‘But neither of these two would have released such information,’ said Laval, shaking his head. ‘These things simply have a way of getting out, Bernard.’
‘And to his ears?’
‘His good one, I trust. The Marechal’s stone deaf in the left one, Inspectors.’
‘Messieurs, please,’ cautioned Louis. ‘This key was taken from the groundskeepers’ board in the furnace room of the Hotel du Parc. Whoever took it not only knew where to find it, but more importantly, since none of the keys was identified, exactly which one would be needed.’
‘A town resident, an employee, perhaps,’ said Menetrel, not looking at them. ‘One who has passed by that padlock every day and has seen it many times.’
The key looked as if suitable for any padlock of that vintage. ‘Why the Hall des Sources?’ asked Laval. ‘Why plan to take the Marechal there? Why not simply kill him in that bedroom of his?’
‘The girl would almost certainly have screamed,’ said Kohler. ‘There would have been a scuffle. Others would have been awakened and, if not, the Marechal is still surprisingly fit.’
‘He exercises. I do the best I can,’ muttered Menetrel testily. ‘If neither of you let it out, who did?’
It was Laval who, lighting another cigarette from the butt of the one he’d been smoking, calmly said, ‘Why not ask the switchboard operator, Bernard? You know as well as I do that the Marechal always rings downstairs first thing in the morning to ask if there have been any calls.’
‘Sacre, that bitch! I’ll see she’s dismissed. Just let me get my hands on her. Passing classified information. Breaking our strict rules about secrecy …’
‘See to it, Bernard. We can’t have that happening, can we?’ urged the Premier, as the doctor bolted from the table to make his way across the room. ‘Red-faced and in a rage,’ chuckled Laval, delighted by the result, but then, taking a deep drag and exhaling smoke through his nostrils, he returned to business. ‘There’s more to this, isn’t there? Inspectors, you can and must speak freely. Secretaire General Bousquet and I are as one, and we both need to know.’
Bousquet remained watchfully silent, his cigarette still.
‘A man and a woman,’ said Louis levelly. ‘The first to encounter the victim and then to take her to the Hall, the second to lie in wait there.’
‘Two assailants … A team, is that it, eh?’ demanded Bousquet, sickened by the thought.
‘A vengeance killing?’ asked Laval. ‘Assuming, of course, that the Marechal really was the intended victim and that this Madame Dupuis had simply to be silenced.’
‘As of now the matter is still open to question,’ confessed Louis and, finding that pipe of his and a too-thin tobacco pouch, frowned at necessity’s need but decided it would have to be satisfied.
‘He takes for ever to pack that thing,’ quipped Kohler. ‘It helps him think.’
And there is still more to this, isn’t there? thought Laval. That is why this partner and friend of yours is so carefully giving me the once over. He sees the hank of straight jet-black hair that always seems to fall over the right half of my brow to all but touch that eye. He sees not so much the swiftness of my glance as the glint of constant suspicion. He notes my dark olive skin, bad teeth, the nicotine stains, the full and thick moustache, double chin, the squat and all but non-existent neck and the white tie that has been so much a part of me since my earliest days as a trade-union lawyer and socialist candidate in Aubervilliers. He says to himself that tie really does make me stand out for any would-be assassins but readily admits I will never be persuaded to change it.
But does he hate me too? Does he call me, as so many do, le Maquignon, or is his interest simply that of detachment, the detective in him a student of life out of necessity?
St-Cyr returned the questioning gaze. Tough … mon Dieu, this one was that and much more. Premier from January 1931 to February 1932, Foreign Minister from May of ’32 until June ’35, Premier again until January ’36, after which he’d been out of office until September ’39 but always there behind the scenes, and back as Premier from July ’40 until his arrest on 13 December of that first year of the Occupation and now, since April ’42, Premier again.
‘A self-made man, Inspector,’ acknowledged Laval. ‘The youngest son of a butcher, cafe owner, innkeeper and postman — Father had a lot of irons in the fire and a wife and four children to feed. Chateldon is less than twenty kilometres to the south and a tiny place, but it’s home, you understand, and my house is the one on the hill.’
The chateau Laval had been bought in 1932 after that first term as Premier. He’d left the village when still a schoolboy, had insisted on taking his baccalaureat, then a degree in Zoology, then Law and, to finance himself, had taken a position as a pion, a supervisor of secondary schools in Lyons, Saint Etienne, Dijon …
He had bought into and then come to own several newspapers, Radio-Lyons and printing presses — the one in Clermont-Ferrand did all of Vichy’s printing and had done so since July 1940, even after his arrest by the Garde Mobile. One of his companies bottled a mineral water — La Sergentale — which was reputed to be a cure for impotence and had been sold on railways and oceanic liners before the war (now only on the trains, of course). Farming, too, was among his business interests, wine also.
‘A happy family man, eh, Rene?’ he said, looking steadily at Bousquet. ‘One who adores his only child and daughter and dearly loves his wife, so doesn’t fool around with those of others. But if you are as well informed as I think you are, Inspectors, you will also be aware that my Jeanne often refers to the distinct possibility of Madame Petain’s having Jewish blood in her family, whereas that good woman constantly refers to me behind my back as “that Moroccan carpet dealer”, or even “that Jamaick” — that Jamaican — she having dug that last one up from my days as a schoolboy more than fifty years ago.’
‘An eminence grise,’ said Louis guardedly, ‘but one who, whether I agree or not with your policies, causes me to realize that you are no ordinary man and that with you, things had best be up front.’
‘Two assailants?’ prompted Bousquet.
‘The female, having gained access to the Hall, removed her overcoat and, most probably, also a woollen jersey. Then, after lighting a cigar, waited for her victim.’
‘A cigar …?’ blurted Laval. ‘Was it one of Petain’s?’
‘There’s a humidor in his office, Inspectors,’ interjected Bousquet. ‘People come and go all day long. Any of them could have helped themselves or been offered one they did not smoke at the time.’
Lost to the thought, Laval muttered, ‘Someone so close, he, she or both can come and go as they please, with us none the wiser. Is this what you’re suggesting, Rene?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘But … but cigars are available elsewhere?’ cautioned Laval. ‘The Marquis de Bon Gout, on the boulevard du Casino at the other end of the park, has plenty, Inspectors. Ask the elder Paquet to go through his register. Take the old man into your confidence a little. He knows everything there is to know about this town, save what’s left of the nation’s government. Maybe even that too.’ He glanced at his pocket watch and then turned again to Bousquet. ‘Rene, make certain they tell you everything. Relay it to me but keep that little Florentine intriguer of a doctor in the dark, eh? Find out who among his overblown staff knew about this liaison he’d arranged and if that person or persons squeaked it to anyone else, including the members of his private army. Let us show that starchy Rasputin a thing or two and baste his goose with the sauce it deserves!’
‘A moment, Premier,’ cautioned Louis as Laval got up to leave. ‘The killer knew enough about the heart muscle to know it would be best to enlarge the hole she was putting in it.’