Flykiller

The corridor he was in was flanked by back-to-back pairs of tall wooden filing cabinets, with tiny makeshift desks between them and iron chairs that had been taken from the nearby park. Green-shaded lamps would give but a feeble light to the legions of clerks who worked here day in and day out. A duplicating machine leaked, a typewriter held an unfinished synopsis. Names … letters and postcards of denunciation – Petain had received about 3,000 a day in 1940, now it was still about 1,800, and eighty per cent of them, like the thousands received by the Kommandantur in Paris and every other French city and town, were the poison-pen missiles of a nation that had all too willingly adopted the saying, ‘I’m going to les Allemands with this!’

A bad neighbour, jealous wife, unfaithful husband or cheating shopkeeper were all fair game. Old scores were constantly being settled and, to the shame of everyone, the authorities still gave credence to such trash.

Perhaps thirty of these bulging mailbags, fresh in from the main PTT, the Poste, Telegraphe et Telephone station, were all waiting to be opened and synopses made for the Marechal. Yet when Kohler came to the corridor on to which the lift opened, it was like that of any other big hotel, though here there were no trays outside the doors for the maids to collect, no newspapers lying in wait to be read. Simply brass nameplates below the room numbers, and on his right, first that of Captain Bonhomme, the Marechal’s orderly, then that of the Secretariat, then that of its chief, Dr Menetrel …

Stopping outside the Marechal’s bedroom, Kohler looked back along the corridor – tried to put his mind into that of the victim. She hadn’t really wanted to do this, would have been nervous, worried, was wearing a pair of very expensive earrings – why, for God’s sake?

Had been let out of de Fleury’s car and had had to make this little journey all alone.

Menetrel’s private office, he knew, was connected to Petain’s bedroom. Rumour had it that there were two approaches to the Marechal: the official one via the Secretariat and then down the corridor to the reception room and office at the very end; and the unofficial one, through Menetrel’s office and into Petain’s bedroom and. then to the reception room.

Had she stood outside the doctor’s office and done her discreet knocking there? Was that where she’d taken off her coat, scarf, beret and gloves, and if so, had the killer seen her slip back into the corridor, or had she intended to use the unofficial route?

The snoring was sonorous. Across the corridor were the rooms, the offices of more of the Marechal’s immediate staff. Several of them not only worked here but lived, ate and slept here as well, but any of those doors could have been left unlocked; she could have left her things in any one of those rooms if told to do so, yet they hadn’t been found.

Searching – taking in the lingering odours of boiled onions, garlic and dinner cabbage or the sweetness of fried rutabaga steaks that had emanated from the various rooms over the years of the Occupation – he went along the corridor to its very end, to where a small balcony opened off it. The french windows were on the latch, but when released to a blast of frigid air and the threat of arrest for breaking the blackout regulations, he could see her coat lying neatly folded next to the windows. Beret, scarf and gloves were on top of it, but no handbag of course, for that would have been stolen, wouldn’t it?

She had been confronted by her killer – would have realized the windows hadn’t been on the latch but had been too worried about the Marechal and her little visit to notice that someone was there.

Shining his torch across the snow-covered balcony with its frozen geraniums in terracotta pots, Kohler picked out the footprints, their hollows only partly hidden by the snow. There were lots of them, too, but when brushed clear, the prints weren’t from wooden-soled shoes but from the hobnailed boots of the Auvergne. Worn ones, too, with cleats, just like thousands and thousands of others.

The bastard must have waited here for quite some time, had been damned cold and had stamped his feet to get warm, but had he known she’d come, or had her little visit been unexpected? And why, please, hadn’t anyone with a grain of competence found her things and the prints yesterday, or had they all been far too worried about their own assassinations?

No signs of a struggle, though. None at all. The girl had simply gone with him quietly.

The toughs, les durs, were still hanging around the foyer, smoking their fag ends and looking as if they’d missed something. Pensive, the girl with the valise sat staring at her hands, avoiding Louis, not even glancing up at his partner who was carrying the victim’s clothes, which he had obviously just found.

Kohler helped Louis to his feet. They’d speak privately as was their custom when in company that strained to listen.

‘Hermann, was there a blouse?’

‘A what?’