Hurriedly the coroner threw Madame Pétain a glance but otherwise ignored her.
‘The rats,’ said St-Cyr, ‘five of which were found in this one’s bed.’
Their putrid little corpses lay belly up and split open, the mush of entrails puddled. Madame Pétain was curious, seeming to tower over St-Cyr and the coroner; Madame Richard stood back a little and tense, so very tense, not at the sight of those little corpses, ah no, Inès told herself, but in expectation of what the coroner might have to say about their butchering.
‘Snared, Jean-Louis, by one who is very skilful at such things. Two of them finished off with a stick of some sort.’
‘The leg of a kitchen chair,’ acknowledged St-Cyr. ‘And the others?’ he asked, raptly leaning over them himself in spite of the stench.
‘Death by strangulation in their snares, the time at least a good twenty-four hours before that of the victim.’
‘And then?’
‘All of them more recently butchered with one of these, I think. The blade has a deep nick in it – one that hasn’t yet been ground out and is burred. As it cut towards the scrotum, it caught on the penile bone and tissues and ripped the genitals out of three of them. A hasty butchering. One that took, I would estimate, no more than three or four minutes. The blade was then wiped on the sheets, tearing the cloth as well.’
Coroner Laloux took from his smock a worn, black-handled Opinel pocket-knife, its blade more robust than that of a Laguiole, somewhat shorter, too, and wider, not nearly so graceful or piercing a weapon, though a knife that sickened all the same, if not more …
‘Albert Grenier uses a butcher’s knife,’ Inès heard herself blurt. ‘Albert doesn’t have a knife like that, but …’ She caught herself and turned away, saying silently to herself, But I know who does. I do!
‘As to whether a man or a woman, Jean-Louis, I can but say that whoever it was knew anatomy well enough.’
The sex and the livers … Sandrine Richard hadn’t moved in all this time. Lips parted in apprehension, her gaze was fixed on the little gap between St-Cyr and Madame Pétain and her cheeks were drained of colour. She was swallowing hard, and one could imagine her thinking, Gaëtan-Baptiste killed his mistress, Honoré his, and Alain Andre his. Or did she simply think, St-Cyr knew who had done it?
But could he?
They moved to the victims, Blanche trailing them, herself staying put because Céline had been so beautiful, so full of hope and yet … and yet so worried.
Scared shitless – why can’t you admit it? Inès asked herself harshly, only to hear St-Cyr saying to Madame Richard, ‘Madame, please take a good look at this one and tell me if you killed her?’
Marie-Jacqueline Mailloux …
Revolting to look at, putrefaction’s suppuratingly livid encrustations of bluish green to yellow and blue-black blotches were everywhere on her legs, mons and stomach, her breasts, shoulders, throat and face. A network of veins, dark plum-blue to black, ran beneath an opalescent to translucent skin. The brow was high and wide, the skin like wax where not yet discoloured, the chin narrow, the nose sharp, the stench terrible.
Discharge webbed an unplugged nostril, the cotton wool having fallen out.
‘There are bruises, Jean-Louis, and scratches,’ said Laloux. ‘Though drunk on champagne, Mademoiselle Mailloux fought hard and her killer must surely have borne evidence of the struggle.’
‘Scratches?’ demanded Madame Pétain.
Dr Laloux did not look at her. ‘Though mostly removed during the initial autopsy and not saved or detailed sufficiently, some scrapings of the assailant’s skin were left.’
‘How can you be sure It was a male?’ Madame Pétain asked.
‘I can’t, nor can I say it was from a female, madame, but …’
‘Hair … the colour of the killer’s hair?’ she demanded. Sandrine Richard winced, St-Cyr noticing the exchange as he noticed everything.
‘Hairs would, I feel, have been present, madame. At least one or two, but whatever evidence was present has since been removed.’
And lost, but deliberately: was that what he implied? wondered Inès. It must be, for Laloux was not at all content.
Blanche couldn’t take her gaze from the corpse. Revulsion, fear … ah, so many emotions were registered in her expression, thought Inès, having at last joined their little group.
The Sûreté’s voice was harsh. ‘Sandrine Richard, I ask you now in front of these witnesses, did your husband, Alain André Richard, bear any such scratches on the evening of 9 December last or in the days following?’
They would have all but healed and vanished by now …
‘Since we were no longer sleeping together, Inspector, I noticed none.’
A cold answer.
‘And you yourself?’ he asked.
Madame Pétain caught a breath and held it.
‘Have a conscience that is clear.’
‘The other victims, then,’ he said, swiftly turning to the coroner and obviously furious with Madame Richard’s response.
‘With this one, the same wire, as you noted before,’ said Laloux, ‘the assailant at least of medium height and perhaps a little taller.’
‘Then not Albert Grenier, Louis,’ said Herr Kohler, having reluctantly joined them.
Laloux acknowledged the contribution. ‘With this next one, perhaps the assailant who drowned the first victim, smothered the third. There is that same sense of downward force, that same weight, that same ruthless determination.’
‘A professional?’ asked St-Cyr.
‘Why then the necessity of finishing her off in an armoire? Surely if that were so, the killer would have completed his task in the bed.’
Not a professional then, though the killer had wanted it to look as if Albert Grenier had done it.
‘And with the most recent killing?’ asked St-Cyr. ‘Was the lifting on the haft of the knife simply due to jealousy?’
Laloux removed his glasses, for Madame la Maréchale’s jealousy had been implied. ‘Or hatred, or both, but desperation, I think, Jean-Louis.’
‘Male or female?’
Blanche had turned away, was fighting for composure, thought Inès, as Coroner Laloux said, ‘I’ve puzzled over this and wish I could be more precise but there is no clear evidence. The same person may have killed all of them, but then, each could also have been killed by a different assailant.’
‘Surely the garrotting of Camille Lefébvre took strength?’
‘But that of a man – is this what you mean? Really, Jean-Louis, are women not as strong as men? Many of them most certainly are.’
A man, said Inès sadly to herself and wept inwardly for Céline who had trusted him as she had. That Opinel, Inspectors. Monsieur Olivier has one. I’ve seen it, for my valise had a rope tied round it when I left the train and this he cut while we were in the café, a place where only those he was certain of would be present.
Two of them had looked her over as she’d shown him the portrait mask of Pétain. Two of them.
The Clinique du Dr Raoul Normand was on the rue Hubert Colombier in the old part of town. St-Cyr knew this well enough but with no lights, street names would be impossible and he had used, Inès surmised, the silhouette of the nearby Église Saint-Blaise against the night sky for guidance. ‘Part fifteenth century, part 1930s, Hermann,’ he had said, no doubt peering out his side windscreen. ‘The latter with magnificent art deco mosaics and stained glass.’
And a black Virgin, Inès said to herself. The Notre-Dame-des-Malades to which I have, during my brief visit, already prayed. The Madonna is surrounded by the commemorative plaques of the faithful, each of which attested to her having answered their prayers and cured them of their afflictions, but could the Virgin ever cure Vichy of what ailed it?
Monsieur Olivier had told her to meet him there after the Maréchal’s viewing of the wax portrait. ‘But I don’t yet know when that will be,’ she had said and he … he had answered, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll know.’
As he had known everything? she wondered. When Céline would go to Pétain, when Lucie would leave for Clermont-Ferrand or Paris … Paris. And the portrait mask? Tomorrow, monsieur? At 9.50 a.m. and just after the Maréchal’s breakfast briefing? How, please, could he have known of this so far ahead of time?. And why was she to meet him? More messages to deliver in Paris, but now … now with Lucie dead, there could no longer be a way for him to get them to her, unless … unless he was counting on her to take them across the Demarcation Line.
Two knives: the Laguiole of the wife who had killed herself in despair on 18 November 1925, at the age of thirty-four, and the cold and worn Opinel of his own pocket.
Had he killed Céline? Had he killed them all?
The clinic, a manor house, was not of the new-Gothic, Flemish style, nor was it neo-Venetian or neoclassical as some buildings in Vichy were, thought St-Cyr, but was, in itself too, superbly of the fin de siède, of art nouveau and of old money. Lots of it.
Lustrous curves and flowing lines were in the mahogany panelling, banisters and mouldings. Tall corridors opened upwards to floral; stained-glass lights which gave the sense of being in a verdant, year-round garden. Kentias, in cylindrical jardinieres, glazed white and blue, lined the walls at intervals. Stylish red, morocco-covered, cushioned benches allowed for rest and patient reflection. Water played musically in the distance. A mosaic of soft blue lilies, submerged in the white of the tiles, was underfoot, each flower revealing a yellow-dusted stamen that opened into a gorgeous naked nymph whose arms were thrown wide in rapture. Youth, health and beauty were everywhere, especially in the painting of nereids au bain above the doorway at the far end of the corridor, where limpid-eyed girls stood in foam-flecked shallows splashing a buck-naked Nereus, as dolphins swam and seashells basked.
The grey-skirted, trimly aproned little maid of twenty with the clear complexion, brown eyes and chestnut hair, paused. ‘Messieurs et mesdames,’ she announced hesitantly. ‘It is this way, please. The doctor awaits.’
‘And is expecting us?’ asked Kohler from behind the ladies.
‘As he expects all who come here, monsieur.’
‘Foie, diabète et estomac, Hermann,’ grunted St-Cyr. Liver, diabetes and stomach problems. ‘Gout, too, and obesity. It’s all in the mind. You need the cure, you want the cure and voilà, you take it and feel better.’
‘Having paid a fortune! Louis!’
Vénus et Diane stood on either side of the doorway in their gilded birthday suits, life-sized and all the rest. The lighting became softer, the corridor turning as the playful sound of water increased and one saw, as if looking down through a leafy tunnel between full-frontal nudes of a teenaged boy and girl whose arms were languidly raised to pick dream-fruit perhaps, others bathing in a secluded forest pond. Some were half-undressed, most were naked, some were submerged right up to their pretty necks. The farthest bather wore a gossamer sheath that clung to her in the most favourable of places.
‘I like it, Louis. Maybe my knee would too.’
‘And that aching shoulder you forgot to tell me about?’
‘Quit worrying so much. I’ll be there when you need me.’
‘It’s the needing I’m worrying about.’
They were moving quickly now. A spacious lounge held a bar, billiard and card tables, armchairs and kaftan-clad, felt-slippered curistes, among them the greying local Kommandant and others of the Occupier. Too many of the others …
‘Ignore them!’ hissed Kohler as men, women, young boys and girls watched their progress, the conversation falling off. No sign of Pétain, though. None of Ménétrel either.
The room, the examining office-cum-dispensary, was a clutter. Weighing scales for the patients to step on, others for preparing their prescriptions. Pharmaceutical jars of herbs, bottles of the various Vichy waters, the Célestins, Hôpital, Dome and Boussange among them. The bank of wooden filing drawers must hold each patient’s card and record of progress; carved models of hands and feet would be used for arthritic enlightenment, gout too. Even an array of the regulation, measured glasses stood sentinel with a graduated cylinder.
A wall mirror, astutely positioned on the left of the desk, would reflect each curiste’s towel or sheath-draped figure for lessons in obesity that permitted few secrets.
A little man, grey, balding and sharply goateed, with necktie, shirt, waistcoat and suit under a white smock, Dr Raoul Normand was pushing seventy. He scribbled hard, the gold-rimmed pince-nez balanced on the bridge of a slender nose. Another prescription. Thirty cubic centimetres of the Chomel … le gymnase, la hydrothérapie et les inhalations de gaz …
‘Doctor, some visitors,’ whispered the maid, having timidly approached the desk.
‘A moment, my child. Will you see that Herr Schröder follows my orders strictly? Positively no alcohol for five days. We must convince him of this.’ He fretted. ‘Zaunerstollen … what is this, please?’ he asked, consulting the request sheet he’d been given by his latest curiste.
‘A nougat,’ offered Kohler, the others standing aside. ‘Ground hazelnuts and almonds, with grated chocolate, butter, cream and crumbled bits of Oblaten.’
‘And what is that? snapped the doctor, irritably fussing with the sheet of notepaper.
‘Round wafers filled with buttered, ground almonds and sugar.’
‘Merde, how in heaven’s name is his liver to possibly continue? Twenty-five cubic centimetres of the Chomel, Babette, three times the half-day. The tisanes of rose-hip, elderflower and lime at all other times. Absolutely no pâté, pork, goose or anything but the fish steamed and the vegetables unbuttered. No coffee or tea. I must insist. Fifteen cubic centimetres of the Grande Grille first thing on waking and another fifteen on retiring, but to be gently sipped so as not to shock the system. If he complains, don’t listen; if he threatens, please tell him that though I dislike admitting failure, I will have to ask the Kommandant to consider sending him to Baden-Baden where they do have these … these …’
‘Zaunerstollen,’ said Kohler.
‘Merci.’
‘Bad Homburg might be better. It’s just outside of Frankfurt am Main.’
‘Hermann, please!’
Louis knew that the SS had taken over the Rothschild spa there and had coupled it with one of their Lebensborn, their life fountains, where blonde, blue-eyed, voluptous Rheinmädchen were brought in to couple with the elite and produce pure Aryan cannon fodder.
‘And the Frau Schröder, Docteur?’ interjected the maid.
The little man looked up and removed his pince-nez. ‘Is to understand that our latest synthetic-rubber baron’s liver is in a state of crisis. The hot and cold baths for her, seven minutes at a time and alternating for the full hour. The steam afterwards, and after that, the full body scrape and message complet, to be followed by the warm effervescent bath with the rose petals and the cure de silence for at least another hour. A little wine with her dinner – one glass … Ah! perhaps two, but positively no sugar, fat or starch. If she accuses us of being concentration camp warders, apologize but make sure you emphasize that we’ve never heard of such places. Now … Ah! Madame la Maréchale, excusez-moi. Messieurs, Mesdames Richard et de Fleury, what a pleasant surprise. Mademoiselles,’ he acknowledged Blanche and Inès. ‘Please forgive the small delay. We are, I’m afraid, short-staffed and totally overloaded. What can I do for you?’
If not a cure, thought Kohler, then at least the negatives of certain photographs.
‘Madame Deschambeault,’ said Louis. ‘A few small questions. Nothing difficult and don’t say it’s impossible.’
Communication between the two detectives had been by a look so slight that none but herself could have noticed it, felt Inès. They were ushered out of the doctor’s office and the door was then locked behind them. St-Cyr, Madame Pétain and the other two ladies had gone off with a disgruntled Dr Normand to visit Madame Deschambeault.
Herr Kohler had stayed behind and had told Blanche and herself to
find a bench in the corridor nearby.
Blanche sat silently beside her, a Kentia to her right; the girl’s reflection clear in the mirror opposite, Blanche pale and withdrawn and terribly worried. Everything would now be decided on the outcome of this murder investigation. Her brother’s future, her own, their claim to what they felt was rightfully theirs. Herr Kohler could hardly wait to get rid of them. No sooner had they turned their backs on him than he’d have been at that lock.
He would be in the consulting room now, hurriedly going through the files, and would find that Marie-Jacqueline Mailloux had assisted in the treatment of Madame Deschambeault until that one had learned of who she was: the mistress of Alain Andre Richard, the husband of a dear, dear friend.
He would find that, as Céline had written in one of her letters, Marie-Jacqueline had also attended to Albert Grenier’s sore back and shoulder – his ‘spine’ – at his house or in the groundskeeper’s little ‘nest’, out of the goodness of her heart, and that Albert had loved her for it as he had loved the others.
He would soon know, if he and St-Cyr didn’t already know, that Dr Ménétrel received regular reports from Dr Normand on the progress of Madame Deschambeault and that everything that poor woman had said while under treatment had not only been written down, but repeated. He would see that Sandrine Richard hadn’t just threatened to kill Marie-Jacqueline at the château, but that she had also done so here, early last summer, on 12 June, the day after Marie-Jacqueline had, on leaving the Hôtel Ruhl, noticed in a café across the street two very well-dressed ladies who were, she had concluded, watching that entrance for just such a departure as her own.
Madame Richard and Madame de Fleury. But would Herr Kohler realize that Marie-Jacqueline had also looked at that file?
Kohler couldn’t believe what he was reading. Here, line by line, were the exact details, barring the rats, of how they had found Lucie Trudel.
Speaks of smothering her husband’s lover in the girl’s bed, Normand had written well before any of the murders.
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