Flykiller

These two, they spoke in silent words, each holding a hidden dialogue with the other. Purposely St-Cyr hadn’t said where they would meet, had left her to wonder. But she wouldn’t ask, Are you satisfied now? She would repack her case and when it was done, softly say, ‘Merci. It’s late and I’ve not eaten since breakfast.’

Kohler, she knew, wanted to feed her; St-Cyr was the one with the heart of stone.

6

Red, yellow, white and gold, with soft green-and-white seals that looked like the backs of exotic American dollar bills, the cedar boxes were neatly stacked behind art nouveau glass and mahogany doors in a walk-in humidor. Hundreds and hundreds of the finest Havanas – thousands of them, and still others from elsewhere. Bolivar, El Rey del Mundo, Hoyo de Monterrey and Upmann.

Punch, Montecristos, Ramon Allones and Romeo y Julietas.

Astounded by what the Marquis de Bon Gout held, St-Cyr went deeper into the humidor, to a room within a room. Deep red, morocco-covered fauteuils from the turn of the century sat round an inlaid table on which were cognac and glasses, and a superb collection among opened humidors. Macanundo Portifinos from Jamaica, the Duke of Windsors, Baron de Rothschilds and Crystals; Nat Shermans, too, as if straight in by transatlantic liner from New York’s renowned Fifth Avenue shop: Morgans, Carnegies and Astors, the Metropolitan and City Desk selections, and the Gothams in their dark green boxes with gold lettering and clock emblem.*

The son had said the elder Paquet would be here. And there he was, fussing with a little galvanized pail of water and a tightly squeezed sponge. Eighty years of age at least and up on a roll-away ladder whose graceful lines melded so delicately with the decor that it would hardly be noticed. A small, slightly stooped man. Thin, with fine and carefully groomed iron-grey hair, gold-rimmed spectacles and faded, watery blue eyes that took him in, the closely shaven jowls stiffening momentarily, the blue smock coat, white shirt, tie and freshly pressed dark blue serge trousers immaculate, as were the polished black patent leather shoes.

‘Monsieur …’ hazarded St-Cyr softly. Ah! one was afraid he might tumble from his perch.

‘A moment, please,’ came the politest of answers, the voice no broken reed, but invested with utter calm, even though he must have realized the visitor was not only from the police but had been hit hard too. ‘The humidity must always be as close to seventy per cent as possible,’ he said, ignoring the half-closed left eye. ‘Each day I watch it morning, noon and evening, then at day’s end help to ensure it by wiping down the cabinets with a damp sponge that leaves no dust. The temperature must be between eighteen and twenty-one degrees, and always when one is in here, one experiences a little of the jungles, isn’t that so? The perfume of cedars that must have reached to the clouds, their beads of rainwater constantly dripping as strange birds hauntingly call and monkeys chatter. Ah! forgive me, Inspector. I do go on, but you see, I’ve been doing this little task since well before you were born. Father founded the shop and when, in 1873, I was twelve years old, he took me in. What can I do for you that my son can’t?’

‘A few questions. Nothing difficult, I assure you.’

‘But why should anything you would wish to ask me be difficult? Much of what you see here was acquired before the war and certainly well before this total occupation of ours.’

One would not argue the point nor mention the vans and a minister of supplies and rationing, or a marche noir that could gather up such things if the price was right. ‘Four murders, monsieur. Four young women in the prime of their lives. Monsieur le Premier suggested you would know Vichy society like no other and might be able to help.’

‘That one seldom comes here, since we have never sold cigarettes or loose tobacco. For those one must patronize a tabac, I think.’

Methodically descending from his perch, Honore Paquet told himself that one should always be polite even when speaking of men such as Laval.

‘Please have a seat, Inspector. A little of the Remy-Martin Louis XIII? It’s superb and has such a bouquet. I find it whets the appetite but one can’t, I’m sorry to say, enjoy one of our cigars here or that pipe of yours. Should you wish to smoke, why, we can go into the shop. Pierre-David will, of course, have pulled and locked the shutters by now.’

The Louis XIII … The 1925, and on a pas d’alcools day.

The hand that poured was steady. The elder Paquet sat only after he had finished, the son coming into the room to quietly say, ‘Papa, shall I wait for you?’

The head was briefly shaken. ‘Have the velo-taxi pick me up on your way home. Don’t worry so much, Pierre-David. Mon Dieu, if my last breath is to be drawn, let me take it here.’