Flykiller

‘The killer – a woman – was wearing one in the Hall des Sources and may have got bloodstains on it.’

‘But … but I found his footprints on the balcony.’

‘A man’s?’

‘Yes!’

‘Cigar ashes?’

‘None.’

‘Cigarette, then?’

‘None again. He’d have flicked them into the wind. No struggle either.’

‘Did she know him?’

‘It’s possible, but maybe he had a gun.’

A man and a woman. It would be best to let a sigh escape, thought St-Cyr, and then … then to simply say for all to hear, ‘Ah bon, mon vieux, the marmite perpetuelle begins to look interesting.’

The perpetual pot of soup that was to be found at the back of every kitchen stove in rural France! ‘It smells, and you know it,’ hissed Kohler.

More couldn’t be said, for they’d fresh company: dapper, of medium height and with newly shone black leather shoes – real leather – below dark blue serge trousers that were neatly pressed – no turn-ups these days, a concession to the shortages of fabric; the grey woollen overcoat was open and immaculate; the suit jacket double-breasted and with wide lapels, no shortages there; the grey fedora neatly blocked; the round, boyish cheeks of this thirty-seven-year-old freshly shaven, the aftershave still not dry; the dark brown eyes livid.

‘Pour l’amour du Ciel, why can’t people do as they say they will? Inspectors, why was I not taken to meet you at Moulins? The Secretaire general promised to include me.’

Doctor Bernard Menetrel was clearly up early and in one hell of a huff. ‘It was very late,’ tried St-Cyr, giving him a shrug.

‘Pah! That was nothing. Nothing, do you understand? It is I who am in charge of security. I who was left waiting at the train station here when I should have gone with them to meet you. Isn’t the Marechal my responsibility? Don’t I look after his every need? An assassin? An abduction from our hotel? Another killing? Three … it is three of them now!’

‘And this?’ asked Louis, indicating the goose egg and not bothering to ask who had got the doctor out of bed or why Bousquet had chosen not to include him in the welcoming party.

‘Ferbrave?’ demanded Menetrel.

‘The very one,’ mused Louis.

‘He will apologize. For myself, I regret the discomfort you have suffered, but you should have had clearance from me and I was not taken to meet you. Henri-Claude was just doing his duty. Surely a veteran such as yourself can understand the reflex of a defensive action?’

Oh my, oh my, thought Kohler. The nose was fleshy, the mouth not big, not small, the neck close down on the squared shoulders. A medium man all round, the voice cherubic but acidic, the chin narrow and recessed so that the nose led the way in emphasizing everything he said. ‘Fix him, Doctor. Stitch him up. I need him.’

‘And you?’ demanded Menetrel, stung by the intrusion and still incensed.

‘Kohler, Kripo, Paris-Central.’

‘Gestapo. You belong over on the boulevard National* with Herr Gessler. Have you checked in with him? Well, have you?’

‘He sent me here,’ lied Hermann. ‘He told me to keep an eye on you.’

‘On me? Well …’

The doctor gave a shrill laugh. Quick-tempered, jealous of his place in the scheme of things, this court jester to some set down his bag and, motioning to Ferbrave and the others, called for a chair. ‘Sit,’ he said to Louis. ‘Let me have a look at that.’

In addition to an ample desk, propaganda posters of the Marechal, designs for a. new postage stamp and banknotes, children’s books, school books, maps of France, directions to housewives on the baking of bread without flour or sufficient of it, to farmers on the need for their work, et cetera, Menetrel’s office held a made-up cot that, judging by the scattered items on it, hadn’t been recently used.

The taint of moth crystals was mingled with those of disinfectant and aftershave; the doctor was clearly agitated. The needle went in. ‘Don’t move, Inspector!’ he breathed. ‘Five should do it and we still have four to go. In a few days they can be taken out and I’ll be pleased to do this since it will give us another chance to speak in private, and speak we must. Is that understood? These walls have ears, though, so one must whisper, and I don’t want the Marechal upset any more than he already is. He knows nothing of Madame Dupuis’s murder, was completely unaware that she was even to have paid him a visit.’

It had to be asked. ‘Were there billets doux?’

Love letters … ‘If there were, you will see that I receive them immediately. Come, come, we can’t have a scandal. We don’t want to trouble the Marechal with this business. He’s far too busy with the affairs of state, is worried enough.’

‘I’ll try to keep that in mind, but my partner …’

The needle went in, the gut was pulled, a gasp given by the patient. ‘Such things are larger than any of us,’ cautioned Menetrel. ‘Please don’t be fooled into thinking that because the country is now fully occupied, power no longer rests in Vichy.’

‘Then when did the Marechal first notice her?’