Beyond Revanche, page 18
They sat in their own exclusion in the corner. Mathieu’s opening words stunned the thief.
“I want your advice, Moutie.” Paris’s worst thief preened himself. This unexpected honor, he felt, was entirely justified. He leaned closer into the conversation so that he was the only one who could hear what came next. At which point Mathieu realized how clever Moutie had been. He’d brought his “friendly” policeman into the heart of this criminal underworld so that everyone could see them together. His fraternizing with the “enemy” was to be public knowledge, not a dirty secret. Unquestionably, Moutie’s eventual account would embellish the truth but it gave him status inside a community which had no place for police informants.
From the corners of his eyes, Mathieu could see that the whole bar was watching the proceedings while pretending to ignore them. He handed Moutie a piece of paper with a flamboyance which ensured everyone saw it.
“OK, Moutie, put these names in order of untouchable. I mean, who would you least consider stealing from?”
“Oh I would never…”
“Just look and then tell me.”
Moutie took hold of the list and dropped it on the well-soiled table as if he had been scalded. A small touch of drama to please the audience.
“Mon Dieu. They are all untouchable.”
“Look, imagine that you had been caught stealing from them, which would be the most dangerous?”
“OK.” He hesitated briefly, as if deliberating a ponderous point of law. “The president and Cabinet…ten years hard labor. Baron Rothschild, a sound whipping, so that you cannot walk for a week. The ambassadors, five to ten years.” He stopped, turned the piece of paper over, and stared at the blank lines as if they hid a secret.
Mathieu waited until he raised his head. “And Zaharoff?”
Moutie eased himself closer and whispered with sufficient clarity to ensure that everyone heard, “Dead within the week.”
“What?” Mathieu balked at the preposterous idea.
“My friend, Monsieur Zaharoff does not permit theft of property or personal possessions. Death. You’d end up in the canal, weighed down with bricks. Probably beaten beyond recognition. Have you seen his bodyguards?”
“No,” Mathieu lied.
“Murderers. If Monsieur Zaharoff left all his doors and windows open and put a notice in Le Parisien that he would be away for a week, his property would be untouched. The last man in Paris to cross. Believe me.”
“Tell me about the bodies in the canal, Moutie. Clearly Monsieur Zaharoff doesn’t get his hands dirty on such unimportant matters as an opportunistic thief, but are these victims all thieves?”
“No. I mean, I don’t know. I don’t think so. I’ve heard they might have been journalists. But who knows?” Moutie knew immediately that he should not have spoken so freely. Honesty was never properly valued.
“Monsieur Bertrand,” he began, placing his hand over Mathieu’s. “You did not hear this from me.”
Mathieu considered cutting off Moutie’s hand at the wrist, but simply removed his own hand and replied, “Moutie, we were never here. Good day.”
So. Even the Paris underworld feared Basil Zaharoff, and his bodyguards felt free to act above the law. Mathieu would have to take great care. He had blundered into their secret world and would be a target if identified. Bernard Roux had warned against reliance on instinct, but every instinct Mathieu possessed warned that this man Zaharoff was a danger; personally, and more importantly, a danger to France. And as for Moutie? That was a surprise. He was a pathetic thief but not a fool. Come to think of it, he could never have survived without being streetwise, and despite everything, he had friends and knew how to use them. Worth knowing.
As he drove back across the city Mathieu passed Montmartre and his thoughts turned again to Raoul Villain. Still no move to set a trial date. At the prime minister’s insistence. Odd. Very odd. What else was hidden behind the convenience of his sacred union?
Raoul’s Story
An Empty Confession
You know, my friend, I think that you are too trusting of people. Some might say naive . I was once, but managed to shed such damaging innocence. Perhaps it was because I was surrounded by dangerous and untrustworthy men in La Santé. Perhaps it was the product of many disappointments. I don’t know.
Shortly after the war began I became aware that prison numbers were dwindling. Younger, fitter inmates disappeared into the ranks of army volunteers having sworn allegiance to the tricolor. I’ve no idea how many gave their lives to the cause and there was, most certainly, no role of honor in the prison chapel. Come to think of it, I doubt if many actually fulfilled their promise. And of course who were left? Elderly recidivists, suspected spies, child murderers and the grossly unfit and unhealthy flotsam of a disintegrating society. Even though it was a lonely existence, I knew that outside these cold bleak walls, I had friends. But could I really trust them?
It was hard to stay focused but the authorities let me write letters. I was obliged to let them read the contents but at least I didn’t feel quite so isolated. I had planned at one stage to go back to Loughton in England and stay again with Mrs. Francis in her Rose Cottage, but more important matters intervened. She was a very nice woman, a widow whose husband had been an eminent architect. At that time I was a student of archeology at Ecole du Louvre and it was a real pleasure to live on the edge of Epping Forest and travel into London to visit its museums and historic buildings.
The only problem was the English. Not the language; the people. Mrs. Francis and her family were very pleasant, but travelling on the railways could be rough. People generally struggled to understand me, though my English was perfect. And rude? They probably thought that I didn’t understand their insults when they called me “Froggie” or “Mister Frog.” I remember being asked if I could recall the battle of Agincourt as if it marked their unbroken ascendency over France. One pub landlord had a brute of a mongrel called Bonaparte and he took great pleasure in calling the dog to heel when I visited his hostelry so that he had reason to insult the great Emperor’s name. “Bonaparte, sit. Bonaparte do as you are bid. Bonaparte did you just fart?” Childish, don’t you think?
Of course they were our allies in the struggle against the Bosches, and God bless them for that, but frankly the English army were badly prepared for the war. I mean, they didn’t have iron helmets until half-way through! They charged bravely and blindly into the attack with no protection against shell fragments and it is said that their generals were even more stupid and stubborn than ours. Now that takes some believing.
I wrote to Monseigneur Richard at Saint Pierre de Montmartre and asked him if he might visit me to hear my confession. That was not why I wanted to speak to him, but I knew it would play to his ego if I made him feel like he was the only man who could save my soul. Huh! Of course he fell for it and came to La Santé within the week. It transpired that the prison Governor knew him personally and escorted the good Monseigneur to a secluded room in the special area close to the Rue Messier entrance. The Governor did not linger at the door, but bid the good priest farewell and asked him to come for a coffee in his office when his duties were finished.
We were alone, Monseigneur Richard and I and it was clear that he didn’t intend to wait long. He sat on my chair, placed a purple stole around his neck and began to intone the Latin prayers. I coughed loudly, amused that he had thrown himself into the safety of his calling rather than indulging in at least some small talk. A greeting would have been nice, an inquiry about my wellbeing most welcome, perhaps a token of brotherly concern. Not so. His first act was to accentuate the importance of his office and avoid an interest in my person.
“Excuse me, Monseigneur. I would like to explain the conditions I must attach to this meeting so that you understand my intentions.”
“Your intentions?” his vocal chords strained in disbelief, but it was his facial contortion which were most amusing. There he sat, the Parish Priest of Saint Pierre, barely a single step from the next vacant bishopric in France and the unconvicted prisoner had neither fallen to his knees nor shown any sign of proper deference. Worse still, said inmate intended to set conditions before he began his confession. Preposterous. Absurd. Unheard of. His eyes almost popped out of his face, its color adopting a deeper hue of purple than his stole. If one of us looked like Bozo the clown, it wasn’t me.
“Let me explain. I wish to make a confession to cleanse my soul. I did indeed kill Jean Jaures and have never denied that fact, and I never will. I am happy to swear to you that I will not commit such an act again…but in this instance was my action a sin? Can you yet agree that one might kill for God? Kill to save my country from being overrun by Lutheran Germans? Do you recall once having this conversation with me outside Saint Pierre’s?
I saw in his face a recognition. He knew who I was, and it discomforted him. He made to remove his stole as if to signify that our conversation was at an end, but I persisted. “I have decided that you are the only priest in the world to whom I am willing to admit my sin, if it be such, and express the necessary regret for absolution. You can save my soul or let it fall into the deepest hole in hell. I will let it be known that you and you alone have moved me to contrition and such goodness, such piety will undoubtedly have you confirmed as a bishop within the month. But…”
“There are no ‘buts.’” He held his hands up in absolute horror. “You do this properly or not at all.”
“But I need you to promise to help me. I have prepared a testament of absolute truth which I must ask you to hold for me in case something happens; something sinister. By that I mean my sudden death, unexplained disappearance or unusual accident. I have prepared this written confession and want to entrust it to you as part of my act of contrition. My faith in you is intertwined with my faith in God.” I dropped to my knees and began to intone my confession before he had time to argue. “Bless me, father…”
By the time we finished I had lied my way through canonical dictates so that the Monseigneur accepted my apparent contrition. I said I was sorry for killing Jaurès but I wasn’t. I couldn’t be. He took my written testament and hid it deep in his cloak.
“I trust you won’t ever have cause to use this mon père,” I lied to him, trusting that he would ultimately open it read it and make sure that its contents were known inside the closed hierarchy of the French church. Why? Because news would reach Charles and Action française and they would believe in my utter dedication to this cause. Our cause, I mean.
The letter said nothing other than my singular responsibility for killing Jaurès because of his threat to France. Proof to them of my loyalty. I intended to pass a number of these to my visitors but one would be different. One would tell the truth.
Within the month Monseigneur Richard was appointed Bishop of Beauvais. Well, would you believe it? I smiled when the governor told me.
16
February 1915 – Untouchables
New harsh words became part of the Parisian lexicon in those first six months of war. No one wanted to visit the ravaged zone reserve that lay beyond the city gates. Broken like a tarnished icon, no longer hailed as an example of style and grace, the area had been devastated by its transformation from residential refinement to trampled suburban disrepair. Disheveled residues of once-proud battalions limped back from the front, bloodied, bandaged, blinded and disillusioned through muddied streets which did not want to know them. Thousands of mutiles struggled for survival; limbless half-men condemned to prey on the conscience of those wise enough to avoid the misery of modern warfare, seeking that fine balance between survival on one leg or resignation to an early grave.
From time to time even they had to give way to the newest recruits with their artillery, ammunition, gleaming rifles and clean-cut uniforms, sometimes marching, sometimes on horseback or packed into motorized vehicles, eyes fixed ahead to avoid contact with reality. Broken walls, broken homes, broken dreams and broken promises littered the highway from hell. Isolated groups stood around fires fuelled by freshly cut trees, deep-set stares daring any local objection. Nature too was a disposable asset.
Inside the city there was much for the bourgeoisies to lament. Hotels which boasted luxury struggled to maintain their elite service. Laundry workers and cooks, dishwashers and chamber-maids, the essential bearers of quality provision went off to join the replacantes who were willing to exchange the routine of emptying piss-pots for a hundred more responsible jobs, once the exclusive preserve of man. In many smaller bars and restaurants the retired matron was obliged to return to the kitchen, clean tables and serve customers, while detailing the trials of her varicose veins. Within a relatively short period of time, even the rich were obliged to wait patiently for less than quality service.
Women manned the coal trucks; women learned to drive municipal tramcars. Basic street services like rubbish collection, gas-lighting and coal deliveries were given over to the fairer sex. They coped with the dead and dying as best their newfound talents would allow. Without the renewed reserve of feminine strength and purpose, the city would have shrunk beneath the Seine.
“This will all end badly,” Dubois moaned, leaving Mathieu and Pascal Girard to guess what he was referring to. He flicked crumbs from their table in a riverside café, thoughtlessly left behind by the previous occupants. “How is your friend Monsieur Zaharoff? Living quietly?”
“So far,” Mathieu grunted.
“Did you see the report I left on your desk? Apparently he and most of his household will be decanting to the Chateau Monthairons for a few days. They will let us know when they intend to return to Paris.”
“Chateau Monthairons?”
“It’s near Verdun. Inside the military zone. Zaharoff has permission to visit General Joffre.”
Mathieu could read trouble crossing the captain’s face. No one liked the suggestion that Papa Joffre was involved with these people. He chose another tack.
“Here’s a strange question.” Mathieu considered his words carefully. “Do you remember just before the war we had a series of bodies dragged from the canal, unrecognizable?”
“Of course.” Paul Dubois almost sighed out loud at the memory of such blessed times.
“Has a body been fished from the canal in recent days? One that has been beaten so badly his mother wouldn’t recognize him?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Dubois could not see the connection. “But as it happens there was one reported yesterday,” he admitted, “and d’you know how it had been weighed down?”
“Bricks in the pockets. Lots of them.” Dubois straightened his back in surprise. Mathieu had struck gold with his first arrow. “Get the car. I’ll explain everything en route to the morgue.”
The body was wheeled before them by the coroner’s assistant. She was new to the job, awkward with the gurney. Its wheels tried to take every direction at once, leaving her to maneuver like a novice dog-walker whose charges smelled her lack of confidence. When Mathieu pulled back the cover, she turned away, embarrassed. What had once been a face was crushed into red pulp, like raspberries pressed into hard earth. Ears, yes. Nose, probably. Eyes and teeth, cruelly mashed into the scull. Recognition, impossible. Mathieu lifted the right hand which hung limp. Three fingers remained. The rest had been torn from the flesh. He studied it closely. Held it gingerly. Let it fall back to rest lest he inflict any further pain. Poor guy. Well, this he knew for sure. It wasn’t Moutie. The hand was much too clean, even after two days in the filthy canal. But it had some link, however tenuous, to Zaharoff, and he was about to leave Paris. Chief Superintendent Roux listened closely to Mathieu’s request.
“We have to go there, even if it is only to find out what’s happening. We need to know what game he’s playing. No one in their right mind would visit a chateau so close to the front line. Secret meetings of clandestine organizations means something new is on their agenda.”
Roux thought for a while, picked over the open file, drew fresh life from his Gauloises and coughed. “I’ll write a confidential note to the general. Tell Joffre that the Bureau has reason to believe that Zaharoff’s life is in danger. He’ll say that his army is more than able to protect one Greek salesman, but the ace up our sleeves is that we will claim that you would recognize the would-be assassins. And they don’t know anything different. Leave today so you have time to soak in the lie of the land.”
Just before Basil Zaharoff’s entourage set out from his villa in Avenue Hoche he was informed by Paul Dubois that his Deuxième Bureau minders would be travelling behind to protect him. At the same time, Mathieu was being introduced to Papa Joffre, as the General was affectionately known to his troops. The legend was unique. Mathieu immediately understood why Joffre was so popular. He exuded calm. As commander-in-chief on the Western Front, Joffre still basked in the glory of the victory which had saved Paris, but, unlike most of his contemporaries he lacked the conceit of military assuredness. Having waited in the grand entrance hall of Chateau Monthairons while three different ranks of military importance double-checked his credentials, Mathieu was ushered into the general’s presence.
“How can I be of assistance, young man? I have heard well of you.” Joffre shook Mathieu’s hand with a strength that belied his years. Catching their general’s tone, those around him gave due appreciation.
