Flykiller

They were subdued, these men of influence, said St-Cyr to himself and, for just this once in their corrupted lives, reduced to silently watching two overworked detectives enjoy a much-needed meal. Bousquet, again absenting himself had gathered the unfaithful around their table at Chez Crusoe, but Laval had made certain of the meal. From one of the restaurants he frequented along the Allier, the Premier had sent a splendid sampling of the rustic fare for which the Auvergne was justly famous.

Pounti could be no more than a hash of bacon with onions, Swiss chard and eggs, but here it was golden brown, piping hot, cut into wedges, containing chopped ham, pork, raisins, cream and herbs – tarragon and chervil especially – and was accompanied by the dark green lentils that were grown only in the Puy de Dome and had such a remarkably distinctive flavour.

Two bottles of the Chanturgue red – ah, not a Beaujolais of course – were totally acceptable. Truffades were waiting. A kind of potato cake, but shredded coarsely, fried in lard with Cantal cheese cut in strips over them and left until melted only to be then turned over, the fire now low, the aroma superbe.

A salade de lentilles aux saucisses also waited – dried country sausage cut in rounds, the lentils, which had been soaked overnight with onions and carrots, simmered and drained, the carrots, et cetera, saved for the never-ending pots of soupe aux choux, the lentils cooled, mashed with a fork and given a drizzle of whisked egg yolks, vinegar, olive oil and Dijon mustard.

The bread? he asked himself, refilling Hermann’s glass and then tearing off a fistful from the round and golden cross-hatched loaf, was a meal in itself.

But, to business, he said, looking silently round the table and asking himself, Marie-Jacqueline Mailloux and this acid little Minister of Supplies and Rationing, this Alain Andre Richard? A patently indiscreet nurse with a private practice who was on call at the girls’ school where Camille Lefebvre was a teacher, and who had also worked part-time at the clinic of Dr Raoul Normand where Julienne Deschambeault sought constant help? Marie-Jacqueline, monsieur, age thirty-seven, not thirty-two or -three, and born in Tours. A divorcee at the age of nineteen who had just given birth to twin girls she had given up to the Carmelites. A woman with jet-black hair, dark blue eyes, an angular face, sharp nose and chin and dimpled apple cheeks. What, please, had Julienne’s reaction been when attended to by such a creature? Intense hatred, a traumatic fit perhaps, or did Madame Deschambeault simply swear to drown her?

Gaetan-Baptiste Deschambeault, the husband and Sous-directeur of the Bank of France, was tall and not unhandsome, broad-shouldered under an open black overcoat, the black hair thinning, the aristocratic blue eyes swift to every nuance. Was he thinking of his little Lucie who’d been smothered at the age of twenty-three? His very personal shorthand typist, the one he’d got pregnant? Was he remembering the foetus between her blotched and putrid thighs, the effluent and bloodstained oedematous fluid that had still oozed from her, or was he thinking instead of her chestnut curls and dark brown, mischievous eyes, the riding crop clutched licentiously – was that not so, monsieur? – and leather thongs waiting, but to tie up which of you?

And Honore de Fleury? he asked. For the first time we get a good look at you and I have to say you’re quite ordinary, even for an inspector of finances, all of whom look ordinary. Nervous still, and not liking being forced to sit here – Bousquet must have told them all they had no other choice. And Laval would have made certain his Secretaire general did just that!

De Fleury’s faded green eyes were closely set in a finely boned and freckled face. Age fifty-six and greying, the reddish hair rapidly receding, the hands small and light. A man of numbers, an accountant and yet … and yet he’d had a mistress who’d been knifed. Age twenty-eight, a dancer, a piano player, teacher, singer … blonde, blue-eyed, a widow with a little daughter Annette to whom she had written postcards using the quills from increasingly exotic birds. Celine Dupuis, formerly of 60 rue Lhomond. Taught ballet part-time to the girls at Camille Lefebvre’s school, as well as at the ballet school of Therese Deschambeault. Ah yes!

Celine, who had worn two costumes and a black velvet choker, and whose hair, of below shoulder length, had been all over the place due to someone’s desperate search for something they’d left behind.