Flykiller (22 page)

The line of traffic moved ahead one space, the car jerked as Hermann let out the clutch, then slammed on the brakes.

‘
I must embrace you. Bernard can arrange everything. Bernard, my sweet. Look upon him as a friend in need and his loyalty and absolute discretion will be yours, as they are my own.
No wonder Ménétrel wants the letters, Louis. They as much as say he arranged the liaison that led to her death, but why the hell would anyone, even Blanche Varollier or that brother of hers, remove and then return them?'

‘To be found not by Bousquet or the doctor, Hermann, but by ourselves.'

‘But … but surely our killer or killers couldn't have known we'd go there soon? Surely Blanche and her brother couldn't have?'

‘But someone did. Someone who knows us well. The very staircase I would take in that hotel, my name on that list before we even knew we'd have to leave Paris.'

‘Someone so close to things here, he, she or they are not only aware of what's going on moment by moment, but can come and go at will.'

‘And aren't even noticed, Hermann, because, like others in the Government and the town, they are a part of the woodwork. They must be, and they know this and are confident of it. Supremely so.'

Lost to the thought – feeling exceedingly uncomfortable because of it – Louis took back the letter and began to retie the ribbon. ‘A good ten letters … no, fifteen,' he said, ‘but not all of the envelopes, though of the same colour, use identical stationery.'

‘Pardon?'

‘These …' He quickly sorted through them. ‘Are to a Madame Noëlle Olivier.'

‘And the dates?' muttered Kohler, knowing now that they
had
been left for them on purpose!

‘June, July, September, October and November 1925, Hermann, and all from the Maréchal.'

‘To another married woman? Another of his conquests? Was the bugger so arrogant as to have sent them to her home? Well, was he?'

‘To 133 boulevard des Célestins, Vichy.'

‘
Jésus, merde alors
, take the topmost one and read it, then. Let whoever's trying to tell us something, tell it!'

Paris, 15 November 1925

My dear Madame Olivier,

You will excuse me if it appears harsh when I tell you enough is enough. Should you wish to pursue your intentions, please do so through my solicitors. Remember, though, that such a scandal as you envision is always a two-edged sword. Your good name and those of your husband and children are at present free from all such concerns. To wound them so grievously is to wound yourself and gain nothing. Love is always a battleground. Some you win, and from some you must inevitably retreat.

Adieu
.

Pétain

‘A glacier, Louis.'

‘
Oui.
But what did she do? This letter has been stained by a flood of tears and then tightly crumpled into a ball, only to be later flattened out.'

‘Did she use the rope, take poison, drown herself, find a gun, or simply go on living?' asked Kohler.

‘Only to keep the memory of him close and bide her time?'

‘Or are we looking for the husband and is he the one who ducks into and out of rooms to leave things for us to find?'

There were always questions, seldom easy answers. Because of a bend in the road and its rise and narrowness, they hadn't been able to see the entrance to the bridge but now could. Instead of two men on the Boutiron Control, there were four. Instead of acne-faced teenagers in oversized greatcoats with Mauser rifles, this detail wore winter whites with hoods up and cradled Schmeissers in white-mittened hands to keep the grease on their weapons from congealing.

‘A
Sonderkommando
?' asked Louis, sickened by the sight and quickly stuffing away the letters and the knife.

A special command. ‘Waffen-SS,' breathed Kohler softly. ‘Straight in from Russia via the glorious army of the South that's now based in Lyons. An airdrop likely. Unless I'm mistaken,
mon vieux
, Bousquet, thinking the worst and that
les gars
really were the targets, must have run to Herr Gessler and the nameless one, and they called in the fist.'

There would be motorcycle patrols and arrests – all manner of such things. ‘And if we so much as question someone or take too great an interest in them,' said St-Cyr sadly, ‘so will they.'

Unsettled by the thought, they waited, and when the car was finally noticed in the line-up, a mittened fist soon pounded on the side window.

Hermann rolled it down. ‘Trouble, Sergeant?' he asked pleasantly enough in
Deutsch.

Shrapnel had once torn the right side of the Scharführer's face from well above the half-closed, lead-grey eye to the raw-boned chin. The last three fingers of the right hand were missing, the left shoulder permanently hunched forward.

‘
Papiere, mein Herr
.'

‘Kohler, Kripo, Paris-Central. We're in a bit of a rush, Scharführer.'

‘That does not matter.'

‘Don't you need the password?'

‘If you wish.'

Herr Kohler gave out with the
Quatsch.
Harvests ripe and all, the song perfect, thought Gerd Schepp. But this Kripo was known to point the finger of truth at his own kind and wore the scars of it. Disloyal, not a true believer, and one to be treated as if
Scheisse
were on the boots.

That thumb and forefinger were impatiently snapped. Finding the papers wasn't easy. ‘Your right coat pocket, Herr Detektiv Inspektor,' offered Louis submissively.

‘Ah!
Danke
.'

A packet of long-forgotten cigarettes – emergency rations – was now more than slightly crushed, Louis having tucked it in there and four left, only four.

Offered up, straightened and lit – one each and the French half of the partnership totally left out – the papers were found and handed over to be closely scrutinized.

‘You're a long way from home,' tried Hermann. ‘Ferleiten … the Hohe Tauern, near the Italian border?'

He'd deliberately got the location wrong so as to encourage conversation, thought St-Cyr, only to hear the Scharführer grunt, ‘Mathausen. I used to work in the granite quarry but now they have plenty of cheap labour though they could, perhaps, still use someone with a knowledge of explosives if you're interested.'

A concentration camp!

‘The north bank of the Danube near Enns?
Mein Gott
, Louis, how could I have missed it? One tries so hard but I've been away too long, I guess. Here, sorry I forgot to light a cigarette for you. Have mine.'

‘Destination?' demanded Schepp.

‘A cabin downriver. A crime scene,' said Kohler blandly and never mind about their heading for the racetrack!

‘Recent?'

‘Not so recent.'

‘Then there's no rush, is there?'

‘Not really.'

‘Length of stay?'

Verdammt
, were they going to be watched that closely? ‘An hour or two, Scharführer. More if we find something we need to follow up.'

‘Curfew has been rolled back to twenty-one hundred hours. Make sure you're tucked in by then.'

The buzzing drone of a low-flying Storch interrupted them. Camouflaged, sand-coloured from the desert war in North Africa and looking like a skinny dragonfly with stiff legs, the plane roared overheard at 200 metres, then quickly throttled back to drop to river level.

‘The tiny aerodrome below the village of Charmeil,' explained St-Cyr humbly. ‘It's only five kilometres from here, Inspektor. The Maréchal Pétain has a large farmhouse in the village; Herr Abetz a chateau, I believe.'

Hermann paid no apparent attention, would continue to try to break through that armour.

‘Were you at Stalingrad with von Paulus and the 6th, Scharführer? I ask only because my boys were there and still are.'

‘And not on the long march into Siberia? They're among the lucky then, aren't they, Herr Hauptmann der Geheime Stattspolizist?'

Fish only when there are fish to be caught and then you won't be humiliated, thought St-Cyr ruefully. The whole of the 6th Army, what had been left of it, had been taken. Over 90,000 men were on that march, but the Scharführer was letting Hermann know his sons were heroes, their father something far less. Paris had informed Herr Gessler of who Hermann was, and Gessler had spread the word.

‘Lucky, yes,' muttered Hermann tightly. ‘What's going on here?'

‘The same war.'

‘
Banditen
in the hills? That was a spotter plane, wasn't it?'

‘
Terroristen, ja.
Communists. FTPs. We'll soon clean them out. Who's he?'

‘Him? The Frenchman they gave me to run errands. St-Cyr, Sûreté.'

‘The Oberdetektiv Jean-Louis St-Cyr of 3 Laurence-Savart in Belleville, Paris? The one who gets his name splashed all over the papers?'

‘Yes. Yes, that's him.'

‘Then just remember the two of you are on your own. We have enough to do as it is and won't be lifting a finger to help should you get into difficulties. Oh, I've forgotten my hand. This finger.' The roof was banged. ‘Pass. Erich, let this one pass,' called out the Scharführer. ‘They have to pee.'

‘Sorry, Louis,' muttered Kohler. ‘You know I didn't mean that bit about running errands.'

The
Sonderkommando
would net the innocent, the terrified who would bolt simply because they wouldn't know what the hell was going on, and perhaps even a few
maquisards
would be caught. But was the threat really from the Résistance as Bousquet and the others thought? And had the Führer not also used the opportunity to make absolutely certain Pétain didn't go over to the Allies?

The aerodrome would still have French aircraft sufficient for a night flight to Morocco or Algiers, and Hermann … Hermann had been told by the nameless one that the Reich didn't want anything happening to the Maréchal or else.

They had reached the stables.

‘Hermann, will you be okay in there?'

Louis was remembering the SS and the scar of a rawhide whip that his partner had earned in the stables of a chateau on the Loire near Vouvray early last December, the château of Gabrielle Arcuri's mother-in-law. ‘Me? Fine. No problem.'

Perhaps. ‘There are two cars parked outside, and one engine is colder than the other.'

‘Ferbrave's come running, I think.'

‘And Albert?'

‘Has found more rats than he bargained for.'

Built at the turn of the century, their heavily timbered cupolas rising above the loft, the stables' stalls were arranged off an aisle that was more than 300 metres in length and held the accumulated tack of all those years. There were thoroughbreds, quarter horses, trotters, hunters and those for just plain pleasure. Lucie Trudel's dappled grey was a splendid gelding; the stall was immaculate, even with a snapshot of her pinned up for the horse to look at if lonely.

Stablehands, and the usual hangers-on every track seemed to have, were about, riders still coming in. Two of the
Blitzmädchen
, the grey mice who had come from the Reich to work as telegraphers and typists, et cetera, were rubbing down a bay mare and whispering sweet nothings to it. A Wehrmacht général and his orderly were dismounting to hand over the reins. Everything seemed quite normal. A busy place. Bicycles had been parked outside and at least two staff cars were at the far end.

‘No trouble, then,' breathed Kohler.

‘But trouble all the same,' sighed Louis.

To the north-east, there was the racetrack and, just to the west of this and in line with the stables, the grandstand with the Jockey Club's reception rooms, restaurant and bar on the ground floor and first storey.

The showjumping course and paddocks were closer to the stables. The whole area must be lovely even in winter, thought Kohler. Fantastic if one had the money and time. And good to see that the Wehrmacht felt at least some horses should remain in France. A necessity.

‘Please don't forget the sports club and golf course that are behind us, Inspector,' said Louis tritely. ‘The tennis club and its swimming pool also.'

‘And the clay-pigeon shoot which is a little to the west so that the noise won't disturb things here, eh?
Merde
, where the hell are Deschambeault and Ferbrave and our two innocents?'

If one of them was indeed innocent!

Not here, one of the hangers-on seemed to say, nodding curtly towards the way they'd come.

Blue-blinkered lanterns were being lit, but above them were strings of paper ones, from the Mikado perhaps, which once would have illuminated the dances that the owners must have held at the Jockey Club after successful races. Champagne and
les élégantes de tout Paris
wandering up into the loft to soft lights and beds of hay. Cigars, too!

‘A bloody firetrap, Louis!' snorted Kohler, the pungency of manure, hay, horse piss and oats mingling with that of occasional and not-so-occasional tobacco. ‘Stay down here. I'll take a look above.'

Again St-Cyr asked if his partner was all right; again Kohler had to reassure him.

Torch in hand, Hermann began to climb one of the ladders. In many ways it was similar to the stable at Vouvray. He hesitated – that bad knee of his, cursed St-Cyr silently. He went on, was soon out of sight. Perhaps they'd come a third of the way along the main aisle, perhaps a little more, but … Ah
mon Dieu
, what was going on? Everything had suddenly stopped. Even the
Blitzmädchen
hesitated …

Shrill on the damp, cold air came a high-pitched, ‘
no, monsieur! please, no!
'

From the far end of the aisle a stallion neighed in fright and began to kick its stall. Inès Charpentier shrieked again and again, which only frightened the horse more. It kicked and kicked and neighed, the girl trying desperately to dodge its hooves. Others became restless. Others began to join in …