Hi-ho Norton Skyranger jet-bike and awaaaaaay! Here is the second part of our exciting, lengthy and lexically challenging (it has got a lot of long words in it hasn't it!) Forever Pilot story, brought to us on bended and quivering knee by the splendid Robert Loring.For all those too lazy to scroll down to last Post's installment, here is the story so far:
High above the rooftops of the mythical French City of Ombreville, a strange battle has been fought between the feared serial killer who calls himself Doctor Fliescher, and that equally mysterious crime-fighter and jet-born adventurer, the Forever Pilot. The Pilot thwarts the Doctor's attempts to decapitate a pretty model, Mademoiselle Florette DeFleur, but before he can drag the Doctor to the nearest police station he is attacked by a group of overzealous Traffic-cops. The Forever Pilot escapes, but is forced to leave the unconscious the Doctor behind, who quickly recovers and slipps away into the night.
The next morning, Police Superintendent Celestine Janvier of the Judicial Police, reads of the battle with suspicion and concern, wondering to herself whether or not the so-called Forever Pilot is really the force for good he seems. However, before she can make her mind up, she is interrupted by the news that a parcel of meat has arrived for her at the station's front desk. But, going to collect her parcel, Janvier discovers a small crowd gathering around what is obviously not a normal cut of meat but what in fact, a severed human hand!
But that is not all; half-an-hour later, Janvier receives an etherphone call from one of her deputies, Detective Inspector Baldon, who tells her that at the party he is attending something peculiar has been just been discovered in a soup tureen: a severed human foot!
Now, read on ...
THE PILOT IN THE CITY OF SHADOWS
By Robert Loring
II
The next morning, a full and sensational account appeared in all the newspapers. The dastardly Dr Fleischer had struck once again, and more daring than ever, he had deposited not one but two severed limbs in the most impossible of places!
Even though the reporting style of each paper differed wildly, every account was identical in one particular: an appeal from Prefect of Police was printed underneath.
The message was direct: ‘The Prefect of Police apologises for the conduct of her men towards the one known only as The Forever Pilot. She acknowledges his daring fight against evil, and humbly requests that The Pilot reports to the Prefecture De Police in Ombreville, to assist in the pursuit and arrest of the murderer who styles himself Doctor Fleischer’.
So it was that at 1.45 p.m. on the very same day of the newspaper announcement, Janvier found herself face to face with The Forever Pilot.
Once again the day was sweltering, and the mighty figure of The Pilot seemed to fill Janvier’s office like a hot black brick. He refused the chair she offered him and stood with his arms folded whilst he regarded Janvier with an inscrutable, tin gaze.
The awful heat was made even worse by the fact that, besides her invited guests, the room was crammed with officials. A stenographer had squeezed himself into the corner between a row of filing cabinets and the green baize door that connected Janvier’s office with that of her squad. Baldon and Vigo, her deputies, leant against the door, both nervously chain-smoking Gauloise. The chief pathologist was perched stiffly on a hard-backed chair usually reserved for interrogations. And finally, Madame Delouche, the examining magistrate sat at Janvier’s desk. She had procured a desk-fan from somewhere and was the only one in the room smiling, as the cool air dried the sweat at the margins of her dyed blonde her.
The presence of so many people was not normal procedure, but then neither was a visit from The Forever Pilot, and Janvier couldn’t help feeling that there was something of a side-show about the whole affair, as if the examining magistrate and the others were simply there to ogle the mysterious Forever Pilot.
The Pilot had not come alone; hovering at his side was a far less intimidating young man. He was dressed in the style of an aviator, heavy, thigh-length leather coat, canvas trousers and bulky, fleece-lined leather boots. Like his friend, his identity was obscured by a mask; a pair of thick pilot’s goggles which leant him a faintly owlish air. This it appeared was ‘Maxim’.
‘At least he has the decency to sweat’, thought Janvier as she lit a cheroot to steady her nerves.
the mighty figure of The Pilot seemed to fill Janvier’s office like a hot black brick
Meanwhile, The Pilot was addressing her. “I’ve read of your discoveries with great interest Superintendent.” He spoke impeccable French Janvier noted; nevertheless she was able to detect a faint English accent.
The Pilot continued: “I’d be delighted to assist you any way I can, although I must say that I’m surprised you resorted to such a public approach.”
Janvier managed to imitate a nonchalant shrug. “I’m nothing if not direct Monsieur Pilot. I thought it might scare our murderous pal to know we were joining forces and the Prefect agreed with me.
“Besides, this cloak and dagger stuff -” She paused and indicated his sabre with a nod, “cloak and sword stuff - bores the hell out of me.”
The Pilot’s brow wrinkled in thought. “Is that why you chose not to reveal that the two appendages in fact belong to two separate corpses? Was that I wonder, making things direct?”
There was a pregnant silence as each of the judiciary regarded each other. Their faces were clouded with suspicion. Someone had talked or else…
From the faint smile of amusement that flashed across his lips, it was obvious that The Pilot had understood the expressions of his audience all too well.
“My dear Superintendent, ladies and gentlemen,” he raised his hands in a gesture of pacification, “I can assure you there is nothing sinister about my conclusions. It is merely that, knowing the habits of Monsieur Fleischer as intimately as I do; I was able to deduce that separate corpses must be involved. Fleischer is nothing if not a creature of habit.
“For instance, is it not the case that after a Fleischer murder only one limb is ever deposited in a public place? Is it not also the case that the corpse is always found nearby?
“It is therefore only the work of a moment to surmise that with two limbs and no public announcement of an accompanying corpse, one or possibly two had yet to be found. The answer is obvious: although two appendages were found, each must belong to a separate murder.”
The tension had been punctured, but the faces of The Pilot’s audience still held the faint traces of suspicion. It was a clever answer, but just a little too clever for their liking.
“Very well Monsieur Pilot,” the magistrate’ drawled, her cultured voice a distinct contrast to Janvier’s uncultured growl. “I can’t see that it will do any harm to let you in on the secret.
“The limbs were indeed from two separate corpses. Both had been severed ‘post-mortem’, though in the way this was achieved, each differs considerably. The hand that Janvier received had been very neatly removed. The second limb, the foot in Vernet’s soup tureen, looks as though it had been hacked off in a considerable hurry.”
“Which also might suggest two separate murderers?”
The examining magistrate frowned at The Pilot’s suggestion. Clearly she had made up her mind and wouldn’t be persuaded to change it again.
“It is one way of looking at it, certainly.” She replied. “However, it may also be possible that on the second occasion, the good doctor was merely in a hurry.”
“Very well,” The Pilot continued, “and the owners of the severed limbs, what can you tell me about them?”
“The owner of the hand has been identified as one William Petersson, a Danish accountant. His corpse was found in one of our garages, in an off-duty jet-car as a matter of fact. His throat had been neatly cut. I believe it was done with surgical precision.”
The chief pathologist concurred in a supercilious tone: “The jugular and carotid arteries were severed by a single incision from a small, extremely sharp instrument, undoubtedly a scalpel. It was, in my opinion, a very professional incision. I doubt I could have done any better.”
The examining magistrate continued the report. “Gaspard the butcher’s boy could tell us very little about how he received the parcel. Apparently he was jostled on his way here, dropped his parcels, and a stranger whose face Gaspard absolutely cannot remember, handed back Janvier’s parcel. He then hurried away and Gaspard continued here.
“As to the owner of the hand, well, there’s nothing remotely unusual or untoward about him, in fact Petersson seems a very boring fellow. Fat, avuncular, the sort of loud obnoxious bore whom everyone despises but is quite content to receive drinks from. He was here with his boss to finalise some export deal or other. He spent his spare time either in the hotel bar or getting his face slapped by the hotel maids.
“The only remotely interesting point I can see in connection with this case is that he was staying at the Metropole, the venue for Inspector Vernet’s retirement party. You of course know about the other – ahem - connection.”
The Pilot gave a mock bow in rememberance of the police bullets that had almost ended his career. “And the other corpse?” he asked.
“It remains undiscovered. We are of course endeavouring to find it. I believe the Superintendent’s men have been working round the clock. Is that not so Inspector?”
Janvier frowned and agreed that it was so. “After the city morgue and the hospitals,” she growled, “the Metropole looked like a good place to concentrate on. My men have interviewed all the staff and guests.
“So far we’ve narrowed it down to two possibles: two members of staff who’ve been reported missing.
“The first is Claude Robichaux, 29, native of Ombreville, a cashier by trade, although quite well-connected. His father owns a string of haberdashers; booted the son out because of his wayward habits.
“The second, Paul Benjamin, 41, British born, a waiter. As with Petersson there doesn’t seem anything to get excited about. There’s nothing to get excited about either of them as far as I can see except they’ve both got form.
“Robichaux got a suspended sentence for conspiring to pervert the course of justice. Apparently he took the blame for a hit-and-run, then changed his mind during the trial and admitted he was only the passenger. At the time there were whispers that it really was Robichaux who had driven the car, but he was the son of a rich man who hired expensive lawyers and well …” Janvier gave a philosophical shrug, “the usual story.
“Benjamin on the other hand is a bit more of a pro. Ran with the English gang known as the ‘Firm’, came over here as some sort of liaison with a local branch, involved in a murder that was never proved, did some time in stir for running an illegal book. Nothing major, but significant all the same.”
The Pilot pursed his lips and tapped them thoughtfully with a pale forefinger. “The past misdemeanours of both men provide a possible alternative as to a motive and murderer. With Robichaux, if he really was the driver of the car, it could be a matter of revenge. Whereas should Benjamin prove the second victim, then it could well be a gang-related murder made to look like the work of Fleischer.”
The examining magistrate gave The Pilot a tight, unfriendly smile. “It’s funny you should mention that. I have been informed that the catering company booked for Vernet’s party, is in fact an offshoot of the Firm. Is that not so Baldon?”
Janvier’s tough deputy cringed like a child and hung his head in shame.
“Despite his extensive knowledge of the Ombreville criminal class, Inspector Baldon was of course unaware of this fact at the time,” continued the magistrate sarcastically, “knowing nothing of cuisine he was forced to rely on the recommendation of a friend. I suggest next time he throws a party he consults the etherphone directory.”
A soft groan escaped Baldon’s lips.
The Pilot frowned with impatience. “That’s all very well, but I am still interested in other connections the possible victims may have.” He gestured toward Janvier. “The two men’s files, you have them there?”
Janvier handed them over.
After a moment of intense study, The Pilot tossed the flimsy sheets back to Janvier. She struggled to catch them.
“I notice that Vernet was the arresting officer in both cases.” Observed The Pilot.
After all the scurrying about, Janvier was in no mood for unpleasant speculations. Her face went crimson with sudden uncontrollable anger.
“Are you suggesting that one of my longest serving men…?”
The Pilot disregarded Janvier’s outburst and continued before she could say any more. “I also see that Baldon assisted on the Benjamin arrest.”
“So what?” barked Baldon, clearly tired of being a scapegoat. “It was back when I was a rookie. I’ve arrested a lot of people over the years, that’s why they made me an Inspector.”
“Yes, yes,” snapped the examining magistrate. “And I was the prosecuting magistrate on both cases. Mere coincidence that’s all. The Ombreville underworld is not so very large after all. So let us not be too hasty.
“Leaving aside tenuous connections with the local judiciary and regardless of whether or not there are two murderers or simply one, the most imperative task facing us is the capture of Fleischer.”
The Pilot smiled. “Is it not also the most political and publicly acceptable course?”
The magistrate did not answer. Instead she studied her well-manicured nails intently.
The Pilot addressed Janvier again. “What about the hotel guests? Where have your interviews led you?”
Janvier exchanged a look of annoyance with her deputies and sighed. “Not very far. If you only knew how many things were going on that night. Besides Vernet’s party there was a wedding function, two birthday parties, a presentation for the Ombreville Philanthropists Action Committee and the closing banquet for a conference of the League Against Pollution...”
A sharp yelp, not unlike a cry of pain, interrupted Janvier’s explanation. Almost at once all eyes turned to the chief pathologist who had uttered the cry. He had turned a deep shade of crimson and was staring at his shoes in embarrassment.
“Well Doctor Javet, you have something to add?” asked the examining magistrate irritably.
Doctor Javet continued to stare at his shoes. “I … I would prefer to discuss it later, in private.” He stammered weakly.
Madame Delouche blew out her cheeks in a gesture of frustration. “What the chief pathologist is now so tactfully avoiding is the fact that I myself am a member of the L.A.P., along with most of Ombreville’s other prominent members of society. On the night in question however, I was elsewhere and I have an alibi to prove it.” She sighed heavily, all her former serenity wiped away by the unexpected turn of events.
“You see where your needless conjectures have got us Monsieur Pilot.” She continued angrily. “They have us all suspecting each other, that’s where! Well I tell you now; such mutual suspicion will get us nowhere. I want this absurd notion of each of us suspecting one another forgotten once and for all. Instead, I want you took look for Fleischer amongst the people out there!” In conclusion she waved a bejewelled hand in the direction of the office window.
“Nevertheless,” The Pilot continued, “it is still worth pursuing an investigation of the hotel guest-list. Fleischer may well be on it; certainly if he had encountered both Petersson and the model, Florette.”
In conclusion The Pilot addressed the whole room. “Well, Superintendent, examining magistrate, gentlemen; I can assure you that whether we are dealing with two criminals or one, I will have them safely behind bars for you within the week!”
For the next two days, The Forever Pilot and Maxim were seldom out of Janvier’s sight. Her task, so the examining magistrate had informed her, was to brief them on all the information relating to the Fleischer killings. To make matters worse, the examining magistrate had taken a personal interest in the case. She had even made a visit to the Metropole, and had thoroughly disrupted investigations in the process.
Meanwhile, mountains of files had been dumped on Janvier’s desk. Snowdrifts of reports had been waded through. Lakes of tea and coffee had been consumed; and all the while Janvier tried desperately to put the facts of the case in order.
After the first few hours, it soon became clear that The Pilot was only listening out of politeness. Nevertheless, when Janvier angrily slammed down the fiftieth file of the morning, The Pilot insisted they continue.
“I must confess that much of this is already known to me,” he said amiably, “but it is important to put things in some sort of an order before we can begin our theorising.”
And so Janvier waded on until at last it was over.
It was three in the morning when they closed the last file, and the building seemed drugged with darkness and silence. Janvier sat back in her chair and lit a cheroot with a grateful sigh. Across from her, The Pilot was slumped in an easy chair. He clasped an enamelled mug full of tea and seemed to be staring off into space. A reading lamp, perched on the bookcase next to him, made a halo of his hair. For once they were alone; Maxim was in the Hall of Records pestering the night-clerk.
Janvier got up from her chair and tried to smooth out some of the creases in her long skirt. It was no good; her clothes were far too rumpled and creased by two days of solid work. Her jacket lay under a pile of papers somewhere. The collar of her blouse was undone and her skirt was stained with splashes of coffee and smears of cigarette ash. Her usually well-disciplined hair was a tousled mess, strands hanging limply around her exhaustion-bloated face.
Janvier sighed, she felt as sour and spent as any of the cheroot-butts that filled her overflowing ashtray.
“So Pilot, was there any point to all this?” she waved her hand limply at the mess of papers. “Or is it you just fancied some boredom for a change?”
She framed it like a joke, but there was an undeniable quiver of tension in Janvier’s voice. Just let him say it was all a waste of time…
he clasped a battered tin mug of tea and seemed to be staring off into space“No Inspector, not a waste of time.” Replied The Pilot cheerfully. There was not a hint of tiredness in his voice.
“I found it a very useful exercise. Naturally, I have my own information, most of which your files corroborate. That in itself is reassuring. But I must confess, there is little new to be learnt.”
A ball of anger expanded in Janvier’s stomach, ready to burst at any moment.
“Or rather there is nothing new to me,” continued The Pilot, “though I must say there are clear indications of the identity of the criminal, not to mention a clear link between the victims. I’m surprised no one has noticed it before.”
Anger turned to astonishment. Janvier stared anxiously at the piles of papers and files. Sheets of white foolscap lay everywhere, making the office seem like an arctic wasteland. In her momentary confusion, Janvier began to distractedly turn some of the pages over with the toe of one boot, as if the answer that The Pilot had just hinted at lay somewhere in the room, buried like a seam of gold in the white, shifting mountain.
Astonishment suddenly turned into suspicion.
“Wait a minute clever-dick,” Janvier growled. “You know there’s no single connection between any of the victims. Old or young, rich or poor, male or female, no section of society has been spared. The only thing that’s the same is the M.O.: a body-part, usually a hand or foot turns up in some unlikely place. Then the corpse itself is found somewhere nearby. That’s it. We only have the name ‘Dr Fleischer’ because he, or at least someone posing as him, signed it on a letter to the papers.”
The Forever Pilot smiled and put down his mug of tea. He waved Janvier to her seat. Janvier did as she was told, silently smouldering with resentment.
“You’re quite right in a sense.” He explained. “There is no material connection between the victims as in an ordinary series of murders. But this Fleischer is no ordinary murderer. I believe his crimes are linked to what one might almost call a higher purpose, a spiritual one if you will.
“To establish a link between the victims, we perhaps should begin by looking for who is not amongst them. For instance, are there any doctors on the list of victims?”
“No, none,” Janvier growled wearily.
“Any teachers, professors, artists, electricians, plumbers, musicians, soldiers, nurses…?”
“No, no, no, no, NO! What the hell do you mean? It’s late, I’m tired…”
“If you look at the lists of victims you will notice there are rich aristocrats with nothing to do. Beggars with no skills. Overpaid actors, overpaid lawyers, overpaid accountants and estate agents. Mannequins, sportsmen, journalists, tax inspectors, marketing executives, stockbrokers, lunatics and criminals. Men and women from every strata of society who have only one thing in common; they might be described by some as serving no real purpose to society, in that society could function perfectly well if not better without them.”
“Alright, say I buy it. You said you could tell me who the killer was, who is it then?”
The Pilot smiled at the detective’s gruff exasperation that masked a child-like eagerness.
“To be precise I cannot tell you who Fleischer is. I can however, tell you what he is.
“From my brief encounter the other night I can tell you he is of medium height and build. He has no obvious physical deformities and appears to be right-handed.
“From these small details, as well as certain patterns in his method, and studies of similar crimes, I can build up a very good psychological profile of the man.”
“A what?” Janvier growled in bewilderment.
“Psychological profile Inspector,” it was The Pilot’s turn to sound weary. “The pathology of the criminal mind. Ah but I’m forgetting, in your world psychology has yet to be acknowledged as having any real value. I suppose the closest reference I can think of is ‘alienism’. Do you understand that term Inspector?”
Janvier gave a noncommittal shrug.
“Very well, let us move on.
“The brain behind all this is obviously an intelligent one, hence the elaborate and daring nature of his crimes. There is also the use of a German term in his name. In German, Fleischer means butcher, a rather macabre connection with the medical profession I think you’ll agree, and an indication of a dark and subtle wit.
“Intelligence or at least a high degree of ingenuity is also indicated by the placing of clues. Look where the severed limbs appeared: your porter’s desk, a display case in the Musee-des-Beaux-Art in Orleans, Pierrot the magician's prop box, and so on.
“Why does he play such macabre tricks? The answer must be because a buried part of him perceives the terrible nature of his crimes and wants to pay for such wrongdoing. By placing them in such daring places he also creates a higher likelihood of being discovered; almost as if he wants this to occur.
“I also believe that his ‘crimes’ as we see them, are in fact the result of a misguided social conscience. That he has not been able to bring about the social change he desires by more orthodox methods suggests he has become frustrated and embittered, which in turn has warped his mind. It is also highly probably that he is socially frustrated. Possibly this is due to a quiet, academic nature. It may be that his own considerable intelligence has isolated him from the ordinary, everyday people he is forced to mix with. I also propose that he is unhappily married to a woman of stronger personality and has no children.
“He is a quiet, unassuming man who is easily overlooked in any average group. He will have trained to be a doctor at some point in his life but gave it up for another academic, probably science related career, in which he has become stagnant and bored. He is probably middle-aged.”
Suspicion and wonder struggled for dominance of Janvier’s face. How was such a precise portrait possible unless…?
“I can assure you I do not know the man Inspector. It is all a matter of my making a detailed study of the criminal mind, just as a doctor is trained to spot a malady. The symptoms indicate the disease. Many of Fleischer’s symptoms you already know, some of them I have explained, but if it would put your mind at ease…”
Janvier agreed that it would.
“Very well then, I will elaborate.” The Pilot placed his mug on the floor, folded his arms and settled comfortably into his chair. He looked like a parent preparing to tell a detailed and fascinating bedtime story.
“That he is a quiet, unassuming man, is as easy to deduce as his intelligence.” Continued The Pilot. “For the man to remain undetected for so long, to pass on parcels containing severed limbs and depositing corpses in unlikely places, the man must easily be able to pass unnoticed amongst the majority of society.
“The chief pathologist deduced the man’s medical background. Possibly he is still a doctor or surgeon. But I suggest a frustration of desires, say the inability to follow what he perceives as the true path to serving mankind, is behind his warped attempts to serve humanity through mass murder. Besides, if he really did write that infamous letter, would a man of his intelligence have advertised his true profession? He may very well have chosen his nome-de-guerre because he sees himself as continuing his healing role, by ridding mankind of the diseases spread by the useless and idle. Literally butchering the ills of society.
“I think it quite probable to suppose he gave up the medical profession or was forced to. As to his reasons for giving up, well the natural assumption is that the fellow had a poor ability. However, the chief pathologist spoke of a great skill in his incisions. Therefore if he wasn’t forced to leave the profession through lack of skill, it follows he had to give up the profession for some other reason. The next most likely cause is poverty.
“It takes a long time to train as a doctor. If you are not rich it also means a long time living in penury. Of course this would not be enough to deter an ambitious man, but say that man had a wife or fiancée who did not want a life of poverty, well then it is very likely that she put pressure on him to leave. If she was successful it naturally follows that she is the dominant partner in the relationship. This also leads us back to the supposition that our friend is of a quiet, unassuming nature.
“As to this being a happy state of affairs, well I grant you some people are happy to be dominated by others. But it is not usual for a happy man to commit so many murders. For the same reason I think it unlikely that he has any children. In an unhappy marriage children often become a channel for their parents’ stifled emotions. Also, a man who is devoted to his children has less inclination to travel – remember Fleischer has been – ahem - operating all through Europe. Finally, a happy father has little impetus to slaughter innocents in his spare time.
“As to his age, well the vigour with which he has committed the crimes and successfully evaded capture show that he is still fit and active. However, such embittering circumstances as I have already described usually evolve slowly and are not felt until middle age.
“That the man’s career has become stagnant is again obvious. If he is middle-aged, then it is a more likely occurrence. Also, once again I propose, a successful man does not turn to mass murder unless of course this is the basis of his success.
“As to his profession, well what is more natural than a man trained in the science of medicine to turn to a scientific career? The most lucrative employment is not the academic sphere but rather the commercial. And once again if I am correct in my theories then his wife would certainly have pushed him toward the job that pays the most.
“Are you satisfied now Superintendent?”
Janvier wasn’t sure she understood half of it, and anyway it all sounded like a lot of fancy guesswork tied up in fat, clever language. She decided to change the subject.
“Alright, if you’re so clever, what about the other murder? Was it done by Fleischer?”
“I most strongly doubt it.”
“Then who did it, or what kind of person?”
“Ah that is a much more difficult question. We do however have several suspects, however distasteful it may seem.”
Janvier gritted her teeth and narrowed her eyes. She didn’t like the sound of that.
“First of all there is Vernet,” continued The Pilot, ignoring a yelp of protest that had burst from Janvier. “I know it is unpleasant, but at this stage we must consider all possibilities. And Vernet does indeed seem a very good possibility.
“For instance, are you aware that Vernet’s son was killed in a hit and run?”
Janvier winced at the memory. She had still been a humble Inspector at the time, and still fairly green. She had seen the look on Vernet’s face when he had been told of the accident, heard the animal-like howls that had poured out from the depth of his soul and had been chilled to the marrow by them. If anybody deserved vengeance that night then it was Jean Vernet.
“But the killer of his son wasn’t Robichaux.” Countered Janvier angrily. “It was a drunken Businessman down from Paris. He crashed his car later that night. Died on the spot. So it’s pretty unlikely that he killed Robichaux, if it even is Robichaux!”
The Pilot nodded sagaciously. “You are of course right about certain particulars. Although, if he was cheated of his own vengeance and was aware that another hit and run driver had escaped justice, it might haunt him for the rest of his career. And then on the night of his retirement…”
Uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was taking, Janvier tried to divert it. “Ok, what about the other suspects?”
The Pilot frowned. “There is Baldon I suppose; he was Vernet’s closest friend. He may have acted for the same reasons. But if it were to prove Benjamin is our second victim, I would favour someone with a former connection as our murderer.”
Now Janvier was on the edge of her seat with astonishment. “You don’t mean to say…”
“The examining magistrate? Why not? Benjamin had been implicated in a murder and yet was eventually convicted of a far lesser charge. Is it not therefore possible that someone in the judiciary may have received a bribe to quash the more serious charge? I am sure even in Ombreville these things happen.”
Janvier rubbed her forehead wearily. “So you’re saying, the Firm bribed Madame Delouche and Benjamin knew. Then years later he started blackmailing her and she decided to get rid of him?”
“It is possible.”
“But we’ve got no proof, no connection. How come he started blackmailing her now? How did she meet him again?” Janvier shook her head. It looked as if she were trying to dislodge a heavy weight that had fallen on her.
“Having examined her files,” replied The Pilot, “I can only find one item that might lead us to an answer: her membership of the Philanthropist’s Action Committee. The guest list for the fateful evening doesn’t contain her name, but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t there.”
Janvier felt something akin to fear as she listened to The Pilot slowly implicating her immediate superior. He seemed more interested in the files of the judiciary than those of ordinary criminals. Janvier began to wonder what The Pilot had made of her own file.
Once again she shook her tired and aching head. “No, I’m sorry, it just doesn’t add up.”
The Pilot gave a shrug of unconcern. “Then we will have no rest until we find the sum that does make it add up.”
Janvier looked at The Pilot, her bloodshot eyes full of desperate pleading. “But can’t you just give me a straight answer?”
The Pilot shook his head. “Regretfully not Superintendent. At this stage I merely prefer to say: someone you know very well undoubtedly committed the second murder”
End of episode 2.
