Flykiller by J. Robert Janes Page A

reception room and office at the very end; and the unofficial one, through Ménétrel’s office and into Pétain’s bedroom and. then to the reception room.
    Had she stood outside the doctor’s office and done her discreet knocking there? Was that where she’d taken off her coat, scarf, beret and gloves, and if so, had the killer seen her slip back into the corridor, or had she intended to use the unofficial route?
    The snoring was sonorous. Across the corridor were the rooms, the offices of more of the Maréchal’s immediate staff. Several of them not only worked here but lived, ate and slept here as well, but any of those doors could have been left unlocked; she could have left her things in any one of those rooms if told to do so, yet they hadn’t been found.
    Searching – taking in the lingering odours of boiled onions, garlic and dinner cabbage or the sweetness of fried rutabaga steaks that had emanated from the various rooms over the years of the Occupation – he went along the corridor to its very end, to where a small balcony opened off it. The french windows were on the latch, but when released to a blast of frigid air and the threat of arrest for breaking the blackout regulations, he could see her coat lying neatly folded next to the windows. Beret, scarf and gloves were on top of it, but no handbag of course, for that would have been stolen, wouldn’t it?
    She had been confronted by her killer – would have realized the windows hadn’t been on the latch but had been too worried about the Maréchal and her little visit to notice that someone was there.
    Shining his torch across the snow-covered balcony with its frozen geraniums in terracotta pots, Kohler picked out the footprints, their hollows only partly hidden by the snow. There were lots of them, too, but when brushed clear, the prints weren’t from wooden-soled shoes but from the hobnailed boots of the Auvergne. Worn ones, too, with cleats, just like thousands and thousands of others.
    The bastard must have waited here for quite some time, had been damned cold and had stamped his feet to get warm, but had he known she’d come, or had her little visit been unexpected? And why, please, hadn’t anyone with a grain of competence found her things and the prints yesterday, or had they all been far too worried about their own assassinations?
    No signs of a struggle, though. None at all. The girl had simply gone with him quietly.
    The toughs, les durs , were still hanging around the foyer, smoking their fag ends and looking as if they’d missed something. Pensive, the girl with the valise sat staring at her hands, avoiding Louis, not even glancing up at his partner who was carrying the victim’s clothes, which he had obviously just found.
    Kohler helped Louis to his feet. They’d speak privately as was their custom when in company that strained to listen.
    â€˜Hermann, was there a blouse?’
    â€˜A what?’
    â€˜The killer – a woman – was wearing one in the Hall des Sources and may have got bloodstains on it.’
    â€˜But … but I found his footprints on the balcony.’
    â€˜A man’s?’
    â€˜Yes!’
    â€˜Cigar ashes?’
    â€˜None.’
    â€˜Cigarette, then?’
    â€˜None again. He’d have flicked them into the wind. No struggle either.’
    â€˜Did she know him?’
    â€˜It’s possible, but maybe he had a gun.’
    A man and a woman. It would be best to let a sigh escape, thought St-Cyr, and then … then to simply say for all to hear, ‘ Ah bon, mon vieux , the marmite perpétuelle begins to look interesting.’
    The perpetual pot of soup that was to be found at the back of every kitchen stove in rural France! ‘It smells, and you know it,’ hissed Kohler.
    More couldn’t be said, for they’d fresh company: dapper, of medium height and with newly shone black leather shoes – real