Flykiller

‘And aren’t even noticed, Hermann, because, like others in the Government and the town, they are a part of the woodwork. They must be, and they know this and are confident of it. Supremely so.’

Lost to the thought – feeling exceedingly uncomfortable because of it – Louis took back the letter and began to retie the ribbon. ‘A good ten letters … no, fifteen,’ he said, ‘but not all of the envelopes, though of the same colour, use identical stationery.’

‘Pardon?’

‘These …’ He quickly sorted through them. ‘Are to a Madame Noelle Olivier.’

‘And the dates?’ muttered Kohler, knowing now that they had been left for them on purpose!

‘June, July, September, October and November 1925, Hermann, and all from the Marechal.’

‘To another married woman? Another of his conquests? Was the bugger so arrogant as to have sent them to her home? Well, was he?’

‘To 133 boulevard des Celestins, Vichy.’

‘Jesus, merde alors, take the topmost one and read it, then. Let whoever’s trying to tell us something, tell it!’

Paris, 15 November 1925

My dear Madame Olivier,

You will excuse me if it appears harsh when I tell you enough is enough. Should you wish to pursue your intentions, please do so through my solicitors. Remember, though, that such a scandal as you envision is always a two-edged sword. Your good name and those of your husband and children are at present free from all such concerns. To wound them so grievously is to wound yourself and gain nothing. Love is always a battleground. Some you win, and from some you must inevitably retreat.

Adieu.

Petain

‘A glacier, Louis.’

‘Oui. But what did she do? This letter has been stained by a flood of tears and then tightly crumpled into a ball, only to be later flattened out.’

‘Did she use the rope, take poison, drown herself, find a gun, or simply go on living?’ asked Kohler.

‘Only to keep the memory of him close and bide her time?’

‘Or are we looking for the husband and is he the one who ducks into and out of rooms to leave things for us to find?’

There were always questions, seldom easy answers. Because of a bend in the road and its rise and narrowness, they hadn’t been able to see the entrance to the bridge but now could. Instead of two men on the Boutiron Control, there were four. Instead of acne-faced teenagers in oversized greatcoats with Mauser rifles, this detail wore winter whites with hoods up and cradled Schmeissers in white-mittened hands to keep the grease on their weapons from congealing.

‘A Sonderkommando?’ asked Louis, sickened by the sight and quickly stuffing away the letters and the knife.

A special command. ‘Waffen-SS,’ breathed Kohler softly. ‘Straight in from Russia via the glorious army of the South that’s now based in Lyons. An airdrop likely. Unless I’m mistaken, mon vieux, Bousquet, thinking the worst and that les gars really were the targets, must have run to Herr Gessler and the nameless one, and they called in the fist.’

There would be motorcycle patrols and arrests – all manner of such things. ‘And if we so much as question someone or take too great an interest in them,’ said St-Cyr sadly, ‘so will they.’

Unsettled by the thought, they waited, and when the car was finally noticed in the line-up, a mittened fist soon pounded on the side window.

Hermann rolled it down. ‘Trouble, Sergeant?’ he asked pleasantly enough in Deutsch.

Shrapnel had once torn the right side of the Scharfuhrer’s face from well above the half-closed, lead-grey eye to the raw-boned chin. The last three fingers of the right hand were missing, the left shoulder permanently hunched forward.

‘Papiere, mein Herr.’

‘Kohler, Kripo, Paris-Central. We’re in a bit of a rush, Scharfuhrer.’

‘That does not matter.’

‘Don’t you need the password?’

‘If you wish.’

Herr Kohler gave out with the Quatsch. Harvests ripe and all, the song perfect, thought Gerd Schepp. But this Kripo was known to point the finger of truth at his own kind and wore the scars of it. Disloyal, not a true believer, and one to be treated as if Scheisse were on the boots.

That thumb and forefinger were impatiently snapped. Finding the papers wasn’t easy. ‘Your right coat pocket, Herr Detektiv Inspektor,’ offered Louis submissively.

‘Ah! Danke.’

A packet of long-forgotten cigarettes – emergency rations – was now more than slightly crushed, Louis having tucked it in there and four left, only four.

Offered up, straightened and lit – one each and the French half of the partnership totally left out – the papers were found and handed over to be closely scrutinized.

‘You’re a long way from home,’ tried Hermann. ‘Ferleiten … the Hohe Tauern, near the Italian border?’

He’d deliberately got the location wrong so as to encourage conversation, thought St-Cyr, only to hear the Scharfuhrer grunt, ‘Mathausen. I used to work in the granite quarry but now they have plenty of cheap labour though they could, perhaps, still use someone with a knowledge of explosives if you’re interested.’