Flykiller

To the north-east, there was the racetrack and, just to the west of this and in line with the stables, the grandstand with the Jockey Club’s reception rooms, restaurant and bar on the ground floor and first storey.

The showjumping course and paddocks were closer to the stables. The whole area must be lovely even in winter, thought Kohler. Fantastic if one had the money and time. And good to see that the Wehrmacht felt at least some horses should remain in France. A necessity.

‘Please don’t forget the sports club and golf course that are behind us, Inspector,’ said Louis tritely. ‘The tennis club and its swimming pool also.’

‘And the clay-pigeon shoot which is a little to the west so that the noise won’t disturb things here, eh? Merde, where the hell are Deschambeault and Ferbrave and our two innocents?’

If one of them was indeed innocent!

Not here, one of the hangers-on seemed to say, nodding curtly towards the way they’d come.

Blue-blinkered lanterns were being lit, but above them were strings of paper ones, from the Mikado perhaps, which once would have illuminated the dances that the owners must have held at the Jockey Club after successful races. Champagne and les elegantes de tout Paris wandering up into the loft to soft lights and beds of hay. Cigars, too!

‘A bloody firetrap, Louis!’ snorted Kohler, the pungency of manure, hay, horse piss and oats mingling with that of occasional and not-so-occasional tobacco. ‘Stay down here. I’ll take a look above.’

Again St-Cyr asked if his partner was all right; again Kohler had to reassure him.

Torch in hand, Hermann began to climb one of the ladders. In many ways it was similar to the stable at Vouvray. He hesitated – that bad knee of his, cursed St-Cyr silently. He went on, was soon out of sight. Perhaps they’d come a third of the way along the main aisle, perhaps a little more, but … Ah mon Dieu, what was going on? Everything had suddenly stopped. Even the Blitzmadchen hesitated …

Shrill on the damp, cold air came a high-pitched, ‘no, monsieur! please, no!’

From the far end of the aisle a stallion neighed in fright and began to kick its stall. Ines Charpentier shrieked again and again, which only frightened the horse more. It kicked and kicked and neighed, the girl trying desperately to dodge its hooves. Others became restless. Others began to join in …

Hermann moved past him in a blur. He ran, he reached the stall ahead of the stablehands, snatched a prod from the wall, opened the door and vanished.

Sickened by what they must surely find, for the sculptress had given one last, piercing shriek that had been abruptly cut off, St-Cyr brushed past the others to enter the stall. Hermann had a firm grip on the halter and had tucked the prod under an arm, having used a shoulder to force the stallion against a wall and away from the girl.

‘Easy … Easy,’ he said, his voice soothing. ‘Now calm yourself, my beauty. You pinch them on the neck or cheek, Louis. That distracts them, then offer the carrot if you have one. You’re a handsome devil, aren’t you?’ he went on to the stallion, a magnificent three-year-old but still very high-strung. ‘You’re worth plenty and are certain to take the Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe at Longchamp this October, only it won’t be held there due to possible acts of terrorism, they say, so it and the other races will be held at Le Tremblay to the north-east of Paris. Please don’t worry.’

On and on he went, talking to the horse. He asked about the cinder track at Vincennes and how it was, said he was sorry that racing at Deauville had had to be cancelled in 1940. ‘The RAF simply don’t understand, do they? Louis,’ he said in that same carefully modulated voice. ‘Louis, the sculptress.’

Curled into a ball, trembling so hard she couldn’t move, Ines Charpentier cowered in a far corner. No tears, nothing but shock.

‘Take her out now,’ said Hermann. ‘Just do it gently.’

Her wrists were cold, her hands freezing, that lovely coat from the thirties, with its deer-horn buttons, in a mess that she didn’t even notice.

Clinging to him, she quivered as they squeezed past Hermann; she was so thin, could be a killer, but couldn’t, St-Cyr told himself, and finally said, ‘Let the tears come, mademoiselle. Please don’t be ashamed.’

‘I can’t,’ she gasped. ‘I haven’t cried in years.’

‘And you’re terrified of horses, aren’t you,’ he said, ‘yet chose to come here anyway?’

‘I have to sculpt them, don’t I?’ she snapped, pulling away from him to place a steadying hand flat against the boards of the nearby wall.

‘Argue if you wish, mademoiselle, but anyone who claims to be fascinated by horses, as you did to Monsieur Grenier, must have been around them enough to know they can and will sense fear and often react accordingly.’

‘I hit the horse. I was flung right at it!’

‘But didn’t think to try to calm it.’

‘Ferbrave … Henri-Claude Ferbrave of the Garde Mobile saw you coming and wanted to keep you from talking to Albert.’