Flykiller

She was becoming flustered, must remain calm! ‘Inspector, I thought I was to relax? Charpentier – what else? Andre-Emile, accountant for Le Printemps, one of the big department stores, and Odette nee Marteau. I’ve some photos – a few even of the father and mother I never knew, but these, they are in a cardboard box in my studio.’ Would he check this out? Would he? demanded Ines silently.

‘Forgive me,’ he said and grinned boyishly – a nice grin, bien sur, but … ‘Sometimes I hate myself,’ he said. ‘You have to understand that my partner is always on about my letting the prettiest of girls take advantage of me. He’ll ask what I’ve learned and I’ll have to have something to tell him. You’ve no idea what he’s like. A real pain in the ass!’

Was that definitely all there was to the inquisition? wondered Ines. ‘You are forgiven and … and the compliment is much appreciated though I fear I am far too thin these days.’

And can’t get much to eat even on the black market, since about 600 francs a day was needed! ‘Salut,’ said Kohler, raising his glass to her. ‘A votre sante.’

‘Et a vous, monsieur.’

It was only in passing that he mentioned the quartier Petit-Montrouge, the Parc de Montsouris, and the Ecole de Dressage, which was at the end of the street, thus letting her know that he knew Paris well enough but that she didn’t have to worry.

But I will, said Ines to herself. There were deep circles around her eyes and he had noticed them, no doubt concluding that they weren’t just from hunger but from too many late nights – particularly the one that had brought her here on the same train as he and that partner of his. The same! Would he check its passenger list? Would he?

More coffee came. The girl sat back with hands in her lap as the waiter poured.

‘Merci,’ whispered Ines, and then … then tried to smile across the table at this giant from the Kripo with the terrible scar down the left side of his face. ‘The Chante Clair Restaurant of the Hotel Majestic is lovely, isn’t it?’ she heard herself saying. ‘Very fin de siecle – turn of the century. Very of another time. Ferns and fishtail palms, Kentias and rubber plants – the smell of the orange and lemon trees in their glazed jardinieres – tulip shades of soft amber glass on goose-necked lamps and, above the widows, stained-glass panels of ladies bathing or drinking the waters and taking the cure.’

The place was filling up. Ministers of this and that would arrive singly or with their wives; the respective assistants would wait patiently, then dash in to ask if anything was required of them, or they would divulge the latest little confidence. Often there were glances up and around, whispers about the two visitors – these two, thought Ines, only to see Herr Kohler grinning at her again and hear him saying, ‘Don’t worry so much. The Minister of Culture won’t pester you while I’m here.’

Was this safer ground? ‘They’re all so serious,’ she whispered, leaning across the table as he did towards her. ‘No one smiles, all seem worried and not among friends.’

‘Tall, thin, short, corpulent or otherwise, they’re all wondering what the hell they should do. Leave the ship or stay until it goes down.’

Had Herr Kohler seen right through her? Had he wanted to test her yet another time? ‘I … I know nothing of such things. For me, it’s enough to have been chosen to do such an important commission, and my room and board is only one hundred francs in total, Inspector, for as long as it takes. A fabulous deal. Mind you, I doubt the family with whom I’m to board will be able to provide such luxuries.’

And where is it, exactly, that you’re staying? She could see him wondering this but there was no time for him to ask.

‘Inspector … Mon Dieu, you certainly don’t waste time! Mademoiselle …?’

It was the Secretaire Geneeral of Police. Incredibly young and handsome for one so powerful, thought Ines, his eyes alive with imagined mischief and loving the joke of what he’d come upon. The hair, neatly trimmed and well back from the forehead, was parted high and to the left; the white shirt and blue tie were immaculate and showed clearly through the open V of his overcoat because there was no scarf, the broad lambskin collar making him look like an immensely successful banker or investment broker.

A lighted cigarette was held between the thumb and forefinger of the right hand. There were nicotine stains on those fingers … ‘Charpentier, monsieur,’ she heard herself telling him. ‘Ines.’

‘The sculptress. Herr Kohler, I might have known! He has a reputation with the ladies, mademoiselle. I would watch it with him if I were you.’