Flykiller

Taking out Camille Lefebvre’s megot tin, he opened it. ‘Surely she wouldn’t have mixed tobacco from the cigar butts with that from the cigarettes?’

Paquet lifted his gaze from the tin. ‘To inhale such smoke would only make one sick, I should think. Far too harsh. The curing is quite different, n’est-ce pas?’

‘Ah, oui, but are they …’ The detective hurriedly flipped open his little notebook to the note he had just made. ‘The Demi-Tasses of the cabaret dancer, Madame Nathalie Benoist?’

‘They are. At least, they could quite possibly be hers.’

‘And these cigar bands?’ he asked, opening another tin that had once held dressmaker’s pins.

‘An El Rey del Mundo Choix Supreme and a Romeo y Julieta double corona maduro. The latter’s dark brown leaf is the result of extra maturing which produces a richly flavoured cigar with a mild aroma. The British Prime Minister was very fond of them.’

Pacquet turned the heavy register towards himself and, finding a page several years back, quickly located the name. ‘A brief visit in the summer of 1913. Mademoiselle Mailloux was very much interested in seeing his signature. Winston Leonard Spencer Churchill, First Lord of the Admiralty then. A very determined gentleman with decided views as to his choice of cigar, the francais atrocious, but I did manage to understand him. Two dozen of the maduras at twenty francs each. Mon Dieu, how prices have risen. Mademoiselle Mailloux laughed a little when I gave her that band but she didn’t enlighten me as to what she saw as being so funny. Albert Grenier wearing it, I suppose. She was a bit of an imp and loved putting one over on the pompous stuffed shirts, as she’d have called them. Madame Dupuis was most upset to learn of her death, as were others, myself included, and especially Madame. Lefebvre and Mademoiselle Trudel. Four doves, I used to call them. Birds, wanting only to fly in these harsh times of ours, and now they’ve all been murdered. A tragedy.’

Celine’s note to Lucie had stated they needed to talk. ‘It’s urgent,’ she had said.

‘Monsieur, when found, Madame Dupuis was wearing one of these. The stones are blancs exceptionnels, the earrings perhaps from the fin de siecle, or from the twenties.’

Paquet didn’t need to touch them. ‘Was there an exquisite strand of sapphires?’

It would be best to lay the necklace on the table and tell him of the dress.

‘And why wasn’t she wearing both earrings?’

‘That is one of the questions we are trying to settle.’

‘Then please don’t avoid the obvious.’

‘She tried to remove and hide them from her killers, succeeding only with one.’

‘Was she also wearing the silver dress and the sapphires?’

‘Ah no. No, she wasn’t.’

‘A white silk chemise de nuit and black-meshed underthings, the cabaret costume?’

Word must be flying. A nod would suffice, Paquet raising a forefinger to indicate he would need a moment.

When he returned much saddened, it was with a box of Choix Supremes, quite obviously a part of a client’s private store but long forgotten. ‘The Marechal was not the only one to favour these, Inspector. Auguste-Alphonse Olivier and his wife would often come into the shop on their way to the theatre or casino, or to some function or other. There was also a tiara, a thin headband that had been purchased for Madame Noelle Olivier in Paris, from Cartier’s on place Vendome by Monsieur Olivier, as had the necklace. The earrings had been his. mother’s, I believe. But … but why should Madame Dupuis have had them? Surely that one was no thief? She had a daughter she missed terribly. Always a postcard or two from the child, or the latest she was sending her. She was fiercely determined to return to Paris, felt she had saved up enough. “It’s all been arranged,” she said. “The laissez-passer and sauf-conduit will soon be here, the residence permit also.”’

‘Did she say who had arranged them for her?’

‘Ah no, but … but I felt it had to have been Dr Menetrel, the Marechal’s personal physician. Inspector, why would such as these not have been in Monsieur Olivier’s safe-deposit box? Oh certainly, there are now the lists everyone has to fill out just as they did in the north, in the zone occupee in 1940. All items above a value of a hundred thousand francs, the louis d’or one has kept against the devaluations and the inflation. Has anything happened to him?’

To admit that they didn’t know would sound foolish but had best be done.

‘He’s never been the same, not since she took her life on 18 November 1925. Thirty cubic centimetres of laudanum and into the river with her. Toute nue, which only made the heads here buzz all the more, I’m afraid. She was only thirty-four years old. Lovely, so lovely. It broke his heart. A cuckold.’

‘And now?’