Flykiller

They crossed some pavement, went out on to a road, reached a car, any car – their car – she clutching her valise and handbag tightly and telling herself it’s a two-door Peugeot. The back seat … You’ll have to squeeze into it …

‘A moment, mademoiselle,’ said St-Cyr, the door opening at last …

Now put the valise in carefully ahead of you, Ines told herself. That’s it, ma chere. You’re doing fine. Now follow it. Say something. Anything to hide your blindness. ‘It must be late. People are hurrying home.’

Still there were none of the firefly lights as there were in Paris every time she’d had to go out at night and had had to wait, leaning against a wall or lamp-post, until her eyes had adjusted and her terror had abated with relief at the sight of them and their owners’ silhouettes.

‘You must drink bilberry tisanes,’ Monsieur Olivier had said well before dawn yesterday when she had arrived in Vichy, he having come to meet her at a cafe near the railway station. ‘Vitamin A, mademoiselle. Too many are suffering from its lack, not here, though. Here, in Vichy, the problem hasn’t surfaced because we’ve only had a full blackout since 11 November. Before that, every second street-lamp was always lit.’

He’d been able to see perfectly when walking from a lighted room into darkness, she abysmally not at all.

When the car pulled over, Ines felt they must be near the main casino, which was at the far end of the Parc des Sources. St-Cyr got out; Kohler lit a cigarette, then offered her one, only to say, ‘Oh, sorry, I forgot. You don’t use them, do you?’

‘Is there some trouble?’ she asked, turning to look behind them but knowing she still couldn’t see a thing.

‘Trouble? Louis is just telling them we’ve had a change of plan.’

She blinked. She would concentrate hard on where she felt his cigarette must be, but each time she had experienced night blindness, it had taken a little longer for her eyes to adjust, each time it had become more terrifying. To not have one’s sight, to be totally blind and a courier, a resistante …

Quickly the kid crossed herself and kissed her fingertips, had forgotten to wear her gloves.

‘They’re not happy,’ grunted St-Cyr on returning, abruptly yanking his side door closed. ‘A visit to the morgue will do them good, Herman!’

The morgue … Ah Jesus, cher Jesus, Celine, what have you got me into?

The lights were blinding. Always, too, it was like this when coming straight from darkness into strong light, the pain suddenly searing.

‘You should have told me of this!’ Olivier had said of her night blindness. He’d not been happy to have discovered it, had hauled her up sharply and had said harshly, ‘You can’t see, can you?’

They’d been on the street, had just left the cafe and its crowd of railway workers …

The morgue was cold and brightly lit, the stench of disinfectant, attendant cigarette smoke, blood and rotting corpses, formaldehyde and bad drains causing her stomach to tightly knot.

Madame Petain took a firm grip on her. Blanche and Sandrine Richard were behind them.

‘This way, ladies,’ said St-Cyr, as if enjoying the discomfort he was causing. ‘We will only be a moment but the visit is necessary. Either we have one killer or two, and Dr Laloux may, perhaps, now be able to enlighten us.’

‘Laloux …’ muttered Madame Petain. ‘Isn’t he the socialist Henri Philippe put on trial at Riom in the spring of ’41 with Daladier, Blum and the others of the Front Populaire? You’ll get nothing useful from him, Inspector. No matter what the courts decided, people like that are parasites.’

‘Doryphores, madame?’

‘Precisement!’

‘Then you’d best meet him.’

Elisabeth de Fleury had stayed in the outer office with Herr Kohler, Ines told herself. They went along a corridor, a steel door was opened, the sound of it echoing, the air now much, much colder, the stench sharper. Water … water was running. A tap? she wondered.

The sound of it was silenced at the sight of them. Hands were now be being dried – coroner’s hands.

‘Mademoiselle, you don’t look well,’ hazarded Madame Petain. ‘Inspector, surely it’s not necessary for this one to join us? Here, let me take your case.’

Smile faintly, Ines told herself, say, ‘Merci, Madame la Marechale, it’s most kind of you.’

‘Get her a chair, imbetile!’ said the woman to the attendant. ‘A chair! Surely you know what that is?’

‘There are none,’ the man replied. ‘No one ever sits in here.’

‘I’m all right really. I … I’ve already seen Celine.’

Her left hand was quickly guided to a railing of some sort, her fingers instinctively wrapping themselves around it.

‘Merci, madame,’ she heard herself say again as the sound of metal rollers grew louder and one drawer was opened, then another, another and another.

‘Draw back the shrouds,’ said St-Cyr.

‘Fully?’ yelped the attendant.