Flykiller

by J. Robert Janes

  ‘It’s one of the coolest places in summer,’ said Blanche, who had nervously stayed just inside the entrance.

  Dear God, where was Albert? wondered Inès. She had the feeling that coming here wouldn’t be good for her, that it was the beginning of the end.

  ‘Did couples use this for their lovemaking?’ she asked. Wrong of them if true, of course, but then so little was right about this place Céline had found herself in.

  It was Blanche who said, ‘Is that what she confided in those letters of hers?’

  ‘We … we didn’t discuss things like that.’

  ‘Ménétrel … did she mention him?’ demanded Blanche.

  Inès told herself not to answer. Blanche would get angrier then – that had been anxiety in her voice, hadn’t it?

  ‘Céline told you Ménétrel would let her go home to Paris but only if she first went to Pétain. Ménétrel controls everything. Whether we like it or not, we’re all in thrall to the doctor. Surely she confided that?’

  ‘Did you take care of her for him? Did he order you to kill her?’ asked Inès fiercely from behind the altar. ‘She’d been an informant. She’d given away state secrets she’d overheard.’

  ‘I … I did no such thing,’ retorted Blanche, flustered.

  These two, thought Kohler. Had Céline told the one about the other?

  ‘You bought a Choix Supreme the afternoon of Lucie’s murder,’ he interjected.

  ‘For Nathalie Bénoist, one of the cabaret dancers!’

  ‘But she prefers the El Rey del Mundo Demi-Tasse.’

  ‘I … I made a mistake, that’s all.’

  ‘A five-hundred-franc one?’ he taunted.

  ‘Not when Nathalie provided the cash.’

  ‘A woman with two little boys she boards at a nearby farm?’

  ‘She pays the price, but gets it back later.’

  ‘In here?’ asked Herr Kohler, still baiting her.

  ‘Sometimes. In summer, of course.’

  ‘Nackttänze auch?’

  Nude dancing also. ‘Sometimes,’ countered Blanche hotly.

  ‘And Albert?’ asked Inès. ‘Did he watch from … from in there?’ She indicated the sacristy whose stained-glass window let in a little light. One had to duck one’s head to enter. ‘There’s a smell,’ she said.

  ‘Rancid oil,’ said Herr Kohler, brushing past her to stand, stooped, in the enclosure, for people hadn’t been nearly so tall when this place had been built.

  Blanche did not enter.

  A large, coloured poster of the Maréchal in uniform stared at them, the seven stars on his sleeve, with the phrase Je fais à la France le don de ma personne pour atténuer son malheur, under it. I make to France the gifts of my person to lessen her misfortune.

  Upturned snail shells were on the table, the altar Albert had built. There was still oil in some of them, their wicks blackened, the shells placed in rows that pointed to the poster. Cigar bands had been pressed flat and these lay alongside the little lamps. There was a plaster bust of Pétain – one of the thousands and thousands that were still sold in shops or found in family shrines all over France. A mug bore his benevolent countenance; flags and coins, the image of the Francisque. A medallion of him hung on a tricolour ribbon. Printed cards gave quotes, pamphlets bits of his speeches. The Lord’s Prayer had even been rewritten under Ménétrel’s guidance, with Pétain as God on earth.

  A wire – a length of the thin and flexible wire Albert used for his snares – was there as if in dedication.

  A knife – a Laguiole, open so that its blade and softly curving haft lay between the rows of snail shells and cigar bands – was also there. ‘But … but it has a corkscrew,’ Inès heard herself saying, aghast at what they’d found and at what Albert had done. ‘He’s kept Noëlle Olivier’s knife and has left another.’

  And now you’re gut-sick, thought Kohler. ‘It’s a man’s, and nothing fancy. The usual for the Auvergnat shepherd or peasant. This one’s seen a good fifty years of use but is still razor sharp.’

  ‘But why did he leave it?’ she bleated. Would Albert cut her throat? Would he knife her in the chest?

  ‘Probably he thought you wouldn’t even notice the substitution, Inspector,’ snorted Blanche on joining them, her voice grating. ‘Albert’s often like that. If he can fool you, he will, but sometimes he doesn’t quite think it through.’

  Beneath the knife there was a card on which the motto of Les Jeunes de France had been printed: Toujours Prêts. Always Ready. Beneath that, and folded tightly, was the letter the Ministry of Education had sent Albert’s parents, telling them the boy was unfit for the Chantiers de Jeunesse, the young men, the over-twenties of France, who had each to do their national service of five months of physical training, community service and rural tasks, in lieu of service in the Army which, of course, now no longer existed, even as the much-shrunken Army of the Armistice.

  ‘Albert couldn’t have read it, Inspector, and probably believes he really is one of les Jeunes,’ said Blanche.

  The date was 13 March 1941.

  He’d been twenty-one then, thought Inès, was now nearly twenty-three. Turning swiftly aside, she threw up the grey National she had had with weak ersatz coffee at 5 a.m., and the nuts and dried fruit she’d palmed in the kitchen.

  Just emptied herself, poor kid, thought Kohler. Couldn’t have stopped, but sympathy ought not to be allowed to intrude.

  ‘Come on. He must have gone into the cellars.’

  Guinea fowl made their racket, quail too, and ducks. A peacock shrieked.

  ‘Inspector,’ spat Hébert, turning swiftly to block the way, the wind tugging at the blue smock, the open black cable-knit cardigan and black felt fedora. A large bowl of feed was in the crook of each arm, the cages just beyond him. ‘That Richard woman and those other bitches have it in for me. Always gossiping, always the little tête-à-têtes with Madame la Maréchale at their “committee meetings”. Committee of what, I ask? Of dried-up housewives who are terrified of losing their meal tickets!’

  Ring-necked pheasants croaked and beat their wings, a bantam rooster cocked its head. ‘Monsieur …’ began St-Cyr, only to hear Hébert retort as if stung, ‘Please let me finish! Oh for sure, in 1924 and ’25, when they were not together in Paris, I allowed my friend Henri Philippe Omer Pétain and Noëlle Olivier to meet in secret here to spend a few quiet hours in each other’s arms. What else are friends for when the dice have already been cast? Auguste-Alphonse had been told many times by myself and others that the Maréchal was not the first of her lovers. Mon Dieu, he was too busy at that bank of ours, too concerned with squandering our money on bringing a modern telephone exchange to Vichy. Officers … for years we’ve had a military hospital. Not the badly wounded, you understand. Colonials mostly. Convalescents and men on special leave who came, and still do, for the cure. Noëlle would often help entertain the boys with games, walks, thés dansants and concerts, bals masqués and cabaret nights in which she loved to take part and was always the favourite. Le cigare, la figure, the black stockings, eh, and garters. The bawdy songs and gestures.’

  He paused. He waited to see if his words had sunk in, so one had best let him talk it out!

  ‘Please remember that Auguste-Alphonse was away for all but a few weeks during the ’14-18 war, Inspector. Four years can be an eternity to a young woman who is très sensuelle, très adorable et élégante and outstanding even among the Parisian hautes mondaines who came to Vichy for la saison des curistes after that war. Men were always at her feet – Auguste was well aware of this and proud of what he’d married. Ah yes, he loved to show her off to friends and business associates! But is it any wonder then that she found what she wanted in the buffet he himself had provided?’

  Cage after cage faced the sun, each with its shelter, the tiled roof of the barn extending well out for further protection.

  ‘The bank, monsieur. You said, “Our bank”.’

  Hébert continued to the nearest of the enclosu
res, that of the guinea fowl, whose little tribe hurried relentlessly round and round it.

  ‘Oui. It was his and mine and that of others,’ he said, turning sideways to look, not directly at him, but slightly downwards.

  ‘During the war I had to take over in his absence and things went well. It was only later, when he returned, that the problems started. A fortune I lost when that bank went bust in ’33. A fortune!’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now I am little different than the cuckold himself!’

  Fresh hay had been strewn about the enclosures, their shelters insulated with it.

  ‘Ah bon,’ he said. ‘Albert never forgets – one doesn’t need to remind him, Inspector. Once a task has been assigned, he does it. Look … the snow has even been swept from each of the cages!’

  ‘The telephone exchange, monsieur?’

  ‘The old one was perfectly suitable. Adjacent to the Hotel Ruhl and only needing a small amount of upgrading. We should have left it at that. Instead, what did our chairman do but plunge the bank’s resources into the most up-to-date exchange outside of Paris? A new PTT, new building, new everything, including far more employees than were ever needed. And where did he insist on putting it? In what had always been the Auvergne’s loveliest of covered markets on the rue du Marché and avenue du Président Doumer. A meeting place, yes, yes, of course, for all our citizens but one we loved not for the chance to queue up and listen in to the telephone conversations of others, but for itself!’

  ‘But … but in 1933 he had long since resigned from the bank.’

  ‘Having sowed the seeds of its demise!’

  The new Poste, Télégraphe et Téléphone hadn’t been opened until 1928, or was it 1930? wondered St-Cyr, deciding on the latter. The old PTT had been left empty for a time, due to the Depression, but would surely have now been put to use.

  Feed was scattered, Hébert going from cage to cage by interconnecting side doors. Ring-necked pheasants, partridges, even a covey of ruffed grouse from Canada and two pair of snow-white ptarmigan were all spoken to, the custodian frequently getting down on his knees to coax the birds to eat from his hand.

  ‘They are God’s creatures,’ he said, looking sideways up through the wire. ‘Céline and Albert often shared this little task. The girl loved to help him. Never the harsh word from her if he was clumsy or did something he then tried to hide. In turn, he adored her and had, I’m certain – yes, certain – all those confused feelings of guilt and apprehension a young man has for a girl he secretly wants. When she told him she was using quills to write postcards to her daughter, Albert plucked tail feathers for her until I had to tell him to stop!’

  Rock doves were cradled; captured finches perched on the brim of his hat.

  ‘Albert wouldn’t have hurt any of those girls, Inspector. No matter what you hear from others, understand that my grand-nephew is incapable of such a thing. Certainly he has uncontrollable rages when things seem not to be going the way he believes they should be, and certainly he has sworn to protect and help the Maréchal in the best way he can, but a killer …? Ah no, it’s impossible.’

  A master of deceit and trickery, a prude, and now the rages? ‘Olivier, monsieur. Would he be aware his children are in Vichy?’

  ‘Aware? Not likely. Edith wouldn’t have told him, and neither would those two. That father of theirs does not forgive easily, Inspector. Disinheriting them? Blaming them as much as myself for the suicide of their mother? Claiming they wanted her to leave him for Pétain, for the father of her unborn child and that they, too, weren’t even his own? His own! The man was insane and still is. A recluse who hides from his community and former associates? A man who hates!’

  ‘A killer?’

  One could not gesture with the hands full but could toss the head. ‘It’s possible. Weren’t the victims marriage smashers? Hadn’t one of them a husband who’d gone off to war only to discover from behind barbed wire that his wife had been playing around in his prolonged absence?’

  ‘Camille Lefèbvre.’ The birds, chickens of several varieties – white, russet, big, small – were making a hell of a racket!

  ‘And what of the rest of the cabaret group Céline was a part of, Inspector? Aurélienne Tavernier also has a husband who is a prisoner of war, as do Carole Navaud and Nathalie Bénoist. Your killer uses Noëlle’s knife on Céline who wears his dead wife’s earrings to a liaison with the man who had made him a cuckold? Wears even the perfume that wife was so fond of because Henri Philippe had bought it for her? What more evidence do you need?’

  ‘A dress was left in Céline’s room …’

  ‘Dress …? What dress? Come, come, you must tell me.’

  ‘A halter-neck …’

  ‘Silvery, with see-through panels?’

  ‘High heels to match.’

  Flustered – sickened – his mind so obviously in a turmoil that he felt betrayed, Hébert turned swiftly away. ‘Monsieur, that dress, do you know of it?’ demanded St-Cyr.

  ‘Know of it?’ Hébert sucked in a breath, held one of the hens too tightly, then released it. ‘Who wouldn’t among those of us who’d seen her in it? Noëlle … Noëlle wore it to the party I threw here in the late summer of 1924 to celebrate the Victor of Verdun’s return to Vichy.’

  Then why can’t you turn to face me? wondered St-Cyr. The chickens crowded round the custodian who, oblivious to their commotion, knelt among them, forgetting entirely that they were now greedily ravaging his bowls of feed.

  Merde, who the hell had put that dress in Céline’s room for St-Cyr and that partner of his to find? wondered Hébert. Had it been Auguste or … or Edith? Could it have been them? How could it? Had they learned of the earrings and the knife?

  ‘Auguste-Alphonse felt particularly honoured to have Henri Philippe stay at his house, Inspector, before coming out here to spend a few days away from the crowd. A man of the soil. Noëlle visited frequently. Alone, of course, for Auguste was far too busy to take notice. There was, I believe, a strand of blue sapphires which Noëlle wore with that dress and the earrings. Like everyone else, Henri Philippe couldn’t help but take notice of her at that party, even though married himself.’

  Find the leader of the Francs-Tireurs et Partisans, Hébert had said in the kitchen, but did he suspect Olivier was that leader?

  He’d have had him arrested! And what of the dress and the necklace – Hébert hadn’t known of their having been left in that room, had been badly shaken by the news. ‘Monsieur, the Bollinger Cuvée Spéciale, the 1925, and Rémy-Martin Louis III?’

  Had the detectives told no one else of their having found the dress? wondered Hébert. He’d have to stand, would have to face this Sûreté. ‘Ménétrel let it be known he was going to have de Fleury present a little gift to Henri Philippe. Naturally I searched my mind for something suitable, something which would also remind the Maréchal of a friendship gone cold since the loss of fortune. I’d had an equally fine Cuvée and cognac sent to the couple’s room that first summer. What better way, then, for me to toast his latest conquest and remind him of our friendship? A man in his eighty-seventh year whose wife, I must tell you, when she discovered the affair with Noëlle, took his service revolver out of a drawer and told him in no uncertain terms to choose!’

  Ah bon, the ultimate target, then, and either the betrayed wives as the killers or the cuckold. ‘Yet it wasn’t Céline who drank the Cuvée, monsieur. It was Marie-Jacqueline Mailloux.’

  A last cage was ignored but for a few handfuls of hurriedly tossed feed, the hawks and eagles still to come.

  ‘Didn’t you find the bottles I sent for Céline to take with her? A picnic hamper? Saint-Louis crystal, caviar, a little pâté, a baguette and some of the Cantal and Saint-Nectaire? I packed these especially for the Maréchal and even included a corkscrew he would not fail to recall. My knife … ah, not so handsome as Noëlle’s and much worn, but still … I knew he’d recall it and remember the affair.’

  ‘A Laguiole?’ ha
zarded St-Cyr.

  ‘Why, yes. It was one I’d had since a boy. Albert can confirm, since it was he I asked to deliver the hamper to Céline at Chez Crusoe early last Tuesday evening.’

  Albert …

  ‘Inspector, the hamper …’

  ‘Has not been found.’

  ‘Was it taken – intercepted?’ demanded Hébert.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  The Laguiole, with its opened blade, was fixed in memory as Inès fought to see and again stumbled blindly. Cascades of what must be seepage clung to the passage walls of these cellars they were now in, cellars that had been built in the twelfth or thirteenth century. At each breath’s escape she knew a little cloud of vapour would appear in the torchlight but still she couldn’t see a thing. Blanche was ahead of her, blocking the light; Herr Kohler well out in front of her, and with the torch. Water trickled distantly, the taste of its sulphur in the air and on the tongue. And wasn’t that what Vichy was all about? she demanded. A coldness that made one cringe, a warmth that was as if subterranean and filled with innuendo, its sound constantly hollow, the air acid?

  Céline hadn’t mentioned the chateau’s spring in her letters, nor had Monsieur Olivier said anything about it. But, then, after his first letter, the rest, without names or addresses on their little envelopes of thin paper, had been concealed in those from Céline, and she had had to courier them to others to his contacts in Paris, had wanted to do this. Never the same café, never, even, the same contact. No names there either. Just greet as if old friends – the contact always recognizing her from a photo perhaps?

  She didn’t know, was not to know, and had accepted this. Simply telephoned a number from a café no one could trace her to when a letter arrived, the time and place of meeting then being assigned eight hours before that given and always two streets away to the south from the one given. Even the telephone number to call had changed with each letter.