Fischer also confessed to the murder of Mael Albu, whose body was found on 5 September, wrapped in a green and brown paisley curtain identical to those found in Fischer’s villa,with a bullet wound to the back of the neck. The discovery of Albu’s body was made as part of an ongoing investigation by the police.
The last man Fischer confessed to shooting was young German-Jewish political activist, Alain Schmidt, with whom he had been incarcerated in Saarbrücken Prison. Herr Schmidt was serving time for proliferating anti-Hitler protest propaganda among his local youth group. Hans Fischer was Schmidt’s cellmate for a period of twenty months between 1936 and 1938. Fischer claims to have buried Schmidt’s body in the woods of his Saint-Cloud villa.
The trial date will be filed tomorrow, after further questioning of Fischer. Bail will not be granted.
Chapter 26
VERSAILLES COURTHOUSE
It appeared France had a modern Bluebeard and the news had sent the population into a frenzy. The arraignment was underway and Charlie James finally had a story that was enough to keep her in a job. In Paris. For now.
She sat upstairs in the gallery of the courthouse, perched on the end of an uncomfortable oak pew. As expected, the Fischer murder trial had drawn media from all over France and Europe, and there was very little room in the balcony area allocated to interested parties, press and onlookers. Outside, locals lined the cobblestones with babies at their hips, jostling prams for position. Young men and old men who should have been at work tried to catch a glimpse of the tourist who, it was whispered, was a serial killer. Locals were at once aghast and titillated that he had walked among them. While Charlie had sat having her coffee before courtthat morning, she’d overheard one middle-aged woman gleefully exclaim how handsome the accused was—Hans Fischer had once given her The Look as he’d been leaving the boulangerie with two baguettes.
Fischer was led to the dock, smartly dressed in suit pants, crisp white shirt and a brown plaid jacket with leather elbow patches. He looked every bit a local dignitary, perhaps one who dabbled in a spot of hunting—which Charlie guessed he did, in a way.
The solicitors were lined up at the benches and behind them sat Detective Allard in full uniform. Charlie admired his broad shoulders, the gold buttons on his lapel, his light curls that just brushed his collar. She closed her eyes for a moment and imagined once more running her fingers through those curls, feeling his breath at her neck with her legs wrapped around him, pulling him closer.
They had not seen one another since she’d helped bundle the two police officers into an ambulance and accompanied the younger one to the hospital. Their contact had consisted of brief phone calls confirming names, spelling, dates of birth and details about the victims to run in the newspaper, their tone brisk, professional and cordial and their conversation never straying to the shaky edges of small talk.
Charlie had soaked in the sound of Allard’s voice on every phone call, and chided herself afterwards for her yearning. Any relationship with Allard was confined to her dreams and, forthe sake of her career, that was where it needed to stay. If their dalliance was ever revealed, Charlie’s credibility would be shot. She wouldn’t be lauded for her role in the investigation leading to the arrest of Hans Fischer and the discovery of the unfortunate murder of the hapless idealist Alain Schmidt. No, she would forever be the lady reporter who used her feminine wiles to get first dibs on a story.
As if reading her thoughts, Detective Allard turned and searched the gallery for a second before finding Charlie. He gave her a broad grin and his eyes lit up. Charlie nodded in a way she hoped was discreet and respectful, willing the burn in her cheeks not to give her away. She turned and saw Inspecteur Benoît Bernard looking at her curiously, then at his colleague, Detective Allard, before returning to Charlie again. As always, his face was hard to read—especially from a distance. However, Charlie could make out the distinct downturn of his lips and felt like a naughty toddler who’d been caught stealing cookies from the cookie jar.
She sat forward in the pew with her notebook on her lap and told herself her nerves were to do with this case, not the fact Allard was nearby. Four people dead, money stolen—it was going to be an extensive trial.
Everyone stood as the bailiff and magistrate entered. The swearing-in took place for the prisoner in the dock and the lead defence barrister stated the morning’s questions. He was clearly trying to argue that his client Hans Fischer was not of sound mindand that he had lied about being responsible for these deaths. The barrister was a charming storyteller, waving his hands in the air theatrically.
Fischer sat upright in the dock, and Charlie had to admit he looked handsome and respectable in his suit.
The defence barrister addressed the defendant. ‘If we take up where we left off yesterday about the alleged murder of a Monsieur Jean Auclair, are you sure you could have been responsible for this without any assistance? Monsieur Auclair’s final resting place is far from your villa, and it’s a difficult thing to carry a dead body into a forest alone.’
‘I never lie,’ boomed Fischer in his clear German accent. ‘I have already confirmed I shot Jean Auclair in the back of the neck, killing him at once. Here is the proof.’ He pulled back his blazer to flick his brown suspenders. ‘These are Herr Auclair’s. As is this.’ He pulled a gold cigarette lighter from his inside pocket and set it on the counter in front of him.
The gallery gasped and the defence attorney looked stunned.
The state prosecutor beamed like he’d just won the Tour de France. Detective Allard cradled his head in his hands and Charlie understood at once what he was feeling: relief the alleged killer had been caught; frustration the dots had not been put together sooner; sadness that such evil existed. Charlie could feel Allard’s relief and sadness from where she sat.
Detective Allard had been lauded as a hero in the tabloids. Charlie had tried to keep her emotions out of it and her feelingsmeasured, but even she had needed to admit on the page the goodwill the public felt for Allard.
Charlie tried to take down every word uttered in court using shorthand, her hand cramping and sweat forming on her brow. She could check the court typist records in time, but right now she did not want to miss a thing.
The grey-haired and bespectacled prosecutor stood, cleared his throat and asked the judge, ‘Your Honour—given the confessions made today by the accused, may I please ask Monsieur Fischer one more question?’
‘Objection!’ the defence barrister cried in a voice that suggested he had very little energy left to argue this case.
‘I don’t mind,’ said Fischer with a nonchalant shrug as he watched the officer of the court confiscate the braces and lighter he had been ordered to remove. They were placed into a box markedEVIDENCE.
The prosecutor spun and waved his black court robe with a flourish. ‘My question is simple: is there anyone else that you have murdered, Monsieur Fischer?’
The courtroom roared and people jumped out of their seats.
‘Objection!’ the defence attorney bellowed, turning puce at this leading question, and rightly so. Such questions could stall a sentencing date. Fischer had entered a plea of guilty.
‘Quiet! Quiet!’ The judge banged his gavel thrice on the bench. He put his hand up for the court typist to strike the prosecuting barrister’s question from the transcript, but before he couldspeak, Fischer had waved a hand at his lawyer to ask for a piece of paper.
Stunned, the magistrate sat in silence.
Everyone in the gallery took their seats and held their breath. The only sound was the scrawl of pen on paper, before Fischer waved the paper at the officer of the court to pass to the magistrate.