Flykiller

‘Not so long. Not even twenty-five years ago. I was among those who marched in that Bastille Day parade of 1919, the Treaty of Versailles having just been signed in June.’

A veteran, then, but one who was determined to let her know of it. The young these days … Did he think them cowards? wondered Ines. ‘You are correct, of course, Inspector. The bust is simply to show how the demands of state have superimposed themselves upon those left by that other terrible war. One in which the father I never knew was taken from me, and at Verdun as well.’

An ice pack arrived and she gently placed it against his forehead, guiding his hand to hold it. Closing the case, she retreated to her chair. A girl of twenty-eight or so, not too tall but above medium height and of good posture. Very correct. Calm, too, now that the introductions were over.

‘You must rest a little, Inspector. There may be concussion. Please don’t try to move. Just try to relax.’ And let your dark brown, wounded eyes, now cleared, take in the swift-eyed little gangster who hit you. Please note the scar beneath the thinness of that black goatee he thinks so handsome. It’s to the right of that chin which is so pronounced, and was caused, I assume, by the razor’s edge of a broken lump of sugar* and a fight over some pimp’s girl, but at the tender age of sixteen perhaps. Note, too, the insolent way he looks at you, the carefully trimmed moustache that extends to the turned-down corners of thin lips but is not so thick and bushy as your own. Note the forehead that is surprisingly free of wrinkles for one so bold. Note the nose, its sharpness, the clarity and paleness of the skin – he’s no outdoors man, this Henri-Claude Ferbrave of the Garde Mobile, otherwise those beautifully chiselled and shaven upper cheeks would be ruddy, n’est-ce pas? The jet-black, carefully combed and parted hair glistens with a pomade that holds the scent of ersatz spices – cinnamon, I think, but it’s doubtful. The deeply sunken dark brown eyes have late-night shadows that are caused, no doubt, by repeated visits to his favourite maison de tolerance. Note, too, the suspicion with which he now, under my scrutiny, gazes at me, Inspector. But please remember that I arrived late last night and can therefore have had absolutely nothing to do with this tragedy.

*

The forerunner of Interpol.

*

World War One slang for a German soldier.

*

Before the war, sugar was often obtained in blocks or cones, and when broken as in a bar or club, was very sharp and a favourite weapon.

2

Having caught a glimpse. of what was going on behind the blackout curtains of the foyer, Kohler found the Hotel du Parc’s side door that was off the rue Petit, between that hotel and the Majestic, and went quickly up its staircase. It was still early, not yet 5.45 a.m. Louis was keeping the troops busy. Louis was sitting on the floor of the foyer and bleeding, but there’d be time enough to settle that little matter. The Government of France stirred. From somewhere there was the sound of a cough, from elsewhere that of teeth being brushed. Mein Gott, were the walls that thin?

The Quai d’Orsay had taken the first and part of the second storey – Foreign Affairs – but Premier Laval also had his offices on the second. The Elysee Palace – Petain and his retinue – were on the third. The main lift sounded. He paused, his heart hammering – those stairs; that Benzedrine he was taking; he’d have to watch himself.

The lift had stopped. The cage was being opened. Again sounds carried, again he heard them clearly but still couldn’t see the lift. Was that the Marechal snoring? Petain was known to be an early riser. Whispers were heard, the lift-cage closed, as it descended to the ground floor …

Celine Dupuis would most probably have come in through the main entrance to cross the foyer and step into the lift. Had she been challenged, given clearance, or had there been no one on guard in the lobby? And why wouldn’t the lift attendant have been on duty, or had he, too, been excused?

Questions … There were always questions. Presumably still wearing her overcoat, the girl had come up to this floor and then … then had walked towards the Marechal’s bedroom, had been seen or heard by her killer who must have been about to target that same door, had been taken from the hotel, forced down the stairs – which stairs? – and out into the street and the Hall des Sources.

‘Without her overcoat,’ he sighed, ‘and in a white nightgown that would have been easily seen at night.’

Yet, in so far as Louis and he knew, no one had come forward to say they’d noticed her. And where, please, had she left her overcoat? And why, please, remove her if Petain was to have been the intended target?