Flykiller

The broom flew up to fiercely point at the distant Hall des Sources, indistinct in the darkness.

‘Albert, I know you did. Haven’t I trusted you all these years we’ve worked together here? Inspector, my son is very intelligent, very diligent. No task is too big or too small. Each morning before I and the others arrive, Albert checks round the park to see if there is anything amiss. He found the padlock and chain in the snow beside the entrance to the Hall. The key was still in its lock, the door open.’

‘She was asleep, father! asleep!’

‘Now, now, let’s not have tears in public, eh, Albert? God gave you too much heart, but I know you can be tough on yourself when necessary.’

The nose was wiped, the broom lowered, the sweeping petulantly taken up again.

‘Ah, it’s a little early for our mid-morning snack but when it’s cold like this, a person needs something extra. Would you care to join us, Inspector?’

‘Coffee …’ said Albert slyly. ‘He thinks I’ll be fooled by temptation. Bread … is there any left, Father?’

The elder Grenier patted his jacket pocket but said only, ‘Show the Chief Inspector where our nest is. I’ll just let the others know we’ve gone below.’

The broom was carefully leaned against one of the wrought-iron uprights, the booted feet were stamped to remove their snow. Deep in the cellars beneath the Hotel du Parc, the younger Grenier led him to the furnace room, to straight-backed wooden chairs, a warming pot of real coffee, a small glass jar of honey and one of milk … Simple things most of the nation hadn’t seen or tasted in years.

‘We’re lucky,’ said Albert shyly. ‘This is our very own place. Warm in winter, cool in summer.’

There were newspapers, well-read by others no doubt, before being gathered and smuggled down here. The Volkischer Beobachter – the People’s Observer, in Deutsch that probably none of the caretakers could understand. Die Woche, too, the Nazis’ weekly magazine with lots of pictures, and Signal – Hitler’s own magazine. Paris-Soir, Le Matin and other Paris dailies were with them – all collaborationist, all thin and heavily censored, but among these, and more significantly, were copies of L’Oeuvre Rassemblement National Populaire, the paper of Marcel Deat’s violently fanatical collaborationist and fascist party, and Le Cri du Peuple, that of Jacques Doriot and his PPF, the Parti Populaire Francais, equally pro-fascist and violently collaborationist. The extreme far right of Paris, who reviled and ridiculed everything Vichy did and constantly plotted to take over.

‘Those were the doctor’s,’ spat Albert, indicating L’Oeuvre and Le Cri. ‘He doesn’t like me and I don’t like him either, but I prefer to read these.’

Stabs had been made at filling in the pictures of the colouring book but crayons were in such short supply only a few colours had been used.

‘Read this one, Inspector. It’s special.’

One had best say something. ‘The pictures are lovely. Perhaps the …’

‘They’re the nicest I’ve ever received as a present! That’s what it says.’

So it did.

‘This one is also my book.’

A fairy tale, an illustrated biography of the Marechal who was pictured in a two-page spread as a fatherly figure sitting before a group of young children under a giant oak. Vichy flooded the country with its propaganda. Texts and books like this were in every school and at every reading level.

‘“And as he spoke,”’ said Albert reverently, ‘“all the rats, the wasps and worms that had done so much damage to la belle France – the termites, too, and spiders – suddenly ran away.” He promised he would make things better and he did, Inspector. He really did! He’s a good man. A great man. He has even signed my book – see, that is his very own writing.’

A forefinger was stabbed at the inscription.

Patience … I must have patience, said St-Cyr silently to himself. ‘Dated 4 November 1941 … Did the Marechal also give you that ring?’

I’d better shake my head, thought Albert. I’d better not look at him. ‘I found it.’

‘In the Hall des Sources?’

The man, the boy, cringed. There was a nod, a further turning away and yanking off of the knitted cap. ‘It’s pretty. It’s mine. Finders keepers, losers weepers!’

‘Of course, but was it near her, Albert?’

‘I’m not listening. I can’t hear you.’

‘Albert, you’d best tell the Inspector,’ urged the father, pushing past them to warm his hands by clasping the coffee pot.

‘Do I have to?’

‘Ah mon Dieu, mon vieux, need you ask? Show him that you’re good at cooperating with the police and that you know right from wrong.’

‘He’ll only want it for himself.’

‘Just tell him, Albert.’ But had the boy found something else? wondered Grenier. Something so dear he would yield the one to keep secret the other?

‘It … it was lying on the bar of the Buvette du Parc when my torch discovered it as if by magic. Real magic!’

‘And then?’ prompted the father.