‘But … but it never got there,’ muttered Albert, ‘’cause Edith took it from me.’
‘But gave you as a little reward your uncle’s pocket knife, the Laguiole he’d had since a boy.’
‘Edith and Olivier let the other side know they were on to what would happen, Louis,’ said Hermann sadly. ‘Albert waited on that balcony for Celine, and she went with him willingly enough, since you told her, didn’t you, Albert, that Monsieur Olivier wanted her to go to the Hall?’
‘And would … would take her to safety,’ said Ines.
‘They did not intervene,’ said Louis. ‘You see, by then Edith had told Auguste-Alphonse that Charles-Frederic must have realized where this ear was hidden.’
‘Where?’ asked Laval.
‘A moment, Monsieur le Premier. You were not the only person able to duck into the Hall to view the corpse. Monsieur Olivier also did, but the beam of his torch gave him away as he tried to unscrew the second earring and …’
‘He removed the knife, Louis, and then dropped it into the outhouse for Albert to find, because Albert had seen him.’
‘But not leaving the matchstick V for Victory, Hermann. If it had been present at 5 a.m. or thereabouts on Wednesday, he’d have taken it.’
‘Then that one left it. The doctor, Louis, when he pronounced her dead and saw an end to the four informants.’
‘Just as our killer left the cigar band on the counter of the Buvette du Parc, knowing his grand-nephew would be sure to find and wear it and that we’d notice this.’
‘Giving us suspects and suspects so that we would have to sort through them to find the one they wanted us to arrest,’ said Kohler.
‘The identity card is left for you to find, Secretaire, and later, the dress, the sapphires and letters for Hermann and myself — Edith Pascal perhaps, or Olivier himself. Both sides were desperately working against each other, the one to hide who the real killer was, the other to lead us to him.’
‘And the location of this “ear”?’ asked Laval.
‘The old PTT next door,’ said St-Cyr. ‘Switchboard lines to the Hotel du Parc and other hotels and places have been reconnected. That is why I telephoned you, Premier. To test the theory.’
‘And warn him!’ shouted Ferbrave, as he and the Garde swept out, leaving them in a cold draught that blew in through the front entrance.
‘They’ll find nothing,’ spat Hebert, ‘because you let him go.’
‘Not at all, monsieur. I had no choice but to telephone Monsieur le Premier and Dr Menetrel, and it was only as I did so that I realized there were two of you who knew everything beforehand and that I might well have let the other side know. You had your information from the doctor; Olivier, from yours and his telephone conversations, and those of others, including the wives and Madame la Marechale.’
‘Auguste always was a hands-on administrator. When he pushed through the new PTT, he took an active interest in everything, even to forming a separate company of his own to acquire the old building.’
‘Which, due to the Depression of the 1930s, has, perhaps, remained vacant.’
‘Not at all, but the old cables still run through its cellars.’
‘And he tapped into them?’
‘Yes!’
‘Inspectors, is there anything else we need to know?’ asked Laval, filling his glass and testing the wine’s bouquet, before raising the glass not to them, but to Madame Ribot, who leaned on the gallery railing so far above them.
‘She predicted I would find my answer in two visitors from Paris,’ said Laval grinning appreciatively, ‘and as with so many things, her advice was good. Bernard, enough said. We all know you wouldn’t have asked anyone to kill them, but would merely have voiced your intense displeasure at the horrendous breach of security they represented. Please don’t forget we’ve a briefing with his lordship tomorrow morning. Gentlemen, this affair is over. No reports are necessary, and everything you have learned is to be kept in absolute secrecy.’
Even though the gallery audience must have heard it and would be certain to spread the word!
‘And me?’ demanded Hebert. ‘What is to become of me?’
‘That,’ said Laval, flinging his cigarette away, ‘I leave entirely to your mentor in the fond hope that he won’t screw up again.’
At the sound of the Premier’s armoured car starting up, Ferbrave returned with Celine Dupuis’s rucksack and bag, and a pencilled note: Station closed until spring.
‘Until the invasion comes and the Occupier is kicked out, Louis.’
Everyone knew the saying, but would it ever come? Olivier and Edith would have left town, gone underground, whatever. With total occupation and a Government of zero influence, the listening post had served its usefulness. For it to have operated from the autumn of 1940, no doubt, seemed enough.
Everything had been done to let the other side know Monsieur Olivier was aware of what they were up to, but had he tried to intervene or had he let it all happen to shield himself and his source? wondered Ines, but couldn’t bring herself to ask.
When a burst of gunfire came to them from the street, she knew that Henri-Claude Ferbrave and Dr Menetrel had not let the killer survive but had told him to run.
The baths at the Hotel Ruhl were heaven. Drained, cleaned and replenished, the warm and mildly effervescent water soothed an aching right shoulder and left knee, but was it salve to Louis’s troubled conscience? wondered Kohler.
‘Shot while attempting to escape,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to leave it at that, Louis. If we object, Menetrel will only accuse you of warning Olivier to get clear.’
The doctor would do it, too, but still … Petain would be taking his breakfast behind that screen of his in the Majestic’s Chante Clair Restaurant, the Government’s ministers, their wives and families, et cetera, sipping their cafe au lait ou noir and picking at their hot buttered croissants …
‘A meeting,’ muttered St-Cyr, lying flat out in the bath.
‘Admit it, we’ve done what we had to. Relax.’
The sculptress had been taken to her boarding house where she would have spent the rest of the night. She’d have caught an early bus, would be sitting in the foyer, waiting for the great one to eat and get his briefing over.
‘Nine-fifty,’ murmured Hermann dreamily. ‘My bones feel like rubber, Louis. No pain, no aches, every joint in my body loose and relaxed.’
They’d been left alone in their little stew. It was now 9.30 a.m. Saturday, 6 February. The midday train to Paris didn’t leave until 1 p.m., if they were lucky and it was on time.
Would the sculptress book another sleeper, a girl who had no money to spare?
‘Did Olivier really let the killings happen, Hermann? Am I right in this? I have to feel he did. I tell myself that the Resistance, because of circumstance, can’t be free of such implications, that there is still unfinished business also, and that Albert Grenier was right about our sculptress, and that Ines Charpentier feels she has been betrayed.’
‘The smell of bitter almonds,’ hazarded Kohler. ‘Gessler did vet the thing.’
‘Plastic … could it have been from that?’
Cyclonite did smell almondy but Nobel 808 reeked of bitter almonds so much one inevitably got a hell of a headache when using it. ‘A timer … A pocket watch and battery. It would have to have been a watch, Louis. Those time-pencils the British are dropping to the Resistance freeze up in the cold.’
‘And are delayed by hours. Their acid does not work as quickly when the bulb is squeezed and broken to release it on to the wire that holds the spring back, until that is freed and the pin strikes the detonator.’
‘A watch, then,’ said Kohler. ‘And blocks of 808 embedded in a sculptress’s beeswax. Accessed while left in the elder Grenier’s care and updated last night at her boarding house, the kid not knowing a thing about it. Surely Olivier wouldn’t do that to one of his own?’