Flykiller

As always, one had to wonder what such a gorgeous and hardworking woman could possibly have seen in such a moth-eaten older man. Position, money, the good times, the ‘fun’, but really oughtn’t there to have been something else? Unattached in a place like this, a girl would always be badgered. Attached, she would have got a good meal every now and then, and others would have left her alone. And she hadn’t believed de Fleury could possibly divorce that wife of his, that Eisabeth. A little game they had played, he had said to Hermann. A game! But had Eisabeth de Fleury wanted Celine Dupuis murdered? Had she hired a professional?

All three victims had been friends of Camille’s, the teacher with thick auburn hair and brown eyes, her carte d’identite had stated. Chestnut hair and deeply warm brown eyes with flecks of green and gold, Bousquet had said. Her husband a POW, a captain; her father one of the disbanded Army of the Armistice who hadn’t liked his daughter playing around and had always bitched about what a coward his son-in-law was. Garrotted savagely by another professional, or the same one. Born in Lyons – had she, too, been caught in flagrante delicto but with Bousquet at that infamous chateau party?

Real coffee, black and strong and made over a wood fire in an iron pot, nothing fancy, awaited, as did fouaces, pancakes made with fine, unleavened flour, cooked sous la cendre, under the ashes, with butter, egg yolks, saffron, cinnamon and nutmeg and filled with that marvel of marvels of the Auvergne, its crystallized fruit, with even a few glazed walnuts being added for good measure.

Wedges of Cantal and Saint-Nectaire also waited, bringing moisture to this poor detective’s eyes. It had been years since he’d seen such simple, wholesome fare but, alas, he’d best continue to deal with the matters at hand.

‘Messieurs,’ he said, as the racket of the club constantly swirled around the table, ‘we are presented with a plot to kill you. Resistants perhaps. A Flykiller, in any case, or two of them, and the ominous threat of an imminent civil war and yet … and yet.’ He stabbed the air with his fork. ‘We find the mistresses are the victims and that in each case, not only is the intended target passed over and no attempt made on his life, but that he, to save his reputation, keeps silent and buggers off, leaving the corpse for others to find and tidy up.’

‘Now listen, you …’ began Deschambeault, still not even having bothered to remove his coat and scarf.

‘No, you listen, Sous-directeur. If what my partner has just learned is true, your wife was not alone in that car on her little visit to the chateau you boys use, but was sitting beside Madame Petain.’

‘That woman interferes, Inspector,’ swore Richard acidly.

‘Why not tell him she wields enormous power?’ shot Honore de Fleury.

‘Which is always veiled,’ sighed Deschambeault. ‘Merde, I’ve no idea why she was there. My Julienne was to have been at Dr Normand’s clinic. Total rest and further treatments. The hydrotherapie sauvage and electrotherapie. Thirty cubic centimetres of the Chomel six times a day …’

‘And your wife, Monsieur de Fleury?’ asked Louis.

‘Knew only that I would be late and not home for dinner.’

Louis wouldn’t let him get away with that! thought Kohler.

‘And where, please, is home?’

‘The Hotel Majestic. We’ve three rooms just along the hall from Dr Menetrel and his family, and …’

‘Near Madame Petain’s suite?’

‘Near enough. All right, they know each other. They talk. Elisabeth and Madame Petain use the same coiffeur and … and visit the Grand etablissement thermal every Thursday, as does Madame Richard.’

This was getting better and better! ‘And do they share a bath?’ asked Kohler. ‘The steam room perhaps?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Tea once or twice a week, or coffee and cakes in the Chante Clair?’ he asked, ripping off more bread and still eating like a soldier in the trenches of that other war, as if it was his last meal.

‘Often enough, yes,’ flustered de Fleury. ‘Mon Dieu, you’re not suggesting my Eisabeth entered into some pact to kill them? She’s not like that. She’s meek and mild, the perfect stay-at-home mother and wife. Certainly she’s upset about how crowded things are, living as we have to, but … but I’ve made a full confession that she has accepted. Never again will I … Well, you know.’ Agitatedly he passed worried fingers over that brow of his.

‘Stray from the fold?’ quipped Hermann, helping himself to more of the truffades.

‘Sandrine has been appeased, Inspectors,’ said Richard dryly. ‘Revenge, yes, but as to her drowning Marie-Jacqueline …? It’s impossible. Nothing could have been further from her mind.’