Flykiller

‘Merde, how in heaven’s name is his liver to possibly continue? Twenty-five cubic centimetres of the Chomel, Babette, three times the half-day. The tisanes of rose-hip, elderflower and lime at all other times. Absolutely no pate, pork, goose or anything but the fish steamed and the vegetables unbuttered. No coffee or tea. I must insist. Fifteen cubic centimetres of the Grande Grille first thing on waking and another fifteen on retiring, but to be gently sipped so as not to shock the system. If he complains, don’t listen; if he threatens, please tell him that though I dislike admitting failure, I will have to ask the Kommandant to consider sending him to Baden-Baden where they do have these … these …’

‘Zaunerstollen,’ said Kohler.

‘Merci.’

‘Bad Homburg might be better. It’s just outside of Frankfurt am Main.’

‘Hermann, please!’

Louis knew that the SS had taken over the Rothschild spa there and had coupled it with one of their Lebensborn, their life fountains, where blonde, blue-eyed, voluptous Rheinmadchen were brought in to couple with the elite and produce pure Aryan cannon fodder.

‘And the Frau Schroder, Docteur?’ interjected the maid.

The little man looked up and removed his pince-nez. ‘Is to understand that our latest synthetic-rubber baron’s liver is in a state of crisis. The hot and cold baths for her, seven minutes at a time and alternating for the full hour. The steam afterwards, and after that, the full body scrape and message complet, to be followed by the warm effervescent bath with the rose petals and the cure de silence for at least another hour. A little wine with her dinner – one glass … Ah! perhaps two, but positively no sugar, fat or starch. If she accuses us of being concentration camp warders, apologize but make sure you emphasize that we’ve never heard of such places. Now … Ah! Madame la Marechale, excusez-moi. Messieurs, Mesdames Richard et de Fleury, what a pleasant surprise. Mademoiselles,’ he acknowledged Blanche and Ines. ‘Please forgive the small delay. We are, I’m afraid, short-staffed and totally overloaded. What can I do for you?’

If not a cure, thought Kohler, then at least the negatives of certain photographs.

‘Madame Deschambeault,’ said Louis. ‘A few small questions. Nothing difficult and don’t say it’s impossible.’

Communication between the two detectives had been by a look so slight that none but herself could have noticed it, felt Ines. They were ushered out of the doctor’s office and the door was then locked behind them. St-Cyr, Madame Petain and the other two ladies had gone off with a disgruntled Dr Normand to visit Madame Deschambeault.

Herr Kohler had stayed behind and had told Blanche and herself to find a bench in the corridor nearby.

Blanche sat silently beside her, a Kentia to her right; the girl’s reflection clear in the mirror opposite, Blanche pale and withdrawn and terribly worried. Everything would now be decided on the outcome of this murder investigation. Her brother’s future, her own, their claim to what they felt was rightfully theirs. Herr Kohler could hardly wait to get rid of them. No sooner had they turned their backs on him than he’d have been at that lock.

He would be in the consulting room now, hurriedly going through the files, and would find that Marie-Jacqueline Mailloux had assisted in the treatment of Madame Deschambeault until that one had learned of who she was: the mistress of Alain Andre Richard, the husband of a dear, dear friend.

He would find that, as Celine had written in one of her letters, Marie-Jacqueline had also attended to Albert Grenier’s sore back and shoulder – his ‘spine’ – at his house or in the groundskeeper’s little ‘nest’, out of the goodness of her heart, and that Albert had loved her for it as he had loved the others.

He would soon know, if he and St-Cyr didn’t already know, that Dr Menetrel received regular reports from Dr Normand on the progress of Madame Deschambeault and that everything that poor woman had said while under treatment had not only been written down, but repeated. He would see that Sandrine Richard hadn’t just threatened to kill Marie-Jacqueline at the chateau, but that she had also done so here, early last summer, on 12 June, the day after Marie-Jacqueline had, on leaving the Hotel Ruhl, noticed in a cafe across the street two very well-dressed ladies who were, she had concluded, watching that entrance for just such a departure as her own.

Madame Richard and Madame de Fleury. But would Herr Kohler realize that Marie-Jacqueline had also looked at that file?

Kohler couldn’t believe what he was reading. Here, line by line, were the exact details, barring the rats, of how they had found Lucie Trudel.

Speaks of smothering her husband’s lover in the girl’s bed, Normand had written well before any of the murders.