‘Your hat, monsieur, and coat?’
She wasn’t any more than fifteen, reeked of cheap perfume and underarm talcum powder. ‘I’ll keep them. These days that is often best.’
‘Suit yourself. Monsieur le Secretaire General Bousquet makes the telephone call while that one, he …’ Her bare arm pointed to a distant corner table all but hidden by the dim lighting and the smoke. ‘He awaits your pleasure. Personally … and I’m just saying this for myself, you understand,’ her childlike eyes widened mischievously only to duck away at the fierceness of a Surete frown, ‘he can have you.’
Alone, Alain Andre Richard, Ministre des Vivres et du Rationnement — Supplies and Rationing — seemed impervious to the grey-green uniforms of the Occupier intermingling with the Occupied, the constant commotion, the comings and goings of cigarette girls selling everything including tobacco, and waitresses who should have known better than to wear such draughty costumes among soldiers and Government employees who only wanted to forget the war and their humdrum lives.
An intense little man in his mid-fifties, the face was pinched, the black hair thinning and carefully groomed, its dye-job perfect just like the rest of him. Even the blue serge suit had a gold Francisque pinned to its lapel.
‘Ah merde,’ muttered St-Cyr under his breath as he all but reached the table. ‘Must our top civil servants always be so difficult?’ The glass before Richard had remained untouched, perhaps because it was dirty or because he simply didn’t think a gin and gazeuse would help the stomach that had been giving him trouble of late. The cigarette that wasted its little life in the chipped ashtray had company of the same, but what, really, had Marie-Jacqueline Mailloux seen in this one besides money?
‘Monsieur …’
‘You’re late! Why is this, please?’
Even the voice was tight. ‘A small matter, Monsieur le Ministre. Unfortunately detectives can’t always determine beforehand if their time will be used unnecessarily. Please pardon the delay.’ And never mind that we weren’t even aware we were to meet you!
‘St-Cyr, Surete. I know all about you.’ Richard sniffed in as if wishing a pomander were to hand.
‘Good. That’s as it should be.’
The despicable fedora was summarily dropped on the table, the dishevelled overcoat removed to be perfunctorily dumped over the back of a cane chair.
‘It’s hot in here,’ said St-Cyr. ‘Now perhaps, monsieur, while we have a moment to ourselves you would be good enough to provide me with a clear statement of your illegal activities?’
‘Cochon! Imbecile! Batard! Do you think you can mess with me?’
Pig, and the rest of it, and not bad for a start. ‘Ah bon. Let’s see now. How can I put this down?’
A little black notebook was opened to a half-scribbled page, the Surete, with that black-stitched bulge above his left eye, wetting the end of his pencil, to write and say: ‘Opportunity given.’
That bushy moustache was touched with a knuckle, the fist clenched.
‘A few cigars, Inspector. A little flour and sug-’
‘Ministre, we’ve heard it all before. One blows the dust away, n’est-ce pas, only to find that the floor needs to be washed, only to then find that the varnish is cracked and the boards are in need of replacement, the joists also.’
‘I came here to discuss the murders, damn you, and whether they’re the work of one or more assassins!’
Spittle, too, had erupted. ‘Then please proceed.’
‘And we’ll get to the other later, is that it, eh?’
‘Begin, monsieur, by telling me about Marie-Jacqueline Mailloux.’
A hand was irritably tossed, a shrug given.
‘The silly bitch made a mockery of me. Always flaunting her ass when at the office on one of her impromptu visits. Always cheeky. Did she think others would not notice?’
‘Your wife and children perhaps?’
‘Are among those who noticed, yes. Scene after scene. I had constantly to warn her that she was going too far. She shouldn’t have ridiculed my wife in front of others. That was unforgivable but Sandrine should also have understood Marie-Jacqueline meant nothing to me. Nothing, absolutely!’
‘Elaborate, please.’
Again a hand was waved. ‘It’s not important.’
Patience, mon vieux, patience, St-Cyr counselled himself. ‘Everything is important.’
‘A party. A small gathering. A little fun — what could have been more innocent? Nom de Jesus-Christ, the stress has to be relieved now and then, does it not?’
Mon Dieu, the arrogance! ‘Where?’
‘Le Chateau aux Oiseaux Splendides.’
‘And your wife turned up. A little surprise?’
‘Oui. It … Ah …’ He threw out both hands, gesturing with them and raised a cautionary finger. ‘It was nothing. Marie-Jacqueline and I on a …’
‘A staircase?’ It was just a shot in the dark.
‘To the small tower that was off the bedroom we were using. The beam of Sandrine’s torch found us. Instead of trying to cover her parties sexuelles, Marie-Jacqueline leaned back on the stairs, laughed at my wife and … and spread her legs. We’d … we’d just had sex.’
‘Unprotected?’
‘Inspector …’
‘It’s Chief Inspector, Monsieur le Ministre, and unless I’m mistaken, which I’m not, you are already guilty of misuse of your office and misappropriation of goods you yourself are in charge of rationing, so let us have the truth.’
‘Not protected.’
One could imagine the rest, the wife with her gaze riveted on the offending female, jealousy, hatred and unbridled rage in her eyes and acid on her tongue. But it would be best to sigh and say, ‘Let’s have the date and time.’
‘The Saturday six weeks before she drowned. As to the time … perhaps my wife found us at midnight, perhaps a little after that.’
‘And she had clearance to be out after curfew?’
Ah damn this one! ‘I have a pass, the car its Service Public sticker.’
And signed by the Commissaire de Police, a petrol allocation also. Party, chateau, 24 October 1942, was jotted down. ‘These parties, Monsieur le Ministre, who else was there and how often were they held?’
Maudit salaud! ‘One never really knows at such gatherings.’
‘Just tell me.’
‘Rene and the others, as well as still others. Maybe forty, maybe a few more. It depended on …’
‘On what?’
‘The success of …’
‘Your little enterprise?’
‘Oui.’
‘So, a party every fortnight?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Netting how much a month, please, this enterprise?’
Was St-Cyr a saint? ‘Four or five hundred thousand francs, seldom more.’
‘A week?’ asked Hermann, setting a double pastis without water on the table before his partner and chum, and two of Paulaner’s Munchner Hells for himself.
‘A week,’ sighed Richard, realizing only too clearly that Bousquet had buggered off and had left him to face the music on his own.
‘One and a half to two million a month, Louis. Between eighteen and twenty-four million a year. Among how many shareholders, monsieur?’
These two … Rene had been warned not to let Boemelburg assign them to the investigation. Laval would intercede on the detectives’ behalf by personally telephoning the Gestapo Chief! ‘Fifteen. No more. It’s always best to minimize such things.’