Flykiller (27 page)

‘That one seldom comes here, since we have never sold cigarettes or loose tobacco. For those one must patronize a
tabac
, I think.'

Methodically descending from his perch, Honoré Paquet told himself that one should always be polite even when speaking of men such as Laval.

‘Please have a seat, Inspector. A little of the Rémy-Martin Louis XIII? It's superb and has such a bouquet. I find it whets the appetite but one can't, I'm sorry to say, enjoy one of our cigars here or that pipe of yours. Should you wish to smoke, why, we can go into the shop. Pierre-David will, of course, have pulled and locked the shutters by now.'

The Louis XIII … The 1925, and on a
pas d'alcools
day.

The hand that poured was steady. The elder Paquet sat only after he had finished, the son coming into the room to quietly say, ‘Papa, shall I wait for you?'

The head was briefly shaken. ‘Have the
vélo-taxi
pick me up on your way home. Don't worry so much, Pierre-David.
Mon Dieu
, if my last breath is to be drawn, let me take it here.'

‘There's an early curfew, papa. You need to rest and then to eat something. The soup and bread, a little of the poached salmon and then the
pot-au-feu
or the chicken.'

‘Inspector, you see what I'm blessed with? A miracle. How long do you think we will be?'

‘A half-hour. Perhaps a little more. My partner is to meet me here but one never quite knows with him.'

‘One of
les Allemands
?'

‘They are our constant companions. Monsieur Pierre-David, please keep an eye on the time, allowing sufficient for you and your father not to miss dinner. And a black-market one at that! Could you bring us the register, though?'

The father gave the son the slightest of nods. Holding his glass in both hands to warm it and catch the light, the elder Paquet grew serious. ‘Four
jeunes filles
, Inspector.
Très adorables, très intelligentes
, yet each murdered in a different way. It's curious, is it not? The knife for all, one would have thought. Guns are far too noisy, wires too brutal, too savage.'

‘Did any of them come into the shop?'

‘Each of them, and from time to time. A little present for the men in their lives, the theatre props also.'

‘Pardon?'

‘The cabaret, but only with Madame Dupuis or others of that group. She always chose the less expensive, machine-made cigars when she could, though we seldom carry them. The cost was not one for which she received any compensation, so we reached a little agreement. Piano lessons for my great-grandson in exchange. Surely that's no crime. If it is, I freely admit it.'

Barter most definitely was, but to prosecute him or anyone else for such a thing would only be to align oneself with an authority whose smallness one increasingly despised, as did Hermann. Women, though not allowed a tobacco ration, could have been ‘given' the tickets to buy supplies for a friend or relative.

‘From time to time such as these would come into our possession. A moment, please. Excuse me,' said Paquet only too aware of what must be running through this Sûreté's mind.

Pushing the ladder, he vanished round a corner and went right to the back of the humidor, returning a patient few minutes later with a pocket case.

The label was in English.

T
HIS AIRTIGHT TIN CONTAINS FIVE CIGARS, SELECTED AND PACKED FOR CAMPAIGNING
.

‘“Alfred Dunhill”,' read St-Cyr with a sadness he couldn't help. ‘“Thirty Duke Street, St James's, London, SW.” Property of a “Thomas Almond, Esquire”.'

‘Inspector, I have no knowledge of where this flying officer, navigator or gunner was shot down, nor do I know if he even survived. The cigars are no doubt the best Dunhill's could provide at cost, given that the German naval blockade must surely have cut off virtually all such supplies, but I content myself with their having at least attempted to fit out their servicemen in such a proper fashion.'

One of the old school most definitely, since similar tins including the use of the word ‘campaigning' had been used in the Great War.

The son produced the register and retreated, the hush of the humidor closing in on them. And how many secrets are there here? wondered St-Cyr, for the register began on 14 June 1862 and contained the signatures, dates and purchases or special orders of every client since then. A truly remarkable historical record – tsars and tsarinas, kings and queens, et cetera, et cetera, but Laval hadn't wanted them to dwell on this aspect.

Running a finger down through the recent months, he found the signatures of several women, including those of Céline Dupuis and … ah
merde
, Blanche Varollier. A Choix Supreme, purchased for 500 francs and part of a ration ticket, the balance to be held on account, on Saturday, 30 January 1943 at 4.45 p.m., the same day that Lucie Trudel had been murdered.

‘The other cabaret dancers and singers, monsieur?' he asked harshly. ‘Did they also choose only the cheapest for each performance?'

‘Madame Carole Navaud prefers the Hoyo de Monterrey double corona, the favourite of many who know and appreciate a truly fine cigar. Madame Aurélienne Tavernier will smoke anything and always asks what I advise, and Madame Nathalie Bénoist purchases only the El Rey del Mundo Demi-Tasse, a small cigar, quite slender, smooth and mild, the aroma always delicate.'

This was all written down in the detective's notebook. ‘And Henri-Claude Ferbrave?' he asked

‘Is not a client.'

‘A supplier?'

‘Sometimes.'

‘That's not good enough, monsieur.'

‘Then often. Inspector, were we not to purchase what he brings us, others would sell it. These days one does what one can and hopes that one's stock won't be requisitioned.'

Otto Abetz was a frequent client, Charles-Frédéric Hébert, the custodian of his château, also Herr Gessler and, just recently, an Arnolt Jännicke – the nameless one? wondered St-Cyr. A Major Remer was the district Kommandant.

As with the list of occupants of the Hôtel d'Allier, to go through even this small portion of the register would require far too much time.

Taking out Camille Lefèbvre's
mégot
tin, he opened it. ‘Surely she wouldn't have mixed tobacco from the cigar butts with that from the cigarettes?'

Paquet lifted his gaze from the tin. ‘To inhale such smoke would only make one sick, I should think. Far too harsh. The curing is quite different,
n'est-ce pas
?'

‘Ah,
oui
, but are they …' The detective hurriedly flipped open his little notebook to the note he had just made. ‘The Demi-Tasses of the cabaret dancer, Madame Nathalie Bénoist?'

‘They are. At least, they could quite possibly be hers.'

‘And these cigar bands?' he asked, opening another tin that had once held dressmaker's pins.

‘An El Rey del Mundo Choix Supreme and a Romeo y Julieta double corona maduro. The latter's dark brown leaf is the result of extra maturing which produces a richly flavoured cigar with a mild aroma. The British Prime Minister was very fond of them.'

Pacquet turned the heavy register towards himself and, finding a page several years back, quickly located the name. ‘A brief visit in the summer of 1913. Mademoiselle Mailloux was very much interested in seeing his signature. Winston Leonard Spencer Churchill, First Lord of the Admiralty then. A very determined gentleman with decided views as to his choice of cigar, the
français
atrocious, but I did manage to understand him. Two dozen of the maduras at twenty francs each.
Mon Dieu
, how prices have risen. Mademoiselle Mailloux laughed a little when I gave her that band but she didn't enlighten me as to what she saw as being so funny. Albert Grenier wearing it, I suppose. She was a bit of an imp and loved putting one over on the pompous stuffed shirts, as she'd have called them. Madame Dupuis was most upset to learn of her death, as were others, myself included, and especially Madame. Lefebvre and Mademoiselle Trudel. Four doves, I used to call them. Birds, wanting only to fly in these harsh times of ours, and now they've all been murdered. A tragedy.'

Céline's note to Lucie had stated they needed to talk. ‘It's urgent,' she had said.

‘Monsieur, when found, Madame Dupuis was wearing one of these. The stones are
blancs exceptionnels
, the earrings perhaps from the
fin de siècle
, or from the twenties.'

Paquet didn't need to touch them. ‘Was there an exquisite strand of sapphires?'

It would be best to lay the necklace on the table and tell him of the dress.

‘And why wasn't she wearing both earrings?'

‘That is one of the questions we are trying to settle.'

‘Then please don't avoid the obvious.'

‘She tried to remove and hide them from her killers, succeeding only with one.'

‘Was she also wearing the silver dress and the sapphires?'

‘Ah no. No, she wasn't.'

‘A white silk
chemise de nuit
and black-meshed underthings, the cabaret costume?'

Word must be flying. A nod would suffice, Paquet raising a forefinger to indicate he would need a moment.

When he returned much saddened, it was with a box of Choix Supremes, quite obviously a part of a client's private store but long forgotten. ‘The Maréchal was not the only one to favour these, Inspector. Auguste-Alphonse Olivier and his wife would often come into the shop on their way to the theatre or casino, or to some function or other. There was also a tiara, a thin headband that had been purchased for Madame Noëlle Olivier in Paris, from Cartier's on place Vendôme by Monsieur Olivier, as had the necklace. The earrings had been his. mother's, I believe. But … but why should Madame Dupuis have had them? Surely that one was no thief? She had a daughter she missed terribly. Always a postcard or two from the child, or the latest she was sending her. She was fiercely determined to return to Paris, felt she had saved up enough. “It's all been arranged,” she said. “The
laissez-passer
and
sauf-conduit
will soon be here, the residence permit also.”'

‘Did she say who had arranged them for her?'

‘Ah no, but … but I felt it had to have been Dr Ménétrel, the Maréchal's personal physician. Inspector, why would such as these not have been in Monsieur Olivier's safe-deposit box? Oh certainly, there are now the lists everyone has to fill out just as they did in the north, in the
zone occupée
in 1940. All items above a value of a hundred thousand francs, the louis d'or one has kept against the devaluations and the inflation. Has anything happened to him?'

To admit that they didn't know would sound foolish but had best be done.

‘He's never been the same, not since she took her life on 18 November 1925. Thirty cubic centimetres of laudanum and into the river with her.
Toute nue
, which only made the heads here buzz all the more, I'm afraid. She was only thirty-four years old. Lovely, so lovely. It broke his heart. A cuckold.'

‘And now?'

‘A bitter man who keeps much to himself and is seldom seen except in the late evening when strolling through our English Garden along the river. Solitary, the hat pulled down, the scarf tight, the walking stick and stride no longer purposeful.'

Olivier had withdrawn his last cigar from the box at noon on that fateful day.

‘Monsieur Auguste-Alphonse used to love his after-dinner cigar, Inspector. It was then that he would contemplate the day behind him and plan for the one ahead. Madame Noëlle … She was his life away from the world of finance, his constant ray of sunshine in a world that was too often clouded with difficulties. Not only had he been our mayor for several years, he was our foremost banker.'

Laval had said to take Paquet into their confidence but would it be wise to reveal more?

The inspector laid a number of
billets doux
on the table; the powder-blue envelopes and handwriting of the address were enough. ‘God seldom makes us perfect,' said Paquet. ‘Even a most esteemed and austere Head of State has weaknesses. The Maréchal set his cap for her and won, only to then leave her in despair. She and Monsieur Olivier had two children, a boy and girl. In spite of this, there were frequent trips to Paris by Madame Noëlle – too many, some said; others that she was young and beautiful and that to live in Vichy must be stifling for her after being raised among
les hauts
of Paris. The grandmother had left her a mansion in Neuilly, not far from the Bois de Boulogne.'

‘But when the Maréchal wrote this, she killed herself?' asked the Inspector, tapping the missive.

‘
Oui.
Auguste-Alphonse went in search of her, the letter in his hand, but found only her clothes and the empty dark blue bottle that had held the laudanum her grandmother must once have been in the habit of taking. There is a weir and a footbridge that crosses our river, the Pont Barrage. It leads to the sports club and golf course. Her clothes were found on it, the body downstream on one of the islands where, in summer, it is said couples sunbathe in secret.'

‘The two children, monsieur, where are they now?'

This one would leave no stone unturned. ‘In the north, in Paris. He sent them away to avoid the scandal that had erupted and ruined him. They were raised by his wife's family, and he has had, I believe, no further contact with them.'

‘Their ages now?'

‘They were twelve at the time.'

‘Thirty, then, and a set of twins.'

‘Inspector, there was one other item Madame Noëlle left with her clothing. A knife. A Laguiole. It was felt she had thought of killing herself with it but had, at the last, taken what she felt was a better way. The slumber. The water, though cold, would soon have overcome her.'

The inspector opened its blade, and, laying the Laguiole on top of the
billets doux
, tossed off his cognac, needing no further answer.