Flykiller

‘I … I found her in the Buvette du Chomel. Chomel!’

‘Now have your coffee, Albert. Serve the Inspector first. Put a little honey in his and some milk. Inspector, let my son keep the ring. It can’t be of any value.’

‘It’s too dangerous. Believe me, the fewer who know of it, the better.’

‘But … but surely Albert is no threat to this … this assassin?’

‘But the ring is, Monsieur Grenier. That band is from an El Rey del Mundo – the King of the World – cigar. A Choix Supreme or Corona Deluxe.’

‘A Choix Supreme, but it could just as easily have been a Romeo y Julieta Corona or a Davidoff Grand Cru. The Marechal occasionally enjoys a cigar and that band is not the first of such rings my son has worn until they are so torn they can’t be mended. There are gold coins on it, and a gold coat of arms, but it’s mainly because, with him, by wearing it he feels just a little bit closer to his hero.’

‘Then tell him that if he values the Marechal’s life he’ll let me have a piece of evidence that could well lead us to the killer.’

There is something else, thought Grenier. Albert is giving the ring up too easily. That sly and rapid glance he has just tossed the Inspector only confirms it. Sacre nom de nom, what am I to do? Stop him now, or wait to find out for myself?

I’d best wait. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. The boy’s upset enough as it is, and we can’t have that. Not with les Allemands and their Gestapo now here in force, not with the way they are known to treat such people.

Black coffee, hot, freshly baked croissants, real blackberry jam and a glass of brandy sat before the girl. Timidly Ines Charpentier reached for the napkin-draped wicker basket and brought it close.

‘It’s like a dream,’ she said, exhaling softly. ‘White sugar on the table. These,’ she said, indicating the croissants. ‘They’ve been banned in Paris and the rest of the zone occupee since the fall of 1940. And this? Oh for sure it’s an eau-de-vie de marc from the Auvergne and exactly what is needed to settle me down, but on a no-alcohol day? It is a Thursday. Aren’t Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays the pas-d’alcools days even here in Vichy? I wouldn’t want to be arrested and you are, after all, a …’ She wouldn’t say Gestapo, said Ines to herself. ‘A detective.’

The kid had really been shaken up by the murder, still was for that matter. ‘Relax. Forget about the war and the Occupation. Tell me about yourself.’

Somehow she must try to keep her mind on things and try not to panic, thought Ines. ‘There’s not much to tell,’ she said, but did Herr Kohler find wariness in such a modest reply? ‘I sculpt and have done so since a child. Garden clay first, then plasticine – sketching things too. When one is driven by loneliness to such an urge one does not question it at first but only later sees that behind the desire there must have been escape. I’m happiest still when working and need little else.’

A simple soul, Louis would have said, that Surete head of his full of doubt simply because the kid, on viewing the corpse, had inadvertently destroyed whatever fingerprints had been on that dripping tap and had left her own in their place and elsewhere. Or had it been inadvertent? Ach, why must he always be expected to suspect the worst? Why must Louis constantly demand answers to everything? The kid was clean, no problem, but … ‘Do you live at home?’ he asked.

‘Ah, no. I’ve a studio in Paris.’

Offer little, Louis would have said and impatiently clucked that tongue of his as he nodded, but everyone tried to offer little these days. ‘That’s a pretty big city, isn’t it? My partner and I are seldom there.’

And you don’t know it well – is this what you’re trying to tell me, monsieur? wondered Ines, pleased that her resolve had stiffened. ‘It’s on the rue du Douanier* at … at number 5. One of several, and unheated these days or in the past, for that matter.’

‘Rent?’

‘Two sixty-five a month.’ Did he know Paris and its struggling artists well enough to see the truth of this reply?

‘Salary?’

‘Twelve hundred from the Musee and whatever else I can earn through part-time teaching and private commissions. It’s not even that of a ticket-taker on the metro, but don’t people always say that artists are doing what they like?’

‘Family?’

‘None.’

‘That’s too brief an answer, mademoiselle. Surely you’ve a past?’

And with croissants waiting! ‘My father is buried near Verdun, my mother in the Cimetiere du Montparnasse. Father’s brother and sister-in-law took me in when I was two years old, Inspector. Both of them were much older than my parents and childless, and both have since sadly passed away.’

‘But they let you sculpt?’

‘Of course.’

‘Their names, then?’