Flykiller

The darkness was total, the hotel as silent as a tomb. No one entered because the Garde Mobile had men at the front door and all other doors; no one dared to leave. Merde, what the hell was he to do? demanded Kohler. Let Ferbrave use the ratchet to lower the lift to the next floor?

Of course they thought all three of them had taken the lift and found themselves trapped. Of course they hadn’t yet realized this wasn’t so.

Two of the Garde had been left up here on the third floor in case anybody should attempt to climb out. Though neither of them had moved in some time, their leather coats hadn’t relayed the fact that they’d been touched by him. One man was leaning against the gallery railing, next to an upright and sucking on a dead fag end for comfort; the second stood mid-corridor, feet widely planted in front of the lift, his submachine-gun no doubt trained on its gate. Both would have torches when needed, and orders to get the files on Julienne Deschambeault that were in his overcoat pockets, but would they have been told to shoot if necessary? Two detectives from Paris caught in the crossfire as they hunted down the killer, a terrorist, eh?

What terrorist? They couldn’t know Olivier was of the FTP, couldn’t even suspect this, and neither could Menetrel, or had they finally realized it?

Traces of smoke began to filter into the lift cage through the pitch darkness. Alarmed, St Cyr waited. Had the Garde set the hotel on fire?

Sickened by the thought, he felt the sculptress urgently place her free hand questioningly on his shoulder. Still there were no voices, still no torch beams.

When he peered down through the criss-crossed mesh of the gate, flames were seen. Little flames.

The lift rose a fraction as the ratchet was engaged, then it settled back and down, only to rise again before settling further.

‘Dieu le pere, forgive my sins,’ whispered the sculptress. As he reached out to her in comfort, tears wet his fingers but her lips continued silently to form the words. Had she decided on doing this long ago if captured? Prayers … focus on them and only on them. Don’t scream. Don’t give the Gestapo what they want.

The smoke came from burning paper, he was certain. L’Humanite? wondered St-Cyr. Did they now know who had drawn up that death notice?

Again he looked down through the gate. This time he’d have to press his face against the bars and stand on tiptoe. They’d opened the gate below, so silently.

Flames … the heat was carrying the smoke upwards. Charred bits of tracing paper crumbled, pages caught fire one by one.

‘They’re burning some of Madame Ribot’s files?’ the Inspector whispered, but could not understand why this should be since he had what they wanted.

Again the lift rose a fraction only to descend a notch, and again and again, and where was Herr Kohler, why hadn’t he tried to stop them?

‘Go to the far corner, mademoiselle. Stand with your back to it and your valise and bag clutched in both hands. Leave me to face them from this side.’

‘It was Monsieur Olivier,’ she blurted, her voice a little louder than a breath.

‘He had no reason to kill any of them and every reason to make certain your friend remained alive. Indeed, I think he may well have tried to stop her murder from happening.’

‘Then why the rats?’

‘He didn’t butcher them.’

‘But he has such a knife!’

‘And our killer knew of this, knew of him, his past, his wife, his life as a recluse whom people endlessly found tragic but of interest.’

‘A bitter man who must hate all such girls and the Marechal most of all.’

‘It’s a cover-up, mademoiselle. The Garde won’t kill you. That would only cause too much trouble with Petain whom Menetrel wants kept totally in the dark on this.’

‘And Monsieur Hebert?’ she asked.

‘Holds the papers that are being set alight.’

Scorched bits of paper drifted down into torchlight. There were two of the Garde at the ratchet, and as they looked up the lift well in puzzlement, Kohler moved.

They’d laid their torches and weapons on the cellar floor close by and had jumped down into the lift well, hadn’t seen him yet had been bent over the thing, one with a hammer to seat the pawl properly between each tooth of the wheel, the other cranking down hard on the lever to lower the lift cage.

But now they paused. ‘Jacquot, is it the end of the world and they’re not able to piss anything but ashes? Jesus putain de bordel, what is going on up there? Don’t they know how difficult this is?’ swore the one with the hammer, the argot not of the Auvergne but of Paris, La Villette and the Marche aux Bestiaux, the stockyards. Well, what was left of them.

‘It’s nothing, Marcel. Only a little cremation. Merde, your eyes. Are they really that bad?’

‘Specs? Do you think I need specs at my age?’

‘Easy. Go easy, eh? I wasn’t insulting you.’

‘Then watch what you …’