Beyond Revanche, page 4
“My chauffeur. I came here in my own limousine and I will leave in it. Call Patrick, would you?”
Mathieu swallowed the temptation to overreact. She really did fail to understand that, having fired the gun, she no longer called the shots. What she held to be dignity was in fact arrogance. Encouraged by her own voice, Henriette deigned to explain herself. As if reading from a prepared statement she continued, “Because there is no longer justice in France…”
“Shut up.”
Two simple words, spoken with venom by one of the Figaro journalists, stopped her in mid-sentence and she began to appreciate the vulnerability of her situation.
“She won’t get into a police car?” Captain Girard was incredulous. In forty years of service he had never heard such arrogance. “Caught in the act of attempted murder and she expects to be given special treatment? M’lady needs to be brought down a peg or two.”
Commander Roux cocked his head and raised an eyebrow to invite other views.
“That’s what I’d do, Chief, and let the Figaro boys photograph her struggling down the stairs.” Guy Simon was far from impressed but this was not a time for self-indulgence.
“She’s in shock,” Mathieu reasoned. “She’s arguably unstable. Getting her out of here safely is in everyone’s interest. There will be enough political shit flying about to drop the whole police force in the merde, so keeping her calm right now is in our best interest. Let’s go with her for the moment. The wagon can take her to prison later.”
The commander looked at Mathieu, surprised not so much because he thought to comment, but because he understood the predicament with such clarity.
“Do it,” he ordered.
Pascal Girard instructed Guy to find the limousine—not a difficult task since it was the largest vehicle in the Boulevard—and order her chauffeur to bring it to the main entrance. As unit captain, Girard led from the front and Mathieu kept close to Madame Caillaux all the way down the stairs. She made no further protestations but her every step dripped contempt. The commander brought up the rear and tried to block a pack of Figaro photographers who suddenly realized that a unique photo opportunity was already half way out of the building. Other loyal employees began to shout and gesticulate from the top of the stairwell, at which point the assistant commissioner of police burst through the entrance, took one look at Henriette, saluted her, and made directly for Bernard Roux.
“What’s going on here? Are you out of your mind, Commander?” he rasped. “I should have been informed immediately.”
“Carry on, gentlemen. I’ll update the Assistant Commissioner.” He stared down at the intruder, wondering how he had heard about the incident so quickly. “Do you think we should go somewhere more private, Assistant Commissioner, or shall we let the Figaro journalists hear our plans?”
At 2:00 A.M. in the morning, in the black emptiness of suspended time, Gaston Calmette succumbed to his wounds. He passed from editor-in-chief to the subject of a fulsome obituary in his own newspaper. Madame Henriette Caillaux had successfully promoted herself from assailant to murderess.
3
March 1914 – Confirmation
Commander Bernard Roux read the contents of the folder on his desk and rubbed his nose. The trouble with a healthy moustache was that it itched, mostly at the wrong moment in company which required the highest level of decorum.
Seated in front of him, Mathieu felt he was back in his headmaster’s office about to be chastised for something he hadn’t done. Roux had that effect, intentional or otherwise. Behind him a vast painting of Napoleon at the Battle of Austerlitz filled the wall, breaking sunlight dispelling the darkness over which the Emperor had triumphed. Its magnificence filled every Frenchman’s heart. This was a copy of the priceless original which hung at Versailles, but the symbolism of General Rapp presenting the Emperor with captured enemy standards could not be denied. Vive La France. If Bernard Roux had chosen this backdrop carefully so that the visitor to his office would think that his men were the standard bearers for justice and he was Rapp, Mathieu felt like the dying soldier draped over the broken gun carriage. His time was up.
“Bertrand, you were appointed to the Tigers on a temporary basis at the request of Celestin Hennion, the Prefect of Police. Your grandfather is known to him, I understand.”
Mathieu squirmed at the mention of his grandfather.
“You appear to have been involved in some rash, inappropriate action which necessitated your speedy removal from the great port of Marseilles. Am I right?” Roux looked over the parapet of papers he held in his hand and reached for the Gauloise resting impatiently on the ash tray.
What? Mathieu stopped breathing for a moment as the implication set fast. Was that how the story read? Had the official version of the ambush at Joliette been translated into a fiction of rash and inappropriate police action? That was ridiculous. He looked at Bernard Roux and realized that his question was serious; the man genuinely had no idea about Mathieu’s real background other than his grandfather knew the prefect of police. He had been told a lie, which by default meant that he was not one of “Them.”
“Is that what is says, Sir,” was Mathieu’s only response, spoken quietly with a darkening voice, not so much a question as a comment.
Roux looked at him again and breathed deeply. He had made his decision. “Well, I don’t like having any member of my team chosen for me. Not even by the prefect of police. I don’t care who your grandfather is or what happened in Marseilles. I choose my own team. Me. When the Tigers were created as a rapid response unit, he gave me a free hand to pick the best available in Paris. That being so, I only agreed to take you on a temporary basis because of your record, not your grandfather’s, however important he might be.”
Mathieu set his jaw to absorb his impending dismissal and feigned disinterest. “Sir.”
“And so far you have interrupted my evening, disobeyed my instructions, physically thrown me into a taxi, pushed me into political quicksand—because I’m now the senior man in the Calmette murder inquiry—made your own decisions inside the Figaro office without any reference to me or anyone else, and acted as if you knew what you were doing. That is so?”
Mathieu looked at him, unsure. If Roux didn’t want him, so what? He was who he was, experienced but bruised. He hadn’t asked for the transfer. It had been imposed “for his own good.”
“I had thought that a six month trial period would be sufficient. In all fairness, I gave you that space to prove your worth. It would just be a waste of time.” Roux shook his head and opened a packet of Gauloises. “And I hate time wasting.” He handed over a piece of paper. “Sign that.”
Before Mathieu had time to read or reply he added, “I’m appointing you to my team immediately. I’m appointing you. Not anyone else. You are my choice, Sous-lieutenant. Mine. Never forget that.”
Mathieu opened his mouth but no words formed. He literally didn’t know whether to be pleased or dismayed. Roux took the momentary silence as assent and sealed his approval with a bold drag on his Gauloises.
“Unfortunately for us, your first case is Calmette’s murder and Henriette Caillaux’s trial. I say “us” because the file has landed on my desk, and although we know she murdered him in cold blood, everyone involved with her on that day has to be interviewed and their stories checked. That will be your job.” He took Mathieu into the main office and made public his decision.
“Gentlemen, I have brought Sous-lieutenant Bertrand into our fold on a permanent basis. My decision. I want you to know that.” He slapped Mathieu on the back as if the gesture went in tandem with his apostolic blessing, and retired to his office, digging deep in his pockets for his next Gauloises.
Captain Girard smiled and nodded his approval as if to say it would have been his decision too. He crossed to Mathieu and offered his hand. “Welcome aboard, Sous-lieutenant, but now I have a problem. Who does the filing?” Lieutenant Paul Dubois remained at his desk but threw a cursory wave in Mathieu’s direction. Guy Simon stared at the form in front of him, unmoved.
Raoul’s Story
We Who Love France
I am a Frenchman who dreams of France. My heart pounds with its gallantry. Images of the noble dead spin ‘round again from distant history. A tricolor, draped loosely over bruised and bloodied bodies, shines bright in its blue, white and red glory, though time has faded detail. There is a magnificence of spirit in the past. La Gloire. The ancient truths that rooted France to honor. God, the Church, the King, and the purity of an unadulterated nation. We have to restore these still.
I knew the tide of history must ebb and flow, and that the flow was with me like a mystic force. But it had to be encouraged, championed, empowered to help the people understand the error of those malignant socialist intellectuals. I can feel the power still. It is an energy of purpose. Have you ridden such a tide? Perhaps not. I have, my friend. I am a thoughtful man, well-read, educated. What would you expect of a boy who was, from his earliest years, deemed clever? I saw what they intended, those left-wing bastards who tore religion from the State as if they were the new high-priests of a pagan rite. Without the order and certainty of our Kings, the guidance of our national faith, a frank rejection of the impurities of Jewish and agnostic influences, what will France become? This had to be stopped. This malignancy. Rooted out. This was the true priority. All else, self-indulgence.
Do you recall the Dreyfus affair? What nonsense. A Jewish army officer sold secrets to the Germans and was rightly disgraced and imprisoned. The socialists claimed that he was framed, and several trials were held over a number of years. They wanted to destroy the good name of French Justice. They intended to undermine the army. Of course Dreyfus was guilty, but with the backing of other nameless wealthy Jews and that disgusting rag L’Aurore, a stinking nobody was acquitted and the army made to look racist. One of them was Emile Zola, the author; the other was Jean-Jaurès, the journalist and politician. More about him later, I promise you.
We who love France, care. We know that France cannot survive with any dignity if these vermin are allowed to take control. Murderers. Cold blooded murderers. That Caillaux woman was typical of their lawless impertinence and poor Calmette, the helpless victim. I belong to the Action française Oh come on, you’ve heard of Action française? They are the true spirit of France, like me.
I was badly injured at Gaston Calmette’s funeral. That was back in March ‘14. Never forgot it. Can still feel the bitter wind and rain that battered down on thousands and thousands of us, mourners and demonstrators, outside St. Francis’s church in the Rue Ampere. The streets of Paris had begun to fill from an early hour, despite the uncharitable weather. Newsboys sold specially printed editions of up-to-date revelations about the Caillauxs with such speed that they set up a relay to feed the frenzy for more scandalous information. Every latest edition was followed by another, until by noon, the rolling presses printed the final morning edition. Seats inside St. Francis’s had been reserved for the Good and the Great only. We were proud to be outside, soaked to the skin, like Gauls of old, sworn to protect our heritage. Like you, my friend, I’m sure that you, too, are a soldier at heart.
The procession from the church to the cemetery outside the old fortifications at the end of Avenue Clichy was a testament to the bleeding heart of loyalty. So many wreaths and crosses. Carriages heaved with unrestrained emotion. The actress Sarah Bernhardt sent a personal message of condolence to the chief mourner, Calmette’s brother, a military doctor. Action française and those of like sympathy, filed in behind the family on a prearranged signal. Two, three, perhaps even four thousand of us. Paris would not forget the murder of a loyal son of France. We were aware that there was a substantial police presence, glaring in silent provocation. They wanted it. They were prepared for it. A riot. And it would be our fault, of course.
The ceremony of committal was as brief as dignity could permit. So wet; so windy. It was a blessing for us all that the Monseigneur, his storm-stained beretta literally dripping from his face into pools in the sodden grave, shortened the prayers, closed his missal, and headed back to the warmth of St. Francis. There were no speeches. No diatribes against the Caillaux murderer. There was no need. The funeral party, including the prime minister, may well have been forewarned, for they fled the scene with undue haste. Not a soul lingered. Within what seemed like seconds, it was the police against us. But it was not as we expected. The bastards were ready. Behind the old fortifications, hidden in corners of the partly dismantled city walls, armed reserves had been amassed in secret. We could not see the mounted Republican Guards, infantry of the line, or the municipal troops carefully placed in the ruins. Napoleon would have been proud of such tactics.
We stood in no particular order until, at a prearranged signal, the street merged into one dense column marching towards the gates of the city. We broke into a run, followed by the gendarmerie, laughing to ourselves that they were already too late to stop us. Such innocents. A phalanx of police, swords drawn, broke from hiding and blocked the way. A chant of “Caillaux assassin” thundered in their faces and we charged into the mayhem with black loaded sticks. The collision was of Donnybrook proportions. The free-for-all threatened to degenerate into full-scale riot. A shot was fired into the crowd by an officer in plainclothes who had become isolated from his colleagues, and the mob swarmed around him. One stout blow opened his skull. The mounted troops and police reinforcements charged to his assistance from the protection of the walls, forcing us into prearranged channels. Like most around me, I had no wish for martyrdom, but chance intervened. A Republican Guard must have caught me from behind and banged my head with his sword-butt. I remember falling on the slippery stone and then no more.
Well, I can tell you the truth. You will not betray me. To be honest, there was no Republican Guard, but, pressed from behind I did slip and bang my head unceremoniously on the lethal cobbles.
“Help him up. Keep him moving.” I heard the words, but was lost in my own confusion.
“Can he walk? He’s wounded. Bleeding hard.” Hands grabbed my arms and lifted me from the treacherous cobbles.
“My God, I’ve been wounded,” Panic and joy. Was I a hero or near death? Or both?
“Go left. Quickly.”
I let myself be led down a passage away from the murderous clamor. Friendly voices expressed genuine concern, but it was not until I caught sight of my blood-smattered face in a café mirror that I appreciated the extent of my injury. An ugly tear split my forehead above the hairline. All being well, I would carry this mark of honor proudly for the rest of my life.
“Sit there for a while.” Someone pushed a glass of red wine into my shaking hand. A cold cloth compressed the cut.
“How do you feel?”
How did I feel? Happier than I had ever felt. More complete than when the Bishop’s smack confirmed my right of passage into the Catholic Church. More meaningful than any membership card or secret handshake. Henceforth I would wear proof of my loyalty to Action française before me.
“I’m fine, my friend, fine. It’s just a scratch. Nothing compared to the wounds of poor Calmette, eh? Let us salute the memory of our dear colleague and vow to rid France of the cancer of socialism and left-wing appeasement.”
“Bravo, Raoul, Bravo”
Looking around at the faces of those who had dragged me to safety I knew that I had found my purpose.
But how did they know my name?
4
July 1914 – Confidential
“Sous-lieutenant Bertrand,” the commander bellowed. “Bertrand. Move yourself.”
Roux had returned from a long morning meeting at the Ile de la Cite with the Prefect of Paris Police. Mathieu heard his shout above the routine office clamor but it lacked annoyance so he ambled towards the blue fleur-de-lisle tiled corridor, his mind clear and his conscience clearer.
“Poor bugger, left alone in the office in your first few days here and you get saddled with the Caillaux nightmare for the next four months.” Guy Simon seemed genuine in his sympathy but there was a resentful irony in his statement. Both men were sous-lieutenants, but Mathieu Bertrand’s previous service in Marseilles gave him seniority. Guy’s military experience and time spent with the Tigers earned him the right to act as if he outranked Mathieu. It stood to reason. Mathieu was last man appointed to the group, and had the least experience of the Parisian underworld. Guy told him this to his face but Mathieu did not respond. His colleague was right on one point. If anything went wrong, the mess would end up in his lap. That was certain.
Guy was small in stature, with a thick neck and exaggerated torso. His shirt bulged across his chest yet there was hardly a trace of fat on his body. His bright eyes and stub of a nose left a bull-like impression on those he confronted—and confrontation was his most natural trait. Mathieu was aware that he had met small men before who seemed incapable of projecting anything other than aggression to compensate for their lack of height. Life for Guy was a constant competition which he intended to win.
The shrill telephone bell on Captain Girard’s desk intervened.
“Yes?” He listened with studied attention, his face reflecting no emotion. “Very well. Don’t let anyone touch the body.” Girard rose smartly, donned his jacket, adjusted his bow-tie, took a pistol from his drawer, and headed for the door. “Right, gentlemen, another mangled body bobbing in the canal. Let’s see what state this one’s in.” Mathieu hesitated, caught between the boring certainty of yet another review of trial evidence or charging through the city streets in the Panhard to a crime scene which suggested that a serial killer was on the loose. Third floating cadaver this year. Every one smashed beyond recognition.
“Not you, mon ami.” Guy’s eyes glowed behind a sardonic smile. “The commander wants to speak to you. Remember?”
