فصل بیست و دوم

22

PAUL THE BUTCHER’S violent death was no tragedy to many of the villagers, whose mayor and several aldermen had been shot by the Nazis as reprisals for Resistance activity during the occupation.

The greater part of Paul himself lay on a zinc table in the embalming room at Pompes Funebres Roget, where he had succeeded Count Lecter on the slab. At dusk a black Citroën Traction Avant pulled up to the funeral home. A gendarme stationed in front hastened to open the car door.

“Good evening, Inspector.”

The man who got out was about forty neat in a suit. He returned the gendarme’s smart salute with a friendly nod, turned back to the car and spoke to the driver and another officer in the backseat. “Take the cases to the police station.” The inspector found the funeral home proprietor, Monsieur Roget, and the Commandant of Police in the embalming room, all faucets and hoses and enamel with supplies in cases fronted with glass.

The commandant brightened at the sight of the policeman from Paris.

“Inspector Popil! I’m happy you could come. You won’t remember me but …” The inspector considered the commandant. “I do, of course. Commandant Balmain. You delivered De Rais to Nuremberg and sat behind him at the trial.” “I saw you bring the evidence. It’s an honor, sir.”

“What do we have?”

The funeral director’s assistant Laurent pulled back the covering sheet.

Paul the Butcher’s body was still clothed, long stripes of red diagonally across him where the clothing was not soaked with blood. He was absent his head.

“Paul Momund, or most of him,” the commandant said. “That is his dossier?” Popil nodded. “Short and ugly. He shipped Jews from Orléans.” The inspector considered the body, walked around it, picked up Paul’s hand and arm, its rude tattoo brighter now against the pallor. He spoke absently as though to himself. “He has defense wounds on his hands, but the bruises on his knuckles are days old. He fought recently.” “And often,” the mortician said.

Assistant Laurent piped up. “Last Saturday he had a bar fight, and knocked teeth from a man and a girl.” Laurent jerked his head to illustrate the force of the blows, the pompadour bobbing on his petite skull.

“A list please. His recent opponents,” the inspector said. He leaned over the body, sniffing. “You have done nothing to this body, Monsieur Roget?” “No, Monsieur. The commandant specifically forbade me …”

Inspector Popil beckoned him to the table. Laurent came too. “Is this the odor of anything you use here?” “I smell cyanide,” Mortician Roget said. “He was poisoned first!” “Cyanide is a burnt-almond smell,” Popil said.

“It smells like that toothache remedy,” Laurent said, unconsciously rubbing his jaw.

The mortician turned on his assistant. “Cretin! Where do you see his teeth?” “Yes. Oil of cloves,” Inspector Popil said. “Commandant, could we have the pharmacist and his books?” Under the tutelage of the chef, Hannibal baked the splendid fish in its scales with herbs in a crust of Brittany sea salt and now he took it from the oven. The crust broke at the sharp tap with the back of a chef’s knife and peeled away, the scales coming with it, and the kitchen filled with the wonderful aroma. “Regard, Hannibal,” the chef said. “The best morsels of the fish are the cheeks. This is true of many creatures. When carving at the table, you give one cheek to Madame, and the other to the guest of honor. Of course, if you are plating in the kitchen you eat them both yourself.” Serge came in carrying staple groceries from the market. He started unpacking the bags and putting food away.

Behind Serge, Lady Murasaki came quietly into the kitchen.

“I saw Laurent at the Petit Zinc,” Serge said. “They haven’t found the butcher’s damned ugly head yet. He said the body was scented with—get this—oil of cloves, the toothache stuff. He said—” Hannibal saw Lady Murasaki and cut Serge off. “You really should eat something, my lady. This will be very, very good.” “And I brought some peach ice cream, fresh peaches,” Serge said.

Lady Murasaki looked into Hannibal’s eyes for a long moment.

He smiled at her, perfectly calm. “Peach!” he said.