Flykiller

‘Inspector, even though Menetrel presumably now knows where this jewellery came from, he won’t go to the Germans with the news since he has no love of them. He’ll play it safe by alerting his Garde Mobile and waiting for you or Bousquet to tell him of it. And since our Secretaire General won’t do this because Laval has ordered him not to, it will be left to you and Kohler. You see, for all his sources and intrigues, the doctor has blind spots, and without the Marechal, he knows absolutely that he is nothing. With Petain, there is still hope for him, even if it is to go over to the Allies, for our Head of State won’t travel without his precious doctor.’

‘And Laval?’

‘Dismisses Petain by asking who needs a flag except to stand in its shade in summer. Of course he’s the true authority. He has always been very anti-British and still tries constantly to form an accord with Hitler so that France can be restored to her rightful place in the new European Order.’

‘Does he really consult a clairvoyant?’

‘If he does, he believes only the half of what he hears, but believes that half all the same.’

‘And her name?’

‘Madame Ribot, Hotel Ruhl, 15 boulevard de l’Hotel de Ville.* Don’t talk to her. Leave her out of things.’

‘That may not be possible.’

‘Sacre nom de nom, is your head so thick you can’t take a hint, eh? L’Humanite’s list, remember? Don’t tread where you’ve been told not to.’

‘Or you will arrange a little Resistance accident for Hermann and me?’

‘Anything is possible. Anything. Edith … Well, Edith, what is it? Where is Kohler?’

Rooted in the doorway, her expression one of shock at what had so obviously been revealed, she seemed unable to react.

Outraged, she finally spat, ‘You fool, Auguste!’ and, finding a candle, departed.

The flame from the matches had gone out almost as soon as Edith Pascal had left him. She hadn’t wanted to go, Kohler told himself, but had needed to get away from him, to check on her boss and Louis, to be alone, if only momentarily to settle herself and gather her thoughts. A very troubled woman. A heart that had yearned for far too long.

The smoked-glass, trifold mirror of the dressing table was off to his left through the darkness. Beautiful cut-glass bottles, too, some a soft blue, others clear or citrine and all with silver caps or glass stoppers. A comb and brush set – Russian that had been, in blue enamelwork and silver. Jars of face cream, rouge and powder, lipstick too …

A small, cut-glass ashtray served as a lamp, perfume as the fuel. Within a minute or two of her leaving him, he had what was needed, a beautiful blue flame just like that from burning cognac, but Jesus, merde alors, there were no dustsheets in the room. The soft grey satin-and-lace spread on the gilded Louis XVI cane bed was rumpled; the generous, white silk-and-lace-covered pillows were propped against the headboard as if the bed had only just been slept in.

The armoire, of perfectly matched walnut, glowed richly in the softly flickering light, and was still crammed with Noelle Olivier’s dresses and suits. A hacking jacket, waistcoat and whipcord riding breeches, silks and soft woollens, satins too. Cotton summer frocks, crepes de Chine, grey flannel slacks, blouses, shirt-blouses, some sheer, some with ruffles, some with lace, a ball gown, another and another. And yes, that silvery silk halter-necked dress and the shoes must have come from here.

A Boulle commode held lingerie one couldn’t buy now except at a fortune: chemises and half-slips, several brassieres, a black lace teddy, black mesh stockings, a black garter belt and frilly pink peekaboo undies a l’Ange bleu, but that film had first come out in Berlin in Deutsch in 1930 and who could ever forget Marlene Dietrich singing ‘They Call Me Naughty Lulu’ and ‘Falling in Love Again’?

Peacock lariats hung from one of the footboard’s posts, their black-centred eyes greeny-blue to a deep coppery-orange ringed with white. Why, really, do some birds dress up?

The thongs were black, not more than a metre in length and tightly bound by spirals of silver wire at both eye and loop, but had she liked to be tied up with them?

On a bedside table there was a Sevres gold-and-enamelled cup and saucer. Empty, of course, but the tisane’s leaves were still damp, not frozen, and the ashes in the fireplace still warm.

A photo of her standing, leaning against the edge of a half-opened door, was behind the bedside lamp. Only the fingers of the left hand could be seen gripping the edge just above her head. The right hand, with its cigarette, was pressed against that forward thigh, the diamond ring catching the light, the sequined dress with black halter-neck and deeply plunging neckline, the laughing smile coy and alluring and full of fun, the hair jet black and bobbed.

Another framed photo found Noelle Olivier wearing a black bowler hat, cabaret costume and smoking a cigar.