She was almost as tall as he was, and the dress went right to her ankles, belted by linked art nouveau silver plaques with intriguing patterns in dark green, red, blue and white enamel.
‘My brother, Inspector. Paul … Paul, darling, this is Herr Kohler.’
Open book in hand, back to the door and facing one end of the shelving, the brother continued to read.
‘Paul … Paul, you heard me. Please don’t be difficult.’
‘We’ve done nothing. Why, then, does he have to bother us?’
Whereas she tried desperately to be calm, the brother was highly strung and wary and didn’t seem to give a damn if it showed.
‘Well, come in if you must,’ he said. Her twin, he had the same height and build, the same blue eyes but much lighter, more reddish-brown hair, a hank of which had flopped down over the left side of his brow, the expression intense. ‘Blanche, please ask the Inspector to be seated. Offer him some coffee, otherwise ours will just get cold.’
‘It’s made from wild-rose petals Paul and I. collected and roasted, Inspector. It’s sweetened with a puree of chestnuts we also gathered.’
The water was hot, the stove warm. Trays of the papier-mache balls most people used these days as fuel were in various stages of drying. A few twigs were on the verd antique sideboard whose style Kohler couldn’t determine. Floor-to-ceiling curtains — Russian Imperial, he thought — were parted and of a steel-grey blue. Lace hung behind them, and through it he could see a grimy window, no balcony and, probably from there, the river and Boutiron Bridge.
Paul Varollier seemed all bones and knuckles as he sat awkwardly in a brass-studded armchair with brocade cushions jammed in on either side and behind him, one mug now cradled for warmth in thin, long-fingered hands.
Kohler took the proffered mug from the sister. ‘Our “coffee”,’ she said, managing to smile faintly.
‘A tis sane. My partner loves them.’
‘Was Celine really killed by this assassin everyone whispers of?’ she asked, still standing before him. ‘You see, we were good friends, Inspector. I often looked after Michel for her and now must salve his loneliness. He misses her terribly, poor thing. Rabbits have feelings, don’t they, Paul? They’re not just God’s dumb creatures as Pere Paquette preaches. They’re almost like us.’
Knowing she had said too much, she found her mug and gracefully composed herself in one of three dining-room chairs. The rest of the set and its table and sideboard had either not been available at the sale or had been sold when the family’s estate had been settled and the bailiff had taken damned near everything. Louis XVI, he thought. Directoire period anyway.
He’ll flip open his little black notebook now and balance it on his knee, thought Blanche. He’ll be very proper, isn’t really like a Gestapo. Usually it isn’t hard to tell with those, but this one is different and therefore far more dangerous. But such a terrible scar on his face. How had he got it? Duelling? she wondered and told herself, He’s not of that class. Barbed wire from that other war, then? It’s far too fresh. The slash of broken sugar, she said firmly. A pimp or …
‘Celine Dupuis left early on Tuesday morning,’ Kohler heard himself interrupting her thoughts. The hotel was still all but as silent as a tomb.
‘The older students,’ said Blanche. ‘She was always so conscientious. This job, that job. She lived entirely for the day when she could return to Paris to be with her daughter. Will we soon be allowed to send letters to the former zone occupee, Inspector? Celine wanted so to write them to Annette. Every day if she could have. Now I’ll have to do it when possible. Paul, I must send the child a postcard. How will I tell her what’s happened? She’ll be devastated.’
‘She’s not our responsibility. How many times must I tell you stray cats and rabbits are definitely not our concern unless we are to eat them?’
‘Annette is not a stray,’ she said petulantly, the Inspector noting the exchange and writing a terse comment. Brother heartless: sister deeply caring, or something like that. Impolitely, Paul started to read again. Not aloud as often, thank God. Balzac, a banquet scene probably. Oysters, chicken and fish, or is it cakes and ale and naked whores, my darling?
‘We’re not being of much help, are we?’ she hazarded before taking a sip and, finding the coffee to her brother’s liking, gave a curt nod his way.
The rabbit was looking for more to eat.
‘I often cared for it. Celine was away so much, she gave me a spare key to her flat. Paul and I would gather grasses and other things for it. Sometimes a carrot or a few leaves of lettuce.’
Has key to Celine’s room — was that what the Inspector scribbled? she wondered, wishing he’d leave. Just leave!
‘Where is it?’ he asked, and for the first time since their meeting, a lifelessness filled his pale blue eyes — eyes that until this moment she had felt certain would keep a woman happy, or several.
The key was found in the top drawer of the sideboard. Briefly their fingers touched and just as briefly warmth came back into the detective’s gaze. ‘Merci,’ he said.
‘Your French is good,’ she countered only to hear him reply, ‘I learned it as a guest of your country in 1916. I was one of the lucky ones and have always been grateful for the holiday. Now the French is useful.’
I’m sure it is, she wanted so much to add in High German because his would definitely be Low, but didn’t.
‘Did you see or hear anyone go into or out of Celine’s room on Tuesday?’ he asked.
‘Only myself. To … to feed and water Michel and give him a bit of daylight and company.’
‘And on Wednesday?’
How sharp his voice was. ‘Wednesday …? Paul … Paul, didn’t you say you’d heard someone up there?’
‘The Secretaire General de Police and Dr Menetrel, idiot. Why ask when you know?’
‘He reads every day at this hour, Inspector. It’s his only form of relaxation. Please forgive his appalling lack of manners.’
‘Blanche, just tell him!’
‘Twice we heard someone on the stairs, Inspector. At first I thought it was Celine and that she must have stayed overnight at a friend’s to avoid being out during the curfew, but those steps faded away. Later the Secretaire did come, as Paul has said, and with the doctor.’
First visit: the identity card. Had Herr Kohler scribbled this? wondered Blanche, or had he written: Killer ducked into room before Camille’s lover and Petain’s eminence grise?
‘And today?’ he asked sharply.
‘Once. Before … before you and … the other one came here.’
Before our first visit to the hotel — did he write that? wondered Blanche.
‘How long have the two of you lived here in the hotel?’
‘Since the beginning’
‘Jobs?’
How brutal of him! ‘Translator, and croupier, though the casino is open only on weekends, with a consequent loss of promised wages which has, I am afraid, made my brother somewhat bitter.’
‘Blanche!’
‘Paul, we should be thankful for what is ours. Others have it far worse!’
Nom de Dieu, they were a pair. ‘Do you know Albert Grenier, the groundskeeper?’
‘Everyone knows Albert, Inspector,’ said Paul spitefully. ‘The fool makes a point of saying hello even when not wanted.’