‘Is out on a job. The racing stables again. Monsieur Deschambeault, Sous-directeur of the Bank of France, came to tell us. His son …’
‘Runs the stables, yes. And your Albert?’
‘Went with the sous-directeur and the Mademoiselle Charpentier, she to see the horses, my Albert to set more snares.’
‘And the sculptress? How did she …?’
‘Albert was showing Mademoiselle Charpentier his books, Inspector,’ said Grenier, indicating them.
Both were open, the fairy tale to the illustrations of Petain sitting under that giant oak with the little children dutifully attentive to his all the rats, the wasps and worms that had done so much damage … the termites, too, and spiders …
‘My son believes he’s helping the Marechal, Inspector. That not quite all of the rats disappeared as our Head of State says, but that a few of the really bad ones managed to stay behind.’
In Vichy.
Among the scattered newspapers that had been perused over lunch were copies of L’Humanite destined for the furnace, but Grenier was far too polite to let him know he’d read the Black List.
‘The sculptress has left her valise,’ said St-Cyr. Opening it revealed what he’d seen before, except for the absence of the perfume. Lifting out the tray, he found a clutch of white table napkins, cushioned by still others, and inside this, the face of Petain in wax. Flesh-toned, the grey hair and moustache carefully woven strand by strand into the wax, the eyes of that same china blue.
‘She showed it to my Albert, Inspector. It’s really very good and only needs a little touching up.’
‘Brought like this from Paris?’
‘Oui. There is a bust in clay that she’s been working on at the Musee Grevin. First they do that, then they make a plaster cast of the bust, the cast in pieces so that it can be easily removed when the plaster has set. This then becomes their mould, and into it they pour beeswax, making a layer a centimetre or two in thickness. Then carefully — very carefully, she said — they take the plaster mould apart and voila, they have a bust in wax of the Marechal. Surgical glass eyes are used, their shape and size exactly matching those of the subject. Albert … my Albert was speechless, Inspector.’
‘And the sculptress?’
‘Apparently the Ecole de Dressage in Paris is at the end of the street on which she rents a small studio. Like my Albert, she’s fascinated by horses and often likes to help groom them, so was looking forward to seeing those at our racing stables. Dr Menetrel had told her it would be impossible for her to see the Marechal today.’
Merde, what the hell was she up to?
It was only as they were on the stairs to the lobby that Grenier stopped him to say, ‘Inspector, that knife my son found. Will it really be possible for your partner to replace it? You see, he’s … Well, Albert’s counting on Herr Kohler’s finding another. If he’s to be disappointed, could I ask that you inform me first? The tears, the anger, the frustration … All such things are much easier to cope with if my wife and I know ahead of time. He’s a good boy, and we want only what’s best for him.’
‘The knife …’
Grenier nodded.
Taking it out of his overcoat pocket, the inspector looked at it, felt it, thought about it and ran a forefinger slowly over the design on its spine. ‘Would Albert know whose this was?’ he asked. ‘You see, if he does, my concern is that the assassin or assassins may be all too aware of it.’
He opened the knife. There was a sharp click, a snap as the blade fixed itself in place.
It would have to be said. ‘Albert may know, Inspector. He’s very alert to such things and has quite a remarkable memory which he often keeps hidden in fear that people will only ridicule him if he says anything.’
‘There was white sugar in that van he got the coffee from, wasn’t there?’
‘And cognac. A Remy-Martin VSOP. Louis XIII, the 1925. There were, apparently, cases of it. Champagne also from that same year, the Bollinger Cuvee Speciale, the Clicquot.’
‘And when did your son find them?’
‘Well back in December, I believe, but Albert, feeling he had been bad, didn’t say a thing about it for weeks, and only at the end of that month produced them. A bottle of the champagne for his dear maman and one of the cognac for his papa. Both were magnificent and allowed us to ring in the New Year as never before, the coffee and sugar also.’
‘And the chocolates?’
‘And those as well as the scented handsoap, the candles, the flour and the ginger.’
‘Now tell me about the wire he uses for his snares.’
‘The wire …? It’s just some he found at the chateau where his grand-uncle is now the custodian. Ordinary wire, but fine and pliable so that it’s very easy to work with. Why do you ask?’
‘Simply routine. One always asks. It’s in the nature of detectives to do so.’
5
Snow filtered down, and as the light over the Allier River and the hills beyond it became a deeper grey in the gathering dusk, the line of waiting traffic moved ahead a few metres. Homeward-bound farm wagons and gazogene lorries that had obviously hauled firewood and other produce into Vichy were ahead of them and, at the very end, this lonely Peugeot.
‘Merde,’ swore Louis bitterly. ‘The nation that expects the Blitzkrieg from us at all times provides delays that can only impede progress! Deschambeault cuts short an important meeting to visit a racing stable but makes certain he takes along the resident rat catcher? Ines Charpentier insists on joining them and wears Shalimar when first encountered but no longer does so, and no longer carries the flacon in her valise because I was foolish enough to have mentioned it? The 1925, Hermann, and, as you well know, the same as Celine Dupuis was wearing when killed! That dress, the necklace and earrings could all be from the same year!’
And Marie-Jacqueline had had three-fifths of a bottle of the Bollinger Cuvee Speciale in her, the 1925.
‘Our sculptress worries me, Hermann. She’s like a leech that has to draw blood, only with her it’s a fascination with what we are about that is so troubling. Did she once possess a knife like this?’
Louis dragged the thing out. ‘Does she know Paul Varollier and his sister, Blanche?’ asked Kohler. ‘The soles of Monsieur Paul’s shoes matched those the flics circled in the snow.’
‘And you let me wait in this line-up? You don’t tell me things like that right away? Sacre nom de nom, how could you not have done so?’
‘I just did. Blanche had keys to both Celine’s and Lucie’s rooms but says she returned the latter.’
‘And was able to come and go at will, leaving love letters presumably to taunt Menetrel; the identity card to warn Bousquet that les gars are indeed being watched?’
‘Those letters are to Celine, aren’t they?’ asked Kohler.
‘Of course they are! Ah mon Dieu, you doubt my word? Look, then!’
Madame Dupuis, Hotel. d’Allier was written on the top envelope, the hand firm enough, the cancellation stamp dated Monday, 1 February 1943.
‘Read it,’ said Kohler. ‘Go on, don’t be shy. Since when did you owe the Marechal any privacy?’
‘Must I?’
‘And spoken like a loyal poilu! I might have known!’
They were both exhausted and bitchy. Kohler yanked the packet from him and tore it open, freeing the envelope to let him have it verbatim. ‘Ma chere Ange,’ — my dear angel — ‘your eyes are like the blue of the finest sapphires, your breath the soft, sweet nectar to whose scent the bee finds he must come.’