Flykiller

by J. Robert Janes

  ‘And doesn’t wonder what Céline told you of Olivier, or that one of himself, or even whether the two of you have met since you arrived in Vichy?’

  So there it was: Olivier. ‘We haven’t met. I want to but … but there hasn’t been time yet.’ A lie of course, but would Herr Kohler accept it?

  ‘Too busy following us around, eh? What about Edith, then? Have you met her?’

  She must force herself to gaze frankly at him. ‘Neither one nor the other, Inspector, and as for my “following” you and the Chief Inspector around, it is, as I’ve said, only because I’m waiting to get on with the job the Musée sent me to do and because I want, also, to find out who killed my friend.’

  ‘Lucie doesn’t seem to matter much to you.’

  ‘Yet we met in Paris and so I should be concerned? Mon Dieu, I am, but naturally more about Céline.’

  Pas mal, pas mal. Not bad for an answer. ‘That wax portrait in your case …’

  ‘Needs only a touch-up, yes. If okayed by Monsieur le Maréchal and Dr Ménétrel, I may, I suppose, need do nothing further.’

  Honesty at last, was that it? ‘Then you’re not here for as long as it takes.’

  ‘Well, in a way I am. Of course, I should have told you it was all but complete. I … I had thought to but … but wanted to give myself time to find out what I could about Céline’s murder.’

  ‘And you’re certain you’ve never met or spoken to Olivier? You wouldn’t have used the telephone to contact him? Few do these days if they can avoid it and there isn’t one in that house of his in any case, is there?’

  ‘I … I wouldn’t know. He … he did write to me once, as I’ve said, Inspector, and Céline did know he was my father’s compagnon d’armes.’

  ‘Verdammt! I knew I’d forgotten something.’

  Taking three snapshots from a jacket pocket, he looked at her and then at each of them. ‘This one, I think,’ he said. ‘But first, admit that you knew Olivier had been forced by Pétain into giving the firing squad its orders.’

  After the Battle of Chemin des Dames … after the mutiny that followed in May 1917. She mustn’t let her eyes moisten, must gaze steadily at him and say clearly, ‘That just can’t be true, Inspector. Monsieur Olivier would have told me of it in his letter and begged my forgiveness. Instead, he wrote only of what a fine comrade Papa was, how brave and kind and honest, and how he had spoken constantly of me, the child he was never to see.’

  The photo showed them playing chess in the trenches, and for a moment Inès couldn’t stop her eyes from smarting, her fingers from trembling. ‘Could you let me have this?’ she asked, her voice unfortunately faint. ‘I … I haven’t many, and none like it.’

  Jesus, merde alors, just what the hell was she hiding? ‘Later, when we’ve our killer or killers.’ The photos of Noëlle Olivier as a cabaret dancer and with a grey gelding just like the one Lucie had kept were hardly noticed. ‘Now let me have that handbag of yours Albert was so interested in.’

  ‘You’ve already seen its contents. Would you scatter them in front of all these ladies and treat me as a common criminal, Inspector, when I’m most definitely not? Believe me, there’s nothing but the usual. A lipstick I seldom use because of the ersatz things they put in it. The key to my studio. My papers, I assure you, are fully in order. There are some tissues, a pencil and paper to sketch with if I wish …’

  ‘The phial of perfume. Let’s start with that.’

  The Shalimar … ‘My aunt loved that scent.’

  ‘And so did the Maréchal who gave it to Noëlle Olivier and insisted she wear it.’

  ‘As did Céline and myself. A coincidence.’

  ‘And nothing else, eh?’ he snorted with disbelief.

  Though he didn’t dump her bag out on the table, Herr Kohler found the phial and, unscrewing its cap, brought it to his nose, holding it there until satisfied. ‘Now tell me why the one with the almond oil isn’t here?’

  But is it with the portrait mask, the blocks of beeswax and sculpting tools? Sticking plasters, too, and iodine with which to patch up battered detectives … ‘I simply tried the oil, Inspector, and finding it wasn’t what it was supposed to have been, put it in my case with my other first-aid supplies.’

  ‘Having spilled a touch of it?’

  ‘Yes, unfortunately, since I could, quite possibly, have used it for baking if … if I could have somehow managed to find the flour.’

  ‘Then tell me why that one has just brought your valise into the restaurant?’

  Her back had been to them, but now the sculptress turned as she hesitantly got to her feet to look towards the entrance.

  From her solitude next to the windows, Blanche Varollier had done the same thing.

  Inès’s hand was limp. The kid didn’t even tremble. Too frightened and with good reason, thought Kohler, having stepped close to her.

  Without a fedora, but with briefcase crammed under one arm and valise gripped in the other hand, Gessler stood with Herr Jännicke just inside the entrance, potted Kentia palms in dark blue jardinieres to their left and right, the ex-shoemaker short, broad-shouldered and bull-necked, the top button of the lead-grey overcoat undone; the other one tall, and with his black overcoat all buttoned up, the scarf loose, the black homburg in hand, his thick black hair receding and combed straight back off the high, wide brow.

  Gessler’s expression was grim and sour, for he’d not liked the sight of all these ladies indulging themselves so frivolously when there was a war on, and for him there had always been a class war, ever since the days of the Blood Purge.

  The big ears stood out, the eyes squinted with distaste, slanting downward to the left and right of a nose that had, no doubt, been bloodied by barrel staves more than once for the sake of the Party.

  His tie was crooked; Herr Jännicke’s was perfect. Gessler’s moustache was grey, not brown like the Führer’s, so he hadn’t dyed it like many did. The face was grey too, and wide, the close-cropped Fritz haircut all but reaching to Herr Jännicke’s right shoulder.

  ‘You let me handle this,’ breathed Kohler. ‘Don’t you dare disgrace me.’

  ‘My valise …’ It was all the kid could manage, for the two had now set out to join them. Gessler knocked against anyone who happened to be in the way. The gossip died as arrest seemed imminent until silence swelled to fill the void and all other motion had ceased.

  Louis hadn’t got to his feet. Louis knew his revolver was in his overcoat pocket here at this table.

  Heels didn’t clash, salutes were not given. The valise was set on the table, smashing things and causing the sculptress’s teacup to tip. Milk and cold tea flooded into the tablecloth.

  They didn’t shout, didn’t shriek. They simply blocked any exit, Herr Gessler speaking rapidly in Deutsch, Inès trying desperately to fight down her sickness and pick out a word or two of meaning. Berlin … Kohler’s reputation as a … Slacker? she wondered, watching each of them closely, trying hard not to bolt and run but to remain still so as to fathom what was happening to her … to her!

  ‘Dieser Fliegentöter, Kohler. Ich warte schon …’ I’ve been waiting … For your report? Four murders and you arrest an Idiot and then let him go? ‘Was ist mit ihn los, Herr Jännicke?’ What is it with him?

  ‘Herr Oberstleutnant, I can explain.’

  ‘Verfluchte Kripo, Verfluchte Franzosen …’ Cursed Kripo, cursed French … ‘ Vermehrende Idioten.’ Breeding idiots … ‘Alle Halbheit ist taub, Kohler.’ Half-measures are no measures. He can’t be ‘dieser Fliegentöter. The Flykiller. But better in ‘den Zelleri’, than free.

  ‘Jawohl, Herr Oberst.’

  ‘Gut,’ but you’ll … not find him in the cellars of the Hôtel du Parc … ‘Dieser Handkoffer, Kohler,’ this case … was open. That father of his can’t … can’t find him either. Ah no!

  ‘Bitte, Fräulein, go through your case. Damage, theft … we must know of this.’

  Her valise … She must empty it for them … ‘Oui,
monsieur. I … I had forgotten Albert’s father was looking after it for me.’

  Kohler translated what she’d said. Gessler lit a cigarette and offered one to Herr Jännicke. The kid lifted out the tray … The phial of almond oil now held only dregs, just dregs. Had Albert sampled it? he wondered. Wet … the tray was wet and reeked of bitter almond. The mask, swaddled in its white linen cloths, stared up at them.

  She nodded. Faintly she said in French, ‘Nothing has been taken or damaged. Albert must simply have wanted another look at the portrait and … and accidentally emptied the phial when putting it back.’

  Herr Kohler translated.

  ‘Then please be more careful in future.’

  ‘Bernard … Bernard,’ sang out Madame Pétain as Dr Ménétrel came into the restaurant on the run only to stop dead at the sight of Gessler and Jännicke. ‘Bernard, the Chief Inspector St-Cyr was just telling us of Paris. Not a word about those dreadful murders or your part in them.’

  Stung by her words, furious with her and with them, no doubt, the portly doctor turned on his heels, collared the maître d’ and bent his ear before retreating to the lobby and the Hôtel du Parc.

  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 th
e 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.