‘Messieurs,’ he said, as the racket of the club constantly swirled around the table, ‘we are presented with a plot to kill you. Resistants perhaps. A Flykiller, in any case, or two of them, and the ominous threat of an imminent civil war and yet … and yet.’ He stabbed the air with his fork. ‘We find the mistresses are the victims and that in each case, not only is the intended target passed over and no attempt made on his life, but that he, to save his reputation, keeps silent and buggers off, leaving the corpse for others to find and tidy up.’
‘Now listen, you …’ began Deschambeault, still not even having bothered to remove his coat and scarf.
‘No, you listen, Sous-directeur. If what my partner has just learned is true, your wife was not alone in that car on her little visit to the chateau you boys use, but was sitting beside Madame Petain.’
‘That woman interferes, Inspector,’ swore Richard acidly.
‘Why not tell him she wields enormous power?’ shot Honore de Fleury.
‘Which is always veiled,’ sighed Deschambeault. ‘Merde, I’ve no idea why she was there. My Julienne was to have been at Dr Normand’s clinic. Total rest and further treatments. The hydrotherapie sauvage and electrotherapie. Thirty cubic centimetres of the Chomel six times a day …’
‘And your wife, Monsieur de Fleury?’ asked Louis.
‘Knew only that I would be late and not home for dinner.’
Louis wouldn’t let him get away with that! thought Kohler.
‘And where, please, is home?’
‘The Hotel Majestic. We’ve three rooms just along the hall from Dr Menetrel and his family, and …’
‘Near Madame Petain’s suite?’
‘Near enough. All right, they know each other. They talk. Elisabeth and Madame Petain use the same coiffeur and … and visit the Grand etablissement thermal every Thursday, as does Madame Richard.’
This was getting better and better! ‘And do they share a bath?’ asked Kohler. ‘The steam room perhaps?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Tea once or twice a week, or coffee and cakes in the Chante Clair?’ he asked, ripping off more bread and still eating like a soldier in the trenches of that other war, as if it was his last meal.
‘Often enough, yes,’ flustered de Fleury. ‘Mon Dieu, you’re not suggesting my Eisabeth entered into some pact to kill them? She’s not like that. She’s meek and mild, the perfect stay-at-home mother and wife. Certainly she’s upset about how crowded things are, living as we have to, but … but I’ve made a full confession that she has accepted. Never again will I … Well, you know.’ Agitatedly he passed worried fingers over that brow of his.
‘Stray from the fold?’ quipped Hermann, helping himself to more of the truffades.
‘Sandrine has been appeased, Inspectors,’ said Richard dryly. ‘Revenge, yes, but as to her drowning Marie-Jacqueline …? It’s impossible. Nothing could have been further from her mind.’
‘And yet … and yet,’ motioned Louis with his fork. ‘You and your lover shared a bath at the etablissement thermal and your wife, since she also visits the baths, must have known the two of you were accustomed to doing this, as did Madame Petain. It wasn’t the first time, was it?’
‘Inspectors … Inspectors,’ chided Bousquet, grinning affably as he rejoined them, ‘in the heat of a jealous rage a woman will say anything!’
‘And Madame Petain?’ asked Hermann, wolfing most of a truffade. ‘Just what the hell was she doing there last 24 October?’
‘In the middle of the night, messieurs?’ demanded Louis. ‘Was it raining? And which of you escorted Mesdames Sandrine Richard and Elisabeth de Fleury to the car, only to find the Marechal’s wife staring out through her side window at him?’
‘I did,’ said Bousquet, that lambskin-collared overcoat of his falling open to reveal the very finest of suits — did he change his shirts several times a day? wondered St-Cyr. Image was so often everything to the Occupier. Wealth and power went hand in hand with that.
‘I told her the matter had been taken care of,’ said Bousquet stonily, ‘and that there was no cause for further alarm.’
‘When, really, it hadn’t been taken care of at all,’ sighed Louis, helping himself to the salad. ‘Further parties at that same chateau led to further flagrant infidelities; here, too, I should think, and at the Jockey Club, wouldn’t you say, Hermann?’
‘I’d give him a month’s wages, Louis, just to hear what Madame Petain had to say!’
‘Mon Dieu, how were we to know then that all four would be killed?’ demanded Bousquet.
The dishes were, of course, covered, the porcelain not Sevres or Limoges but eminently serviceable. Renowned for his love of the table, Laval had stood them proud, but why?
‘Messieurs,’ said St-Cyr, ‘let us admit that you were up to mischief and that it had to stop if for no other reason than that of the scandal and embarrassment to the very Government you serve. Marie-Jacqueline was killed but the rest of you carried on as if nothing had happened, and certainly for you, Ministre Richard, this first killing was a blessing in disguise. She was trouble — you, yourself, have stated this. She was drunk — she must have been, a little at least — and had slipped below the water in that bath. The electricity had gone off — another power failure you went to investigate — and when you returned, you stated to the investigating officer later that you thought she was still alive, wanting only to caress you with her foot.’
‘That was 9 December, Louis, at about 6.50 p.m. Then all but a month later, Monsieur le Secretaire General meets Camille Lefebvre at a cabin he rents out for just such a purpose, and let’s not kid ourselves about that.’
‘And at 2.45 a.m. finds her garrotted, fires two or three shots into the wilderness but can’t remember how many and buggers off to Paris to an important meeting.’
‘Inspectors …’ attempted Bousquet.
‘No, please,’ cautioned Louis, taking more bread with his salad. ‘Lucie Trudel then dies and she, too, could have been a substantial embarrassment to you, Sous-directeur Deschambeault, so much so that you even failed to inform your friend and business partner, our Secretaire General de Police, of the murder.’
‘Then Celine is persuaded to agree to do something she didn’t want to do, and is taken to the Hall des Sources at 10 p.m. on Tuesday, 2 February,’ said Hermann. ‘Trouble is, mon vieux, if this one had owned up as he should have, Celine might still be alive.’
‘Two of those murders rest on your shoulders, Sous-directeur. I’m even certain you read her note: “Lucie, we have to talk. It’s urgent”.’
‘What was?’ asked Hermann. ‘The abortion? The murders of Marie-Jacqueline and Camille and were they to be next, eh? Or had Celine discovered who the killer or killers were?’
‘Jean-Louis … Herr Kohler … listen to me, please,’ urged Bousquet, no longer dashing, just damned worried. ‘It can’t have been the wives. Merde alors, it’s crazy to even think such a thing.’
‘It’s the terrorists,’ said Deschambeault vehemently. ‘Why else would your name be at the top of L’Humanite’s list? Those bastards are out to get us!’
‘The Resistance,’ said Hermann. ‘There’s only one problem. Since when did they start killing the innocent only to forget entirely about their intended targets?’
‘They want to make us afraid of them!’ seethed Richard.
‘To prolong our agony!’ hissed de Fleury.
‘Or is it, messieurs, that the killer or killers wish you to blame the Resistance, as you have?’
‘Herr Gessler and Herr Jannicke will sort it out, Jean-Louis,’ said Bousquet gruffly. ‘I had no choice but to ask them to bring in a little help.’