Flykiller

‘You wouldn’t,’ breathed Bousquet, the life draining from him.

‘Don’t try me, Secretaire. Please don’t. This one went to Paris knowing of the murder yet failed to inform you of it even when he returned.’

‘Gaetan, is this true?’ blurted Bousquet, sickened by the thought of such a betrayal.

‘Two notes, monsieur. One written, I believe, not on Friday, but on Saturday morning early. Argue if you wish, but failing to report a murder can only add weight to the charges of counselling and arranging an abortion. That girl was expecting you, in any case!’

‘Salaud, you’re a cold one, aren’t you?’ retorted Deschambeault acidly. ‘You don’t like us much, do you?’

‘Liking or not liking you has nothing to do with it. You came here on Saturday not only because you were afraid Mademoiselle Trudel would decide to go home but because you’d arranged to give her a lift to the train.’

‘She … she was where you found her, yes.’

‘And the rats?’

‘Rats?’ blurted Bousquet.

‘Were in her bed.’

‘Did you know she would go to the Hall des Sources for that bottle of the Chomel? That one. That one right there,’ demanded St-Cyr.

‘I did not. I arrived well before seven when I knew the hotel would be asleep, and I quickly left.’

‘Pausing only long enough to write Friday’s note?’

‘Inspector, I …’

‘Please just answer.’

‘Then, yes. No one saw me enter or leave the note or building – at least, I don’t think anyone did. She hadn’t been dead long, was still warm when I felt her neck for her pulse.’

‘And you saw no one?’

‘I’d been very lucky. After all, Marie-Jacqueline and Camille had been done in by this … this assassin. I had to leave. The fewer who knew of my being here, the better.’

The urge to say, It sounds familiar, doesn’t it, Secretaire? was there but it was unnecessary. Bousquet was clearly unsettled and now extremely worried.

‘Then it’s true, Jean-Louis,’ he muttered. ‘The bastards intend to kill us one by one, having paved the ground with corpses.’

It would do no good to show them L’Humanite’s list. For now it would be best to let them think they alone were the targets. ‘Who knew you would go to Paris last weekend, Sous-directeur?’

The abrupt softening of tone and absence of aggression were noted, Deschambeault taking out his cigar case and offering one. ‘It will help, I think,’ he said as only he indulged. ‘My director knew of it, Inspector. My two most senior assistants, the wife and family of course, and those I was to meet in Paris.’

The cigar was lit, the fool even savouring it, thought Bousquet, silently cursing such stupidity. If St-Cyr thought anything of it – and he did, most certainly – he didn’t let on. ‘The ambassador also, Gaetan.’

‘Another telephone call, yes. To Paris.’

‘Even members of the Government, myself included,’ interjected Bousquet, ‘must apply for and often wait days or weeks for a permit to cross the Demarcation Line.’

‘Fernand is occasionally difficult, as Rene suggests, but usually such things are easily arranged,’ said Deschambeault with a magnanimous wave of his cigar.

‘Fernand?’

Jean-Louis must surely know who was meant! ‘De Brinon,’ said Bousquet gruffly. ‘Delegate General of the French Government to the Occupied Territories.’

The former zone occupee. ‘Our laissez-passers came through quickly, of course,’ said St-Cyr, ‘but only because Gestapo Boemelburg requested them from the Kommandantur, as he does each time he sends my partner and me south of the line.’ A glance of warning passed between the two but had best be ignored for the moment. ‘How often did you see Mademoiselle Trudel socially, Sous-directeur?’

Socially … En garde, eh? Was that it? ‘Twice, occasionally three times a week.’

‘Alone, or in the company of others?’

‘Both. It depended entirely on circumstance and who was in town. Sometimes we’d meet up with others for a few drinks or a bit of a meal, sometimes not.’

‘Since when, please?’

St-Cyr had now taken to looking about the room. Being careful to touch nothing, he used the blunt end of a pencil when needed. He was still hunting for that other sock, thought Deschambeault, and answered, when asked again, ‘Two years.’

‘And how many weekends in Paris?’

‘Merde alors, is this an inquisition, am I a suspect, Rene?’

‘Please just answer him, Gaetan,’ said Bousquet. ‘It’s necessary.’

‘Once a month. Perhaps less, perhaps more. My presence is often required at the bank in Paris, so it is only natural.’

There was the inconsequential wave of the pencil-hand. ‘Of course. But each time Mademoiselle Trudel accompanied you, laissez-passers were required?”

‘For both travelling to and from, yes. It’s a fact of life, isn’t that so? One does not argue. One compromises.’

The aroma of cigar smoke didn’t mingle well with the stench of the body and the rats. ‘And your wife, monsieur? Please, I must ask again, was she aware of the affair?’

‘I hadn’t realized you’d already asked.’

‘I hadn’t.’