Beyond Revanche, page 29
Where has that come from? Mathieu asked himself.
“Thank you, gentlemen, but I must speak with Mathieu in private.”
It took Mathieu several seconds to recover his breathing, such was the effort needed to tolerate the pain. He began to outline his story, but even speaking at length took its toll.
“There is one unexplained factor, Mathieu, which we hope you can help clear up.” Roux cut him off mid-sentence with an urgency which suggested that he already knew the answers to most of what he had been asking.
“What happened to your assailants after you were attacked at the Auberge?”
“They escaped in the motorcar towards Souilly.”
“Thing is,” Bertrand Roux squeezed a final intake of nicotine from his Gauloises, “most of the men who attacked you that evening…are dead.”
Mathieu shrugged, not with indifference but with surprise. “Honestly?”
“Five bodies found in a wood on the other side of Souilly. Stripped naked. Clothes burned but still discernible. All shot in the back. Faces badly smashed but not beyond recognition. Looks like a rushed job. One was identified as Leon Levy, the liaison officer between the army and the Comité des Forges. Two were petty criminals from Souilly, presumably to add local knowledge, and two appear to have come from Corsica. The only one unaccounted for is the Greek.”
Mathieu coughed again. His diaphragm constricted and he buckled forward. Color drained from his face and he shut his eyes for a second before finding a point of focus.
“Best you don’t know, Chief. But don’t worry about him.”
“So, at a guess, I might think that Timon killed his accomplices and has disappeared.”
“Yes, you might.”
Still Roux prodded. “He wiped out his accomplices…even Leon Levy? He didn’t spare the Forge-master’s grandson?”
“Don’t ever assume that grandfathers care more about their family than their position and wealth.”
“But why kill them all?”
“Because they knew that he had failed? To save face? So the Greek couldn’t be compromised by them? Because he was told to? I don’t know. He was a murdering bastard…”
“So nothing could ever be traced back to him.” Roux sat nodding to himself in reflective pose, convinced that his conclusion made most sense. “We are getting too close to the truth. We have to be doubly careful. It’s the Icarus thing.”
Mathieu drew deep from his bruised lungs and in a half whisper offered his own assessment. “There are personal vendettas mixed with corporate conspiracy. We don’t need to worry about the Greek, believe me, but this whole war is an outrageous fraud. The Germans can only continue making enough guns and shells because we let them hold onto the iron ore and smelters just across the border. But that’s a secret. The Comité des Forges let them replenish their armaments. Another secret. They are in collusion with the enemy, the Forge-masters, the president, and especially the Americans. Secret, secrets, and even more secrets.”
Chief Superintendent Roux sat like the Sphinx, petrified that Mathieu’s conclusion might be overheard. “Softer, Mathieu, softer.” He moved closer to his injured colleague so that they could whisper their thoughts.
“We know that the American Relief is a fraud because it supplies both sides at the same time. That’s a big secret. Rumors that Hoover’s people allow vital food to be syphoned off to feed the Germans must be true. And the lunacy is that France has borrowed money on Hoover’s behalf. In effect we are paying for their war against our own people. And that is also a secret so delicate that those who spin the web of intrigue must ensure it never comes to light.”
Mathieu winced in pain, whether from the enormity of his confusions or the complexity of his fractures, he neither knew nor cared. It was uncomfortably hot. His head was sweating. Anxiety dripped from his troubled face. Too much thinking, he assumed.
They sat in silence. Both men looked away, unable to make eye contact, both trapped by a realization that they could do nothing about the situation. For they agreed on all counts. The Powers above them ruled on a completely different stratosphere of influence; it was the highest level of fraud imaginable.
Bernard Roux broke the spell. “Mathieu, you are ill. You have to rest until your body has healed. What happens if you get an infection and die? Eh? And all of these secrets are buried with you? I will not be able to pursue these people without you. We too need to have an insurance policy.”
At which point Mathieu slid from the chair into oblivion.
27
January-June 1917 – A Slow Recovery
The next few months meant little to Mathieu. His injuries healed slowly. His ankle swiveled between amputation and survival as his body struggled to resist a potentially deadly infection. On the battle front and in field hospitals, pain and infection were countered by morphine and acriflavine, which was being widely used as a successful antiseptic on wounds far worse than Mathieu’s. In truth, its most valuable contribution to quick recovery, which doctors and nurses in Paris knew well, was in the treatment of everything a soldier cursed, from gonorrhea to urinary infection. Such details meant nothing to the lieutenant from no. 36, as he hovered between semi-conscious absurdity and moments of uncomfortable clarity.
He was warm, too warm, burning. Burning but wet. Sweating. It felt like he was being roasted on a spit, then doused with cold water. He could see images from another time or another place which floated in and out of shape, talking to him in words he could not understand clearly. Too many covers on the bed. He tried to pull them off, but it seemed that he was strapped down, immovable. Timon was there.
“Timon? You’re dead. I saw you die. I know you’re still in the canal.”
He could smell the dead man’s breath but when he bent over to whisper in Mathieu’s ear, it was scented, fresh, pure. No hint of the stink of stagnant black canal-water. He was cold. Too cold. Was he in the water, too? Had he drowned with Timon? Both dead?
Nothing.
Fitful sleep, voices and touch. Someone was patting his forehead, speaking softly, tenderly. He realized that his whole body was being cleaned. Born again? Was this his rebirth?
“Go to sleep, Mathieu. You must rest. You will…”
“I will what?” he tried to ask, but all he could muster was a jumbled monotone of sounds. Nothing again, until voices and touch. He felt good. He felt a rush of pleasure from deep within overpower all the pain for a fleeting moment and exhaust him. He was happy. Peace. A face. A smile.
“I know you,” he said to the beautiful smile. “I know you,” he told her in a sing-song voice which he thought might have been his once upon a time. “Once upon a time there were two dolls, floating in the water…” His heart stopped. He was in Marseilles. The storm clouds of uncontrollable fear crashed into a guilt he knew was his to bear no matter what the court of humanity ordained.
“And now there are none.”
“I know, I know, I couldn’t stop them. I should have…”
He was too hot again. Burning, again. Sweating profusely.
That’s it. Had he been reborn as the Greek King Sisyphus to go through such punishment every day for the rest of eternity? He was strapped to his bed at dawn, burned in the midday sun, washed in the evening, and left to wallow in fear and self-loathing every night.
“Sleep now, Mathieu. I’m with you here.”
His eyes half-opened like a camera shutter and he could see. He knew that face. He knew that smile. His pleasure grew and filled him with calm. He was being washed again. Still painful, though, that side, where Timon crushed into him on the barge. Yes, the barge. They’d been on a barge, not a sea-going ship.
Baby in the water.
No, body in the water. Bodies.
Spade like scythe. Margarite? Was this angel, Margarite? “I know you. I know you,” he sang to himself. Something changed. He was not burning. He was more comfortable. Calm. In a bed.
Mathieu spent several minutes trying to analyze what he felt before the word came into his mind. Happy. He felt happy, but he could not work out why.
Pascal Girard was sitting smiling at him. That was strange. Was he dreaming again or did everyone smile constantly?
“Good morning, Mathieu. How are you feeling today?” Girard’s words gave him a limited parameter within which to build a sense of where he was and what had been going on.
“Fine, thank you,” he said slowly.
So it was morning. He was in a bed. Had he been ill? That was surely the sense of Girard’s question. Yes, it was old Girard, Captain Girard, his colleague and friend. Before he could form a line of inquiry another person swept into the room.
Agnès. Agnès of the beatific smile. Agnès of his dreams. His Agnès.
“Ah, here’s your personal nurse. She’s kept us informed of your recovery, young man. No one did more to see you through your agonies than Agnès.” He took her hand and kissed it, reverently, as only an old man could.
Of course he was in a hospital. But surely Agnès was at the front?
“Hello, Mathieu.” She winked, a smile of real pleasure at seeing him and carefully propped him upright on the bed which she had been attending non-stop since she came back to Paris. “With us at last!” She tucked in his sheet and smoothed over a wrinkle as if it was of equal importance to his recovery.
“But how?” he began.
“Am I back in Paris?” She anticipated his confusion. “Quiet for now at the front, but plenty to be done here.” She lowered her voice to a whisper and bent into his left side. “Actually, I came back to see you and found you in this state. What an imbecile,” she mocked. “You have to stop trying to be a hero.” The angel softly stroked his arm and asserted her authority. “You’ve doctors to see and questions to answer, but I’ll give Pascal a few minutes more with you.” And she was gone with a swish of curtain and a purposeful stride.
“What’s…” He failed again to find the word. “How?”
“You’ve had a rough time, Mathieu. When you fell unconscious at the Chief’s feet…”
“I did what?” Surely not. He’d have remembered that.
“He had you driven straight to the hospital here and transferred into this ward. You were delirious from your wounds and they discovered that you’re allergic to penicillin. You needed constant nursing. Happily, Agnès heard what had happened and was transferred back to the Hotel-Dieu hospital. She more or less stayed by your side through your delirium. Said it was caused by the reaction your system took to some of the drugs. They hadn’t realized how much morphine they’d given you in Toul and that complicated matters. She even washed and dried you every day.”
Girard imparted these facts to underline her loyalty, as if to infer that no one else received such treatment. Mathieu’s eyes opened in horror. Agnès had washed him all over. Even below, as the nuns would have said. Oh God. The pleasure? The relief? While she was washing him down and drying him. He must have… Oh the embarrassment. What would she think?
Pascal Girard knew in an instant that Mathieu was dumbfounded and admitted, “She didn’t say that at all. Back in the office we decided that you both might have enjoyed the daily ablution. It made the story more interesting. Come on, we’re detectives. If we don’t have a solution, we make one up. Something was helping your recovery, so we decided it was Agnès and your daily wash.”
Mathieu threw him a look which promised murder if the story was repeated.
“Anyway, I’ll be back within the week to take you through what’s been happening, Mathieu. Once you’re fully fit, we need you back, pronto, because I am definitely, definitely, definitely going to retire.” Girard rose to his feet and teased his friend who only needed time to recover. “Look on the bright side, Mathieu. Agnès knows you better than any other woman in Paris. There were no surprises in store.” The pristine white pillow flew from Mathieu’s bed and caught the captain in his midriff.
“Definitely getting better then. The chief will be pleased.”
Recovery seemed painfully slow but Mathieu had his guardian angel by his side. She was a hard taskmaster, but her encouragement was endless. They reveled in the fact that the so-called best detectives in Paris hadn’t worked out that they were lovers. It wasn’t intentional. Life happens. Over a two month period Mathieu learned to walk again, and with the determination of Satan himself, relearned to run. He called it running; others might have described it as fast limping. On the day he was discharged he invited Agnès to a restaurant to thank her for looking after him but she insisted that they dine at home. She’d created a vegetable soup which could and should have graced the Ritz, but there was no miracle available for the paltry piece of pork that sat orphaned on the plate before him, camouflaged by a few green beans which had been so tired that Agnès had banned them from the broth. Hey, it was the war, but the wine was wonderful.
Being back with her was fulfillment in itself, but the demands of their jobs laid claim to precious time together. He, trapped in Paris. Her, ready to respond to the next offensive. Such a strange word, offensive. As an adjective, hurtful, wounding, repulsive; as a noun, a campaign of attack. Whichever you chose, it was hellish. Agnès proved to be a leader. A critical decision maker with a wonderful smile. Mathieu anguished about the relationship. He wanted them both to be happy and grab whatever time was left, but images of Marseilles lingered in reptilian recrimination, poised to strike when least expected. He wasn’t ready to share his deepest guilt even with Agnès. It ran so deep that he could not bear to speak about the horror of the Mafia ambush. Even to himself. Despite which they laughed and sang and did things that lovers do. Carefully.
Raoul’s Story
Whispers
Whispers. Be careful lest whispers, like half –truths, gnaw through your inner defenses and weaken your resolve, my friend.
Bourson and Giraud appeared unannounced, claiming that they thought it would do my morale some good to be visited by friends. Friends? I did not count them amongst my friends, though there was little competition in that sphere. Another less than subtle revision of the what I could and could not say? They sat down on chairs provided by the governor but failed to look comfortable. Apropos nothing in particular, Bourson began with small talk which startled me.
“France has changed since they threw you in here, Raoul. You wouldn’t believe the number of rumors which circulate in the highest of quarters that the government is considering how a peace treaty with Germany might be constructed.”
“What!” I leaped to my feet and spun round my chair to challenge the statement. “Peace? With the Boche?” I picked up the seat and slammed it on the stone floor. “You’re lying. LYING,” I screamed, pointing aggressively at them. “You are both liars. President Poincaré would never sue for peace.”
“Of course not, but others might. There was a mutiny on the Front just after the disastrous Second Battle of the Aisle in April. A new Messiah appeared, General Robert Nivelle. He promised a decisive war-ending victory over the Germans within two days. Our troops were euphoric, confident in the coming miracle.”
“But there was no miracle.” Giraud grunted his displeasure. “Of course there was no miracle. Failure turned to a different kind of delusion. Men looked around at themselves and their plight and stopped in their tracks. Mutinies broke out in nearly half of the infantry divisions. Of course it was blamed on the socialist agitators and the communists who were attempting to undermine the war. But it had to be stopped. In great secret, over three thousand courts-martial were held.”
“Three thousand?”
Bourson bowed his head like a suppliant pilgrim and added, “Very few people know this. Newspapers are censored. The new Messiah was yet another false God and has been replaced. They’ve brought in Pétain to soothe the storm. He has promised no more suicidal attacks. Exhausted units have been allowed to take home-leave and discipline has been moderated.”
“But don’t despair,” Giraud urged. “America has declared war on the Kaiser.”
“Alleluia. What are you worrying about? If the Americans are coming, victory is certain, surely. Good old Woodrow Wilson.”
“What else could he do? If Germany wins the war millions of wealthy Americans will lose fortunes on the loans they have made to the Allies.” Giraud, the cynic, was right. The American intervention was driven by practicality, not altruism. “Trouble is,” he continued, “there is an expectation that the American army will join our troops in the trenches immediately. They can’t. It will take months of organization.”
“Worse still…” I thought for a moment that Bourson was about to break down in distress, “Pacifism stalks the mud and mayhem. Rumors abounded that Joseph Caillaux and his colleagues are engaged in talks with the Kaiser to bring the war to a close.”
“Bastard. I should have shot him first.”
“Ah, hindsight,” Giraud sighed dismissively. “Makes geniuses of us all.”
Disgust swept like nausea from the bile I nurtured for traitors. Victory spun like a coin tossed in the air. It might land on either side with entirely different consequences but fortune caught the wind.
Bourson raised his head and whispered, “But there is one glimmer of real hope. We hear that Georges Clemenceau may be the next prime minister.”
The sun reappeared in the skies over France, but, whisper this softly. The evening sun does not always beckon a good day to come.
28
Backwards and Forwards, 1917-1918
When Mathieu was fully cleared to return to work in the last week of December 1917, he found himself in an ever changing world which had to adapt once more to danger and fear. Yet, his first question was the one he would never stop asking until the job was done.
“Any news of Raoul Villain?”
Roux shook his head sadly. “Leave it, Mathieu. He’s in jail, going nowhere. Be patient.”
