Flykiller

by J. Robert Janes

  And Honoré de Fleury? he asked. For the first time we get a good look at you and I have to say you’re quite ordinary, even for an inspector of finances, all of whom look ordinary. Nervous still, and not liking being forced to sit here – Bousquet must have told them all they had no other choice. And Laval would have made certain his Secrétaire général did just that!

  De Fleury’s faded green eyes were closely set in a finely boned and freckled face. Age fifty-six and greying, the reddish hair rapidly receding, the hands small and light. A man of numbers, an accountant and yet … and yet he’d had a mistress who’d been knifed. Age twenty-eight, a dancer, a piano player, teacher, singer … blonde, blue-eyed, a widow with a little daughter Annette to whom she had written postcards using the quills from increasingly exotic birds. Céline Dupuis, formerly of 60 rue Lhomond. Taught ballet part-time to the girls at Camille Lefèbvre’s school, as well as at the ballet school of Thérèse Deschambeault. Ah yes!

  Céline, who had worn two costumes and a black velvet choker, and whose hair, of below shoulder length, had been all over the place due to someone’s desperate search for something they’d left behind.

  As always, one had to wonder what such a gorgeous and hardworking woman could possibly have seen in such a moth-eaten older man. Position, money, the good times, the ‘fun’, but really oughtn’t there to have been something else? Unattached in a place like this, a girl would always be badgered. Attached, she would have got a good meal every now and then, and others would have left her alone. And she hadn’t believed de Fleury could possibly divorce that wife of his, that Éisabeth. A little game they had played, he had said to Hermann. A game! But had Éisabeth de Fleury wanted Céline Dupuis murdered? Had she hired a professional?

  All three victims had been friends of Camille’s, the teacher with thick auburn hair and brown eyes, her carte d’identité had stated. Chestnut hair and deeply warm brown eyes with flecks of green and gold, Bousquet had said. Her husband a POW, a captain; her father one of the disbanded Army of the Armistice who hadn’t liked his daughter playing around and had always bitched about what a coward his son-in-law was. Garrotted savagely by another professional, or the same one. Born in Lyons – had she, too, been caught in flagrante delicto but with Bousquet at that infamous chateau party?

  Real coffee, black and strong and made over a wood fire in an iron pot, nothing fancy, awaited, as did fouaces, pancakes made with fine, unleavened flour, cooked sous la cendre, under the ashes, with butter, egg yolks, saffron, cinnamon and nutmeg and filled with that marvel of marvels of the Auvergne, its crystallized fruit, with even a few glazed walnuts being added for good measure.

  Wedges of Cantal and Saint-Nectaire also waited, bringing moisture to this poor detective’s eyes. It had been years since he’d seen such simple, wholesome fare but, alas, he’d best continue to deal with the matters at hand.

  ‘Messieurs,’ he said, as the racket of the club constantly swirled around the table, ‘we are presented with a plot to kill you. Résistants perhaps. A Flykiller, in any case, or two of them, and the ominous threat of an imminent civil war and yet … and yet.’ He stabbed the air with his fork. ‘We find the mistresses are the victims and that in each case, not only is the intended target passed over and no attempt made on his life, but that he, to save his reputation, keeps silent and buggers off, leaving the corpse for others to find and tidy up.’

  ‘Now listen, you …’ began Deschambeault, still not even having bothered to remove his coat and scarf.

  ‘No, you listen, Sous-directeur. If what my partner has just learned is true, your wife was not alone in that car on her little visit to the chateau you boys use, but was sitting beside Madame Pétain.’

  ‘That woman interferes, Inspector,’ swore Richard acidly.

  ‘Why not tell him she wields enormous power?’ shot Honoré de Fleury.

  ‘Which is always veiled,’ sighed Deschambeault. ‘Merde, I’ve no idea why she was there. My Julienne was to have been at Dr Normand’s clinic. Total rest and further treatments. The hydrothérapie sauvage and électrothérapie. Thirty cubic centimetres of the Chomel six times a day …’

  ‘And your wife, Monsieur de Fleury?’ asked Louis.

  ‘Knew only that I would be late and not home for dinner.’

  Louis wouldn’t let him get away with that! thought Kohler.

  ‘And where, please, is home?’

  ‘The Hotel Majestic. We’ve three rooms just along the hall from Dr Ménétrel and his family, and …’

  ‘Near Madame Pétain’s suite?’

  ‘Near enough. All right, they know each other. They talk. Élisabeth and Madame Pétain use the same coiffeur and … and visit the Grand établissement thermal every Thursday, as does Madame Richard.’

  This was getting better and better! ‘And do they share a bath?’ asked Kohler. ‘The steam room perhaps?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Tea once or twice a week, or coffee and cakes in the Chante Clair?’ he asked, ripping off more bread and still eating like a soldier in the trenches of that other war, as if it was his last meal.

  ‘Often enough, yes,’ flustered de Fleury. ‘Mon Dieu, you’re not suggesting my Éisabeth entered into some pact to kill them? She’s not like that. She’s meek and mild, the perfect stay-at-home mother and wife. Certainly she’s upset about how crowded things are, living as we have to, but … but I’ve made a full confession that she has accepted. Never again will I … Well, you know.’ Agitatedly he passed worried fingers over that brow of his.

  ‘Stray from the fold?’ quipped Hermann, helping himself to more of the truffades.

  ‘Sandrine has been appeased, Inspectors,’ said Richard dryly. ‘Revenge, yes, but as to her drowning Marie-Jacqueline …? It’s impossible. Nothing could have been further from her mind.’

  ‘And yet … and yet,’ motioned Louis with his fork. ‘You and your lover shared a bath at the établissement thermal and your wife, since she also visits the baths, must have known the two of you were accustomed to doing this, as did Madame Pétain. It wasn’t the first time, was it?’

  ‘Inspectors … Inspectors,’ chided Bousquet, grinning affably as he rejoined them, ‘in the heat of a jealous rage a woman will say anything!’

  ‘And Madame Pétain?’ asked Hermann, wolfing most of a truffade. ‘Just what the hell was she doing there last 24 October?’

  ‘In the middle of the night, messieurs?’ demanded Louis. ‘Was it raining? And which of you escorted Mesdames Sandrine Richard and Élisabeth de Fleury to the car, only to find the Maréchal’s wife staring out through her side window at him?’

  ‘I did,’ said Bousquet, that lambskin-collared overcoat of his falling open to reveal the very finest of suits – did he change his shirts several times a day? wondered St-Cyr. Image was so often everything to the Occupier. Wealth and power went hand in hand with that.

  ‘I told her the matter had been taken care of,’ said Bousquet stonily, ‘and that there was no cause for further alarm.’

  ‘When, really, it hadn’t been taken care of at all,’ sighed Louis, helping himself to the salad. ‘Further parties at that same chateau led to further flagrant infidelities; here, too, I should think, and at the Jockey Club, wouldn’t you say, Hermann?’

  ‘I’d give him a month’s wages, Louis, just to hear what Madame Pétain had to say!’

  ‘Mon Dieu, how were we to know then that all four would be killed?’ demanded Bousquet.

  The dishes were, of course, covered, the porcelain not Sevres or Limoges but eminently serviceable. Renowned for his love of the table, Laval had stood them proud, but why?

  ‘Messieurs,’ said St-Cyr, ‘let us admit that you were up to mischief and that it had to stop if for no other reason than that of the scandal and embarrassment to the very Government you serve. Marie-Jacqueline was killed but the rest of you carried on as if nothing had happened, and certainly for you, Ministre Richard, this first killing was a blessing in disguise. She was tro
uble – you, yourself, have stated this. She was drunk – she must have been, a little at least – and had slipped below the water in that bath. The electricity had gone off – another power failure you went to investigate – and when you returned, you stated to the investigating officer later that you thought she was still alive, wanting only to caress you with her foot.’

  ‘That was 9 December, Louis, at about 6.50 p.m. Then all but a month later, Monsieur le Secrétaire Général meets Camille Lefebvre at a cabin he rents out for just such a purpose, and let’s not kid ourselves about that.’

  ‘And at 2.45 a.m. finds her garrotted, fires two or three shots into the wilderness but can’t remember how many and buggers off to Paris to an important meeting.’

  ‘Inspectors …’ attempted Bousquet.

  ‘No, please,’ cautioned Louis, taking more bread with his salad. ‘Lucie Trudel then dies and she, too, could have been a substantial embarrassment to you, Sous-directeur Deschambeault, so much so that you even failed to inform your friend and business partner, our Secrétaire Général de Police, of the murder.’

  ‘Then Céline is persuaded to agree to do something she didn’t want to do, and is taken to the Hall des Sources at 10 p.m. on Tuesday, 2 February,’ said Hermann. ‘Trouble is, mon vieux, if this one had owned up as he should have, Céline might still be alive.’

  ‘Two of those murders rest on your shoulders, Sous-directeur. I’m even certain you read her note: “Lucie, we have to talk. It’s urgent”.’

  ‘What was?’ asked Hermann. ‘The abortion? The murders of Marie-Jacqueline and Camille and were they to be next, eh? Or had Céline discovered who the killer or killers were?’

  ‘Jean-Louis … Herr Kohler … listen to me, please,’ urged Bousquet, no longer dashing, just damned worried. ‘It can’t have been the wives. Merde alors, it’s crazy to even think such a thing.’

  ‘It’s the terrorists,’ said Deschambeault vehemently. ‘Why else would your name be at the top of L’Humanité’s list? Those bastards are out to get us!’

  ‘The Résistance,’ said Hermann. ‘There’s only one problem. Since when did they start killing the innocent only to forget entirely about their intended targets?’

  ‘They want to make us afraid of them!’ seethed Richard.

  ‘To prolong our agony!’ hissed de Fleury.

  ‘Or is it, messieurs, that the killer or killers wish you to blame the Résistance, as you have?’

  ‘Herr Gessler and Herr Jännicke will sort it out, Jean-Louis,’ said Bousquet gruffly. ‘I had no choice but to ask them to bring in a little help.’

  ‘To snatch people from their farms and streets?’

  ‘By questioning anyone they think necessary,’ he countered.

  ‘Then let us hope we’re allowed to continue unhindered, or is it, Secrétaire, that you still want roadblocks thrown up in front of us?’

  ‘Not at all. We’re here to cooperate.’

  ‘Then do so. Begin by realizing that we’re dealing with one or perhaps two persons who not only know Vichy extremely well, but are also in on everything you do.’

  ‘They know beforehand when things will happen,’ said Kohler.

  ‘Yet so far we really know very little about our victims,’ lamented Louis.

  At a curt nod from Bousquet, Deschambeault said, ‘Inspectors, Lucie carried letters to Paris for Céline. Who they were to, I’ve no idea, but I warned her to be careful. Innocent … I’m certain the matter was perfectly innocent.’

  But against the law.

  ‘She simply posted them for her in Paris,’ said Bousquet.

  ‘One or two or more per trip?’ asked Louis, draining the last of the bottles.

  ‘One, always, and to the same person,’ replied Deschambeault uncomfortably. ‘I know this because she told me not to worry so much, that they … they were simply to an old friend of Céline’s.’

  ‘And not to Madame Dupuis’s daughter?’ asked Louis, who was always such a stickler for detail, especially when someone had tried not to give him the whole truth.

  The head was shaken.

  ‘Secrétaire,’ said Louis, ‘I found no such letter among the things Mademoiselle Trudel had packed for her Paris trip. Not in her day-to-day handbag, not in the one she would have used in the city, nor in her suitcase.’

  ‘Maybe there wasn’t one,’ said Bousquet. ‘Maybe Céline, thinking that Lucie was going home to see her father, hadn’t given her one.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe,’ sighed Kohler. Louis hadn’t liked Bousquet’s response either. Had the letter been taken by her killer, or by Deschambeault? Was it all a cover-up?

  Bousquet gave another curt nod, this time to Honoré de Fleury, who said, ‘Inspectors, after Camille’s death, Céline felt certain Marie-Jacqueline hadn’t just drowned accidentally and that she would be next. She had always wanted to leave Vichy and return to her daughter, but she … she then became desperate.’

  ‘Thus agreeing to the little proposition Ménétrel had put to you,’ said Louis sadly. ‘Monsieur, exactly what reward did the doctor promise?’

  The others must know, thought Kohler, but even so it would hurt to have to say it.

  ‘He said that if I could convince Céline to answer the Maréchal’s love letters with a little visit, he, the Maréchal’s personal physician and confidant, would see that I became Directeur de Finance, but that if I didn’t, I could kiss my crummy job goodbye.’

  ‘And Céline … what was she offered?’

  ‘Two hundred thousand francs as well as the laissez-passer, sauf-conduit and necessary residence papers.’

  ‘Fernand de Brinon, our Government’s representative in Paris, is a shareholder of our little enterprise,’ confessed Deschambeault, not looking at any of them.

  ‘Everything had been taken care of,’ offered de Fleury. ‘Céline was happier than I’d seen her in weeks but was still very worried about Lucie having an abortion. That, I think, is why she wanted to talk to her.’

  ‘And the earrings, monsieur?’ asked Louis.

  ‘Believe me, I knew nothing of them, nor do I know why she would have tried to hide them from her killer.’

  ‘Jean-Louis, you spoke to Auguste-Alphonse Olivier. How did you find him?’ asked Bousquet.

  ‘Withdrawn and very reticent to discuss the robbery. I did get him to admit that the jewellery hadn’t been in his safe-deposit box but had been left where his wife had always kept it. When Hermann and I came downstairs from examining the room, he had gone out for another of his walks. A defeated man, Secrétaire.’

  That was good of Louis, thought Kohler, but God help them if Gessler found out the truth!

  ‘And the robbery?’ asked Bousquet.

  ‘The housekeeper confided that he often forgets his key and that she has then to leave the door unlocked.’

  Good again.

  ‘Ah bon,’ nodded Bousquet. ‘A veteran, a war hero. It’s sad what life can do to a man.’

  ‘Pétain made a cuckold of him,’ snorted Richard, ‘but fortunately Olivier poses no threat.’

  ‘Sadly none whatsoever,’ said Louis. ‘A recluse no one pays the slightest attention to. And now, Monsieur de Fleury, since you keep the accounts, would you tell us, please, who the other shareholders are?’

  ‘Charles-Frédéric Hébert at the chateau – it was only proper of us to include him.’

  ‘Ménétrel?’ asked Hermann, only to see de Fleury shake his head.

  ‘The doctor has always the well-being of the Maréchal in mind,’ said Bousquet gruffly.

  ‘And the others?’ asked Louis blandly.

  ‘Inspector, is this necessary?’ asked Deschambeault.

  It was. ‘Jean Bichelonne, Minister of Production and Communications,’ said de Fleury. ‘Philippe Henriot, Minister of Propaganda and Information.’

  Radio-Paris’s Number One Boy.

  ‘Herr Otto Abetz, the German Ambassador.’

  And owner of the château.

  ‘Édouard Guillaum
et, Sous-directeur of the Tabac National at Vanves.’

  And necessary.

  ‘Gérard Ouellette, Inspecteur des caves de la Halle aux vins.’

  The huge Paris wine store: champagne and cognac too, of course – perfect.

  ‘Jean-Louis, the rest are prominent men of industry and commerce and members of the Cercle Européen,’ said Bousquet, as if this ought to put them beyond reproach. ‘Aeronautics, automobiles and lorries, locomotives and railway trucks, coal, iron, steel, aluminium, beet sugar, cement and textiles, chemicals also. All keep horses at the racing stables.’

  ‘And occasionally enjoy a party or two?’ asked Hermann, having momentarily lost his appetite.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then the vans aren’t the only vehicles that are used to transport goods, are they?’ he said.

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘And anything you need you can get at a price?’

  ‘That, too, within reason, is correct.’

  ‘So last December who ordered in the 1925 Bollinger Cuvée Spéciale that Marie-Jacqueline downed, and the Shalimar that Céline Dupuis was wearing when killed?’

  ‘Charles-Frédéric Hébert,’ said Bousquet. ‘He’s very fond of the Maréchal, though he no longer sees him and hasn’t since the tragedy. The Bollinger and the Rémy-Martin Louis XIII were, I believe, Christmas gifts, but extra arrived with the consignment. As to the perfume, I don’t think any was ordered.’

  ‘What tragedy?’ asked Hermann innocently.

  ‘Why the suicide of Noëlle Olivier. It was Charles who brought the couple together and he still blames himself for what subsequently happened. He was a major shareholder in Olivier’s bank and lost a fortune when it failed in 1933. Oh, by the way, Jean-Louis, I’ll take those billets doux, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Later, Secrétaire. Later. For now they must be considered as evidence.’

  At 10 a.m. Berlin Time, Friday 5 February, the sun was ringed with frost. The wind, gusting like a bastard, swept snow from every ridge and hill, and in the valley of the Allier below, the river was gripped in iron, the gunmetal light enough to make the bones ache.