Beyond Revanche, page 21
Madame Edithe Therbuet was a legend of the 10th Arrondissement. Even as a young woman, Dubois recalled a legendary status which had not diminished over the years. Now sixty-four, she draped the troubles of France across her bent and fragile frame. Only her tongue defied nature. Its muscle charged and recharged by constant exercise. Every conversation in which she engaged threatened to last an eternity. Topics ranged from the bizarre to the inappropriate. But essentially, every word was about her. She bore no illness nor suspected malaise without the neighborhood’s knowledge. Nothing was secret and nothing was sacred. A boil on her inner thigh warranted public examination; a rash on her chest required a second and third opinion as she progressed along the Rue Rivay. Edithe Therbuet was not a gossip in the conventional sense, though she knew everyone else’s business. She rarely listened to her neighbors’ complaints because hers were far worse. It was not that she didn’t care about others. She did. Unfortunately, by the time she had completed her own litany of sorrows, the listener had given up on conversation. Seen leaving her front door, Madame Therbuet had the effect of a debt collector in Pauper’s Lane. Neighbors fled in the hope that she had not seen them. They hid behind curtains if watching from a window. It was widely believed that the local parish priest had reduced the penance for anyone who confessed that they had harbored thoughts of murdering her. He understood. God would, too.
She approached Paul Dubois and Mathieu from their blind side at the Café du Roc and sat down before they could escape. A waft of cheap perfume, so strong that it must have hidden a number of personal smells, accompanied her.
“Ah, Edithe, good morning to you.” She was well known to Dubois’s generation.
“Not so. The day is bleak and I need you to find my neighbor, Berthe.” Her voice was curt and businesslike. It was not a request. “Berthe-Anna Heon. Disappeared.”
“We are on important police business, Edithe. We haven’t got time to look for missing persons. Why don’t you get hold of the local gendarmes?”
“They don’t care. I’ve been to them at least six times. They’ve done nothing. Not a thing.”
Mathieu knew the dangers of a prolonged discussion but was surprised by her claim. “Six times! When did she disappear?”
“About a year ago.”
Dubois shook his head in disbelief. What the hell did she expect them to do?
“I noticed that she had missed mass twice and knocked on her door. It was open so I went it, you know, to see if she was all right. Empty. Her best coat, red hat, and handbag were still there as well as her pots and pans. Odd, I thought. So…”
“A year ago. Edithe. There is a war on. There could be countless reasons why your neighbor left home and didn’t tell you.”
“She’s not come back for a hat, coat, or handbag? Good quality, too. Not something a woman just leaves behind. And there was a man, you know.”
“There you are. She met a man. They moved into his house and she forgot to tell you.” Dubois offered a plausible solution.
“And left her best coat and red hat? I think not.” What did men know about anything? She was on the point of giving up when her eyes rested on the tin Mathieu had taken from his overcoat. He had developed a habit of playing with it when distracted.
“You must be well paid to afford that? How much did it cost? Did you get a discount?”
Clearly Edithe knew black market value of a tin of salmon.
“No I didn’t. In fact, it’s not mine. But if you can tell me where I could buy a tin or two like it, I’d give you this one.” Mathieu saw her eyes fix on the tin. The fate of Madame Berthe-Anna Heon no longer mattered.
“I’m not certain for sure,” her tone switched to conspiratorial mode, “but I heard from a friend that there is a place in the Rue Rene Clair between Rue Poissonniers and the railway. They store stuff. You know. People.”
That was unexpected. Mathieu looked into a face which told him nothing. Was she lying? Edithe walked the streets. Edithe talked the streets. Edithe drank in the streets and knew their secrets.
“I want you to take this tin and keep it for a week. If your information sends us on a fool’s errand, I will come back for it and you will be very sorry.”
She took the tin as if it were a gift from the Magi. “I do occasionally hear things which are true, you know. Second husband used to work on Poissonniers, for the Americans. Useless peasant.”
She rushed off, tin tucked into bag, throwing, “And don’t forget poor Berthe,” over her shoulder as a parting jibe.
“There you are. Despite her reputation, Edithe occasionally listens. Who would have thought?” Dubois smiled generously. “We’ll see.” Then he realized to whom he had been talking.
“Edithe,” he yelled, as she shuffled smartly away from the café. “Tell no one we gave you the tin. No one. Do you hear, Edithe?” He laughed at the stupidity of his own words. Half of the Rue would know within the hour.
“Second husband, indeed. Surely no two men could make the same mistake?”
Mathieu pondered the unexpected depth of her claim. “What’s more interesting is the phrase she used. ‘They store stuff.’ So there are a number of these criminals in one place and a quantity of stolen goods.”
“If she’s telling the truth.”
“True, but worth the effort to find out.”
* * *
Before they left number 36 Mathieu that night issued instructions. “First car, with me; second, with Dubois, and number three with Jubert. Two additional men in each. Sergeant Toussaint has gallantly swapped his shift in order to be with us.” Toussaint smiled at the others. He could smell trouble at fifty meters, and everyone knew he was a good man to have by your side in a fight. “Jacques-Francois Bernier here is the local contact.” He pointed to a younger man, though none of them was under thirty. “He knows the area. Take us through it, please.”
Jacques-Francois had been recommended to Pascal Girard as a detective with potential. No one was sure what that meant. Potential for what? He had been wounded on the Marne, and bore the scars of battle on his face. Shrapnel had bitten off his left ear and blinded him on that side in the passing. His upper jaw had been badly fractured but surgeons used a new technique to replace his broken bone with a steel rod. The skin around his temple was tightly drawn, giving his face an unbalanced appearance. Yet his wounds remained superficial. He was not a man who constantly looked in the mirror. He had charm and, as Mathieu quickly appreciated, a willingness to learn.
Jacques-Francois gave a no-nonsense explanation about the way Rue Rene Clair twisted along the track-side as the railway line snaked north from Gare du Nord.
“There are three possible buildings that could be used for storage on the front street and several smaller passages that run towards Poissonniers, each big enough for a medium-sized truck. We’ve had no reports of strangers or unusual business in the area, so if there is a depot, it must be for storage. We can’t start a door-to-door search because there will be lookouts. And they will be armed. Especially if this is a serious criminal conspiracy. Strange thing is that the Corsican mafia who control the local hoods have never been seen in this part of Paris.”
Sleet from the darkening skies turned cobbled streets into icy death-traps. Driving was awkward, but not perilous. Walking at pace was difficult. Running, an impossibility. It was a night to sit by a warm fire, but few were lit in the poorer quarters of Paris. Mathieu decided to place one car at either end of the street while he drove slowly in a circular motion round Poissonniers into the Rue Rene Clair, stopping regularly in the main thoroughfare lest their presence became blatantly obvious. The streets were deserted. Only a fool or a criminal would choose to be out on such a night. An occasional vehicle passed on the opposite side of the road, but in police terms, nothing suspicious broke the monotony. By 6:00 A.M. they admitted defeat. The two cars on Rene Clair were sent back to base. Toussaint was distraught. Out all night and not even a drink to comfort him. Mathieu felt embarrassed by the waste of good police time. He had put too much faith in an old woman’s nonsense. And his tin of Artic salmon would be gone by now. Merde.
Jacques-Francois recommended a corner café on Poissonniers and insisted that Mathieu heat himself with freshly made coffee before Paris ran out of that lifeblood. Outside, commercial life roused itself sans enthusiasm. Dim lights were turned on in the Emporium across the street, but the window was so deeply frosted it might as well have been opaque. The first tram shook its way nervously down the line, uncertain of its own stability in the withering weather, the ping of its tin bell warning pedestrians to stay clear. Torn posters flapped helplessly in the growing daylight and the general gloom was deepened when the café owner announced that bread and croissants would not be on sale until nine. But the coffee was good enough for a refill. Two men entered and vigorously slammed shut the café door. Mathieu thought he recognized one of them, but let the notion pass.
A snap of the fingers was followed by, “Two coffees and four croissants, s’il vous plait.” Words drawled across the room, the pronunciation as bad as the manners. Mathieu sat up but did not turn round. The voice. The drawl. It was American. He concentrated on the voice and raised his hand from the table to alert Jacques-Francois, who stopped speaking in mid-sentence.
“No croissants?” queried the voice at a volume which ensured that everyone in the room was aware of his displeasure. “My God, what’s happening to this country?”
“Perhaps you could help us out with some flour, Monsieur?” came the retort from the café owner.
“Do you know these two, Jacques?” Mathieu whispered, keeping his voice as low as possible and switching into the broader Parisian patois which natives understood. He was intrigued.
“The one in the corner manages the Emporium across the street. The other, I’ve never seen before.”
“I know his voice. The other one. I’ve met him…somewhere.” Mathieu rapidly ran though the mental records still current in his head. The cold numbed his brain, too.
“What do they sell across there?”
Jacques shrugged nonchalantly. “All kinds of American imports, from clothes to phonographic records. Used to be a thriving business. Barely surviving now, I imagine.”
The café owner joined them once the Americans had left, watching as they picked their way across the treacherous road.
“Two good coffees and not even a sou for a tip. Bloody typical. Waltz in here expecting the best and contributing nothing.”
“Much happening across there these day?” Jacques asked, intimating a vague interest in the Emporium.
“They take deliveries on a regular basis, but the shop is closed for sales. Use it as a depot for goods that go all across France. That’s the word anyway. If you hang on, the croissants will be here soon. Damned if the Americans deserve them.”
Mathieu stood up, and at six foot, towered over the owner. “My friend, I guess you know we are police.”
“Thought so.” They both let their gaze stray across the empty street.
“What is happening over there? Tell me straight.”
“Lorries come and go. I’ve plenty time to watch them. People don’t eat out in these parts any more. As to what’s in them? Can’t say. I asked once and was told to mind my own business.”
“But they have to carry the goods into the shop. You must have seen…” Jacques was cut short.
“No, no Monsieur, they don’t park in the street. Their lorries turn down the lane to the left and disappear behind the high gates. If you walk past you’ll see the gates. They’ve nailed a large American flag on the outside, and posted a notice saying American Mission to France. Private. No Entry. I assume they park in the yard or in the annex behind. Big storage hall behind the shop front.”
The policemen looked at him intently.
“So what’s going on? Your guess?” Mathieu wanted to hear the owner’s suspicion.
He shrugged. “Might be stuff for the black market. Might just as well be embassy business.”
Jacques touched the owner’s shoulder and asked. “What makes you say that?”
“Well, a chauffeured Renault occasionally drops by. Maybe from the embassy.”
“Blue? Was it a blue Renault?”
“I think it was.”
Mathieu sat down, but changed the angle of his seat to give him a clearer view of the American property.
“Two more coffees, my friend, and two croissants as soon as you have them.”
19
Winter Wonderland
There was one serious blockage. Diplomatic Immunity. It was a minefield in war torn Paris. All allied and neutral personnel had to be treated with favored caution. Back at no.36, Bernard Roux’s first words of advice were, “Take care. One complaint to the president’s office and we’ll all be transferred to the Spanish border.”
“Do you think that the American ambassador knows about this?” Mathieu queried.
“Knows about what? Your suspicion based on an old wife’s tale?” Roux regretted the put-down immediately. He had started the ball running with the tin of salmon, never expecting it to lead him back into rougher waters.
“No, no. I don’t. Why would the ambassador be involved with anything which reflected badly on his country?” Mathieu remembered. From some far recess in his mind he recalled a voice. “The other American. I’ve just made the connection. He was with the ambassador and his wife on the night Poincaré and the government fled from Paris. I can hear him say, ‘They’re like a band of gypsies.’ That’s what he called them, gypsies.”
“I remember, too.” Roux picked up his phone and requested all information on American embassy staff. It was delivered within five minutes. Both he and Mathieu examined the contents.
“That’s him.” Mathieu extracted the photograph of Bryson Hamilton pinned to the inside cover of his file. He read aloud a very privileged CV.
“United States citizen. Career diplomat with banking contacts. Father a senior partner in Morgan Guaranty of New York. Mr. Hamilton served in London, Rome, and Paris. Has permission to travel at will throughout Europe. Recently in Switzerland, Luxembourg, Belgium, and Holland. Travels to Rotterdam on regular embassy business. Has a brother at Oxford University, a Rhodes Scholar currently working with the Commission for the Relief of Belgium at the personal request of Mr. Herbert Hoover.”
“Look no further for the connection. It’s Bryson Hamilton, but he is literally untouchable.”
Mathieu appreciated the diplomatic nicety, but bristled at the thought of these Americans creating their own black market in Paris.
“What if…”
“Don’t tell me. I mustn’t know.” Roux held up his hands in horror, the Gauloises trapped between his index and third finger of his right hand. “If you come up with an alternative way of stopping this you are ordered not to tell me. Am I making myself clear?”
“Chief, would you allow me to second Jacques-Francois to my squad to provide local intelligence should anything come up?”
He had a plan…
“Certainly.”
…and Roux knew it.
* * *
“Jacques-Francois get that squad together again. This time we know what we’re up against. Basically these American suppliers and French distributers are criminals who have cornered a market which we can’t touch without all kinds of nasty repercussions. But what if another gang of French profiteers broke into their warehouse and stole the food? We know where they horde it.”
“Lieutenant, what if it’s not food. What if it’s…I don’t know…” Jacques’s caution was understandable.
“Whatever it is, we are going to stop this rot. Tonight.” Mathieu wanted action. The longer they waited the more chance someone would find out. “Be ready at 1:00 A.M. Have Commune lorries ready to move in behind us. Let’s say, five. Tell your teams to cover anything that would identify them as commune vehicles, and above all, tell them not to shoot anyone, especially Toussaint. Make sure he knows there is a line he can’t cross. I want no dead Americans. None.”
“How will we know who is American?”
“Better fed, better dressed, and louder mouths.”
At two in the morning the first lorry burst cleanly through the wooden gates and blew away the American flag, but the element of surprise was instantly lost. Jacques had instructed his men to shout in guttural patois, using names of any black marketeers they knew as they burst into the storage hall, shotguns in hand, cursing loudly and barking commands to surrender. Dressed in a rag-bag of assorted clothes, some deliberately soiled, they leaped from the lorries, faces masked, expecting stout resistance. Two men were on guard. Only two. They stood, open-mouthed in shock. How secure did they imagine they were, hiding behind the Stars and Stripes?
“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot! We’re unarmed!” Their hands flew into the air. Frenchmen.
Shotgun in hand, Jacques-Francois barked violently at them like a sergeant major who had found new recruits asleep at their post.
“Turn around, walk into the recess over there, put your hands behind your back, and kneel down.”
“Don’t shoot us, please,” the smaller of the two begged, his bladder betraying a loss of control.
Spellbound, the other police squads and city workers climbed from their vehicles and glared in awe at the riches before them. A mountain of precious grain stood six meters tall. Huge sacks distributed and guaranteed by the International Milling Company of New Prague, Minnesota, rose to the roof. Massive bags of dry rice stamped with the initials CRB stood shoulder to shoulder with the grain mountain, and stacked in the far corner, they could see a barricade of crates, all neatly piled one on top of the other. A note was attached to a box of clothes: From the Children of Chicago. Canned vegetables, soups, puddings, and fruit filled the remaining space. Elk Brand Fancy Northern Apricots from San Francisco sat comfortably beside Libby’s Food Products. Some of the boxes had the letters CNSA stenciled across the side. Here was a feast for thousands while poorer Parisians shivered and starved in the streets around them. Large crates of Columbia River Chinook Salmon from Astoria, Oregon. Tea directly from India and Coffee from different parts of the British Empire had found their way to the self-named American Mission. Even chocolate beans. Where had all this come from? How could so much unreported food be stolen? It would have filled two railway trucks, never mind lorries. This was black-marketeering on a grand scale.
