Flykiller (48 page)

It was the maître d' who, on coming to their table, quietly confided, ‘Mademoiselle, the doctor wishes you to present your portrait to the Maréchal for his appraisal tomorrow morning at 9.50.'

‘Where?' she asked, her voice far from strong.

‘Why here, of course. Behind that.'

The screen that kept the great one from prying eyes while he ate.

‘Right after his breakfast briefing. A few minutes can be spared, mademoiselle. No more.'

A few minutes … ‘Yes. Why, yes, of course. I understand perfectly.
Merci.
'

10

As the dining room was cleared, the detectives again sat alone at their table. Blanche had remained at hers, Sandrine at Madame Pétain's. And I? mused Inès silently. I sit to the far side looking beyond hurrying waiters and across vacated tables to Herr Kohler, and he at me. Kripo that he was, Kohler had realized exactly how terrified of arrest and torture she'd been. He had watched her closely as she'd taken the valise with her and had set it carefully on the floor at her feet. He'd known she'd been silently repeating Aves; had known she had all but run from Gessler and the other one.

Madame Pétain and Madame de Fleury had gone to dress for the trip the detectives had insisted on to the clinic of Dr Normand and his patient, Julienne Deschambeault. Sandrine Richard would drive the two ladies to the clinic. And I? Inès demanded and answered, I must go in either car. And Blanche? she wondered. Would Blanche come with them or …

Herr Kohler nodded at her. ‘Gessler's just given us a reminder, Louis. Having sealed the town off and put the
Sonderkommando
to work scouring the countryside, he and Herr Jännicke will quietly let us do the job here. If we foul up, we'll get the blame; if we succeed, he'll take the credit.'

‘
Merde
, this investigation, Hermann. Vichy is like a Pandora's box and Chinese puzzle all in one. Every time we lift a lid, there's another waiting!'

Tobacco was needed; crumbs from the meal were carelessly scattered on the tablecloth. Did they have the bits and pieces arranged before them again? wondered Inès. Would St-Cyr insist on the plodding, methodical approach in spite of the need for haste?

Would Herr Kohler's impatience get the better of them both?

When it was time to leave, they refused to let her travel with Madame Richard and the others. Though it couldn't be so very dark outside the Hotel Majestic, due to the snow cover, everything was jet black to her. No details at all, no silhouettes. Just nothing but an empty, empty darkness, she wanting desperately to reach out and feel her way yet knowing she mustn't, that she must hide the blindness from them at all cost.

Suddenly she went down hard at an unseen step, Herr Kohler grabbing her. ‘Easy,' he said. ‘Don't worry so much. You're not under arrest.'

Arrest? Ah, Sainte Mère
, why had he to say it? No lights were on that she could see but she knew there must be the blue-blinkered torches of pedestrians, those of the tail lights and headlamps of
vélos, vélo-taxis
and horse-drawn carriages. Wasn't that a cyclist she heard call out a warning?

They crossed some pavement, went out on to a road, reached a car, any car – their car – she clutching her valise and handbag tightly and telling herself it's a two-door Peugeot. The back seat … You'll have to squeeze into it …

‘A moment, mademoiselle,' said St-Cyr, the door opening at last …

Now put the valise in carefully ahead of you, Inès told herself. That's it,
ma chère.
You're doing fine. Now follow it. Say something.
Anything
to hide your blindness. ‘It must be late. People are hurrying home.'

Still there were none of the firefly lights as there were in Paris every time she'd had to go out at night and had had to wait, leaning against a wall or lamp-post, until her eyes had adjusted and her terror had abated with relief at the sight of them and their owners' silhouettes.

‘You must drink bilberry tisanes,' Monsieur Olivier had said well before dawn yesterday when she had arrived in Vichy, he having come to meet her at a café near the railway station. ‘Vitamin A, mademoiselle. Too many are suffering from its lack, not here, though. Here, in Vichy, the problem hasn't surfaced because we've only had a full blackout since 11 November. Before that, every second street-lamp was always lit.'

He'd been able to see perfectly when walking from a lighted room into darkness, she abysmally not at all.

When the car pulled over, Inès felt they must be near the main casino, which was at the far end of the Parc des Sources. St-Cyr got out; Kohler lit a cigarette, then offered her one, only to say, ‘Oh, sorry, I forgot. You don't use them, do you?'

‘Is there some trouble?' she asked, turning to look behind them but knowing she still couldn't see a thing.

‘Trouble? Louis is just telling them we've had a change of plan.'

She blinked. She would concentrate hard on where she felt his cigarette must be, but each time she had experienced night blindness, it had taken a little longer for her eyes to adjust, each time it had become more terrifying. To not have one's sight, to be totally blind and a courier, a
résistante
…

Quickly the kid crossed herself and kissed her fingertips, had forgotten to wear her gloves.

‘They're not happy,' grunted St-Cyr on returning, abruptly yanking his side door closed. ‘A visit to the morgue will do them good, Herman!'

The morgue … Ah
Jésus, cher Jésus
, Céline, what have you got me into?

The lights were blinding. Always, too, it was like this when coming straight from darkness into strong light, the pain suddenly searing.

‘
You should have told me of this!
' Olivier had said of her night blindness. He'd not been happy to have discovered it, had hauled her up sharply and had said harshly, ‘
You can't see, can you
?'

They'd been on the street, had just left the café and its crowd of railway workers …

The morgue was cold and brightly lit, the stench of disinfectant, attendant cigarette smoke, blood and rotting corpses, formaldehyde and bad drains causing her stomach to tightly knot.

Madame Pétain took a firm grip on her. Blanche and Sandrine Richard were behind them.

‘This way, ladies,' said St-Cyr, as if enjoying the discomfort he was causing. ‘We will only be a moment but the visit is necessary. Either we have one killer or two, and Dr Laloux may, perhaps, now be able to enlighten us.'

‘Laloux …' muttered Madame Pétain. ‘Isn't he the socialist Henri Philippe put on trial at Riom in the spring of '41 with Daladier, Blum and the others of the Front Populaire? You'll get nothing useful from him, Inspector. No matter what the courts decided, people like that are parasites.'

‘
Doryphores
, madame?'

‘
Précisément!
'

‘Then you'd best meet him.'

Élisabeth de Fleury had stayed in the outer office with Herr Kohler, Inès told herself. They went along a corridor, a steel door was opened, the sound of it echoing, the air now much, much colder, the stench sharper. Water … water was running. A tap? she wondered.

The sound of it was silenced at the sight of them. Hands were now be being dried – coroner's hands.

‘Mademoiselle, you don't look well,' hazarded Madame Pétain. ‘Inspector, surely it's not necessary for this one to join us? Here, let me take your case.'

Smile faintly, Inès told herself, say, ‘
Merci
, Madame la Maréchale, it's most kind of you.'

‘Get her a chair,
imbétile
!' said the woman to the attendant. ‘A chair! Surely you know what that is?'

‘There are none,' the man replied. ‘No one ever sits in here.'

‘I'm all right really. I … I've already seen Céline.'

Her left hand was quickly guided to a railing of some sort, her fingers instinctively wrapping themselves around it.

‘
Merci
, madame,' she heard herself say again as the sound of metal rollers grew louder and one drawer was opened, then another, another and another.

‘Draw back the shrouds,' said St-Cyr.

‘Fully?' yelped the attendant.

‘
Merde alors
, had I not wanted this, I'd not have asked for it, monsieur, and if you smirk again at these ladies, you can kiss your job and pension goodbye!'

Although they were still clear enough, the images were blurred by her tears, Inès knew. Madame Pétain had left her at some distance, standing beside an empty pallet. The large hats she and Madame Richard wore were of felt and widely brimmed, Madame la Maréchale's with a silvery pin and of a striking blue to match the woollen overcoat, scarf and gloves, the back straight, the woman tall; Sandrine Richard's
chapeau
had a wide band and was charcoal grey, the overcoat the same.

Blanche stood alone, a little apart from them. Her back, too, was straight, her head held high but not proud, for apprehension was in her look, despair also.

‘The rats, Jean-Louis,' said a scruffy-bearded, grey little man with wire-rimmed spectacles whose right lens was broken. A man who'd been in prison, Inès told herself. ‘One can always tell with them,' Olivier had said.

Hurriedly the coroner threw Madame Pétain a glance but otherwise ignored her.

‘The rats,' said St-Cyr, ‘five of which were found in this one's bed.'

Their putrid little corpses lay belly up and split open, the mush of entrails puddled. Madame Pétain was curious, seeming to tower over St-Cyr and the coroner; Madame Richard stood back a little and tense, so very tense, not at the sight of those little corpses, ah no, Inès told herself, but in expectation of what the coroner might have to say about their butchering.

‘Snared, Jean-Louis, by one who is very skilful at such things. Two of them finished off with a stick of some sort.'

‘The leg of a kitchen chair,' acknowledged St-Cyr. ‘And the others?' he asked, raptly leaning over them himself in spite of the stench.

‘Death by strangulation in their snares, the time at least a good twenty-four hours before that of the victim.'

‘And then?'

‘All of them more recently butchered with one of these, I think. The blade has a deep nick in it – one that hasn't yet been ground out and is burred. As it cut towards the scrotum, it caught on the penile bone and tissues and ripped the genitals out of three of them. A hasty butchering. One that took, I would estimate, no more than three or four minutes. The blade was then wiped on the sheets, tearing the cloth as well.'

Coroner Laloux took from his smock a worn, black-handled Opinel pocket-knife, its blade more robust than that of a Laguiole, somewhat shorter, too, and wider, not nearly so graceful or piercing a weapon, though a knife that sickened all the same, if not more …

‘Albert Grenier uses a butcher's knife,' Inès heard herself blurt. ‘Albert doesn't have a knife like that, but …' She caught herself and turned away, saying silently to herself, But I know who does. I do!

‘As to whether a man or a woman, Jean-Louis, I can but say that whoever it was knew anatomy well enough.'

The sex and the livers … Sandrine Richard hadn't moved in all this time. Lips parted in apprehension, her gaze was fixed on the little gap between St-Cyr and Madame Pétain and her cheeks were drained of colour. She was swallowing hard, and one could imagine her thinking, Gaëtan-Baptiste killed his mistress, Honoré his, and Alain Andre his. Or did she simply think, St-Cyr knew who had done it?

But could he?

They moved to the victims, Blanche trailing them, herself staying put because Céline had been so beautiful, so full of hope and yet … and yet so worried.

Scared shitless – why can't you admit it? Inès asked herself harshly, only to hear St-Cyr saying to Madame Richard, ‘Madame, please take a good look at this one and tell me if you killed her?'

Marie-Jacqueline Mailloux …

Revolting to look at, putrefaction's suppuratingly livid encrustations of bluish green to yellow and blue-black blotches were everywhere on her legs, mons and stomach, her breasts, shoulders, throat and face. A network of veins, dark plum-blue to black, ran beneath an opalescent to translucent skin. The brow was high and wide, the skin like wax where not yet discoloured, the chin narrow, the nose sharp, the stench terrible.

Discharge webbed an unplugged nostril, the cotton wool having fallen out.

‘There are bruises, Jean-Louis, and scratches,' said Laloux. ‘Though drunk on champagne, Mademoiselle Mailloux fought hard and her killer must surely have borne evidence of the struggle.'

‘Scratches?' demanded Madame Pétain.

Dr Laloux did not look at her. ‘Though mostly removed during the initial autopsy and not saved or detailed sufficiently, some scrapings of the assailant's skin were left.'

‘How can you be sure It was a male?' Madame Pétain asked.

‘I can't, nor can I say it was from a female, madame, but …'

‘Hair … the colour of the killer's hair?' she demanded. Sandrine Richard winced, St-Cyr noticing the exchange as he noticed everything.

‘Hairs would, I feel, have been present, madame. At least one or two, but whatever evidence was present has since been removed.'

And lost, but deliberately: was that what he implied? wondered Inès. It must be, for Laloux was not at all content.

Blanche couldn't take her gaze from the corpse. Revulsion, fear … ah, so many emotions were registered in her expression, thought Inès, having at last joined their little group.

The Sûreté's voice was harsh. ‘Sandrine Richard, I ask you now in front of these witnesses, did your husband, Alain André Richard, bear any such scratches on the evening of 9 December last or in the days following?'

They would have all but healed and vanished by now …