Flykiller

‘And Ferbrave, monsieur?’ she seethed. ‘Did he do the job, eh? That one has got too big for his boots, Inspector. Why not take a look in the “warehouse” this one sent his psychotic nephew to? Ask, then, how big Henri-Claude has become?’

Psychotic …? Did she feel she had to drive the nail in? wondered St-Cyr.

‘All she wants is to protect her family’s fortune, Inspector. Hers and that of her husband. Grasping … always grasping, eh, madame? Well, grasp this then. Albert saw you talking privately to Henri-Claude last Friday at noon. “Huddled,” he said, and …’

Hebert ran a thumbnail through the paper seals of the tin of Wills cigarettes and, opening it, shook them out sufficiently for one to be easily removed.

‘Huddled, Inspector, and money handed over. A “bundle”, Albert said.’

‘I …’ Ah sacre! ‘All right, I paid Henri-Claude twenty thousand.’

‘Francs or Reichskassenscheine?’ shot Hebert, his cigarette still unlit.

Flustered, she stubbed hers out. ‘The Occupation marks. He … he wouldn’t take francs. He said that … that in Paris some of the shopkeepers were afraid they’d soon be discontinued.’

‘Four hundred thousand francs, madame?’ hazarded the Chief Inspector, giving their value.

‘I didn’t pay to have him kill them! I … I paid for lingerie and perfume, a special order, and … and for a small collection of objects of virtu in tortoiseshell. A cigar case for the pocket, a cigarette case, comb-and-brush set and box for the cufflinks … Alain Andre has always been fascinated by the fact that, after heating and pressing, the shells of certain types of sea-turtle can be used for such things. He loves the look and feel of them. A gift, that’s all it was. A set Henri-Claude had seen in an antique shop and on the rue du Faubourg St-Honore. I paid in advance and for that purpose and no other.’

‘Other than to convince her husband to return to the nest, Inspector, since the one he’d been so deliciously roosting on had become ice-cold!’

‘Batard, why are you trying to pin her killing on me?’

‘Yes, why are you?’ asked St-Cyr.

‘One only tries to help,’ said Hebert.

A lighter was found, the cigarette lit, the custodian taking up the butcher’s knife to start in on preparing more feed for his birds. Everything was finely and swiftly chopped, as he had done thousands of times before.

‘Each of those girls massaged the neck of a collabo, Inspector,’ he said gruffly, not looking up from the butcher’s block. ‘Find the leader of the FTPs and you have your man. Setting an example has always been foremost in the minds of the communists.’

‘A chacun son Boche?’ snorted Sandrine. To each his German, the communists were rumoured to urge one another. ‘A chacun sa putain, eh? Why not tell him whom you have steadfastly blamed and hated for your losing this chateau? Our resident recluse whose housekeeper’s brothers are railway workers, Inspector. Auguste-Alphonse Olivier, the father who disinherited Blanche and Paul Varollier and sent them away at the age of twelve when this one, having caused the suicide of their mother, forced Olivier to resign in shame and leave his bank so that others could take over. Others led by no other than Charles-Frederic Hebert, who was the first and most vocal of those to call his former friend and business partner a cuckold!’

The slut, but how good of her to have inadvertently responded as wished when pricked! snorted Hebert inwardly. ‘Alain Andre enjoyed Marie-Jacqueline, madame. He often said that fucking her just once made up for all the years of boredom. Now, please, Inspector, my birds. They get nervous if not fed on time.’

Through the iron-grilled stained-glass windows of the little chapel where Albert slept when at the chateau, light filtered, causing slashes of ruby red, emerald green, dark blue and amber to be cast upon the floor. The crucifix, to one side behind the stone slab of the altar with its antependium of gold brocade on white, was nailed to the wall with spikes as thick as her thumbs, thought Ines uncomfortably.

Black torcheres with beeswax candles flanked the arched sanctuary. A banner hung above, and to her left. The lectern, to that side of the altar, though all but hidden in shadow, still held what must be its original vellum-bound, illuminated book of prayers for every Mass of the year.

The water in the stone font was frozen solid; the worn black prie-dieux exuded centuries of piety. These simple wooden stands had plain, forward-pointing boxes for the knees and three thin stilts that rose straight up to the briefest of forearm rests and, Ave Maria gratia plena: Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus: et benedictus fructus ventris tui …

Without even thinking, she crossed herself and genuflected as she ducked her head and touched her brow and lips.

‘Albert’s not here,’ said Blanche, a breath escaping softly.