Flykiller (59 page)

But by signing it, had she then signed her own death warrant?

‘At least now we know who she was,’ said St-Cyr.

‘And have a motive. She must have been about to meet one of the guards. Two chocolate bars, the chewing gum if necessary, then the bar of Lifebuoy Soap as a last resort. Such a big payoff implies considerable risk.’

‘Only someone got to her.’

‘And left that star.’

‘Perhaps, but then. . . ’

A fist was clenched. ‘
Verdammt,
that’s how it happened. Don’t keep hedging!’

‘Take the easy route, Hermann?’

‘It might help—have you ever thought of that?’

‘And have you, Inspector, paused to even consider why that note was written in
two
languages?’

Ah sacré nom de nom!
‘The
français
can’t have been for one of the guards, can it? Do they have French doctors in the camp?’

‘Or
Tirailleurs sénégalais,
Hermann? The ones we caught a glimpse of. Former skirmishers from a defeated army who are now here as prisoners of war doing the bidding of their masters, namely the heavy work.’

Again Kohler asked what they were dealing with.

‘The usual. Now go and find our acting Kommandant but please don’t enlighten him about that note and the invitation. Let him find out when necessary.’

‘And our first victim?’ To whom the note must have referred.

‘We’ll get to her soon enough.’

‘Enjoy yourself then. I’ll see if I can find us a place to stay.’

‘In town. It’s very provincial and hardworking but insular, Hermann. As with Les Francs-Comtois in the province just to the south, they tend to keep to themselves, especially at times of defeat like this, as in the Franco-Prussian War. So you may need to use your Gestapo clout. We’d never get any sleep in either of those hotels knowing what we do now.’

But where, please, were her papers? wondered St-Cyr. And why, really, had she been tidied? She was of a little more than medium height and slender, and her legs had been placed side by side as if for burial, her right arm bent and lain precisely across the chest. All down the length of her there wasn’t a thing out of place. The saddle shoes—very American—were scuffed and worn, but here, too, the thought was that a moment had been taken to clean them of their straw and dried dung; and yes, the soles were all but gone. After two and a half years of shortages in France, neither leather nor rubber could be found except perhaps by the privileged few.

‘Were you a ballet dancer or still a student?’ he asked her and himself. ‘You have the build, the look—all such things. A real stage presence,
n’est-ce pas
?’

Her French would have been perfect. Her ash-blond hair, beneath its knitted, soft grey toque, was in a tightly pinned chignon, but here, too, things had been tidied. Some strands, having come loose over the brow, had been smoothed back into place.

‘Please, I must,’ he said and, turning her onto her side, hiked up coat, skirt, and slip to pull the underpants down and gently ease the thermometer into her. ‘Hermann can’t stand me doing this, but it’s necessary if we are to have some idea of when this happened. Given the frost, the night, the shelter here, and the fact that you were fully dressed and wearing your overcoat and must have been terrified—all such things—perhaps a fall of one-and-a-quarter degrees Celsius per hour. If outside, it would have been more—two degrees per hour. One has always to wait when taking such readings, and Hermann has neither the patience nor the stomach for it.

‘
Ah, bon,
7.2 degrees Celsius, with a drop of 30 degrees, giving us somewhere in the neighbourhood of 1600 hours yesterday. Were many of you still out and about?’

She would have been terribly embarrassed by what he had just done and would need to be distracted. Tidying her, he removed one of the woollen mittens. ‘Since none of the Host wafers have been eaten, we can assume that you must have met our bell ringer, if that one really is a priest, at quite close to the time of death.
Bien sûr,
I realize such people can murder just like any other, but was he your herbalist?’

The wafers, in themselves, didn’t mean a sacrilege, for in better days, churches, monasteries, and nunneries had often sold the scraps and even half-kilos of the whole, and these had only been of the latter.

‘Mademoiselle, your skin was very dry, but did he prepare this lotion for you? Chamomile with lavender, but rose and neroli also, on a base of honey and almond oil. I’m sure of it.’

There were dried, finely chopped lavender flowers in the sachet, but also dried chamomile flowers and orris root, to which droplets of oil of lavender had been added. ‘Has this Occupation of ours put us all back into the Middle Ages?’ he asked. ‘The smells in that hotel, the stench at times? Were they so bad you and the others had taken to carrying these little sachets for their moments of hurried relief?’

She had done her lips with what appeared to be a lipstick of beeswax, henna, and almond oil. Far softer and gentler on the skin than what was usually available these days, it had produced the necessary effect. ‘Chamomile,’ he went on. ‘You’ve applied it as a rinse to lighten your hair. You took your time in getting yourself ready for this meeting. More and more you are telling me that my partner and I had best talk to this bell ringer.’

The face was thin but finely boned, the forehead high and smooth, the nose sharply defined. The eye shadow would perhaps have been made of kaolin clay, talc, cornstarch, and, for darkening, iron oxide. Mascara had firmed the eyelashes. Again the hand cream had been used on the face as a base, but a blush of henna had been added to brighten an otherwise winter pallor.

She had been caught unawares, had been forced back against that wall, the pitchfork having been snatched up by the killer. ‘Did you plead you wouldn’t tell a soul? Was pressure then released, your thinking it a reprieve?’

The star was not something to be carried or taken lightly. ‘Did you snatch it from your pocket and thrust it towards your assailant? Did the two of you argue vehemently? There are no frozen tears, but were these wiped away and the makeup smoothed over their traces by your tidier, or was the star not hers at all but yours?’

To have remained hidden among so many would have been a terrible ordeal.

‘Were you still alive when that fork was withdrawn? Did you see the look in your killer’s eyes? Did that person then angrily stuff the star back into your pocket, and if so, why?’

Already there were no easy answers. ‘You were then carefully laid out. We do know you had come to meet someone who was either French-speaking or German, but as so few of the latter speak our language, I have to wonder about the former. Had this person agreed beforehand to the meeting place? You couldn’t have been the one to have arranged it, otherwise you’d have known what language that person spoke.

‘But did you unwittingly ask your killer to speak to him on your behalf, and what, please, was the invitation to, and what, of course, were you to have brought? This Shield of David?’

A careful survey of the stall found only an overturned water pail; a small, sharply cut-off sprig from a beech tree; and three curls from the inner bark of the same. These last items had probably been dropped either by the assailant or the victim and were halfway inside the stall.

A sadness came, and he couldn’t help it. ‘Spring,’ he said. ‘Were you thinking of it as you felt each tiny, spear-shaped bud or merely planning to chew them and the bark for a little nourishment, as did the Iroquois and other North American tribes?’

From every window Kohler knew he was being watched. They would be whispering to each other, asking, What did they find? Is that why he’s trying to hurry on that ice? Was she naked? Was she cold? Did they realize Caroline wasn’t the only one who had died?

The camp offices were in the casino, and as he turned away, he knew how disappointed they would be at losing sight of him. Attached to the southwest corner of the Hôtel Grand, the casino would, he knew, have direct access, but here the main entrance was, of course, close to the camp’s gate and directly across from the Gothic spire of a church-cum-chapel in its own little forest. Prayers, then, in the old days before entry or upon leaving if bankrupt or in clover, but now. . . why, now, if one had gained the necessary pass and safe-conduct to leave for something better like one’s flat or house, that was OK, but if being sent on to somewhere else, well, definitely not.

Even here the threat of deportation to a concentration camp would always be present.

Four staff cars lined the road out front, any of which would do nicely for Louis and himself. All had been requisitioned from the Occupied and painted with the regulation Wehrmacht camouflage so as to let folks know who was behind the wheel.

Two large white-domed, circular rooms anchored what would once have been the Salle des Fêtes, the reception hall, but before he got there, steps led up to a broad terrace and then an Art Deco door, with an etched glass fountain just like the one Louis had been on about. Yet another female watcher opened the door, but this one was a BDM, one of the Federation of German Milch Cows, the Bund Deutscher Mädel, the League of the same. Earnest girls from home doing their duty in uniforms so grey the French had taken to calling them
les souris grises
—the grey mice.

A lisle-stockinged, tight-skirted leg was lifted as a black brogue was stamped and the regulation salute and Heil Hitler given. Even a smile wouldn’t work, though he’d try.

Ach,
thought Dorett Lühr, no return salute had been received from this one, and the faded blue eyes that might at times be full of mirth seemed only to be mocking her. Shrapnel scars from that other war were there, but so too was that of a more recent slash from the left eye to chin. A duelling scar? she wondered, trembling at the thought, for he was still handsome, if in a rough and incredibly virile way. ‘
Bitte,
Herr Detektivinspektor, you are to follow me.’

‘Actually, Herr Hauptmann
und
Detektiv Aufsichtsbeamter would be better if you want to use my rank from that war we lost, or simply Herr Detektivinspektor der Kriminalpolizei—i.e., der Kripo,
ja?
Der Geheime Staatspolizei.’

The Gestapo. . . That did it. She shuddered nicely, thought Kohler, and would no longer give trouble. There wasn’t a sign of a roulette wheel, baccarat table, or any other such temptation. So puritan was the casino, the Salle des Fêtes, of gymnasium size, was barren of everything but a huge swastika,
ein Hakenkreuz,
that was draped above the regulation portrait of the Führer.

Here the internees on arrival would have had to line up in front of the one suitcase each had been allowed to bring, this being laid open and the contents spread out for inspection under all eyes, especially those of their fellow inmates. And wasn’t it a marvel how utterly thoughtless the Wehrmacht could be?

Right behind the Salle des Fêtes, there was the Grand Hall, and here Red Cross parcels were being counted, ticked off, and piled to the ceiling: American to the left, British to the right. At desks nearby, NCOs busied themselves lest they experience life on the Russian Front. BDMs hustled files or typed as though their lives depended on it. Always it was papers, papers with Berlin, and always he had to ask himself: With a war on, who the hell had the time to read them?

A corridor, totally barren but for its hurrying BDMs, led first to the censor’s offices—letters and postcards being pored over in there and blacked out, of course—and then to one of the former smoking rooms where leather club chairs would once have offered solid comfort, brandy, and cigars but now held the Spartan desk and armless chairs of the local Himmler, the camp’s acting Kommandant, Col. Löthar Jundt of Mannheim, Baden-Württemburg.

Not a moment was lost in pleasantries.

‘Kohler, it’s about time! They are terrified another of them will be killed.
Ach,
they don’t express it in so many words, but one can sense it. They duck back into their rooms in the Vittel-Palace, exchange rapidly downcast glances when passing one another in the corridors or on the staircases, and when I encounter a babbling group in one of their rooms, they all shut up well before I am even seen.
Verdammte Amerikanische Kaninchen, die Schlampen
have lookouts posted. I’m certain of it!’

Damned American rabbits, the sluts. And trust the Wehrmacht brass to overlook the simple fact that the sound of jackboots on marble floors might have been overheard. ‘And when they’re all together, Colonel?’

A fist was clenched. ‘They’re never all together. They refuse to eat in their dining room. “It’s too cold. It’s pathetic,” they yell at me. I ask you, Kohler, what is the matter with those people? Declaring war on us, their friends? I’ve a second cousin in New Jersey, an aunt in Dayton, Ohio, who is married to a banker, a sister to an
officer
in that
Navy
of theirs? Have the Jews got at them and destroyed a once fine nation?’

Uh-oh. ‘And the British internees, Colonel?’

‘A world of difference. They come out of their rooms to speak to me in a language I cannot understand, of course, but one can tell.’

The side of a nose that must be accustomed to it was tapped with a stiffened forefinger that was now being wagged for emphasis.

‘They gather in their dining room for meals, and the noise, it is unbelievable. Such joy, such laughter.’

‘Until you enter that room?’

Kohler. . . What was it he had been told about him? Insubordination? A former member of a
Himmelfahrtskommando
that had dealt with unexploded bombs and shells in that other war, one of the trip-to-heaven boys, the assignment earned through having absented himself from duty. A girl. . . An affair of the heart. Over just such a thing had he disobeyed his orders, young though he must have been at the time. A swollen testicle, was it, the girl playing nursemaid to him, a fever as well and fear of Army surgeons? But there had been other infractions since, far too many of them, especially that ‘duelling’ scar an SS rawhide whip had given him for he and that partner of his having pointed the finger of truth.