Flykiller

Ines undid the catches. She would hesitate now, she told herself. The inquisition in the car on the return from the Grenier house had been hard: Mademoiselle, remind me of what street in Paris you and your uncle and aunt lived on while you were growing up? The rue Tournefort, numero 47, she’d said and thought, It’s not far from place Lucien-Herr and the house of Celine’s parents, is it? Neither of them had made mention of this last, nor had they asked if she’d had one childhood friend, one very special person to whom she could confide everything. Well, nearly everything, and receive the same in trust.

The perfume … the Shalimar. Why had she chosen such a scent? It must have cost a fortune. It was my aunt’s, she had said and they had left it at that, causing her to wonder if they’d believed her.

And where is the flacon now? St-Cyr had demanded. In my bag, she had answered, having fortunately resisted the gut-wrenching panic to throw the bottle away.

Boyfriends in Paris? Herr Kohler had asked, as if it was anyone’s business other than her own. Boyfriends? she had asked in return. Haven’t you heard where all the young men have gone?

Into the maquis to avoid the Service de Travail Obligatoire, or in one of the POW camps, or into the ground.

Every compartment of the tray she now removed was cluttered: her tools, her first-aid kit. Certainly the valise had been left here in the care of Albert’s father, but would they wonder if this had been deliberate? Suspicious … they were so suspicious of her, especially St-Cyr.

‘Hermann, there’s the smell of bitter almonds,’ he said, having leaned over, his shoulder rubbing against her as he brought his nose closer to the case. ‘Beeswax and that, mon vieux. This clear glass tube among your first-aid supplies, mademoiselle? What is the oil, please?’

She would have to give him a foolish smile and weakly say, ‘A mistake. I was tricked. For toothache, the oil of cloves, only a switch was made at the last and what I was given was this.’

A little of the oil accidentally trickled down the side of the phial when, with difficulty, she had prised the cork out.

‘Ersatz, Louis.’

‘Strong, too strong,’ grunted St-Cyr. He made no mention of her obviously having purchased the oil on the marche noir, his big brown eyes simply sweeping coldly over her.

‘Ah bon, mademoiselle. For now the portrait, I think.’

Carefully she set the tray aside. She would pause again, though, and take a deep breath, Ines told herself. She would fight hard for control.

Uncovered and incredibly lifelike even though similar to a death mask, the Marechal stared up at them.

It was St-Cyr who said, ‘When we first met, mademoiselle, you stated that the Musee Grevin was always late in granting its commissions and that an update was felt necessary. You did not say it had all but been done. You gave us to understand that your work would take some time. Your room and board, I believe, was a bargain.’

‘Oui. But is there anything wrong with a person wanting a little break from Paris? From hunger, from the endless queues for a cabbage, a few beets or the tops, a scrap of gristle and mostly disappointment? For six months now I’ve worked on this subject – first the bust in clay, the mould in plaster, then the portrait face.’

‘And now must only check those little details.’

St-Cyr was the constant questioner; Kohler the watcher, content to let him. They would discuss her later, would question possible motives, her wearing the very perfume Celine had worn, the place even where she and Celine had grown up. Had the two girls seen their first film together, met their first fleeting loves, vowed to remain friends for ever? St-Cyr would ask, or would he want still more? Of course he would.

‘Inspectors, must I also remove the portrait?’ she heard herself asking. Not a quaver now.

St-Cyr nodded. Gingerly she lifted Petain out, cradling him in his swadding clothes and finally uncovering the rest. ‘Six four-hundred-gram blocks of beeswax, Inspectors. You may cut into each of them if you wish.’

It wouldn’t be necessary, felt Kohler. The slight nod St-Cyr gave was curt. He was still not satisfied.

Lifting out one of the blocks, she held it up to him. ‘Soft amber in colour and with the scent of buckwheat, isn’t that so?’ she said. ‘It came from Normandy, from well before the war. Monsieur le Directeur, feeling things might become difficult, wisely laid in a substantial supply that the authorities have fortunately let us keep but only for our work.’

This one was almost too clever, thought St-Cyr sadly. They couldn’t cable Paris to check her story. Gessler would hear of it; they couldn’t even ask Menetrel for the dossier he must have been sent.

‘Hermann, take her to the Gare de Vichy to pick up her suitcase, then drop her off at her boarding house. I’ll catch a velotaxi and we can meet up a little later.’