And where is the flacon now? St-Cyr had demanded. In my bag, she had answered, having fortunately resisted the gut-wrenching panic to throw the bottle away.
Boyfriends in Paris? Herr Kohler had asked, as if it was anyone’s business other than her own. Boyfriends? she had asked in return. Haven’t you heard where all the young men have gone?
Into the maquis to avoid the Service de Travail Obligatoire, or in one of the POW camps, or into the ground.
Every compartment of the tray she now removed was cluttered: her tools, her first-aid kit. Certainly the valise had been left here in the care of Albert’s father, but would they wonder if this had been deliberate? Suspicious … they were so suspicious of her, especially St-Cyr.
‘Hermann, there’s the smell of bitter almonds,’ he said, having leaned over, his shoulder rubbing against her as he brought his nose closer to the case. ‘Beeswax and that, mon vieux. This clear glass tube among your first-aid supplies, mademoiselle? What is the oil, please?’
She would have to give him a foolish smile and weakly say, ‘A mistake. I was tricked. For toothache, the oil of cloves, only a switch was made at the last and what I was given was this.’
A little of the oil accidentally trickled down the side of the phial when, with difficulty, she had prised the cork out.
‘Ersatz, Louis.’
‘Strong, too strong,’ grunted St-Cyr. He made no mention of her obviously having purchased the oil on the marche noir, his big brown eyes simply sweeping coldly over her.
‘Ah bon, mademoiselle. For now the portrait, I think.’
Carefully she set the tray aside. She would pause again, though, and take a deep breath, Ines told herself. She would fight hard for control.
Uncovered and incredibly lifelike even though similar to a death mask, the Marechal stared up at them.
It was St-Cyr who said, ‘When we first met, mademoiselle, you stated that the Musee Grevin was always late in granting its commissions and that an update was felt necessary. You did not say it had all but been done. You gave us to understand that your work would take some time. Your room and board, I believe, was a bargain.’
‘Oui. But is there anything wrong with a person wanting a little break from Paris? From hunger, from the endless queues for a cabbage, a few beets or the tops, a scrap of gristle and mostly disappointment? For six months now I’ve worked on this subject — first the bust in clay, the mould in plaster, then the portrait face.’
‘And now must only check those little details.’
St-Cyr was the constant questioner; Kohler the watcher, content to let him. They would discuss her later, would question possible motives, her wearing the very perfume Celine had worn, the place even where she and Celine had grown up. Had the two girls seen their first film together, met their first fleeting loves, vowed to remain friends for ever? St-Cyr would ask, or would he want still more? Of course he would.
‘Inspectors, must I also remove the portrait?’ she heard herself asking. Not a quaver now.
St-Cyr nodded. Gingerly she lifted Petain out, cradling him in his swadding clothes and finally uncovering the rest. ‘Six four-hundred-gram blocks of beeswax, Inspectors. You may cut into each of them if you wish.’
It wouldn’t be necessary, felt Kohler. The slight nod St-Cyr gave was curt. He was still not satisfied.
Lifting out one of the blocks, she held it up to him. ‘Soft amber in colour and with the scent of buckwheat, isn’t that so?’ she said. ‘It came from Normandy, from well before the war. Monsieur le Directeur, feeling things might become difficult, wisely laid in a substantial supply that the authorities have fortunately let us keep but only for our work.’
This one was almost too clever, thought St-Cyr sadly. They couldn’t cable Paris to check her story. Gessler would hear of it; they couldn’t even ask Menetrel for the dossier he must have been sent.
‘Hermann, take her to the Gare de Vichy to pick up her suitcase, then drop her off at her boarding house. I’ll catch a velotaxi and we can meet up a little later.’
These two, they spoke in silent words, each holding a hidden dialogue with the other. Purposely St-Cyr hadn’t said where they would meet, had left her to wonder. But she wouldn’t ask, Are you satisfied now? She would repack her case and when it was done, softly say, ‘Merci. It’s late and I’ve not eaten since breakfast.’
Kohler, she knew, wanted to feed her; St-Cyr was the one with the heart of stone.
6
Red, yellow, white and gold, with soft green-and-white seals that looked like the backs of exotic American dollar bills, the cedar boxes were neatly stacked behind art nouveau glass and mahogany doors in a walk-in humidor. Hundreds and hundreds of the finest Havanas — thousands of them, and still others from elsewhere. Bolivar, El Rey del Mundo, Hoyo de Monterrey and Upmann.
Punch, Montecristos, Ramon Allones and Romeo y Julietas.
Astounded by what the Marquis de Bon Gout held, St-Cyr went deeper into the humidor, to a room within a room. Deep red, morocco-covered fauteuils from the turn of the century sat round an inlaid table on which were cognac and glasses, and a superb collection among opened humidors. Macanundo Portifinos from Jamaica, the Duke of Windsors, Baron de Rothschilds and Crystals; Nat Shermans, too, as if straight in by transatlantic liner from New York’s renowned Fifth Avenue shop: Morgans, Carnegies and Astors, the Metropolitan and City Desk selections, and the Gothams in their dark green boxes with gold lettering and clock emblem.*
The son had said the elder Paquet would be here. And there he was, fussing with a little galvanized pail of water and a tightly squeezed sponge. Eighty years of age at least and up on a roll-away ladder whose graceful lines melded so delicately with the decor that it would hardly be noticed. A small, slightly stooped man. Thin, with fine and carefully groomed iron-grey hair, gold-rimmed spectacles and faded, watery blue eyes that took him in, the closely shaven jowls stiffening momentarily, the blue smock coat, white shirt, tie and freshly pressed dark blue serge trousers immaculate, as were the polished black patent leather shoes.
‘Monsieur …’ hazarded St-Cyr softly. Ah! one was afraid he might tumble from his perch.
‘A moment, please,’ came the politest of answers, the voice no broken reed, but invested with utter calm, even though he must have realized the visitor was not only from the police but had been hit hard too. ‘The humidity must always be as close to seventy per cent as possible,’ he said, ignoring the half-closed left eye. ‘Each day I watch it morning, noon and evening, then at day’s end help to ensure it by wiping down the cabinets with a damp sponge that leaves no dust. The temperature must be between eighteen and twenty-one degrees, and always when one is in here, one experiences a little of the jungles, isn’t that so? The perfume of cedars that must have reached to the clouds, their beads of rainwater constantly dripping as strange birds hauntingly call and monkeys chatter. Ah! forgive me, Inspector. I do go on, but you see, I’ve been doing this little task since well before you were born. Father founded the shop and when, in 1873, I was twelve years old, he took me in. What can I do for you that my son can’t?’
‘A few questions. Nothing difficult, I assure you.’
‘But why should anything you would wish to ask me be difficult? Much of what you see here was acquired before the war and certainly well before this total occupation of ours.’
One would not argue the point nor mention the vans and a minister of supplies and rationing, or a marche noir that could gather up such things if the price was right. ‘Four murders, monsieur. Four young women in the prime of their lives. Monsieur le Premier suggested you would know Vichy society like no other and might be able to help.’