Flykiller

The father must have been taken aback, for he hesitated and then asked suspiciously, ‘Have you seen him there when you visited her?’

Perhaps the son smiled. ‘Of course. Therese and Martine have also seen him at the clinic with Dr Normand, discussing Mother’s progress.’

‘And Lucie?’

‘Most certainly.’

‘At Chez Crusoe and the parties at the chateau?’ asked the sous-directeur.

‘Just as he makes a point of knowing everything else, Menetrel knows, Papa.’

‘Because you told him? Or was it Therese or Martine?’ shot the elder Deschambeault.

‘I didn’t!’ retorted the son. ‘I can’t, of course, vouch for my sisters whose eyebrows are always raised when they speak of their father having sex with his latest, but in any case, since none of us ever attended any of those “sessions” at the chateau, how could we possibly have known of what went on?’

‘Sessions? Meetings of the board, idiot! Nom de Dieu, you must hate me.’

‘Not at all. I simply know you.’

Again the father paused. ‘Then tell Ferbrave he’d better find out everything he can from Albert before taking care of him. We can’t have the rat-catcher coughing up our blood to those two from Paris.’

‘And Henri-Claude?’

‘Must be told that it has to end, Jean-Guy, that I won’t submit to blackmail from him or anyone, and that if he doesn’t stop, I will go straight to Herr Gessler with things our Garde Mobile would rather not have the Gestapo hear.’

Ines nudged the door open a little farther. Both were standing, the father and son facing each other across the latter’s desk, but the sous-directeur’s back was to her and this partly blocked Jean-Guy from catching sight of her.

Silver trophies and ribbons adorned the shelves beyond them. Paintings of famous racehorses hung on the walls, a map of the course and grounds, one of the town of Vichy too.

Jean-Guy Deschambeault wore the buttoned-up, burnt-umber, single-breasted jacket she’d been told he would. Beneath it there was the charcoal turtleneck pullover he often favoured and yes, the whipcord breeches were of a soft shade of olive, and yes, the tan riding boots were well greased and polished.

No spurs, not now. No sand-coloured, tweed golf cap either.

Thirty years old, he was unmarried because he chose to be, but never lacked girlfriends who were willing enough, though none had been able to give him what that maison de tolerance could and did. Blue-eyed and handsome, of more than medium height, he was well built, masculine, ah yes, a polo player too, with thick, wavy, curly dark chestnut hair and the bluish four-o’clock shadow of one who often shaves but can never quite dispel that mildly dissipated playboy image. Cold, too, Ines reminded herself, but utterly charming in his own right when he wanted to be.

The two had stopped talking. The noise from the roof had ceased. Now there was only that of the flags.

‘Mademoiselle, what did you overhear?’ came a whisper.

Someone had switched on the corridor lights. Ah merde, it was St-Cyr, standing so close to her she could feel the icy breath of him and see the suppurating, black-stitched, throbbing bulge above his half-closed left eye. Behind him at a distance was Albert Grenier, behind that one, Henri-Claude Ferbrave and lastly Herr Kohler. ‘Nothing. I … I was looking for you. Albert,’ she tried. ‘Albert, are you all right?’

‘Inside, I think. Take a seat while we warm ourselves at the stove. Compose yourself, Mademoiselle Charpentier. You’ve had a terrible fright and are perhaps still in shock, but please prepare your answers better.’

The nineteenth-century, cast-iron stove in the office was decorated with a pair of turtledoves that drank from a birdbath above its little door, and through the mica windows Ines could see the flames. Herr Kohler had sat right next to her on the leather sofa but Albert hadn’t wanted to sit anywhere else and had tried to ask him to move over. He’d refused, of course, and had deliberately driven poor Albert to tears, causing him to abruptly turn his back to them and sit down anyway, squeezing himself between them and satisfying Herr Kohler as to exactly how close a relationship she had managed to establish with the groundskeeper’s son.

These days such friendships were often automatic, the old and the young enjoying each other’s company as if their differences in age were of no consequence. Sculptresses of twenty-eight and boys, young men of what? she asked herself. With Albert it was so hard to tell. Thirteen perhaps, or six or seven, but sometimes a young man. And yes, both Kohler and St-Cyr thought she’d deliberately formed the friendship. And yes, she had to remind herself, Albert can be difficult. I must be careful.