Flykiller (18 page)

‘It's police work, Secrétaire,' he continued. ‘I'm sure you know all about it.
Mes amis
, this way, please.'

*

Threads and patches of dark blood were interwoven with the waste she had evacuated. The umbilical cord was a deep bluish purple to flaccid grey and netted with dark veins, the child, the foetus, tiny and curled up in the puddle.

Eyes stinging as the stench rushed in at him, Deschambeault jerked his head back and clapped a handkerchief over his nose and mouth. Rage, fear, doubt … ah, so many things were in the look he gave. Bousquet, to his credit, exhibited only concern and worry, a touch of sickness also.

‘
Enough, damn you!
' choked Deschambeault. ‘How dare you force me to look at her squatting in her filth? She's gone.
Finie
, eh? Isn't that enough for you?'

‘Jean-Louis …'

‘Secrétaire, a moment …'

‘A Sûreté? A Chief Inspector? Rene, is this
imbécile
the one that Laval insisted Paris send us? Well, is he?'

One should never back away from an insult, especially not from a
haut bourgeois
and a political! ‘Monsieur, you will excuse the first-hand experience, but it's necessary. You see, she was rendered unconscious by smothering and then placed here. Look closely … Come, come, both of you. Another simple introduction to police work, eh? You see there are fibres in the frothy, bloodstained, oedematous fluid that has erupted from her mouth. Some cotton wool, perhaps, or ersatz cloth you ask? Her killer found that the pillow he had used was insufficient,
n'est-ce pas
? A sock was jammed into her mouth while she was unconscious, then the nostrils were tightly pinched until the body's convulsions had ceased and the child had been aborted. That sock, in so far as I can presently ascertain, is missing but I may, perhaps, have found its mate. Now talk. Give me everything. Avoid arrest for the moment, Monsieur Gaëtan-Baptiste Deschambeault, Sous-directeur of the Bank of France, since there are more pressing matters.'

‘Arrest? What is this he's saying, René?'

‘Jean-Louis …'

The room was close, the door closed, the hotel silently listening no doubt, but it was now or never and they had to be made to cooperate. ‘Secrétaire, all four of the victims knew each other, yet you failed to tell us this. I need not remind you that such a lapse of memory could well bring arrest, dismissal, disgrace and a penalty of no less than five years.'

‘You wouldn't,' breathed Bousquet, the life draining from him.

‘Don't try me, Secrétaire. Please don't. This one went to Paris knowing of the murder yet failed to inform you of it even when he returned.'

‘Gaëtan, is this true?' blurted Bousquet, sickened by the thought of such a betrayal.

‘Two notes, monsieur. One written, I believe, not on Friday, but on Saturday morning early. Argue if you wish, but failing to report a murder can only add weight to the charges of counselling and arranging an abortion. That girl was expecting you, in any case!'

‘
Salaud
, you're a cold one, aren't you?' retorted Deschambeault acidly. ‘You don't like us much, do you?'

‘Liking or not liking you has nothing to do with it. You came here on Saturday not only because you were afraid Mademoiselle Trudel would decide to go home but because you'd arranged to give her a lift to the train.'

‘She … she was where you found her, yes.'

‘And the rats?'

‘Rats?' blurted Bousquet.

‘Were in her bed.'

‘Did you know she would go to the Hall des Sources for that bottle of the Chomel? That one. That one right there,' demanded St-Cyr.

‘I did not. I arrived well before seven when I knew the hotel would be asleep, and I quickly left.'

‘Pausing only long enough to write Friday's note?'

‘Inspector, I …'

‘Please just answer.'

‘Then, yes. No one saw me enter or leave the note or building – at least, I don't think anyone did. She hadn't been dead long, was still warm when I felt her neck for her pulse.'

‘And you saw no one?'

‘I'd been very lucky. After all, Marie-Jacqueline and Camille had been done in by this … this assassin. I had to leave. The fewer who knew of my being here, the better.'

The urge to say, It sounds familiar, doesn't it, Secrétaire? was there but it was unnecessary. Bousquet was clearly unsettled and now extremely worried.

‘Then it's true, Jean-Louis,' he muttered. ‘The bastards intend to kill us one by one, having paved the ground with corpses.'

It would do no good to show them
L'Humanité'
s list. For now it would be best to let them think they alone were the targets. ‘Who knew you would go to Paris last weekend, Sous-directeur?'

The abrupt softening of tone and absence of aggression were noted, Deschambeault taking out his cigar case and offering one. ‘It will help, I think,' he said as only he indulged. ‘My director knew of it, Inspector. My two most senior assistants, the wife and family of course, and those I was to meet in Paris.'

The cigar was lit, the fool even savouring it, thought Bousquet, silently cursing such stupidity. If St-Cyr thought anything of it – and he did, most certainly – he didn't let on. ‘The ambassador also, Gaëtan.'

‘Another telephone call, yes. To Paris.'

‘Even members of the Government, myself included,' interjected Bousquet, ‘must apply for and often wait days or weeks for a permit to cross the Demarcation Line.'

‘Fernand is occasionally difficult, as Rene suggests, but usually such things are easily arranged,' said Deschambeault with a magnanimous wave of his cigar.

‘Fernand?'

Jean-Louis must surely know who was meant! ‘De Brinon,' said Bousquet gruffly. ‘Delegate Général of the French Government to the Occupied Territories.'

The former
zone occupée.
‘Our
laissez-passers
came through quickly, of course,' said St-Cyr, ‘but only because Gestapo Boemelburg requested them from the Kommandantur, as he does each time he sends my partner and me south of the line.' A glance of warning passed between the two but had best be ignored for the moment. ‘How often did you see Mademoiselle Trudel socially, Sous-directeur?'

Socially …
En garde
, eh? Was that it? ‘Twice, occasionally three times a week.'

‘Alone, or in the company of others?'

‘Both. It depended entirely on circumstance and who was in town. Sometimes we'd meet up with others for a few drinks or a bit of a meal, sometimes not.'

‘Since when, please?'

St-Cyr had now taken to looking about the room. Being careful to touch nothing, he used the blunt end of a pencil when needed. He was still hunting for that other sock, thought Deschambeault, and answered, when asked again, ‘Two years.'

‘And how many weekends in Paris?'

‘
Merde alors
, is this an inquisition, am I a suspect, René?'

‘Please just answer him, Gaëtan,' said Bousquet. ‘It's necessary.'

‘Once a month. Perhaps less, perhaps more. My presence is often required at the bank in Paris, so it is only natural.'

There was the inconsequential wave of the pencil-hand. ‘Of course. But each time Mademoiselle Trudel accompanied you,
laissez-passers
were required?”

‘For both travelling to and from, yes. It's a fact of life, isn't that so? One does not argue. One compromises.'

The aroma of cigar smoke didn't mingle well with the stench of the body and the rats. ‘And your wife, monsieur? Please, I must ask again, was she aware of the affair?'

‘I hadn't realized you'd already asked.'

‘I hadn't.'

‘
Bâtard
, my Julienne isn't well and spends much of her time at a private clinic! Migraines, that sort of thing.'

‘Dr Raoul Normand?'

Marie-Jacqueline had worked part-time at the clinic but did St-Cyr know of this yet? ‘A crisis of the nerves. Several of them. Somehow the good doctor manages to calm her, particularly after she's stayed in that hospital of his for a few days or a week or two.'

‘And your children, were any or all of them aware of this infatuation of yours?'

‘Jean-Guy? Martine? Thérèse? Why do you ask?'

‘Monsieur Jean-Guy manages the racecourse and its stables, Jean-Louis. The Jockey Club and riding stables as well.'

Lucie Trudel would have known the son … ‘And the other two, the sisters?' asked St-Cyr.

‘Thérèse teaches ballet; Martine, having taken her degree in horticulture, tries to brighten the Government's solitude with her flowers. We've a labrador retriever, also a cook, housekeeper, chauffeur, groundskeeper and two, or is it three, maids of all work. My wife keeps firing and then rehiring them.'

‘But were your son and daughters or any of the staff aware of your running around?'

‘My fucking Lucie? Why should they have cared, especially as it kept me happy and content?'

‘It must have cost you plenty.'

‘I've private money. I've always had it.'

‘And the riding crop, monsieur? Why did her killer or killers place it in her hand?'

Ah damn this infernal Sûreté! ‘I've no idea. How could I have?'

‘It's curious, that's all.'

‘Then if you're through with me, I'm already late for a meeting with Dr Carl Schaefer, the coordinator of the Bank of France and director of the Office for the Surveillance of French Banks.'

‘
Das Bankenaufsichtsamt
,' said St-Cyr in
Deutsch
just to increase their uneasiness if possible.

‘The reparations,' countered Deschambeault in French without a whisper of disquietude. ‘Try as we consistently have, our friends refuse to reduce them.'

Five hundred million francs, nearly seventy per cent of the value of the whole economy, went to the Reich every day of every year. Two and a half million pounds sterling at the official rate, or eleven and half a million US dollars.

‘Secrétaire, transport was promised and is urgently needed.'

‘A Peugeot two-door sedan has been left for you and Kohler outside the Hôtel du Parc. The keys, together with petrol and food tickets, are with the concierge. It's the best I could do under … under the circumstances.'

‘
Merci.
Then please notify the sous-préfet that we again require the services of his iron man. Felix Laloux is to do the autopsy on this one also, and I'm grateful you arranged his release from prison. There were only four of you in your little group? If there are others, now is the time to say so.'

‘Four only,' said Bousquet guardedly.

‘An
bon.
Then for now that is all, but please remind the others to take precautions. No one leaves town. Not today, tomorrow or any other day until this matter is settled.'

‘And the killer or killers?' demanded Deschambeault.

‘Have ears that have been wrapped around each and every one of you. Let us hope my partner can pin things down a little more firmly.'

Already St-Cyr had gone back to his probing, easing a drawer open, leafing through a novel with the blunt end of that pencil. Totally absorbed as if he'd forgotten them.

‘He won't,' swore Bousquet as they left the building and headed for the car where Georges sat behind the wheel. He had kept the engine running in spite of the ordinance to do no such thing. ‘He'll remember every word you said, Gaëtan, every nuance. The cigar, the riding crop, the
laissez-passers
Fernand so generously parts with from that allocation of his when you grease his palm, as do I and others. How
could
you have gone to Paris without telling me she'd been murdered?'

‘You worry too much, René. He's only a cop.'

‘His partner's a Gestapo.'

‘Who has yet to visit Herr Gessler to pay his respects.'

‘Then let us hope he doesn't.'

‘Gessler says Herr Kohler's loyalties are being constantly questioned and that Gestapo Paris-Central would just as soon be rid of him and St-Cyr.'

‘Idiot, both are considered far too honest and seek only the truth. But it's you I'm also worried about, Gaëtan. You
would
take Lucie to Paris. You know how I've warned you about Doriot and Déat and the others of the far right. Any excuse to let us have it is excuse enough for them.'

‘The Intervention-Referat, the Bickler Unit?'

‘Hired assassins who know how to hide behind the Resistance and have or have not the sanction of their Gestapo friends. Georges, drop the sous-directeur off at La maison des saumons plus beaux for a taste of that fish he and Lucie used to love, and where I know he's to meet with Schaefer, then run me round to the
commissariat.
We've found another one.'

As the car drove off, Kohler let the blackout curtains at the end of the sixth-floor corridor fall back into place. No sound came up from the lift, or from anywhere else. It was eerie how quiet the hotel could be; it simply wasn't good.

Room 6-11 was as close as peas in a pod to being above that of Lucie Trudel and below that of Céline Dupuis. And why the hell did the Resistance have to put Louis's name in print and do so in advance of their visit?

That, too, was eerie and not good.

Kneeling – ignoring the sore-tooth pain in his knee – he tried to peer through the keyhole only to find the key had been inserted into the other side of the lock. ‘Okay,
mein Liebling
,' he muttered under his breath, ‘two can play this game.'

Using a half-round feeler from the ring of lock-picking tools in his jacket pocket, he silently gave the key a gentle push and felt it move, hoped there'd be a carpet and heard the bloody thing crash on the parquet floor. Through the keyhole he saw a plump white rabbit suddenly lift its head and prick up its ears, then return greedily to its feeding.