The water was hot, the stove warm. Trays of the papier-mache balls most people used these days as fuel were in various stages of drying. A few twigs were on the verd antique sideboard whose style Kohler couldn’t determine. Floor-to-ceiling curtains – Russian Imperial, he thought – were parted and of a steel-grey blue. Lace hung behind them, and through it he could see a grimy window, no balcony and, probably from there, the river and Boutiron Bridge.
Paul Varollier seemed all bones and knuckles as he sat awkwardly in a brass-studded armchair with brocade cushions jammed in on either side and behind him, one mug now cradled for warmth in thin, long-fingered hands.
Kohler took the proffered mug from the sister. ‘Our “coffee”,’ she said, managing to smile faintly.
‘A tis sane. My partner loves them.’
‘Was Celine really killed by this assassin everyone whispers of?’ she asked, still standing before him. ‘You see, we were good friends, Inspector. I often looked after Michel for her and now must salve his loneliness. He misses her terribly, poor thing. Rabbits have feelings, don’t they, Paul? They’re not just God’s dumb creatures as Pere Paquette preaches. They’re almost like us.’
Knowing she had said too much, she found her mug and gracefully composed herself in one of three dining-room chairs. The rest of the set and its table and sideboard had either not been available at the sale or had been sold when the family’s estate had been settled and the bailiff had taken damned near everything. Louis XVI, he thought.
He’ll flip open his little black notebook now and balance it on his knee, thought Blanche. He’ll be very proper, isn’t really like a Gestapo. Usually it isn’t hard to tell with those, but this one
‘Celine Dupuis left early on Tuesday morning,’ Kohler heard himself interrupting her thoughts. The hotel was still all but as silent as a tomb.
‘The older students,’ said Blanche. ‘She was always so conscientious. This job, that job. She lived entirely for the day when she could return to Paris to be with her daughter. Will we soon be allowed to send letters to the former
‘She’s not our responsibility. How many times must I tell you stray cats and rabbits are definitely not our concern unless we are to eat them?’
‘Annette is not a stray,’ she said petulantly, the Inspector noting the exchange and writing a terse comment.
‘We’re not being of much help, are we?’ she hazarded before taking a sip and, finding the coffee to her brother’s liking, gave a curt nod his way.
The rabbit was looking for more to eat.
‘I often cared for it. Celine was away so much, she gave me a spare key to her flat. Paul and I would gather grasses and other things for it. Sometimes a carrot or a few leaves of lettuce.’
‘Where is it?’ he asked, and for the first time since their meeting, a lifelessness filled his pale blue eyes – eyes that until this moment she had felt certain would keep a woman happy, or several.
The key was found in the top drawer of the sideboard. Briefly their fingers touched and just as briefly warmth came back into the detective’s gaze. ‘
‘Your French is good,’ she countered only to hear him reply, ‘I learned it as a guest of your country in 1916. I was one of the lucky ones and have always been grateful for the holiday. Now the French is useful.’
I’m sure it is, she wanted so much to add in High German because his would definitely be Low, but didn’t.
‘Did you see or hear anyone go into or out of Celine’s room on Tuesday?’ he asked.
‘Only myself. To … to feed and water Michel and give him a bit of daylight and company.’
‘And on Wednesday?’
How sharp his voice was. ‘Wednesday …? Paul … Paul, didn’t you say you’d heard someone up there?’
‘The Secretaire General de Police and Dr Menetrel, idiot. Why ask when you know?’
‘He reads every day at this hour, Inspector. It’s his only form of relaxation. Please forgive his appalling lack of manners.’
‘
