Flykiller

‘And I ask again, Inspectors,’ replied Monsieur Laval calmly, ‘is it a campaign of terror that now threatens us?’

And never mind the victims!

‘Where is it, please, this matchstick?’ demanded St-Cyr, clearly very upset with him.

‘I removed it. I felt I had to. I didn’t want to compound the matter until we had further information.’

‘Did you tell anyone of it?’ the Surete demanded archly.

‘None.’

‘And yet Menetrel made no mention of it, Hermann. Why, please, did he not think that necessary?’

‘Security,’ snapped Laval. ‘Menetrel is terrified our friends will move in en masse and kick his precious Garde out!’

And that, too, was of Vichy, thought Ines, holding her breath and waiting for their answer.

‘A Garde who are excused their duties …’ muttered St-Cyr.

‘Who miss an early-morning postman they should have caught, Louis,’ said Herr Kohler – referring to the press clippings Laval had shown them.

‘A Flykiller or killers who can come and go at will, Hermann, and know beforehand exactly what the boys are planning.’

‘Premier,’ said Herr Kohler, obviously not liking this new piece of evidence one bit, ‘how was it found?’

‘Placed on the back of the right hand that clasped her breast. Here … here, I have it in my pocket. A sharp splinter underlines the burned half of the V when the match is opened.’

A pair of earrings, a knife from the past and a touch of perfume, a cigar band, the tin-plated post from a small, mother of pearl button, and a V for Victory, for that is what the match had meant: such little symbols, this one taken from the now-familiar gesture of the British Prime Minister, were increasingly to be found.

‘The Resistance, Louis,’ grated Herr Kohler. Mon Dieu, he could put such feeling into those few words! thought Ines.

‘Or the killer or killers wish us to blame them, Hermann,’ cautioned his partner and friend.

‘So as to unleash a campaign of terror which has now already started?’ scoffed Kohler, referring to the ratissage the Sonderkom mando were conducting.

‘Premier, the doctor pronounced her dead at 7.32 a.m. on Wednesday,’ said St-Cyr. ‘At what time did you step in here?’

‘At just before eight. The police hadn’t yet been notified. The door was open. Staff were hurrying past to their offices. I simply ducked in unnoticed.’

‘Having learned of the killing how?’ asked the Surete.

‘One overhears everything in that Hotel,’ snorted Laval. ‘Menetrel was in a frightful turmoil, claiming he’d been betrayed and that there’d been a flagrant breach of security. Ferbrave was, of course, to blame and had been dismissed, but it wasn’t the first time our ranting doctor had made that little threat, so I paid it no mind and simply went to see for myself.’

‘Your footprints in the snow must have been noticed by the police,’ said St-Cyr, ‘yet none were mentioned in the report?’

‘Clearly I had no reason to kill her and was above suspicion. I’d been at home, at my chateau in Chateldon, and could prove it. I simply pointed out my footprints to the sous-prefet when he and his men were deciding which prints might be useful.’

‘Among those that hadn’t been trampled?’ asked St-Cyr as if stung by such incompetence on the part of the local police.

‘We were, I’m afraid, all caught by surprise.’

‘Yet all of you knew of the little visit she was to pay the Marechal,’ said Kohler.

‘I didn’t. I hadn’t the slightest inkling of it.’

‘Even though one can overhear everything in that hotel?’ he demanded.

‘Even then.’

‘Nor did I,’ said Sandrine Richard. ‘How could I have?’

‘But Mademoiselle Blanche and her brother knew of it, Louis.’

‘Yes! Yes, a thousand times,’ cried Blanche, ‘but we didn’t kill her, I swear it! We took the earrings and a little of mother’s perfume in a phial I had brought along but only because Dr Menetrel had demanded this.’

‘And when did you leave them with him, mademoiselle?’ asked Louis.

‘On Monday afternoon, late.’

‘And the knife?’ asked Herr Kohler, quickly leaving the buvette to stand before her.

‘Was lying on the chair in her room, with the laudanum bottle.’

‘This one?’ asked St-Cyr, showing the bottle as he joined his partner.

‘Yes!’ Blanche’s voice quavered. ‘My father had brought it home with the clothes Mother had left on the Pont Barrage the day she drowned herself. It was, I think, the last time he ever set eyes on that room of hers. A broken man.’

‘And neither you nor your brother touched this knife?’ asked St-Cyr, the bottle in one hand, the weapon in the other.

‘Paul … Paul did open it on our first visit. Edith … Edith was so upset, he … my brother put it back.’

‘With the blade open or closed?’ he asked.

‘Would it really matter?’ she yelped. ‘We didn’t take it! We’re not killers. At first we only wanted what was rightfully ours, and then … then we agreed to do what was asked simply to protect Paul from the forced labour.’