Death in the Skies

by Richard Grindal

Genres: Mystery; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

When the valet of a German baron visiting Paris is stabbed to death, the murder is not allowed to interfere with the glittering social life of the Belle Epoque. Inspector Gautier has scarcely begun to investigate the murder when he is instructed to make secret enquiries into a case of espionage involving the Minister for War. The minister has been wildly indiscreet, and Gautier's enquiries uncover a murderous conspiracy, which is brought to a denouement during a spectacular historical pageant under the shadow of the Eiffel Tower.

Release date: January 14, 2016

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 186

Sample

As he looked down Gautier could see Paris stretched out below them, men and women strolling in the Bois de Boulogne, carriages and automobiles crawling along the boulevards, a
bateau mouche nosing its way up the Seine towards the Île de la Cité. As the balloon continued its ascent everything was shrinking, people became no larger than insects,
horses and carriages were toys standing outside a doll’s house.

He had flown in a balloon before and this time he felt none of the excitement he had experienced on his earlier flights. The knowledge that on this occasion they were fee-paying passengers also
seemed to diminish the sense of adventure he had enjoyed when flying with amateur balloonists. Today he found himself taking more interest in the mechanics of the flight, watching how the two
balloonists controlled the rate of ascent.

To the east he could see the Eiffel Tower, built less than twenty years ago and, when it was being erected, bitterly attacked as a monstrosity. Now it was recognized throughout the world as a
symbol of the grandeur of the greatest city in the world. The balloon had already risen to well above the top of the tower, which must mean that they would be four or five hundred metres above the
ground. As the day was warm with almost no wind, when they descended they might well land within walking distance of the point where the flight had begun. Balloons were at the mercy of the wind and
difficult to steer and often they could not be landed where the balloonist would have chosen. A year or two ago one had even come to ground in Rue de Rivoli, disrupting the traffic and attracting a
huge crowd of onlookers. When the wind was really strong they might be carried a long way. One daring fellow had even made a journey from Paris to St Petersburg and a year ago an international
balloon race had been held in which sixteen gas-filled balloons from six countries had taken part. The second race of what was to be an annual event was due to take place later that week.

The balloon in which they were flying had a special nacelle suspended from it, which could accommodate six passengers as well as the two balloonists. That day, besides Gautier and Nicole, it was
carrying visitors to Paris; a Belgian couple from Antwerp and two middle-aged sisters from Tours, both plainly nervous and probably regretting their boldness in making the flight. Nicole had also
been nervous at first and as the balloon rose from its moorings she had clutched Gautier’s arm, her fingernails biting into his wrist. Now she was more relaxed and was looking over the edge
of the nacelle, fascinated by what she saw.

Nicole and he had been lovers for only a matter of weeks. She worked in the millinery department of Les Grands Magasins du Bon Marché and he had met her when a girl with whom she shared a
room in the lodgings which the store provided for its employees, had been brutally murdered. Gautier did not really understand why she had been ready to become his mistress. She had been engaged
once but her fiancé, who had also worked at Au Bon Marché, had broken the engagement – though not through any fault of hers. Now twenty-eight she may have seen her prospects of
marriage receding and decided that Gautier would treat her well, giving her not only sex, which she enjoyed, but some of the pleasures of life which, as a single working girl, she could not have
afforded. It was the sensible, practical decision of a country girl.

Taking a trip in a balloon was one experience she would never have enjoyed had Gautier not suggested it. Although ballooning was not exclusively a pastime for the wealthy, it tended to attract
people of some substance who also enjoyed adventure, taking risks and pitting themselves against the elements. Sunday was the only day of the week when Nicole was not at work and Gautier tried to
make sure that she enjoyed her Sundays. He had the feeling that was the least he could do to repay her for the pleasure she gave him so freely. That morning after she had returned from Mass they
had lunched in a good bourgeois restaurant which had a reputation for its cuisine and then come to the Bois de Boulogne. He had noticed that over lunch she had taken one glass of wine more than she
usually did, no doubt to give her courage for the balloon trip.

The flight lasted for more than an hour. When it was over and a team of men had pulled the balloon down onto its moorings, she smiled happily as she squeezed his arm. ‘That was wonderful,
Jean-Paul! An afternoon I shall never forget!’

Several balloons were being flown in the Bois de Boulogne that day, some simply for pleasure, others by balloonists practising or testing their equipment for the forthcoming race. After they had
landed, Gautier and Nicole strolled round and looked at them. On some the fabric of the balloon had been painted with broad vertical stripes of different colours, others were decorated with
streamers trailing over the edge of the nacelle.

As they were approaching one of the balloons, Nicole suddenly said, ‘Look, Jean-Paul! Is that Mademoiselle Stéphanie Chartier? Surely it cannot be?’

She was pointing in the direction of one of two figures standing by a balloon. At first Gautier thought that the figure was that of a man, but now he realized it was a girl. The reason for his
mistake was that the girl was wearing an outfit like the ones worn by chauffeurs in the early days of the automobile; a leather jacket with a fleece-lined collar, peaked cap and goggles. It was
only because she had slung the goggles loosely around her neck, and because her dark hair was cascading over her shoulders, that one could see she was a girl.

Stéphanie Chartier was the only daughter of Henri Chartier, a wealthy banker, for many years a friend of King Edward VII who, when he was still Prince of Wales, had often been a guest in
the banker’s home. Chartier’s first wife, Gilberte, some said, had been even friendlier with the Prince. That Nicole should have recognized Stéphanie was not surprising. Her
beauty, eccentric style of dress and extravagant behaviour kept Stéphanie constantly the talk of Paris. Recently she had shocked opinion by leaving her father’s home to live on her
own. For a single girl of her age to live alone was considered to be virtually an admission that she was leading an immoral life.

As they were passing her, she saw Gautier and called out to him. ‘What are you doing here, Inspector? Pursuing some poor devil I suppose.’

‘Not at all, Mademoiselle. I am in pursuit only of pleasure. We have been flying after it, one might say.’

‘You’ve been up in a balloon? Your first flight?’

‘The first for Mademoiselle Rouche here.’ Gautier touched Nicole on the shoulder. ‘But not for me. I have been up more than once before.’

‘If I had known you were an aviator, I might have engaged you as my crew.’

‘Your crew?’

‘Yes, in the balloon race.’ Stéphanie looked at the man standing beside her. ‘I am beginning to lose confidence in Pépé here. Like all Spaniards he does
not know the meaning of the word courage.’

‘I am sure that cannot be true, Mademoiselle.’

‘No need to be tactful, Inspector. Pépé does not understand French. And if he becomes too much of a liability, I may still call on you.’

Gautier and Nicole watched as she and Pépé climbed into the nacelle of the balloon, with the help of two of the onlookers who were standing around watching the balloonists
practising. The ropes which held Stéphanie’s balloon were released and it slowly left the ground. As it did, Stéphanie looked down and waved. The flight appeared to be well
controlled and soon it was more than a hundred metres above them. Slim and athletic, Stéphanie had the reputation of being good at sports and Gautier had no doubt that she could handle the
balloon skilfully.

As they were walking away Nicole suddenly asked Gautier, ‘Has Stéphanie Chartier ever been your lover?’

‘Good heavens no!’

Gautier smiled as he looked at her. Nicole was always direct and had a habit of asking frank questions which could often be disconcerting. There was no hint of jealousy nor even of
curiosity.

‘Have you ever wished that she was?’

‘To be honest, my dear, I’ve never even thought about it.’

‘You don’t mind my asking?’

‘Of course not! I have no secrets.’

The first part of Gautier’s reply was true, but he knew that the second was not entirely honest. He could not be called secretive as such, but had parts of his life about which he chose
not to tell people. When his wife Suzanne had been alive he had not even discussed them with her, which may have been one reason why she had left him for another man. He supposed it might also have
been the reason why his relationship with the other women he had known since Suzanne had never lasted too long.

‘I formed the impression that she finds you attractive, Jean-Paul,’ Nicole said suddenly.

‘An inspector of police? You’re not being serious!’

‘A chief inspector.’ Nicole was proud of Gautier’s position and of the successes he had achieved at the Sûreté. ‘People say she can have any man she
chooses.’

Gautier found himself wondering why Nicole was continuing to talk about Stéphanie Chartier. Did she believe that he was ready to start an affair with another woman? And if so, did that
mean that she thought he should and was ready to release him? Was she pointing the way? He told himself that he was imagining things, falling into his policeman’s habit of looking for devious
motives behind every innocent remark.

‘What would you like to do now?’ he changed the subject. ‘We might take a ride on a bateau mouche, if you wish.’

Nicole hesitated before she replied, looking at him. ‘Could we not go back to your apartment?’

She laid a hand on his arm once again and squeezed it. This time, though, he knew it was not through fear. The look in her eyes was one he had grown to know well. So they left the Bois de
Boulogne and went to look for a fiacre.

In the normal way they saw each other once a week. If he was not on duty, he would be waiting for her outside Au Bon Marché when she left work on Saturday evening. They would have dinner
together before going to a café-concert or music hall or a circus. Nicole preferred popular forms of entertainment, finding they gave her the relaxation she needed after a week’s work.
Afterwards they would spend the night together at his apartment.

Gautier had begun to think of Nicole privately as just his Saturday mistress. Many men would see it as a convenient arrangement, leaving them free to see other women during the week and even to
sleep with them, but in the few weeks that they had known each other, he had seldom taken advantage of that possibility. Sometimes, though rarely, they made love after waking on Sunday mornings,
but Nicole had never once suggested it in the afternoons or early on Sunday evenings before she returned to her lodgings.

Now as they climbed the stairs to his apartment, he could sense her excitement. He wondered whether perhaps she might have been more nervous than she had seemed on the balloon flight and whether
the aftermath of fear had aroused in her a need for sexual satisfaction. When they reached his bedroom, she peeled off her clothes more quickly than he would have thought possible and began trying
to make him hurry too, undoing the buttons of his shirt, pulling his mouth down to her breasts and sliding her own fingers down over his stomach.

When the first frenzy of her passion was spent, she whispered, ‘That was wonderful, chéri, the best ever!’

Although he knew it was not true, Gautier was ready to let her believe it. ‘You might stay the night,’ he suggested.

‘I could not possibly do that. Marie-Louise will be expecting me.’

In her lodgings Nicole shared a room with Marie-Louise, another girl assistant at Au Bon Marché. Although as far as Gautier knew Marie-Louise did not have a lover, or
‘protector’ as the French would say, her weekends always seemed to be eventful. And so, after they had both returned to the lodgings on Sunday evenings, she and Nicole would sit up
drinking chocolate and telling each other how they had spent their weekends, recounting every incident, every excitement. It had become a kind of ritual and one which Nicole was not willing to
forgo, even for another night in Gautier’s bed.

Now, afraid no doubt that she might have disappointed him, she stroked his cheek and whispered, ‘But we still have time left, Jean-Paul.’

She was wrong, for at that moment they heard a knocking on the front door of the apartment. Pulling on his trousers, Gautier went to answer it and found a uniformed policeman outside on the
landing. The man was from the commissariat of the 16th arrondissement and had a message from Sûreté headquarters. Chief Inspector Gautier was required to go to Avenue Henri Martin,
where a man had been found murdered in the street.

‘Where is the inspector on duty?’ Gautier asked the man.

‘He has told us that you must be called. The dead man is English.’

Gautier sighed. A few months previously Courtrand, the Director General of the Sûreté, had decided to give Gautier a special assignment. England was now the ally on whom France
would rely in the war with Germany which, everyone knew, was inevitable and might not be too distant. The Entente Cordiale was still in its infancy and had to be nurtured. Courtrand’s own
appointment to head the Sûreté had been a piece of political patronage, a return for past favours he had done for important people. He understood politics and knew that his masters
would expect him to protect the fragile alliance. Ever since the Exhibition of 1900 large numbers of English visitors had been coming to Paris and so Courtrand had given Gautier the responsibility
for ensuring that their stay in the city should be as free from trouble as possible. As a result every incident brought to the notice of the police which involved an English visitor was reported to
him. Nothing the police officer had told him suggested that this was a case of urgency. So, when he and Nicole had dressed, they left the apartment and found a fiacre to drive her home and then
take him on to Avenue Henri Martin.

After leaving her at her lodgings and as the fiacre was heading for the Right Bank, Gautier realized that he was glad that he would be working that evening. A murder could never be a reason for
satisfaction, but for him the alternative to work would have been a solitary meal in some café and an early bed. When he had been a young man living in the country, he had been an eager
reader, but now the habit had deserted him and on Sunday night Paris offered little other entertainment.

The mansion outside which the murder had been committed stood on the corner of Avenue Henri Martin and Rue Cortambert. It had been built ten years or so previously by the Comte de Marigny, some
said with the handsome dowry which his handsome Austrian wife had brought him. Gautier knew the house for he had been once or twice as a guest at musical soirées held there by the Comtesse,
invited only as an escort for some widow or unattached lady who needed a partner for the evening.

The body of the dead man still lay on the pavement outside the house with the bowler hat that he had been wearing beside him. Two policemen from the 16th arrondissement stood beside it and a
doctor who had just arrived was carrying out his examination. A third policeman was holding back the handful of onlookers who had gathered and among them was a footman wearing the livery of the
Comte de Marigny.

‘How was the man killed?’ Gautier asked the doctor.

‘Stabbed. A single, upward knife blow through the heart. The work of an expert, I would say.’

‘Did anyone see it happen?’

One of the policemen pointed towards a man standing among the onlookers. ‘This fellow was walking along on the other side of the street. He’s a groom from one of the houses on Avenue
Victor Hugo. It was he who called us.’

Gautier beckoned the man forward. ‘Tell me what you saw.’

‘Not much. It all happened so quickly.’

‘Was there a struggle? An argument?’

‘Not as far as I could tell. One man went up to the other; they exchanged a few words and then I saw the flash of a knife.’ The groom pointed to the body. ‘He just slumped to
the ground and the other man ran off.’

Gautier looked at the other onlookers. ‘Does anyone know who the dead man is?’

‘I do.’ The footman pointed over his shoulder. ‘He’s from our house.’

‘A member of the staff?’

‘No, a guest. That is he’s the English valet of a guest, a Baron Von Linden, who is staying with the Comte.’

‘The Baron is not French then?’

‘No, he is a German who is in Paris to take part in the balloon race.’

Next morning in his office at Sûreté headquarters, Gautier studied the notes he had made at the scene of the murder. The groom who had been passing on the other
side of the street had not been able to add much to what he had already told Gautier. He was reasonably sure that the valet had been leaving the Comte de Marigny’s home when he was accosted
by his attacker. He could not say what the two men had said to each other, but had the impression that they were talking in a foreign language, German perhaps or English.

The footman had taken Gautier into the Comte’s house and there he had spoken to Louis, the maître d’hôtel, who was in charge of the domestic staff of the
establis. . .