Flykiller

by J. Robert Janes

  Céline Dupuis would most probably have come in through the main entrance to cross the foyer and step into the lift. Had she been challenged, given clearance, or had there been no one on guard in the lobby? And why wouldn’t the lift attendant have been on duty, or had he, too, been excused?

  Questions … There were always questions. Presumably still wearing her overcoat, the girl had come up to this floor and then … then had walked towards the Maréchal’s bedroom, had been seen or heard by her killer who must have been about to target that same door, had been taken from the hotel, forced down the stairs – which stairs? – and out into the street and the Hall des Sources.

  ‘Without her overcoat,’ he sighed, ‘and in a white nightgown that would have been easily seen at night.’

  Yet, in so far as Louis and he knew, no one had come forward to say they’d noticed her. And where, please, had she left her overcoat? And why, please, remove her if Pétain was to have been the intended target?

  The corridor he was in was flanked by back-to-back pairs of tall wooden filing cabinets, with tiny makeshift desks between them and iron chairs that had been taken from the nearby park. Green-shaded lamps would give but a feeble light to the legions of clerks who worked here day in and day out. A duplicating machine leaked, a typewriter held an unfinished synopsis. Names … letters and postcards of denunciation – Pétain had received about 3,000 a day in 1940, now it was still about 1,800, and eighty per cent of them, like the thousands received by the Kommandantur in Paris and every other French city and town, were the poison-pen missiles of a nation that had all too willingly adopted the saying, ‘I’m going to les Allemands with this!’

  A bad neighbour, jealous wife, unfaithful husband or cheating shopkeeper were all fair game. Old scores were constantly being settled and, to the shame of everyone, the authorities still gave credence to such trash.

  Perhaps thirty of these bulging mailbags, fresh in from the main PTT, the Poste, Télégraphe et Téléphone station, were all waiting to be opened and synopses made for the Maréchal. Yet when Kohler came to the corridor on to which the lift opened, it was like that of any other big hotel, though here there were no trays outside the doors for the maids to collect, no newspapers lying in wait to be read. Simply brass nameplates below the room numbers, and on his right, first that of Captain Bonhomme, the Maréchal’s orderly, then that of the Secretariat, then that of its chief, Dr Ménétrel …

  Stopping outside the Maréchal’s bedroom, Kohler looked back along the corridor – tried to put his mind into that of the victim. She hadn’t really wanted to do this, would have been nervous, worried, was wearing a pair of very expensive earrings – why, for God’s sake?

  Had been let out of de Fleury’s car and had had to make this little journey all alone.

  Ménétrel’s private office, he knew, was connected to Pétain’s bedroom. Rumour had it that there were two approaches to the Maréchal: the official one via the Secretariat and then down the corridor to the reception room and office at the very end; and the unofficial one, through Ménétrel’s office and into Pétain’s bedroom and. then to the reception room.

  Had she stood outside the doctor’s office and done her discreet knocking there? Was that where she’d taken off her coat, scarf, beret and gloves, and if so, had the killer seen her slip back into the corridor, or had she intended to use the unofficial route?

  The snoring was sonorous. Across the corridor were the rooms, the offices of more of the Maréchal’s immediate staff. Several of them not only worked here but lived, ate and slept here as well, but any of those doors could have been left unlocked; she could have left her things in any one of those rooms if told to do so, yet they hadn’t been found.

  Searching – taking in the lingering odours of boiled onions, garlic and dinner cabbage or the sweetness of fried rutabaga steaks that had emanated from the various rooms over the years of the Occupation – he went along the corridor to its very end, to where a small balcony opened off it. The french windows were on the latch, but when released to a blast of frigid air and the threat of arrest for breaking the blackout regulations, he could see her coat lying neatly folded next to the windows. Beret, scarf and gloves were on top of it, but no handbag of course, for that would have been stolen, wouldn’t it?

  She had been confronted by her killer – would have realized the windows hadn’t been on the latch but had been too worried about the Maréchal and her little visit to notice that someone was there.

  Shining his torch across the snow-covered balcony with its frozen geraniums in terracotta pots, Kohler picked out the footprints, their hollows only partly hidden by the snow. There were lots of them, too, but when brushed clear, the prints weren’t from wooden-soled shoes but from the hobnailed boots of the Auvergne. Worn ones, too, with cleats, just like thousands and thousands of others.

  The bastard must have waited here for quite some time, had been damned cold and had stamped his feet to get warm, but had he known she’d come, or had her little visit been unexpected? And why, please, hadn’t anyone with a grain of competence found her things and the prints yesterday, or had they all been far too worried about their own assassinations?

  No signs of a struggle, though. None at all. The girl had simply gone with him quietly.

  The toughs, les durs, were still hanging around the foyer, smoking their fag ends and looking as if they’d missed something. Pensive, the girl with the valise sat staring at her hands, avoiding Louis, not even glancing up at his partner who was carrying the victim’s clothes, which he had obviously just found.

  Kohler helped Louis to his feet. They’d speak privately as was their custom when in company that strained to listen.

  ‘Hermann, was there a blouse?’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘The killer – a woman – was wearing one in the Hall des Sources and may have got bloodstains on it.’

  ‘But … but I found his footprints on the balcony.’

  ‘A man’s?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Cigar ashes?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Cigarette, then?’

  ‘None again. He’d have flicked them into the wind. No struggle either.’

  ‘Did she know him?’

  ‘It’s possible, but maybe he had a gun.’

  A man and a woman. It would be best to let a sigh escape, thought St-Cyr, and then … then to simply say for all to hear, ‘Ah bon, mon vieux, the marmite perpétuelle begins to look interesting.’

  The perpetual pot of soup that was to be found at the back of every kitchen stove in rural France! ‘It smells, and you know it,’ hissed Kohler.

  More couldn’t be said, for they’d fresh company: dapper, of medium height and with newly shone black leather shoes – real leather – below dark blue serge trousers that were neatly pressed – no turn-ups these days, a concession to the shortages of fabric; the grey woollen overcoat was open and immaculate; the suit jacket double-breasted and with wide lapels, no shortages there; the grey fedora neatly blocked; the round, boyish cheeks of this thirty-seven-year-old freshly shaven, the aftershave still not dry; the dark brown eyes livid.

  ‘Pour l’amour du Ciel, why can’t people do as they say they will? Inspectors, why was I not taken to meet you at Moulins? The Secrétaire général promised to include me.’

  Doctor Bernard Ménétrel was clearly up early and in one hell of a huff. ‘It was very late,’ tried St-Cyr, giving him a shrug.

  ‘Pah! That was nothing. Nothing, do you understand? It is I who am in charge of security. I who was left waiting at the train station here when I should have gone with them to meet you. Isn’t the Maréchal my responsibility? Don’t I look after his every need? An assassin? An abduction from our hotel? Another killing? Three … it is three of them now!’

  ‘And this?’ asked Louis, indicating the goose egg and not bothering to ask who had got the doctor out of bed or why Bousquet had chosen not to include him in the welcoming party.

  ‘Ferbrave
?’ demanded Ménétrel.

  ‘The very one,’ mused Louis.

  ‘He will apologize. For myself, I regret the discomfort you have suffered, but you should have had clearance from me and I was not taken to meet you. Henri-Claude was just doing his duty. Surely a veteran such as yourself can understand the reflex of a defensive action?’

  Oh my, oh my, thought Kohler. The nose was fleshy, the mouth not big, not small, the neck close down on the squared shoulders. A medium man all round, the voice cherubic but acidic, the chin narrow and recessed so that the nose led the way in emphasizing everything he said. ‘Fix him, Doctor. Stitch him up. I need him.’

  ‘And you?’ demanded Ménétrel, stung by the intrusion and still incensed.

  ‘Kohler, Kripo, Paris-Central.’

  ‘Gestapo. You belong over on the boulevard National* with Herr Gessler. Have you checked in with him? Well, have you?’

  ‘He sent me here,’ lied Hermann. ‘He told me to keep an eye on you.’

  ‘On me? Well …’

  The doctor gave a shrill laugh. Quick-tempered, jealous of his place in the scheme of things, this court jester to some set down his bag and, motioning to Ferbrave and the others, called for a chair. ‘Sit,’ he said to Louis. ‘Let me have a look at that.’

  In addition to an ample desk, propaganda posters of the Maréchal, designs for a. new postage stamp and banknotes, children’s books, school books, maps of France, directions to housewives on the baking of bread without flour or sufficient of it, to farmers on the need for their work, et cetera, Ménétrel’s office held a made-up cot that, judging by the scattered items on it, hadn’t been recently used.

  The taint of moth crystals was mingled with those of disinfectant and aftershave; the doctor was clearly agitated. The needle went in. ‘Don’t move, Inspector!’ he breathed. ‘Five should do it and we still have four to go. In a few days they can be taken out and I’ll be pleased to do this since it will give us another chance to speak in private, and speak we must. Is that understood? These walls have ears, though, so one must whisper, and I don’t want the Maréchal upset any more than he already is. He knows nothing of Madame Dupuis’s murder, was completely unaware that she was even to have paid him a visit.’

  It had to be asked. ‘Were there billets doux?’

  Love letters … ‘If there were, you will see that I receive them immediately. Come, come, we can’t have a scandal. We don’t want to trouble the Maréchal with this business. He’s far too busy with the affairs of state, is worried enough.’

  ‘I’ll try to keep that in mind, but my partner …’

  The needle went in, the gut was pulled, a gasp given by the patient. ‘Such things are larger than any of us,’ cautioned Ménétrel. ‘Please don’t be fooled into thinking that because the country is now fully occupied, power no longer rests in Vichy.’

  ‘Then when did the Maréchal first notice her?’

  ‘How long has the infatuation been going on – is this what you’re after? Ah! you police. Always looking for dirt, always suspecting the worst even when you should be doing your duty and finding this … this assassin before he strikes again – again, Inspector!’

  ‘And the Maréchal has had his eye on others, has he?’

  ‘Some.’

  ‘What was she like?’

  ‘On stage or in the drawing room and around the dinner table?’

  The gut was being tugged! ‘Both, please.’

  Ménétrel’s eyes lit up with mischief. ‘She’d a way with her, that one. Mon Dieu, I must grant her that. Naughty, ribald, voluptueuse, sensuelle yet diabolique – it was all an act, when on stage; when not, why, well brought up, très belle, très intelligente et differente. The Maréchal recognized this last instantly and, yes, he had set his cap at having her.’

  ‘Then there may well be love letters?’

  ‘Find them, damn you! I haven’t been able to!’

  The patient winced, which was good and necessary, thought Ménétrel. St-Cyr had been a sergeant in a Signals Corps at Verdun. Wounded twice – the left thigh and left shoulder – he had managed to crawl back to the trenches. Unruly as a boy, he had been sent to the farm of distant relatives near Saarbrücken for the holidays each summer for three years; had then used the Deutsch he had learned to good effect in 1917; had managed to convince the Boches he was one of theirs in no-man’s-land and had got away.

  No medals, no awards, just memories he shared with that partner of his from the other side. Like brothers, those two, grated Ménétrel. Both honest, both insufferable seekers of the truth who couldn’t be bought. And damn Laval for having asked that they be sent from Paris! Damn Bousquet for not having overruled that boss of his and found others who would listen! Damn him, too, for not having had the decency to have kept his word and included him, the Maréchal’s confident, in the briefing!

  ‘Where were you on the night of the murder, Doctor?’

  The gut was yanked!

  ‘Was I here, in my office, eh? Did I plan to let that woman into his room and then to watch over the evening’s performance? Of course not. Have more sense. When privacy is called for, privacy is always guaranteed.’

  ‘Then where, exactly, were you?’

  ‘With my wife and children in the Hotel Majestic which is but a few steps away. I’ve a suite there, as has the Maréchal for Madame Pétain, but can be here in a matter of minutes.’

  The needle was inserted again and again, the gut drawn, the carefully manicured short and finely boned fingers deft and swift. Ménétrel concentrated even as he clipped the gut at last, then sighed.

  ‘Now we will leave it bare, I think, so as to have it heal faster and better. Unfortunately you will look like a boxer who has just been punished, but that can’t be helped.’

  And you’ve found out as much about me as possible, noted St-Cyr, but asked, ‘What rewards did you offer the victim and Monsieur de Fleury?’

  The chin tightened. The doctor took a moment to answer.

  ‘I see that our Inspector of Finances has been indiscreet, but such rewards as I offered are a private matter, Inspector. Find this assassin before he kills his intended target. Bring him to justice and I will see that you are awarded one of these.’

  ‘The Francisque,’ sighed St-Cyr. The medal for the faithful that the doctor had had a retired jeweller design. ‘Modelled after the Victor of Verdun’s swagger stick, the blades after those of’ – Ah! one wanted so much to say Madame Pétain but must humbly substitute – ‘a two-headed battle-axe.’

  ‘Be the detective inspector I know you to be. Go where you wish, interview whomever you feel necessary, but be discreet. Leave the Maréchal and that wife of his totally out of it. Madame la Maréchale knows nothing of the matter and will only slow you down.’

  And interfere? wondered St-Cyr. Ménétrel had been the one, it was said, who had arranged for the arrest of Premier Laval on 13 December 1940 when Pétain had dismissed the Auvergnat for assuming too much power. The Garde Mobile had locked up Laval in his château but had been stopped short of the requested assassination by an armed contingent of SS, under the leadership of Otto Abetz, the German Ambassador, who had arrived to whisk the former premier off to the safety of Paris.

  Such were the state of things in Vichy then, and probably still.

  ‘Who knew of this little visit she was to have made?’

  The doctor waved an impatient hand. ‘Ask de Fleury. He or Madame Dupuis must have let something slip. I didn’t.’

  ‘Yet you excused the Garde from their duties?’

  The needle was put away, the excess gut dropped into an envelope for later sterilization.

  ‘They were called away. A false alarm.’

  ‘Not all of them, surely.’

  Jésus, merde alors, must this salaud persist? ‘All right, I did tell them things would be secure enough. The visit would be in the evening. It’s the depths of winter … How was I to have known an assassin would strike so closely and in our hotel, a hotel th
at is always guarded?’

  ‘Then she wasn’t challenged as she entered the foyer?’

  The bag was closed, the catches secured.

  ‘The lift attendant was also absent,’ confessed Ménétrel, not looking at him. ‘The Maréchal needed to have his self-confidence restored, Inspector. If I have erred, it was only for his sake, and I don’t really know how anyone else could have learned of her visit but someone obviously did.’

  ‘And were there any other such visits recently?’

  ‘From her, no!’

  ‘From others, then?’

  Ah damn him! ‘Bousquet had to be summoned late one evening last autumn. The woman’s husband had got wind of the liaison and was pacing up and down outside the hotel in a fury. Fortunately our secrétaire général has the ability to pacify not only the Boches, but even a distraught cuckold whose wife is upstairs being penetrated by another.’

  St-Cyr didn’t smile and that was as expected. Early last December he had lost his wife and little son to a Résistance bomb that had been meant for him but had been purposely left in place by Gestapo Paris-Central’s Watchers. She’d been coming home from a particularly torrid affair with the Hauptmann Steiner, nephew of the Kommandant von Gross-Paris, and yet St-Cyr was still missing her, still blaming himself for what had happened!

  ‘Did you see the victim after she’d been found, Doctor?’

  Such coldness of tone was commendable. ‘I did. I was the one who pronounced her dead. That imbécile of a groundsman who found her was incoherent.’

  ‘Then describe how she was. Leave nothing out.’

  ‘Were things tidied? Is this what you’re, wondering?’

  ‘I would not ask otherwise.’

  The clearing of a throat next door indicated Pétain was waiting for his daily massage and the heat treatments Ménétrel would administer. ‘A moment, Maréchal,’ sang out the doctor. ‘Let me just tie my shoelaces.’