too. ‘In addition to getting in touch with her father, Louis, Mary-Lynn Allan wanted to know where he was buried since he was one of the hundreds of thousands who were never found. Blown to bits probably, or simply left in the cesspool of a shell crater to eventually be covered.’
A sigh would do no good. ‘Hermann, please do as I’ve asked. Since you’ve already been talking to Nora Arnarson, continue your conversation with her, then find out whatever else you can here.’
‘But leave the Hôtel Grand for later. A pendulum and two bodies.’
‘The theft of little things of no consequence.’
They’d all know of that anyways. ‘A trapper, Louis, a bell ringer, and a flunky.’
‘And a chess piece, Hermann.’
‘Oh, that. The wood’s from a Kentucky Coffeetree. The father carved it when he was a teenager. The mother sent it over with the snapshots in a Red Cross parcel. That’s why the ex-Kommandant who asked for us but left without leaving any information readily agreed to the late-night visitation and attended it himself as a firm believer.’
Ah, sacré nom de nom!
Room 3–38 was far from happy, thought Kohler. The blue-eyed blonde whose cot was under the St. Olaf College pennant tried to light a cigarette but was so nervous, match and fag fell to her lap, scorching the grey tweed of a slender skirt.
‘Shit!’ she cried in English. ‘ Don’t, Marni. I’m warning you.’
That one, whose cot was next to the innermost wall and under the Marquette U. pennant, and who had helped herself without the chef’s permission to a cup of the rabbit broth, had been about to quench the fire.
‘Should I have let you torch your beaver?’ she yelled. ‘The préfet de police’s goatee, eh?’
The police chief’s beard and prostitute talk, the insult not really meant but. . .
‘That’s it!’ cried the blonde. ‘I’m not living here a moment longer. I can’t stand the stench of that!’
The rabbits, to which the trapper, Nora Arnarson, having flung a desperate look of censure at the green-eyed redhead with the mass of curls who’d helped herself to the broth, was now slicing peeled sow-thistle roots to be added to the pot.
She dumped the lot in and began to slice the hell out of an onion, though how she had come by such a rarity was anyone’s guess unless on the black market.
‘I don’t know how you can kill things like that, Nora,’ started up the blonde again. ‘I really don’t. They’re God’s creatures.’
‘As was the pig from which the SPAM you eat must have come,’ came the retort from Nora.
‘ At least I was spared the agony of having to watch the poor thing being skinned and butchered! ’
Shrill. . . ‘ Jésus, merde alors, ladies. . . mesdames et mesdemoiselles, a moment. My English, it’s not enough. I’m not here to accuse any of you, why would I? My partner and I just need a little help.’
‘If you’re to stop another of us from being murdered—is that it, eh? Why don’t you just say it?’
That had been Jill Faber, who slept end-to-end next to Becky Torrence, the blonde, and was sitting under the U. of Wisconsin pennant.
‘Are we all to be poisoned?’ wept Becky. ‘Those damned seeds, Inspector. If Nora’s right, each one contains at least a tenth of a milligram of the datura poison atropine. Ten to thirty seeds will make you very sick and hallucinating in hell; a hundred can kill you.’
‘And for all I know, they could already have been added to our supper,’ said the chef, to which the redhead with the broth added, ‘Nora, darling, you don’t really mean that.’
‘We all knew both of them, Inspector,’ countered Nora, dribbling diced onion into the pot. ‘I wasn’t the only one who was near Mary-Lynn the night she died.’
Swiftly they made eye contact, but with it had they instantly come to a consensus on how best to deal with him? wondered Kohler.
‘Darling, you weren’t as drunk as she was,’ said Jill, who was in her late thirties
A sigh would do no good. ‘Hermann, please do as I’ve asked. Since you’ve already been talking to Nora Arnarson, continue your conversation with her, then find out whatever else you can here.’
‘But leave the Hôtel Grand for later. A pendulum and two bodies.’
‘The theft of little things of no consequence.’
They’d all know of that anyways. ‘A trapper, Louis, a bell ringer, and a flunky.’
‘And a chess piece, Hermann.’
‘Oh, that. The wood’s from a Kentucky Coffeetree. The father carved it when he was a teenager. The mother sent it over with the snapshots in a Red Cross parcel. That’s why the ex-Kommandant who asked for us but left without leaving any information readily agreed to the late-night visitation and attended it himself as a firm believer.’
Ah, sacré nom de nom!
Room 3–38 was far from happy, thought Kohler. The blue-eyed blonde whose cot was under the St. Olaf College pennant tried to light a cigarette but was so nervous, match and fag fell to her lap, scorching the grey tweed of a slender skirt.
‘Shit!’ she cried in English. ‘ Don’t, Marni. I’m warning you.’
That one, whose cot was next to the innermost wall and under the Marquette U. pennant, and who had helped herself without the chef’s permission to a cup of the rabbit broth, had been about to quench the fire.
‘Should I have let you torch your beaver?’ she yelled. ‘The préfet de police’s goatee, eh?’
The police chief’s beard and prostitute talk, the insult not really meant but. . .
‘That’s it!’ cried the blonde. ‘I’m not living here a moment longer. I can’t stand the stench of that!’
The rabbits, to which the trapper, Nora Arnarson, having flung a desperate look of censure at the green-eyed redhead with the mass of curls who’d helped herself to the broth, was now slicing peeled sow-thistle roots to be added to the pot.
She dumped the lot in and began to slice the hell out of an onion, though how she had come by such a rarity was anyone’s guess unless on the black market.
‘I don’t know how you can kill things like that, Nora,’ started up the blonde again. ‘I really don’t. They’re God’s creatures.’
‘As was the pig from which the SPAM you eat must have come,’ came the retort from Nora.
‘ At least I was spared the agony of having to watch the poor thing being skinned and butchered! ’
Shrill. . . ‘ Jésus, merde alors, ladies. . . mesdames et mesdemoiselles, a moment. My English, it’s not enough. I’m not here to accuse any of you, why would I? My partner and I just need a little help.’
‘If you’re to stop another of us from being murdered—is that it, eh? Why don’t you just say it?’
That had been Jill Faber, who slept end-to-end next to Becky Torrence, the blonde, and was sitting under the U. of Wisconsin pennant.
‘Are we all to be poisoned?’ wept Becky. ‘Those damned seeds, Inspector. If Nora’s right, each one contains at least a tenth of a milligram of the datura poison atropine. Ten to thirty seeds will make you very sick and hallucinating in hell; a hundred can kill you.’
‘And for all I know, they could already have been added to our supper,’ said the chef, to which the redhead with the broth added, ‘Nora, darling, you don’t really mean that.’
‘We all knew both of them, Inspector,’ countered Nora, dribbling diced onion into the pot. ‘I wasn’t the only one who was near Mary-Lynn the night she died.’
Swiftly they made eye contact, but with it had they instantly come to a consensus on how best to deal with him? wondered Kohler.
‘Darling, you weren’t as drunk as she was,’ said Jill, who was in her late thirties
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