Flykiller

‘I took Mademoiselle Dupuis to the Hall just like I was told to,’ said Albert, dragging off the hat his mother had knitted. ‘I closed the doors on her and held them tight so she couldn’t get out. She screamed.’

‘Albert … Albert, she was your friend,’ wept Ines.

‘Not friend. Enemy! Pay … I was paid!’

Glances of alarm flew between Ferbrave and the grand-uncle. ‘Albert …’ began Hebert only to find that the string which had held the sack tightly closed had loosened. Kohler moved, yanked – dumped the bag.

Dead rats and bundles of share certificates, some of which had broken loose of their rubber bands, spilled out. Sodden, the certificates headed for the baths. Lithographed borders bore coloured scenes of Vichy and its spas, of well-dressed curates strolling under parasols, the pictures of health.

‘La Banque du Pays Bourbonnais-Limagne et Credit Industriel, Commercial de Vichy,’ sighed Kohler, having plucked one of the certificates out of. the water. ‘Bearer bonds to the tune of ten thousand francs each. Total capitalization: ten millions, dated Paris, June 1907 and worthless. Albert, tell us again how you got these.’

No one moved. The boy, the man, his tricoloured scarf trailing in the water, ducked his head towards his grand-uncle. ‘I help him,’ he gushed. ‘I’m the best rat catcher Vichy ever had. He lets me use his chapel. I built a shrine there.’

A nest, too. ‘And did you give him the rats he put in Lucie Trudel’s bed?’

Albert blinked hard, grimaced and frowned deeply. ‘Rats?’ he blurted. ‘Bed? Uncle Charles didn’t steal my rats, did he?’

‘You fool!’ swore Hebert. ‘Henri-Claude, shoot them. You must!’

‘Messieurs … Messieurs, a moment,’ sang out a voice.

Louis … was it really Louis?

‘A few small questions. Nothing difficult.’ St-Cyr held up the Lebel. ‘I will leave it here on this lovely old stone bench. Excuse me,’ he said to the two at that end of the bas-reliefs, and, elbowing his way past one of them, walked on. ‘Charles-Frederic Hebert,’ he said, and Kohler knew that Surete voice, ‘the pocket knife, please, that you are now forced to carry.’

The water found the Chief Inspector’s shoes and rapidly soaked into them, Ines noted. He and Hebert were of about the same height, St-Cyr’s shabby overcoat open, the battered fedora tilted back a little; Albert’s grand-uncle still in Auvergnat black trousers, black cable-knit cardigan and boots. The hands rough, the fingers strong.

‘That old pocket knife …?’ he blurted. ‘Henri-Claude, what is this? You allow him to question me when I know enough to put you in prison for life?’

‘It’s in your pocket, Uncle,’ said Albert, wanting to be helpful.

‘An Opinel, mademoiselle,’ said Louis, opening the thing. ‘You butchered those rats, monsieur, but first you smothered that girl and finished her off in her armoire.’

Frantic now, Hebert threw the others a look of alarm only to be met with the mask of indifference. His black felt fedora was swept off. ‘Salaud! Imbecile!’ he cried. Albert cringed as the hat repeatedly swatted him. ‘Auguste, you idiot. Auguste did it!’

The hat was snatched away, a wrist grabbed, the arm bent behind Hebert’s back. Water coursed and fizzed, and where it poured into the baths, it swirled the share certificates round and round.

‘The foyer, I think, Hermann. Unless I’m mistaken, there will be visitors who are most anxious to hear what we have to say, since I’ve managed to telephone them.’

Laval hadn’t just brought Menetrel, he had insisted on Bousquet and the others being present. Honore de Fleury, uncomfortable at being summoned and wondering what the future held, was there, as were Deschambeault and Richard. A full house, snorted Kohler silently, but grace a Dieu, Madame la Marechale and the wives hadn’t been invited.

Bousquet, handsome and well dressed as always, remained a little detached from the others. Deschambeault stood near the desk; Richard and de Fleury sat on the lip of the fountain. The Garde, still armed, stood to one side with the prisoner.

Alone, Laval sat in an armchair the concierge had dragged out for him, the Premier still in his overcoat, gloves and fedora. Those black patent leather shoes of his with their grey-cloth and buttoned uppers were all too evident, as was the white necktie and, certainly, the soggy butt of the Gitane that clung to his lower lip.

The dark eyes took in everything swiftly, even to noting that among the hotel’s residents, a few had timidly approached the gallery railings and were now in attendance.

‘Messieurs …’ began Louis, drawing on his pipe and then exhaling to gesture with it as he always did at such times, ‘these killings, the deaths of these “flies” as you called them, Premier, occurred at a particular point in time. There was, of course, the party at the Chateau des Oiseaux Splendides on 24 October last, but then, suddenly, everything was lost with total Occupation on 11 November, the killings starting on 9 December with that of Mademoiselle Marie-Jacqueline Mailloux.’