‘Merci, Monsieur Lalonde,’ sighed St-Cyr. ‘You may leave us now, but were absolutely correct to fetch me.’
‘Mademoiselle Danielle could so easily have come in here before the meeting, Inspector. The girl is considered almost as one of us and knows well where each type of flower is grown.’
The gardener was clearly much distressed and with good reason, but had best be told. ‘Say nothing. Let us deal with it. Now go. We will return to the others in a moment.’
‘Helleborus niger, Louis. The Christmas rose …’
‘Yes, yes. A cure for madness in the days of Pliny the Elder, Hermann, but as to how many patients survived, the historical records are understandably vague.’
The flowers, of a very uncomplicated but proud look, were large and white or purplish and stood tall and straight, with golden, pollen-covered anthers to which the bees, excluded from this greenhouse, could not come.
The leaves were serrated and leathery; the stems, a purplish-brown.
‘Did she wear gloves?’ asked Kohler.
‘If it was Danielle — if, Hermann. We don’t know this yet, but if gloves weren’t worn, then the skin of the fingers — especially that around the nails — will definitely show signs of inflammation.’
‘There’ll also be earth under her fingernails, idiot!’
‘Unless whoever did this washed their hands afterwards, or wore gloves.’
‘The roots, Louis.’
‘When dried and ground, they have the look of powdered liquorice and can, at times, unfortunately be mistaken for it. A dram of the tisane has been known to kill, but with the powdered root, the exact dosage is unknown and probably varies, though it has to be much less than a gram.’
‘She either killed her father or thinks that half-brother of hers did it and now plans to kill herself.’
‘And if not Danielle and not Étienne?’
‘Then Frau Käthe Hillebrand, or Madame de Bonnevies.’
‘Or Honoré de Saussine, or Father Michel?’
‘You tell me. Look, we have to talk. The Palais d’Eiffel is about to be shut down. Oberg insists we do everything we can to prevent this. We can find our murderer, but had better leave Schlacht and his wife well out of it, or else.’
Hermann was clearly agitated and didn’t look well. ‘And Oona?’
‘To Spain. It’s what has to be, Louis. I’m sorry, but I’ve no other choice. I’m one of them, remember?’
One of the Occupier. ‘We’ll discuss it later.’
‘Verdamtnt! An order is an order.’
‘And Oona? Oona loves you, Hermann. You and Giselle are her link with sanity in a world gone mad. Take the two of you away from her and what remains?’
‘Ashes.’
‘Then let’s pay the morgue a visit. Let’s both calm down and do what we have to.’
‘I knew you’d help. I was just worried about asking you.’
‘Then don’t be. We’re in this together. How are the toes?’
‘Terrible.’
The Citroën was packed. Hoarfrost had quickly formed inside the windscreen and windows, and Hermann, his hands not free, what with the crutches and Danielle sitting on his lap, could do nothing to improve visibility.
Frau Hillebrand sat squeezed between them, with Father Michel, Juliette de Bonnevies, and Honoré de Saussine in the back. The SS followed in two cars; the city was, of course, in darkness. When one lamp, its bluing streaked, signalled that they had finally reached the place Mazas, the forty-watt light bulb that was above the door to the morgue had gone out.
A bad sign? wondered St-Cyr. Hermann would think so. Hermann hated visits to the morgue, but this one was necessary. Even so, he sighed and said, ‘Louis, there are things you need to know; things I can’t tell you in present company, or in any other, for that matter.’
‘This won’t take long, mon vieux, and will, I think, save much time.’
‘And if we refuse to go in there?’ shrilled Frau Hillebrand.
‘Then my partner will have the SS drag you in, meine gute Frau,’ said St-Cyr in deutsch. ‘If you’ve nothing to hide, you’ve nothing to fear.’
Father Michel said in French that it wasn’t right and that the deceased deserved to be left in peace. ‘He never did that to me, Father!’ countered Juliette. ‘Why not tell the Inspectors everything? Why not confess?’
‘My child, you’re overwrought.’
‘You came to the house on Thursday afternoon, Father. You had just been to see Angèle-Marie.’
‘Inspectors, is this really necessary?’ asked de Saussine.
‘I guess it is, eh, Louis?’ snorted Kohler.
Danielle de Bonnevies said nothing but was so tense, he could feel her pulse racing and, finding an ear, whispered, ‘Don’t even think of it. Those boys behind us have two dogs and Schmeissers. We’d only be laying you out on a slab.’
‘I heard no dogs,’ she replied.
‘Well, maybe not, but you do understand, eh? Now you first, and easy, then me. Here, hang on a minute, I need to lean my crutches against the door.’
‘Forgive me,’ she muttered as the door was opened.
‘Forgive …’ echoed Hermann, only to shriek in agony as the girl stamped on his wounded foot and tumbled out of the car. She fell. She dragged herself up and began to run as the guards cried, ‘Halt!’ and Juliette shrilled, ‘Danielle …’
‘Don’t shoot! Please don’t!’ yelled St-Cyr in German, and then, ‘Ah merde. Mademoiselle, arrêtez-vous! You cannot escape.’
Cursing, the SS bundled back into their cars, one racing up the avenue Ledru-Rollin with high beams fully uncovered and the fronts of the buildings staring out into the passing light as if suddenly awakened; the other tearing up the boulevard de la Bastille. Simultaneously they must have reached the rue de Lyon, for two sets of tyres screeched, both horns blared. A bicycle taxi had perhaps got in the way.
‘Louis, shouldn’t we go after her? Those roots …’
‘What roots?’ demanded Frau Hillebrand in perfect French.
‘Hermann, we had best leave her for now. Inside, I think.’
They heard the cars taking the short little side streets that lay between the rue de Lyon and rue de Bercy.
‘Verdammt!’ swore Kohler still gritting his teeth in pain, and gathering up scattered crutches. ‘Why the hell couldn’t she have listened to me, Louis?’
‘The half-brother, I think. Now come on, let me help you.’
‘No. I’m all right. I should have listened to myself. I knew she was going to make a bolt for it.’
They crowded into the entrance, blinking as the electric light hit them. Frau Hillebrand was nervous and withdrawn; Father Michel tense and watchful; Juliette de Bonnevies sickened by what Danielle had just done and by the nearness of what they must now go through.
And de Saussine, wondered St-Cyr, and answered, is no longer sure of himself.
‘This way, tnes amis. Monsieur,’ he said to the attendant on the desk, ‘St-Cyr of the Sûreté and Kohler of the Kripo to see the autopsy reports on Alexandre de Bonnevies and to view the corpse.’
‘Louis, must I?’ muttered Kohler.
‘Why me, why you, why us, eh?’ It was a plea Hermann often made.
‘My son …’
Stung, Kohler swung round. ‘Father, get that butt of yours in there and speak only when spoken to!’
They went into a room so big and cold and white, her shivering would be noticed, thought Juliette and swallowed hard. There were several corpses on table-like slabs, with draining boards and sinks and blood … blood seeping from a cut-open chest and abdomen. Blood pooled around someone’s heart and lungs and splashed on a limp penis and marble-white thighs.
Alexandre was hideous. His iron-grey hair was parted in the middle and slicked down hard with pomade — he’d never worn it that way. Not like a gangster or pimp! The nostrils were blackberry blue, the eyelids and lips, the fingernails …