Flykiller (47 page)

‘And when, please, Madame de Fleury, did you first see Albert and Mademoiselle Pascal going into that hotel?'

‘First?' she bleated.

‘First,' he said.

‘Last August. The 16th, a Sunday afternoon. Honoré and I were to have taken the children to the town's swimming pool in the Allier, but … but at the last moment, my husband said he had to go in to work and that I should take them myself. “The children mustn't be disappointed,” he said. “Here, let me give you a little something for their ices.”'

The bastard. Saccharin and ersatz flavours, and well before the raid when photos were taken at the château.

The sculptress had had some soup and a few of the egg-salad sandwiches from one of the trolleys and was now on her first cup of tea – ‘Real tea,' she had exclaimed, ‘and petits fours like Céline and I used to buy from Monsieur Bibeau's
pâtisserie
in the rue Mouffetard.'

Kohler knew he shouldn't have let her enjoy herself. He hadn't put the squeeze on her all the while Louis had been at that other table – still was, for that matter – though they desperately needed answers from her, if for no other reason than her own safety. Yet he couldn't ask if she'd delivered messages in Paris for Olivier – that would be far too risky for Louis and himself, should Gessler get his hands on her. Somehow he had to go around that one and yet prise what he could from her about it.

‘You get sick a lot, don't you? First in that snow-bound toilet and then in the sacristy.'

Flustered – caught out as if having taken something she shouldn't have – Inès reluctantly set aside the half-eaten little wedge of Genoese sponge cake, with its filling of butter cream, glaze of apricot jam and coating of white icing. The meringues had looked so heavenly, the miniature éclairs also, but had Herr Kohler fed her simply to loosen her tongue?

‘My stomach hasn't been right since the Defeat, Inspector. The constant diet of vegetables is impossible. Carrots always; rillettes and chops of rutabaga when I can't stand the taste and woody texture of swedes and know the hospitals are full of appendicitis cases and other bowel complaints. The “rabbit stew” in the little restaurant I sometimes go to only tells me Monsieur Lapin has leaped the casserole and made good his escape, leaving mystery meat behind. The grey National causes gas and diarrhoea, and I can understand fully the concern of the doctors. I once dissolved some of that bread in a bowl of water to see what rose to the top and sank to the bottom, and have ever since wished I hadn't. What one doesn't know is often better than what one does,
n'est-ce pas
? Sawdust, little bits of straw, the wings and carapaces of beetles or weevils perhaps, fibres of some kind – cotton, I think, but hemp also from the grain bags – and a slimy coagulation of grey-green to black particles that are greasy and not of pepper.'

Rat shit but
merde alors
, hadn't she unwound her tongue about it! ‘And at the bottom?' he asked.

‘Sand-sized grit and larger particles from the grinding stones. That is what gave me the toothache I complained of and still have. A hairline crack, I think, in an old filling.'

‘And oil of bitter almonds instead of cloves …'

Had he not believed her? ‘Yes. Cheated twice. First by the Government adding weight with sand, and then by the
salaud
I had to deal with on the
marché noir
. He swore it was oil of cloves and I … I was stupid enough to have trusted him.'

Dentists seldom could offer anaesthetic. These days everyone was avoiding the drill, even Louis. ‘Albert didn't just reject you. At the Jockey Club he tried to stick as close to you as possible and then, at the chateau, tried to kill you. Any ideas?'

‘None. I know it looks bad and, believe me, I'm trying hard to understand and forgive him.'

Her tea was getting cold. ‘Then start by telling me why that one is also wary of you.'

‘Blanche …?' Did Herr Kohler suspect Monsieur Olivier had warned her about them, that Blanche and her brother had forced Edith Pascal to let them into his house? ‘Perhaps it is that she's afraid of what Céline might have told me in the letters Lucie brought.'

‘That she and her brother live alone and share the same bed?'

Incest … was this what Herr Kohler wanted her to say? ‘That Blanche and Paul, being all but identical twins, are very close and that she worries constantly about his health and looks after him as a mother would.'

‘And doesn't wonder what Céline told you of Olivier, or that one of himself, or even whether the two of you have met since you arrived in Vichy?'

So there it was: Olivier. ‘We haven't met. I want to but … but there hasn't been time yet.' A lie of course, but would Herr Kohler accept it?

‘Too busy following us around, eh? What about Edith, then? Have you met her?'

She must force herself to gaze frankly at him. ‘Neither one nor the other, Inspector, and as for my “following” you and the Chief Inspector around, it is, as I've said, only because I'm waiting to get on with the job the Musée sent me to do and because I want, also, to find out who killed my friend.'

‘Lucie doesn't seem to matter much to you.'

‘Yet we met in Paris and so I should be concerned?
Mon Dieu
, I am, but naturally more about Céline.'

Pas mal, pas mal.
Not bad for an answer. ‘That wax portrait in your case …'

‘Needs only a touch-up, yes. If okayed by Monsieur le Maréchal and Dr Ménétrel, I may, I suppose, need do nothing further.'

Honesty at last, was that it? ‘Then you're not here for as long as it takes.'

‘Well, in a way I am. Of course, I should have told you it was all but complete. I … I had thought to but … but wanted to give myself time to find out what I could about Céline's murder.'

‘And you're certain you've never met or spoken to Olivier? You wouldn't have used the telephone to contact him? Few do these days if they can avoid it and there isn't one in that house of his in any case, is there?'

‘I … I wouldn't know. He … he did write to me once, as I've said, Inspector, and Céline did know he was my father's
compagnon d'armes.
'

‘
Verdammt!
I knew I'd forgotten something.'

Taking three snapshots from a jacket pocket, he looked at her and then at each of them. ‘This one, I think,' he said. ‘But first, admit that you knew Olivier had been forced by Pétain into giving the firing squad its orders.'

After the Battle of Chemin des Dames … after the mutiny that followed in May 1917. She mustn't let her eyes moisten, must gaze steadily at him and say clearly, ‘That just can't be true, Inspector. Monsieur Olivier would have told me of it in his letter and begged my forgiveness. Instead, he wrote only of what a fine comrade Papa was, how brave and kind and honest, and how he had spoken constantly of me, the child he was never to see.'

The photo showed them playing chess in the trenches, and for a moment Inès couldn't stop her eyes from smarting, her fingers from trembling. ‘Could you let me have this?' she asked, her voice unfortunately faint. ‘I … I haven't many, and none like it.'

Jesus, merde alors
, just what the hell was she hiding? ‘Later, when we've our killer or killers.' The photos of Noëlle Olivier as a cabaret dancer and with a grey gelding just like the one Lucie had kept were hardly noticed. ‘Now let me have that handbag of yours Albert was so interested in.'

‘You've already seen its contents. Would you scatter them in front of all these ladies and treat me as a common criminal, Inspector, when I'm most definitely not? Believe me, there's nothing but the usual. A lipstick I seldom use because of the ersatz things they put in it. The key to my studio. My papers, I assure you, are fully in order. There are some tissues, a pencil and paper to sketch with if I wish …'

‘The phial of perfume. Let's start with that.'

The Shalimar … ‘My aunt loved that scent.'

‘And so did the Maréchal who gave it to Noëlle Olivier and insisted she wear it.'

‘As did Céline and myself. A coincidence.'

‘And nothing else, eh?' he snorted with disbelief.

Though he didn't dump her bag out on the table, Herr Kohler found the phial and, unscrewing its cap, brought it to his nose, holding it there until satisfied. ‘Now tell me why the one with the almond oil isn't here?'

But is it with the portrait mask, the blocks of beeswax and sculpting tools? Sticking plasters, too, and iodine with which to patch up battered detectives … ‘I simply tried the oil, Inspector, and finding it wasn't what it was supposed to have been, put it in my case with my other first-aid supplies.'

‘Having spilled a touch of it?'

‘Yes, unfortunately, since I could, quite possibly, have used it for baking if … if I could have somehow managed to find the flour.'

‘Then tell me why that one has just brought your valise into the restaurant?'

Her back had been to them, but now the sculptress turned as she hesitantly got to her feet to look towards the entrance.

From her solitude next to the windows, Blanche Varollier had done the same thing.

Inès's hand was limp. The kid didn't even tremble. Too frightened and with good reason, thought Kohler, having stepped close to her.

Without a fedora, but with briefcase crammed under one arm and valise gripped in the other hand, Gessler stood with Herr Jännicke just inside the entrance, potted Kentia palms in dark blue jardinieres to their left and right, the ex-shoemaker short, broad-shouldered and bull-necked, the top button of the lead-grey overcoat undone; the other one tall, and with his black overcoat all buttoned up, the scarf loose, the black homburg in hand, his thick black hair receding and combed straight back off the high, wide brow.

Gessler's expression was grim and sour, for he'd not liked the sight of all these ladies indulging themselves so frivolously when there was a war on, and for him there had always been a class war, ever since the days of the Blood Purge.

The big ears stood out, the eyes squinted with distaste, slanting downward to the left and right of a nose that had, no doubt, been bloodied by barrel staves more than once for the sake of the Party.

His tie was crooked; Herr Jännicke's was perfect. Gessler's moustache was grey, not brown like the Führer's, so he hadn't dyed it like many did. The face was grey too, and wide, the close-cropped Fritz haircut all but reaching to Herr Jännicke's right shoulder.

‘You let me handle this,' breathed Kohler. ‘Don't you dare disgrace me.'

‘My valise …' It was all the kid could manage, for the two had now set out to join them. Gessler knocked against anyone who happened to be in the way. The gossip died as arrest seemed imminent until silence swelled to fill the void and all other motion had ceased.

Louis hadn't got to his feet. Louis knew his revolver was in his overcoat pocket here at this table.

Heels didn't clash, salutes were not given. The valise was set on the table, smashing things and causing the sculptress's teacup to tip. Milk and cold tea flooded into the tablecloth.

They didn't shout, didn't shriek. They simply blocked any exit, Herr Gessler speaking rapidly in
Deutsch
, Inès trying desperately to fight down her sickness and pick out a word or two of meaning. Berlin … Kohler's reputation as a … Slacker? she wondered, watching each of them closely, trying hard not to bolt and run but to remain still so as to fathom what was happening to her … to her!

‘
Dieser Fliegentöter
, Kohler.
Ich warte schon
…' I've been waiting … For your report? Four murders and you arrest an
Idiot
and then let him go? ‘
Was ist mit ihn los
, Herr Jännicke?' What is it with him?

‘Herr Oberstleutnant, I can explain.'

‘
Verfluchte Kripo, Verfluchte Franzosen
…' Cursed Kripo, cursed French … ‘
Vermehrende Idioten.
' Breeding idiots … ‘
Alle Halbheit ist taub
, Kohler.' Half-measures are no measures. He can't be ‘
dieser Fliegentöter.
The Flykiller. But better in ‘
den Zelleri
', than free.

‘
Jawohl
, Herr Oberst.'

‘
Gut
,' but you'll … not find him in the cellars of the Hôtel du Parc … ‘
Dieser Handkoffer
, Kohler,' this case … was open. That father of his can't … can't find him either. Ah no!

‘
Bitte
, Fräulein, go through your case. Damage, theft … we must know of this.'

Her valise … She must empty it for them … ‘
Oui
, monsieur. I … I had forgotten Albert's father was looking after it for me.'

Kohler translated what she'd said. Gessler lit a cigarette and offered one to Herr Jännicke. The kid lifted out the tray … The phial of almond oil now held only dregs, just dregs. Had Albert sampled it? he wondered. Wet … the tray was wet and reeked of bitter almond. The mask, swaddled in its white linen cloths, stared up at them.

She nodded. Faintly she said in French, ‘Nothing has been taken or damaged. Albert must simply have wanted another look at the portrait and … and accidentally emptied the phial when putting it back.'

Herr Kohler translated.

‘Then please be more careful in future.'

‘Bernard … Bernard,' sang out Madame Pétain as Dr Ménétrel came into the restaurant on the run only to stop dead at the sight of Gessler and Jännicke. ‘Bernard, the Chief Inspector St-Cyr was just telling us of Paris. Not a word about those dreadful murders or your part in them.'

Stung by her words, furious with her and with them, no doubt, the portly doctor turned on his heels, collared the maître d' and bent his ear before retreating to the lobby and the Hôtel du Parc.