Flykiller

‘And yet … and yet,’ motioned Louis with his fork. ‘You and your lover shared a bath at the etablissement thermal and your wife, since she also visits the baths, must have known the two of you were accustomed to doing this, as did Madame Petain. It wasn’t the first time, was it?’

‘Inspectors … Inspectors,’ chided Bousquet, grinning affably as he rejoined them, ‘in the heat of a jealous rage a woman will say anything!’

‘And Madame Petain?’ asked Hermann, wolfing most of a truffade. ‘Just what the hell was she doing there last 24 October?’

‘In the middle of the night, messieurs?’ demanded Louis. ‘Was it raining? And which of you escorted Mesdames Sandrine Richard and Elisabeth de Fleury to the car, only to find the Marechal’s wife staring out through her side window at him?’

‘I did,’ said Bousquet, that lambskin-collared overcoat of his falling open to reveal the very finest of suits – did he change his shirts several times a day? wondered St-Cyr. Image was so often everything to the Occupier. Wealth and power went hand in hand with that.

‘I told her the matter had been taken care of,’ said Bousquet stonily, ‘and that there was no cause for further alarm.’

‘When, really, it hadn’t been taken care of at all,’ sighed Louis, helping himself to the salad. ‘Further parties at that same chateau led to further flagrant infidelities; here, too, I should think, and at the Jockey Club, wouldn’t you say, Hermann?’

‘I’d give him a month’s wages, Louis, just to hear what Madame Petain had to say!’

‘Mon Dieu, how were we to know then that all four would be killed?’ demanded Bousquet.

The dishes were, of course, covered, the porcelain not Sevres or Limoges but eminently serviceable. Renowned for his love of the table, Laval had stood them proud, but why?

‘Messieurs,’ said St-Cyr, ‘let us admit that you were up to mischief and that it had to stop if for no other reason than that of the scandal and embarrassment to the very Government you serve. Marie-Jacqueline was killed but the rest of you carried on as if nothing had happened, and certainly for you, Ministre Richard, this first killing was a blessing in disguise. She was trouble – you, yourself, have stated this. She was drunk – she must have been, a little at least – and had slipped below the water in that bath. The electricity had gone off – another power failure you went to investigate – and when you returned, you stated to the investigating officer later that you thought she was still alive, wanting only to caress you with her foot.’

‘That was 9 December, Louis, at about 6.50 p.m. Then all but a month later, Monsieur le Secretaire General meets Camille Lefebvre at a cabin he rents out for just such a purpose, and let’s not kid ourselves about that.’

‘And at 2.45 a.m. finds her garrotted, fires two or three shots into the wilderness but can’t remember how many and buggers off to Paris to an important meeting.’

‘Inspectors …’ attempted Bousquet.

‘No, please,’ cautioned Louis, taking more bread with his salad. ‘Lucie Trudel then dies and she, too, could have been a substantial embarrassment to you, Sous-directeur Deschambeault, so much so that you even failed to inform your friend and business partner, our Secretaire General de Police, of the murder.’

‘Then Celine is persuaded to agree to do something she didn’t want to do, and is taken to the Hall des Sources at 10 p.m. on Tuesday, 2 February,’ said Hermann. ‘Trouble is, mon vieux, if this one had owned up as he should have, Celine might still be alive.’

‘Two of those murders rest on your shoulders, Sous-directeur. I’m even certain you read her note: “Lucie, we have to talk. It’s urgent”.’

‘What was?’ asked Hermann. ‘The abortion? The murders of Marie-Jacqueline and Camille and were they to be next, eh? Or had Celine discovered who the killer or killers were?’

‘Jean-Louis … Herr Kohler … listen to me, please,’ urged Bousquet, no longer dashing, just damned worried. ‘It can’t have been the wives. Merde alors, it’s crazy to even think such a thing.’

‘It’s the terrorists,’ said Deschambeault vehemently. ‘Why else would your name be at the top of L’Humanite’s list? Those bastards are out to get us!’

‘The Resistance,’ said Hermann. ‘There’s only one problem. Since when did they start killing the innocent only to forget entirely about their intended targets?’

‘They want to make us afraid of them!’ seethed Richard.

‘To prolong our agony!’ hissed de Fleury.

‘Or is it, messieurs, that the killer or killers wish you to blame the Resistance, as you have?’

‘Herr Gessler and Herr Jannicke will sort it out, Jean-Louis,’ said Bousquet gruffly. ‘I had no choice but to ask them to bring in a little help.’

‘To snatch people from their farms and streets?’

‘By questioning anyone they think necessary,’ he countered.

‘Then let us hope we’re allowed to continue unhindered, or is it, Secretaire, that you still want roadblocks thrown up in front of us?’

‘Not at all. We’re here to cooperate.’