Flykiller

by J. Robert Janes

  Herr Kohler had gone to look at the railway lines and the ease of access. He would conclude there was no problem at all in getting to and from that shed unseen so long as one could avoid the patrols with their dogs. St-Cyr was inside it with the father; Albert indoors, in tears, his mother beside herself with trying to calm him.

  While I … I stand out here where I’ve been told to wait by St-Cyr until he returns, she said, and the moon, so pure and silent, sails high above me, the innocent perhaps, or the condemned. And should I move from my little root, he will see my tracks in the snow.

  But had the rats that had been found really come from here? Did Albert really know who had taken them?

  She wished she could listen to what was being said but knew she daren’t move …

  ‘Inspector,’ said the elder Grenier, ‘my Albert was very upset when he returned from the Hotel d’Allier last Friday evening. He said he had done well, and that with what he’d trapped in the cellars of the Hotel du Parc, he’d managed six males and four females – he was positive of this – but that someone had stolen five of the males.’

  ‘Stolen while he was still at the Hotel d’Allier?’

  ‘One of the tenants lets him play with her rabbit. Always when he’s on a job there, he takes time out for this. She … she’d been to confession and was still very distressed.’

  ‘That was Lucie Trudel. Céline Dupuis owned the rabbit.’

  ‘Yes, but one of the others … a Mademoiselle Blanche – I’m sorry I don’t know her last name – had returned to console Mademoiselle Trudel when Albert knocked on her door. Blanche had a key to the other one’s flat.’

  ‘And the sack Albert kept his rats in?’

  ‘Was left in the cellars, as always. Dead of course. Albert finishes them off with a chair leg he keeps for just such a purpose. Even if they’ve hanged themselves in his snares, he gives them a good rap just to be certain.’

  A rough-hewn bench served as butcher’s block, its wooden-handled butcher’s knife thin and old, but razor-sharp, the blade a good fifteen centimetres long but worn down at the haft to a width of about a centimetre and a half.

  A tin pail caught the skins, the heads and entrails.

  One mustn’t alarm the elder Grenier too much. ‘Monsieur, it would be best if you, or one of the others on your staff, could accompany him on his early-morning rounds and at other times. Do so as unobtrusively as possible. Make up some excuse that’s logical, a little schedule with the others perhaps. Just for a few days, until this thing is settled.’

  But would it be settled? Would Albert tell them what they needed to know? ‘Four murders, four lovely girls, Inspector. They were each very kind to him. Never a cross word or the disdain and impatience he gets from so many. Though very shy, he’d come to greet them whenever they passed through the park or he’d see them elsewhere in town. If they could, each would always pause to exchange a few words. If he could, Albert would have a little something saved up for at least one of them, a few flowers, an apple … We can’t spare much, but always let him do this.’

  ‘And Mademoiselle Charpentier?’

  ‘Has taken their place, I think, until just recently.’

  The furnace at the Hôtel du Parc had been banked for the night. At a word from St-Cyr, the firebox door was slammed, the lone man on duty begrudgingly excusing himself to leave the ‘nest’ to the three of them.

  Herr Kohler set her valise on the workbench, then stood aside to let her open it. St-Cyr was to her left, the other one reaching up to hold the ceiling light a little closer.

  Inès undid the catches. She would hesitate now, she told herself. The inquisition in the car on the return from the Grenier house had been hard: Mademoiselle, remind me of what street in Paris you and your uncle and aunt lived on while you were growing up? The rue Tournefort, numéro 47, she’d said and thought, It’s not far from place Lucien-Herr and the house of Céline’s parents, is it? Neither of them had made mention of this last, nor had they asked if she’d had one childhood friend, one very special person to whom she could confide everything. Well, nearly everything, and receive the same in trust.

  The perfume … the Shalimar. Why had she chosen such a scent? It must have cost a fortune. It was my aunt’s, she had said and they had left it at that, causing her to wonder if they’d believed her.

  And where is the flacon now? St-Cyr had demanded. In my bag, she had answered, having fortunately resisted the gut-wrenching panic to throw the bottle away.

  Boyfriends in Paris? Herr Kohler had asked, as if it was anyone’s business other than her own. Boyfriends? she had asked in return. Haven’t you heard where all the young men have gone?

  Into the maquis to avoid the Service de Travail Obligatoire, or in one of the POW camps, or into the ground.

  Every compartment of the tray she now removed was cluttered: her tools, her first-aid kit. Certainly the valise had been left here in the care of Albert’s father, but would they wonder if this had been deliberate? Suspicious … they were so suspicious of her, especially St-Cyr.

  ‘Hermann, there’s the smell of bitter almonds,’ he said, having leaned over, his shoulder rubbing against her as he brought his nose closer to the case. ‘Beeswax and that, mon vieux. This clear glass tube among your first-aid supplies, mademoiselle? What is the oil, please?’

  She would have to give him a foolish smile and weakly say, ‘A mistake. I was tricked. For toothache, the oil of cloves, only a switch was made at the last and what I was given was this.’

  A little of the oil accidentally trickled down the side of the phial when, with difficulty, she had prised the cork out.

  ‘Ersatz, Louis.’

  ‘Strong, too strong,’ grunted St-Cyr. He made no mention of her obviously having purchased the oil on the marché noir, his big brown eyes simply sweeping coldly over her.

  ‘Ah bon, mademoiselle. For now the portrait, I think.’

  Carefully she set the tray aside. She would pause again, though, and take a deep breath, Inès told herself. She would fight hard for control.

  Uncovered and incredibly lifelike even though similar to a death mask, the Maréchal stared up at them.

  It was St-Cyr who said, ‘When we first met, mademoiselle, you stated that the Musée Grévin was always late in granting its commissions and that an update was felt necessary. You did not say it had all but been done. You gave us to understand that your work would take some time. Your room and board, I believe, was a bargain.’

  ‘Oui. But is there anything wrong with a person wanting a little break from Paris? From hunger, from the endless queues for a cabbage, a few beets or the tops, a scrap of gristle and mostly disappointment? For six months now I’ve worked on this subject – first the bust in clay, the mould in plaster, then the portrait face.’

  ‘And now must only check those little details.’

  St-Cyr was the constant questioner; Kohler the watcher, content to let him. They would discuss her later, would question possible motives, her wearing the very perfume Céline had worn, the place even where she and Céline had grown up. Had the two girls seen their first film together, met their first fleeting loves, vowed to remain friends for ever? St-Cyr would ask, or would he want still more? Of course he would.

  ‘Inspectors, must I also remove the portrait?’ she heard herself asking. Not a quaver now.

  St-Cyr nodded. Gingerly she lifted Pétain out, cradling him in his swadding clothes and finally uncovering the rest. ‘Six four-hundred-gram blocks of beeswax, Inspectors. You may cut into each of them if you wish.’

  It wouldn’t be necessary, felt Kohler. The slight nod St-Cyr gave was curt. He was still not satisfied.

  Lifting out one of the blocks, she held it up to him. ‘Soft amber in colour and with the scent of buckwheat, isn’t that so?’ she said. ‘It came from Normandy, from well before the war. Monsieur le Directeur, feeling things might become difficult, wisely laid in a substantial supply that the authorities have fortunately let us keep but only
for our work.’

  This one was almost too clever, thought St-Cyr sadly. They couldn’t cable Paris to check her story. Gessler would hear of it; they couldn’t even ask Ménétrel for the dossier he must have been sent.

  ‘Hermann, take her to the Gare de Vichy to pick up her suitcase, then drop her off at her boarding house. I’ll catch a vélotaxi and we can meet up a little later.’

  These two, they spoke in silent words, each holding a hidden dialogue with the other. Purposely St-Cyr hadn’t said where they would meet, had left her to wonder. But she wouldn’t ask, Are you satisfied now? She would repack her case and when it was done, softly say, ‘Merci. It’s late and I’ve not eaten since breakfast.’

  Kohler, she knew, wanted to feed her; St-Cyr was the one with the heart of stone.

  6

  Red, yellow, white and gold, with soft green-and-white seals that looked like the backs of exotic American dollar bills, the cedar boxes were neatly stacked behind art nouveau glass and mahogany doors in a walk-in humidor. Hundreds and hundreds of the finest Havanas – thousands of them, and still others from elsewhere. Bolivar, El Rey del Mundo, Hoyo de Monterrey and Upmann.

  Punch, Montecristos, Ramon Allones and Romeo y Julietas.

  Astounded by what the Marquis de Bon Goût held, St-Cyr went deeper into the humidor, to a room within a room. Deep red, morocco-covered fauteuils from the turn of the century sat round an inlaid table on which were cognac and glasses, and a superb collection among opened humidors. Macanundo Portifinos from Jamaica, the Duke of Windsors, Baron de Rothschilds and Crystals; Nat Shermans, too, as if straight in by transatlantic liner from New York’s renowned Fifth Avenue shop: Morgans, Carnegies and Astors, the Metropolitan and City Desk selections, and the Gothams in their dark green boxes with gold lettering and clock emblem.*

  The son had said the elder Paquet would be here. And there he was, fussing with a little galvanized pail of water and a tightly squeezed sponge. Eighty years of age at least and up on a roll-away ladder whose graceful lines melded so delicately with the decor that it would hardly be noticed. A small, slightly stooped man. Thin, with fine and carefully groomed iron-grey hair, gold-rimmed spectacles and faded, watery blue eyes that took him in, the closely shaven jowls stiffening momentarily, the blue smock coat, white shirt, tie and freshly pressed dark blue serge trousers immaculate, as were the polished black patent leather shoes.

  ‘Monsieur …’ hazarded St-Cyr softly. Ah! one was afraid he might tumble from his perch.

  ‘A moment, please,’ came the politest of answers, the voice no broken reed, but invested with utter calm, even though he must have realized the visitor was not only from the police but had been hit hard too. ‘The humidity must always be as close to seventy per cent as possible,’ he said, ignoring the half-closed left eye. ‘Each day I watch it morning, noon and evening, then at day’s end help to ensure it by wiping down the cabinets with a damp sponge that leaves no dust. The temperature must be between eighteen and twenty-one degrees, and always when one is in here, one experiences a little of the jungles, isn’t that so? The perfume of cedars that must have reached to the clouds, their beads of rainwater constantly dripping as strange birds hauntingly call and monkeys chatter. Ah! forgive me, Inspector. I do go on, but you see, I’ve been doing this little task since well before you were born. Father founded the shop and when, in 1873, I was twelve years old, he took me in. What can I do for you that my son can’t?’

  ‘A few questions. Nothing difficult, I assure you.’

  ‘But why should anything you would wish to ask me be difficult? Much of what you see here was acquired before the war and certainly well before this total occupation of ours.’

  One would not argue the point nor mention the vans and a minister of supplies and rationing, or a marché noir that could gather up such things if the price was right. ‘Four murders, monsieur. Four young women in the prime of their lives. Monsieur le Premier suggested you would know Vichy society like no other and might be able to help.’

  ‘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.

  THIS 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 ‘ca
mpaigning’ 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.