Beyond Revanche, page 23
Odd.
“Right. I want you all to get back out there, call in favors from journalists; take embassy staff for a drink. Speak to Belgian refugees, there’s plenty to choose from. Citizens who know the southern end of the river Meuse, or the canals that cross the borders. Do they know how this foodstuff gets to Paris or who it is for?”
“Give us a couple of days on this one, please.” Mathieu was hopeful.
“Yes, two days. But be subtle. We don’t want to be ordered to back off again. Where you suspect government connections, come straight to me. Any time, day or night. Be careful what you say to Americans.” Roux needed space to think for himself. Out came the Gauloises.
Mathieu and Dubois took a quite remarkable decision. They went in search of Edithe Therbuet. She was out on the streets, red handbag over her arm, pinning back the ears of an unfortunate who had not seen her approach. The detectives from no. 36 sat in the café on the corner and let her come to them. Unsuspecting. She didn’t see them until it was too late.
“Edithe,” Mathieu called to her, but she blanked him and shuffled in the opposite direction. “Edithe, come and have a coffee, you can’t run away from us. Be sensible.”
She turned back. “I’m sorry but the salmon was too much of a temptation. It’s gone.” She almost managed to look apologetic. “Lovely supper, I had. Sorry.” She limped her way back to their table.
“Glad to hear it, Edithe. What’s news on the black market?”
“Gone quiet, it has.” She sat herself down, placed her bag under the table, and remembered Berthe-Anna Heon. “Have you found Berthe yet?”
“Why? Are you desperate to return her handbag?”
She flinched and inadvertently grasped it closer to her sagging bosom.
Paul Dubois was not in the mood for her nonsense. “Edithe, you said your second husband used to work for the Americans on the Rue Poissonniers. Tell us about him. His work. What did he say about it?”
“Huh! Him. Wastrel. Drank himself to death. I blame the Americans. They paid him too much money. Not that I saw much of it.”
“Why did they pay so well?”
“Not sure. He said that he worked on the trains for them from time to time, as well as in the Emporium. Went up there once but he was not pleased. All very hush-hush. Warned me never to go back. Fact is, as long as he brought the money home, I didn’t mind. Then he started to drink seriously. Stopped coming home. Killed by a goods train.” She sat back in her chair and in that moment of pained memory, aged visibly. Like hundreds of other widows, she was a reminder of what Paris had become. There was little time for sentiment.
“What did he do on the trains?”
“Don’t know. Loaded and unloaded stuff. Shunted trucks from the Gare de l’Est across to the Rue Rene Clair siding in the Gare du Nord. Imports and exports, he said.”
“Are you sure? That’s not a normal route.”
“It didn’t make sense to me either. Apparently they stopped his train in one siding and transferred some trucks to another engine before they reached the mainline station.”
“When did he die?”
“About a year, no, it must be fourteen months ago, I suppose.”
“So he worked for them at the start of the war?” Mathieu felt that they were getting close. But to what?
She closed her eyes and tried not to remember better times. He had been a good man, really. She recalled how she felt on the night they told her that he had been killed on the tracks. Happened in a siding near the canal. They took her to see him in one of those new cars. His head and face looked perfect, like an alabaster statue under candlelight. From the chest down he had been crushed, trapped between two closing buffers. All life squeezed from him in an instant. No time to cry out. No second chance. The engine driver had apparently mistaken the guard’s red lantern as it swung from left to right and reversed the trucks. It was over. From is to was at the snap of a finger. Wife to widow in the blink of an eye. Said he had been drinking heavily. Was drunk, seemingly. Couldn’t argue. Her weeping; him dead.
“The Americans were very kind. I had money for a while.” She shrugged apologetically. “It’s gone now.”
“Why would the Americans go to such lengths to cover their traces?” Mathieu was far from satisfied. “And you know they dealt in the black market. You told us that. You sent us looking in that direction.”
“But you found nothing did you?” She either didn’t know or was playing a very clever game. “I mean he would come home with a tin or two of some delicacy, occasionally. I suspected black market business, of course. But that was it.”
“Where did the food come from?”
“America, I suppose.”
“Yes, but where did the train come from?” Dubois tried not to be angry.
“Up north, close to the front. He once said that he could see the gunfire from the front lines. I thought he had been drinking. Trains from the Gare du Nord don’t go to the front. Lying, as usual.”
“And where did the produce go afterwards? When it left the Emporium?”
She could only guess. “Don’t know, and he never said. When they were busy, he delivered orders to Parisian addresses. It never went onto the street. But it must have been illegal. All that secrecy.”
21
Source of Wisdom
Mathieu had another source. Moutie. He thought it might add to Jacques-Francois’s education to meet the hapless thief in person. Having heard nothing to the contrary, Mathieu assumed that the career-selfish burglar cum pickpocket, confidence trickster, and general wastrel had survived the worst so far. With little to offer in terms of bravery, honesty, duty, or loyalty, Moutie had always been particular about self-survival. He would steal from children and old people, lie to the gullible, pick pockets, and con the ill-advised, smell vulnerability like a true predator. He had no concept of truth. Come to think of it, he had no sense of smell. Despite all of these dubious capabilities, Moutie was not by any yardstick successful. He knew what to do and how to do it, badly.
They found him in good spirits, scavenging on the edge of the meat market at Les Halles.
“Ah, Commander,” he began. “And, well, how nice, the Sergeant, from the Latin Quarter…” Moutie feigned a slight bow. He loved the pretense of fawning familiarity. It encouraged his self-confidence. Jacques was surprised to be recognized by a man he had never met so Mathieu cut across the conversation.
“Moutie, we don’t have time for your nonsense. We want some help.”
“Always pleased to help when I can, but not in public.”
“Fine.” Jacques took him by the arm. “I’m arresting you for—”
“For what?” Panic replaced cocky self-confidence. “Get your hands off.”
“Doesn’t matter. We’ll find a reason in due course.”
“Can we go somewhere less public?” he pleaded. There was a desperation in his voice that deserved consideration, so they retreated to a seedy bar behind the metro exit at the Gare du Nord. This time the coffee was hardly drinkable. The war, you see.
“How is business these days?” Mathieu smiled across at Jacques-Francois. As an opening gambit against the worst thief in Paris, it was hardly fair.
“Poor. Miserable, really. But I scrape by. Helping the wounded, supporting the old and doing my bit for the war effort.”
“Helping yourself, robbing the blind and taking advantage of the disabled, more likely.” Jacques had him summed up perfectly.
Mathieu got straight to the point. “Last time we had a conversation, you told me about Monsieur Zaharoff and his bodyguards. I must thank you for that. Proved very helpful. How is he these days, Monsieur Zaharoff and his man, Timon?”
“Eh, Timon? Never heard of him. Monsieur Zaharoff is not in Paris currently. But his people continue to work from there. Still not a place to visit uninvited.”
Mathieu drew Moutie forward by the lapel and admitted, “I don’t enjoy being so close to you, my friend, but I need to know what’s been happening in the black market this week.”
“Nothing…”
Mathieu tightened his grip on Moutie, his hands leaning perilously close to Moutie’s throat.
“I need to know.”
“Nothing’s happening. Still the same gangs selling more or less the same things, in the same places. What is it you are looking for?”
“There’s a depot at the American Mission in Rue Poissonniers. What do you know about that place?”
“Not for us poorer citizens. The best you might get there is the odd box, broken beyond use, for firewood. No, no, you do not mess with the Americans. Your lot won’t touch them for a start. They sell whatever they import to monied and well-connected citizens. Don’t tell me your boys in the 18th Arrondissement don’t get a backhander to stay away.”
Mathieu resisted the temptation to slap him hard. Jacques was astounded. Was that odor entirely his? It’s how one imagined the living dead would smell if they had been locked inside the fish market.
* * *
It seemed that no one knew anything about the American connection. No reports of a robbery. No missing persons. Journalists shrugged off the question with a shake of the head, embassy staff were not forthcoming, and Belgian refugees wanted to share horror stories about which they had heard, but not themselves witnessed. Most had escaped to France in the first few months of 1914 at which point there was no American Relief. One Scottish Sergeant had an interesting story to tell, but it may have been confused by his alcohol consumption.
“During the fighting at Loos in ‘15, which was a bloody mess from start to finish, by the way, we came across a wee chateau a mile or so from Hulluch. Except it wasn’t a real chateau. The Germans had turned it into a great store full of grain and foods from America that I had never seen before in my life. Can you believe it? Sacks-full stamped with names of American towns and companies. The Germans used the kitchens to prepare their meals. Imagine that. Real food in the trenches, or maybe just for the officers, anyway. The smell lingered on and it was wonderful. We just breathed it in. Nothing left, but. What freaked us out was enormous quantities of cement which filled room after room, must have been for their trenches, good trenches the Germans have, but the thing that really upset me was that the cement was from near Stirling in Scotland…and so am I. How did cement from Scotland get into a chateau held by the Germans for over a year? It had a date from last May. I mean, I just stood there shouting at Malky, my pal, ‘Malky, look, it’s Cowie cement. Your father probably made it.’ I mean, bugger the food, how did our cement find its way to the German front line?”
While the question was entirely valid, Dubois was more interested in the foodstuffs. “Can you give us any more information about the American food?”
“Naw,” he answered. “I mean, I put a tin or two in my kitbag, but the fuckin’ Germans began a counterattack so we had to withdraw. Pineapples, it was. Bloody good, too. Never tasted them before. Nor since, come to think o’ it.”
* * *
The second meeting with the chief should have been more enlightening. He had access to top secret information but he could not share it even within the safe confines of the 36.
“Let me try to explain what I can. At the political level, this whole business can be traced back to the first months of the war when we and the Allies pushed the Boches back north. Trouble was that over two millions French citizens were caught on the wrong side of the border. They couldn’t leave and we couldn’t feed them. Same problem for the Belgians in the occupied territories. Of course hundreds of thousands escaped to other parts of France and England, but the remainder had to be fed. Hence the American Relief, under the dictatorship of this Herbert Hoover. Now I use that word advisedly. As I understand it, he has insisted that since the money and the food come from America, he had to be in charge. Some of the Belgian bankers don’t like it, but the powers that control this war, the men who operate above the governments, said Hoover … or no food. So, he is responsible for the vast amounts of food necessary to feed Belgium and the occupied area of France. According to him, it’s his boats, carrying his food, insured by his banks which keep millions alive. Or so he claims. He’s been here in Paris twice and our records show that he met the president and the minister of finance.” He stopped to give the information time to register.
“The agreement is that the Americans can bring food for Belgium and France through one port. Rotterdam. From there it is taken to its destination by barge. The English press claim that the Germans are stealing the food for themselves. This is strongly denied by all parties. Our government hasn’t complained and Mr. Hoover appears to be able to keep the food flowing despite objections. Since it is in the interest of our citizens caught inside the occupied zone, President Poincaré has ordered that Hoover and his people be given every assistance,” he paused to look them all in the eye, “especially in Paris.”
Jubert added, “Hoover is an amazingly arrogant man. I have watched him in meetings, and he refuses to listen to any other point of view. No one in France dares challenge him. He has the power of international banks behind him. He’s like a messenger from the Gods.”
Bernard Roux obliged the group to concentrate on what had been learned so far.
“Let’s review what we now know. Captain Girard, please.” He beckoned Pascal with a nod and slow drag on his Gauloises, to summarize the overall position. “We know that the black market inside the city is rife, but the American Mission, if I can call it that, is not aimed at feeding the ordinary citizen. There has been no noticeable reaction to our raid.”
Jacques interrupted him. “Excuse me, Capitain, but there are whispers that three black market dealers have disappeared. One each from different arrondissements – 18th, 19th, 20th. Not been seen since yesterday. Might be coincidence. No bodies.”
“But the trio is unlikely to have gone on holiday together,” Roux surmised. Given that he was the boss, a low bout of laughter drifted from the assembled policemen.
“Keep an eye on that, Jacques. Do we know yet what happened to the men we caught at the mission?”
Apparently not. If they had disappeared, it was unlikely that any trace remained.
Mathieu found himself pacing across the floor. “So far we know that the raid on the Mission has not been reported by any agency. The prefecture, the minister of war, and Prime Minister Viviani either know nothing or are ignoring it for political reasons.”
“They know nothing, and that’s official,” growled Roux.
“Our sources say that the food comes into Paris by train. It is switched from one route to a siding on Rue Rene Clair where it is unloaded and temporarily stored before being delivered to the rich, the very rich, and Five-Star hotels. We are going ‘round in circles. We have clarified the Paris end of this scandal. Basically, the American Relief system, with the approval or tacit approval of our own leaders, is supplying goods to those with money to buy them. But where exactly does it come from?”
“And if someone is gaining, someone else is losing. Simple as that.” Dubois was as frustrated as the others.
“Check every angle again.” Roux ignored the groans as his senior officers trooped out to relay the instructions to foot soldiers who were expected to find the answers. He asked Mathieu to wait.
“There are men on both sides who don’t want us to know what’s going on behind the scenes. They pocket millions of francs every day. They move freely in ways you wouldn’t believe, and if they thought we were on to them, we’d be in big trouble. The only way we can prove their complicity is to find irrefutable evidence. Right now, we have nothing. I want you to get as close as you can to the front. You’ll be issued with the necessary papers, but be careful. Don’t do anything stupid. Find out what you can. We need to know how this racket works. At the same time I will try to discover how far this scandal reaches into the heart of our government. Use local police knowledge. Check in with the gendarmerie wherever you go. Everyone knows that the Deuxième has responsibility for racketeers and black market fraud, but we must keep our suspicion about the American complicity to ourselves. Above all, no talk of government involvement.”
“Can I take Jacques, Jacques-Francois with me?”
“No. Tell your team that you have a family emergency. I’ll let it be known you’ve been given compassionate leave. Go today. Nothing must be traced to the department. Understand?”
“Yes.” Mathieu realized that the chief was right. It would be less complicated if he only had himself to worry about. He stopped at the door and added, “We haven’t replaced poor Guy yet. I’d like to recommend Jacques-Francois.”
22
The Strange Habits of Atlantic Salmon
Jacques was waiting in the quiet Café-bar St. Julienne. In truth, the venue had been prearranged before Roux’s decision. Mathieu and he anticipated a debrief. It was how they worked these days. A cup of hot coffee sat in front of the empty chair.
“Where to start?”
Jacques had given considerable thought to this question.
“The key to this has to be the fact that the goods train was headed for Gare de l’Est but the trucks were diverted to the Gare du Nord. We had assumed that the flow was from the north, but if the key station is the Gare de l’Est, then the trucks have to be coming from the east. Why? This might make more sense if the source is Switzerland, but the chief’s informant keeps insisting it’s Belgium.”
“So we have to ask ourselves, what starts in France and ends up in Belgium?” They looked at each other in agreement.
“It’s coming by river.”
“Or canal.”
“Or both.”
“Of course. Both. Sometimes it’s difficult to see the obvious.”
Jacques swirled the dregs of his coffee as if inspiration would naturally stem from there. “But if it comes from Belgium, how the hell can it get past the Belgian authorities, the German frontier guards, our own boys on the front line, and make its way here? And in the war zone, the canals are blown apart.” He leapt to his feet. “We need a map.”
