Flykiller

‘A long strand of blue sapphires and a pair of diamond earrings,’ he said. ‘The first in the style of the 1920s to go with the dress and shoes; the second in that of the Belle Epoque and the fin de siede but, really, the earrings could have been worn at any time since 1890 and beads were in vogue then too, so perhaps both came from the same source.’

There’d been no card or name in that gift box. There’d been two visits to her room, the first to leave her identity card, the second, the love letters, dress and jewellery.

‘The letters were tied with a pink ribbon as though cherished when, if I understand your feelings for the Marechal, you didn’t want to have anything to do with him.’

Menetrel had pronounced her dead at 7.32 a.m. on Wednesday as the groundskeeper’s son had babbled that she was only asleep. ‘But then our killer or her assistant must have ducked into the Hall to reposition your legs while desperately searching for something. Not the earrings, but was it this?’ he asked. ‘The post from a cheap, snap-on cufflink whose mother-of-pearl button is as common as dust?’

Menetrel had made no mention of rigor having set in – the degree of frost would have delayed its onset. There’d been no sign of the knife, and he had maintained that the legs hadn’t been turned aside.

Then either whoever had searched had come in right after him and before rigor had made the legs so stiff that considerable force would have been necessary to change their position, or the doctor had lied and had moved them himself.

The garrotting of Camille Lefebvre had been done with iron wire, very fine but easily obtained before the war, and not even fastened at its ends to short pins, simply wound around the hands perhaps. ‘And carried coiled in a handbag or pocket, but apparently a professional killing all the same.’

Noted in the autopsy report, there was bruising on her back, where her killer’s knee had been jammed against it as she’d gone down …

‘You couldn’t have cried out much or struggled for long.’

There were bruises on Marie-Jacqueline’s throat and shoulders. She’d been held under, had struggled, had banged her left elbow on the stone steps of the bath. Strength would have been needed to hold her under even though she must have been light-headed and sleepy, yet the bruises were inconclusive as to the sex of her assailant. Older scratches and bruises, now all but healed, had also been noted. The arms and face, the breasts, knees and buttocks. A fight perhaps.

Celine Dupuis’s right arm had been bruised by her killer. That knee and thigh had also been badly bruised but in a fall, the coroner had felt, that must have happened some weeks ago …

A throat was cleared, a breathless voice broke into his thoughts. ‘Jean-Louis, I came as soon as my hotel received Secretaire General Bousquet’s summons.’

It was Felix Laloux, scruffy-bearded and looking grey and wasted in a shabby blue suit that was now far too big for him. Still blinking from behind wire-rimmed spectacles, the right lens of which was cracked, he was unaccustomed to the light.

‘I’ve been a guest of the state.’

‘Given free board and lodging?’ That is, prison.

‘Forgotten since the farce of the Riom trials.’

They’d been in the spring of 1941, when the Marechal had tried to blame the Defeat of France on the ills of the Third Republic and the Blum Government, including its most vocal supporters of socialism and Freemasonry. ‘Have you eaten?’

‘Don’t ask stupid questions of a man whose death sentence has just been commuted. Ask, Will I help you? The answer is yes, and I’m grateful you have remembered so fondly our working together in the past.’

‘Then look closely. Tell no one but myself or my partner of what you find – Hermann is on our side, so please don’t worry about him. He’s not the usual by far. But see if all three here were killed by the same person or persons.’

‘And yourself?’

‘Will look for links elsewhere, but trust my partner will have turned up something.’

Kohler didn’t hesitate but stepped into the telephone exchange at the Hotel du Parc, the room no bigger than a large closet. There was constant clicking, constant motion. The operator, still with her shapely back to him, sat bolt upright on a high, wooden stool before the board on which eighty or so lines had connections. Headset strapped on over permanent wave, receiver clamped over the left ear, mouthpiece and transmitter dead in front of lovely lips, her left hand moving deftly to control the keys or yank out one of the cords with its brass plug-in, or flip back up one of the traps that fell open when a line was needed, the right hand putting the cords into the jacks on the board and jerking still others out, or writing up the day’s log. Lights flashing, demands being made, and ring … ring … ring!