Flykiller

‘A bitter man who keeps much to himself and is seldom seen except in the late evening when strolling through our English Garden along the river. Solitary, the hat pulled down, the scarf tight, the walking stick and stride no longer purposeful.’

Olivier had withdrawn his last cigar from the box at noon on that fateful day.

‘Monsieur Auguste-Alphonse used to love his after-dinner cigar, Inspector. It was then that he would contemplate the day behind him and plan for the one ahead. Madame Noelle … She was his life away from the world of finance, his constant ray of sunshine in a world that was too often clouded with difficulties. Not only had he been our mayor for several years, he was our foremost banker.’

Laval had said to take Paquet into their confidence but would it be wise to reveal more?

The inspector laid a number of billets doux on the table; the powder-blue envelopes and handwriting of the address were enough. ‘God seldom makes us perfect,’ said Paquet. ‘Even a most esteemed and austere Head of State has weaknesses. The Marechal set his cap for her and won, only to then leave her in despair. She and Monsieur Olivier had two children, a boy and girl. In spite of this, there were frequent trips to Paris by Madame Noelle – too many, some said; others that she was young and beautiful and that to live in Vichy must be stifling for her after being raised among les hauts of Paris. The grandmother had left her a mansion in Neuilly, not far from the Bois de Boulogne.’

‘But when the Marechal wrote this, she killed herself?’ asked the Inspector, tapping the missive.

‘Oui. Auguste-Alphonse went in search of her, the letter in his hand, but found only her clothes and the empty dark blue bottle that had held the laudanum her grandmother must once have been in the habit of taking. There is a weir and a footbridge that crosses our river, the Pont Barrage. It leads to the sports club and golf course. Her clothes were found on it, the body downstream on one of the islands where, in summer, it is said couples sunbathe in secret.’

‘The two children, monsieur, where are they now?’

This one would leave no stone unturned. ‘In the north, in Paris. He sent them away to avoid the scandal that had erupted and ruined him. They were raised by his wife’s family, and he has had, I believe, no further contact with them.’

‘Their ages now?’

‘They were twelve at the time.’

‘Thirty, then, and a set of twins.’

‘Inspector, there was one other item Madame Noelle left with her clothing. A knife. A Laguiole. It was felt she had thought of killing herself with it but had, at the last, taken what she felt was a better way. The slumber. The water, though cold, would soon have overcome her.’

The inspector opened its blade, and, laying the Laguiole on top of the billets doux, tossed off his cognac, needing no further answer.

‘You’re sworn to secrecy, monsieur. What you now know could well be dangerous for you and your son. Just let it rest in peace among your cigars and leave my partner and me to deal with it.’

The gate to 133 boulevard des Celestins was rusty, the gilding of its heraldic fleur-de-lis gone. Above twin neoclassical pillars of black Auvergne basalt, single Grecian urns of the same would once have held spills of ivy and fuchsias in season but were now broken and devoid of all but the last of their earth.

His breath billowing impatiently, Hermann lowered the beam of his torch to the rusty bell pull. Seizing its loop, he gave it a yank and then another. Like death, the dull, flat sound of a cracked bell thudded in the near-distance.

No lights would come on. It was now almost nine, the blackout complete, the boulevard unlit except for the soft diffusion of clouded moonlight on snow.

Across from them in the Parc d’Allier, where Napoleon III had had the river dyked, its marshes filled in and acacias, sycamores and cedars planted, there wasn’t a sign of life. But then, these days, when automobiles of any kind pulled in alongside a house and two men in fedoras and overcoats with raised collars piled out, people tended to wait and watch from a distance or vanish.

Hermann shook the gate but the lock was fast. ‘And freshly oiled,’ he swore, having dropped the beam of his torch to it. ‘So why the uncaring disrepair of the recluse yet the oiling, in a nation that has so little of that commodity nearly everything squeaks, even its filles de joie?’

He was in rare form. Again he yanked on the bell and again! ‘Patience, mon vieux. Patience. This is not one of Napoleon III’s villas – those are downstream a little and nearer to the Parc des Sources and the Hotel du Parc. This is simply a private residence, an hotel particulier, a mansion but …’