A wall mirror, astutely positioned on the left of the desk, would reflect each curiste’s towel or sheath-draped figure for lessons in obesity that permitted few secrets.
A little man, grey, balding and sharply goateed, with necktie, shirt, waistcoat and suit under a white smock, Dr Raoul Normand was pushing seventy. He scribbled hard, the gold-rimmed pince-nez balanced on the bridge of a slender nose. Another prescription. Thirty cubic centimetres of the Chomel … le gymnase, la hydrotherapie et les inhalations de gaz …
‘Doctor, some visitors,’ whispered the maid, having timidly approached the desk.
‘A moment, my child. Will you see that Herr Schroder follows my orders strictly? Positively no alcohol for five days. We must convince him of this.’ He fretted. ‘Zaunerstollen … what is this, please?’ he asked, consulting the request sheet he’d been given by his latest curiste.
‘A nougat,’ offered Kohler, the others standing aside. ‘Ground hazelnuts and almonds, with grated chocolate, butter, cream and crumbled bits of Oblaten.’
‘And what is that? snapped the doctor, irritably fussing with the sheet of notepaper.
‘Round wafers filled with buttered, ground almonds and sugar.’
‘Merde, how in heaven’s name is his liver to possibly continue? Twenty-five cubic centimetres of the Chomel, Babette, three times the half-day. The tisanes of rose-hip, elderflower and lime at all other times. Absolutely no pate, pork, goose or anything but the fish steamed and the vegetables unbuttered. No coffee or tea. I must insist. Fifteen cubic centimetres of the Grande Grille first thing on waking and another fifteen on retiring, but to be gently sipped so as not to shock the system. If he complains, don’t listen; if he threatens, please tell him that though I dislike admitting failure, I will have to ask the Kommandant to consider sending him to Baden-Baden where they do have these … these …’
‘Zaunerstollen,’ said Kohler.
‘Merci.’
‘Bad Homburg might be better. It’s just outside of Frankfurt am Main.’
‘Hermann, please!’
Louis knew that the SS had taken over the Rothschild spa there and had coupled it with one of their Lebensborn, their life fountains, where blonde, blue-eyed, voluptous Rheinmadchen were brought in to couple with the elite and produce pure Aryan cannon fodder.
‘And the Frau Schroder, Docteur?’ interjected the maid.
The little man looked up and removed his pince-nez. ‘Is to understand that our latest synthetic-rubber baron’s liver is in a state of crisis. The hot and cold baths for her, seven minutes at a time and alternating for the full hour. The steam afterwards, and after that, the full body scrape and message complet, to be followed by the warm effervescent bath with the rose petals and the cure de silence for at least another hour. A little wine with her dinner — one glass … Ah! perhaps two, but positively no sugar, fat or starch. If she accuses us of being concentration camp warders, apologize but make sure you emphasize that we’ve never heard of such places. Now … Ah! Madame la Marechale, excusez-moi. Messieurs, Mesdames Richard et de Fleury, what a pleasant surprise. Mademoiselles,’ he acknowledged Blanche and Ines. ‘Please forgive the small delay. We are, I’m afraid, short-staffed and totally overloaded. What can I do for you?’
If not a cure, thought Kohler, then at least the negatives of certain photographs.
‘Madame Deschambeault,’ said Louis. ‘A few small questions. Nothing difficult and don’t say it’s impossible.’
Communication between the two detectives had been by a look so slight that none but herself could have noticed it, felt Ines. They were ushered out of the doctor’s office and the door was then locked behind them. St-Cyr, Madame Petain and the other two ladies had gone off with a disgruntled Dr Normand to visit Madame Deschambeault.
Herr Kohler had stayed behind and had told Blanche and herself to find a bench in the corridor nearby.
Blanche sat silently beside her, a Kentia to her right; the girl’s reflection clear in the mirror opposite, Blanche pale and withdrawn and terribly worried. Everything would now be decided on the outcome of this murder investigation. Her brother’s future, her own, their claim to what they felt was rightfully theirs. Herr Kohler could hardly wait to get rid of them. No sooner had they turned their backs on him than he’d have been at that lock.
He would be in the consulting room now, hurriedly going through the files, and would find that Marie-Jacqueline Mailloux had assisted in the treatment of Madame Deschambeault until that one had learned of who she was: the mistress of Alain Andre Richard, the husband of a dear, dear friend.
He would find that, as Celine had written in one of her letters, Marie-Jacqueline had also attended to Albert Grenier’s sore back and shoulder — his ‘spine’ — at his house or in the groundskeeper’s little ‘nest’, out of the goodness of her heart, and that Albert had loved her for it as he had loved the others.
He would soon know, if he and St-Cyr didn’t already know, that Dr Menetrel received regular reports from Dr Normand on the progress of Madame Deschambeault and that everything that poor woman had said while under treatment had not only been written down, but repeated. He would see that Sandrine Richard hadn’t just threatened to kill Marie-Jacqueline at the chateau, but that she had also done so here, early last summer, on 12 June, the day after Marie-Jacqueline had, on leaving the Hotel Ruhl, noticed in a cafe across the street two very well-dressed ladies who were, she had concluded, watching that entrance for just such a departure as her own.
Madame Richard and Madame de Fleury. But would Herr Kohler realize that Marie-Jacqueline had also looked at that file?
Kohler couldn’t believe what he was reading. Here, line by line, were the exact details, barring the rats, of how they had found Lucie Trudel.
Speaks of smothering her husband’s lover in the girl’s bed, Normand had written well before any of the murders.
Wants her corpse naked so that he can see what she’s really like with that riding crop in her hand. Patient is severely paranoid and terrified of losing her own sizeable fortune, her status also, and husband. Claims the girl will use pregnancy as a means of trapping Gaetan-Baptiste into marriage. Claims he’s fool enough to think such a thing possible but will ensure it by demanding that the courts declare her insane and grant the divorce.
Continues to view the hydrotherapie sauvage froid as a punishment for her failure as a wife. While under this treatment, often tears the sheath from herself and begs the attendant to use more force. The breasts, the mons and buttocks, she defiantly standing to face the hose until driven to cower, shivering, in a corner on her hands and knees.
Is, frankly, a very sexually repressed and mentally disturbed woman. A danger to herself let alone Mlle Trudel, the husband’s mistress and personal shorthand typist.
There was more, lots more … Pages of it.
10 November 1942: Has confided that Mme Richard will definitely ‘take care’ of Mlle Marie-Jacqueline Mailloux; that ‘someone’ will do the same with Camille Lefebvre on payment of a large sum by Mme Richard, but that Mlles Trudel and Dupuis will be taken care of by Sandrine Richard and herself, Elisabeth de Fleury knowing of it and having agreed, but lacking the courage to ‘participate’.