Flykiller

‘Your hat, monsieur, and coat?’

She wasn’t any more than fifteen, reeked of cheap perfume and underarm talcum powder. ‘I’ll keep them. These days that is often best.’

‘Suit yourself. Monsieur le Secretaire General Bousquet makes the telephone call while that one, he …’ Her bare arm pointed to a distant corner table all but hidden by the dim lighting and the smoke. ‘He awaits your pleasure. Personally … and I’m just saying this for myself, you understand,’ her childlike eyes widened mischievously only to duck away at the fierceness of a Surete frown, ‘he can have you.’

Alone, Alain Andre Richard, Ministre des Vivres et du Rationnement – Supplies and Rationing – seemed impervious to the grey-green uniforms of the Occupier intermingling with the Occupied, the constant commotion, the comings and goings of cigarette girls selling everything including tobacco, and waitresses who should have known better than to wear such draughty costumes among soldiers and Government employees who only wanted to forget the war and their humdrum lives.

An intense little man in his mid-fifties, the face was pinched, the black hair thinning and carefully groomed, its dye-job perfect just like the rest of him. Even the blue serge suit had a gold Francisque pinned to its lapel.

‘Ah merde,’ muttered St-Cyr under his breath as he all but reached the table. ‘Must our top civil servants always be so difficult?’ The glass before Richard had remained untouched, perhaps because it was dirty or because he simply didn’t think a gin and gazeuse would help the stomach that had been giving him trouble of late. The cigarette that wasted its little life in the chipped ashtray had company of the same, but what, really, had Marie-Jacqueline Mailloux seen in this one besides money?

‘Monsieur …’

‘You’re late! Why is this, please?’

Even the voice was tight. ‘A small matter, Monsieur le Ministre. Unfortunately detectives can’t always determine beforehand if their time will be used unnecessarily. Please pardon the delay.’ And never mind that we weren’t even aware we were to meet you!

‘St-Cyr, Surete. I know all about you.’ Richard sniffed in as if wishing a pomander were to hand.

‘Good. That’s as it should be.’

The despicable fedora was summarily dropped on the table, the dishevelled overcoat removed to be perfunctorily dumped over the back of a cane chair.

‘It’s hot in here,’ said St-Cyr. ‘Now perhaps, monsieur, while we have a moment to ourselves you would be good enough to provide me with a clear statement of your illegal activities?’

‘Cochon! Imbecile! Batard! Do you think you can mess with me?’

Pig, and the rest of it, and not bad for a start. ‘Ah bon. Let’s see now. How can I put this down?’

A little black notebook was opened to a half-scribbled page, the Surete, with that black-stitched bulge above his left eye, wetting the end of his pencil, to write and say: ‘Opportunity given.’

That bushy moustache was touched with a knuckle, the fist clenched.

‘A few cigars, Inspector. A little flour and sug-’

‘Ministre, we’ve heard it all before. One blows the dust away, n’est-ce pas, only to find that the floor needs to be washed, only to then find that the varnish is cracked and the boards are in need of replacement, the joists also.’

‘I came here to discuss the murders, damn you, and whether they’re the work of one or more assassins!’

Spittle, too, had erupted. ‘Then please proceed.’

‘And we’ll get to the other later, is that it, eh?’

‘Begin, monsieur, by telling me about Marie-Jacqueline Mailloux.’

A hand was irritably tossed, a shrug given.

‘The silly bitch made a mockery of me. Always flaunting her ass when at the office on one of her impromptu visits. Always cheeky. Did she think others would not notice?’

‘Your wife and children perhaps?’

‘Are among those who noticed, yes. Scene after scene. I had constantly to warn her that she was going too far. She shouldn’t have ridiculed my wife in front of others. That was unforgivable but Sandrine should also have understood Marie-Jacqueline meant nothing to me. Nothing, absolutely!’

‘Elaborate, please.’

Again a hand was waved. ‘It’s not important.’

Patience, mon vieux, patience, St-Cyr counselled himself. ‘Everything is important.’

‘A party. A small gathering. A little fun – what could have been more innocent? Nom de Jesus-Christ, the stress has to be relieved now and then, does it not?’

Mon Dieu, the arrogance! ‘Where?’

‘Le Chateau aux Oiseaux Splendides.’

‘And your wife turned up. A little surprise?’

‘Oui. It … Ah …’ He threw out both hands, gesturing with them and raised a cautionary finger. ‘It was nothing. Marie-Jacqueline and I on a …’

‘A staircase?’ It was just a shot in the dark.