders, monsieur?'

These two … René had been
warned
not to let Boemelburg assign them to the investigation. Laval
would
intercede on the detectives' behalf by personally telephoning the Gestapo Chief! ‘Fifteen. No more. It's always best to minimize such things.'

‘All well-placed in the Government ministries or doing business with it? Good business?' asked Kohler.

‘All.'

‘That four or five hundred thousand a week is too little, Louis. Think of the expenses, the buying on the
marché noir
, then selling on it. Two breaches of the law, of course, but the commissions also, the pay-offs. Travel to and from Paris and other cities and towns. The price of flour alone tells us it has to be more. What's Henri-Claude Ferbrave's cut?'

Ah
merde
! ‘Ten per cent.'

‘And Jean-Guy Deschambeault's?' demanded Hermann.

‘Another ten.'

‘And the guards and drivers of those armoured vans of his father's? Their hush-money?'

Must Kohler threateningly lean over the table and not sit down? ‘Ten again.'

‘Five million a week, Louis. At least five and probably fifteen.'

‘Look, I … I don't know the details. How could I? Ask Honoré de Fleury. He … he oversees the accounts.'

‘Our Inspector of Finances, Hermann. Supplies and rationing, the police, the Bank of France, and finance.'

‘And no income tax because none of it's reported, since de Fleury makes certain of that, and Bousquet lets him.'

‘Four murders, Hermann.'

‘The threat of further and more important assassinations, Louis.'

Hermann would now leave the rest of the interview to his partner and enjoy his beer and the scenery. ‘Monsieur le Ministre, unless you fully cooperate you will accompany me to the morgue where we will continue our little discussion over the corpse of your former mistress.'

Must the fun, the laughter, the sound of the pianos, the singing and dancing swirl around the island of their little table? wondered Richard acidly. ‘Marie-Jacqueline told my wife that Sandrine couldn't possibly be any good at making love since I had not only sought her company but had done so repeatedly and for almost two years. They fought. They screamed at each other and tumbled down the stairs and out on to the carpet next to the fireplace and the fire. Sandrine's coat was torn open, her hair pulled, the dress and blouse ripped and a breast repeatedly grabbed and squeezed; Marie-Jacqueline's skin was deeply scratched and bled in several places. Threats were shrieked. Fists pummelled one another. Sandrine did cry out several times that she would kill Marie-Jacqueline but it meant nothing, I'm certain.'

‘And that one's response?'

How cautious of the Sûreté. ‘She laughed at Sandrine and then cheered the crowd who'd gathered to watch, and turning back to my wife, shrilled, “Why not strip and we'll see which one of us causes his cock to lift?”'

Ah
merde
! ‘Had you told the nurse you'd get a divorce and marry her?'

‘Inspector, surely you are aware that family is everything to a man in my position and that what I say to such women is of little consequence? She knew it was impossible but couldn't resist making the taunt.'

‘And your wife?'

‘Spat in her face, slapped her hard, and left.'

‘Then I'm going to have to interview her.'

‘That's impossible. I can't allow it.'

‘You will whether you like it or not, and that is final.'

Six of those little grey pills of Benzedrine the Luftwaffe's night-fighter pilots took to stay awake were shaken from Hermann's inexhaustible supply, to lie like gravel on the linoleum-topped table.

‘Down those, Louis. You're going to need them.'

‘Six! We've been up for nearly forty-eight hours! You know those won't sit well on a stomach that has had only beer or pastis to wet it!'

Unsteadily Herr Kohler got up and, a head and shoulders above nearly everyone else, picked up his two empties and began to make his way back to the bar.

‘He'll be awake all night now and asleep tomorrow when I need him,' grumbled St-Cyr.

‘Don't you two ever stop?' demanded Richard caustically.

‘Never. Now where were we? Oh yes, the older scratches and bruises the coroner noted on Marie-Jacqueline Mailloux and this supposed threat to assassinate
les gars
.'

*

Caught unexpectedly, their voices low and urgent only to be suddenly silenced, the cabaret troupe remained motionless in their dressing room. ‘Oh, sorry,' quipped Kohler. ‘I was looking for the toilets.'

Still the three of them didn't move, nor did they grin or laugh at such an obvious lie. They'd left the stage, he the bar and right after them. Now they knew he'd deliberately invaded their privacy and they didn't like it one bit.

Their gazes taking him in, their black velvet chokers setting off the kind of women men imagined them to be, their expressions were, as one, cold, and silently demanded, why is it that you want us to be the way you do? But then … each, in her own way, realized why he must have come.

‘Kohler,' he heard himself saying, his throat still dry at the accusation but also at having interrupted something he should have quietly listened to from the corridor. ‘Kripo, Paris-Central.' The dressing room was crowded. Underthings, skirts, blouses and winter coats hung on wooden pegs even around the much-stained mirror. Stage make-up, grey rolls of unbleached toilet paper, lipsticks, et cetera, cluttered the shared dressing table. In a far corner, a rusty iron hole in the floor with stirrups, a pull-chain and one hell of a rush of icy water – a Turkish – was not only wet and slimy but reeked.