Beyond Revanche, page 43
“Foreign whores? Which foreign whores? Nothing’s happening in the Pigalle is it?”
“Hordes, Moutie, lots of people, as in the vast crowds of foreign journalists, diplomats, bankers, advisers, and so forth.”
Relief flooded color back in to his cheeks. “Ah, those whores.”
“So, I was thinking that you have honorably fulfilled your promise to me, and I should release you from my previous threats.”
Moutie put down his fork and let his lower lip pout. Tears came to his eyes, but he blinked them back. He had never considered this possibility. Once he had come to terms with his conscience in the rubble-strewn confessional in Saint-Gervais all those years ago, Moutie’s life had changed. That’s how he saw it. If it wasn’t his conscience, it was the fear of final retribution which motivated his rebirth as a cleaner, healthier, more focused citizen…and occasional pickpocket and thief when temptation and opportunity collided. He prided himself as the Deuxième Bureau’s man on the dark side of the Seine. He had been their contact inside La Santé, kept the captain informed on Villain’s comings and goings, who came to see him and what they brought. He had lured him into the courts with stolen silver. Thanks entirely to him they knew about Villain’s very changeable state of mind. He had used contacts in railway stations, newspaper kiosks, amongst vendors and doormen, on the highways and byways, in unlicensed auberge and dockside bar, amongst the ladies of the night and those who managed them. Even his own extended family were involved. He had no wish to be released from the threat which changed his life. He stood on the point of being dropped back into the cesspit of swirling nobodies. From trusted confidant to the worst thief in Paris. Again.
“You can’t do that, Captain. You said to me, more than that, you swore an oath that the contract between us was for all time. You made me swear in the ruins of Saint-Gervais that I would have to change forever and do as you bid for all eternity.”
Mathieu sighed inwardly. Though those were not the words he would have used, the sentiment was essentially true.
Moutie swung round on his chair and called across the room, “Chantal, come and meet my friend the captain.” A dark-haired woman of some thirty years rose from her chair, shifted her pleated skirt, wiped the corner of her mouth, and gracefully stepped towards them, clear eyes sparkling in delight. She smiled at Mathieu and proffered her ungloved hand as he rose to greet her.
“Enchanté, Mademoiselle.”
Moutie pulled a chair from the nearest table and she sat down with them.
“Allow me to introduce my second cousin’s daughter, Chantal. She has been most helpful in using her trades union contacts across the land to keep tabs on Raoul Villain.”
“It has been an honor, Monsieur.” Chantal had the alluring style of a trained actress. She paused for a moment and lowered her eyes. “You did everything possible to save Jean Jaurès from the murdering bastards who supported Villain, and we, all of us, will never stop till justice is done.” Then she swept back her hair and laughed again. “And you should know that our family is also grateful for everything you have done for our aging uncle. To call him a changed man does no justice to the truth.”
“Did you know Jaurès, Mademoiselle?”
“He was my hero when I first joined the movement. I’ve seen him win over ten thousand men and women with a single speech on working class solidarity, Monsieur. We will never forgive or forget. Rest assured.” She turned to Moutie who beamed in approval. “If you’ll excuse me, mon oncle, I have an appointment.” And with a wink in his direction, she walked out of the café.
“She’s a terror, you know. Always involved in the next injustice. I like her. But she’s too political, if you know what I mean.” Mathieu watched Moutie’s pride as the young woman disappeared. He had never considered that he had a family, no matter how distant.
“And I’ve done more than simply have Villain’s every moved watched. You know that.”
Mathieu agreed. “I know, and you’ve done it well, but I don’t think that there will be much for you to do now that the Versailles business in finished. It’ll be back to normal.”
“Captain Bertrand, nothing is ever normal in Paris. Anyway, what have you done about the widows? I sent you a note about missing widows.”
“Widows?” He leaned forward perplexed, then remembered. “No, you wrote missing windows. It said missing windows.”
“Well that doesn’t make any sense, missing windows, does it? You should alert one of your detective teams to look into the number of widows who have disappeared in recent times.”
Mathieu was about to argue the futility of such time wasting when, from the back streets of his overstressed memory, he remembered the gossip – Edithe Therbuet and her widowed neighbor whose name definitely escaped him. She was a missing widow.
“OK, tell me more.”
“We’re still a team, then?” Moutie’s hand shot across to shake his own. Again, it was not the word Mathieu would have chosen.
“We’re still a team, but business may be slow. Now, tell me what you know about the missing widows.”
* * *
Had Mathieu the gift of clairvoyance he would not have thought the Versailles business finished. The treaty was signed but its business was far from over. Everyone wanted to be at Versailles on 28 June 1919. War would officially be over. Peace and sunshine broke from the clouds to herald brighter days. Or so it was believed in Paris, London, and New York. Most of the senior officials at no. 36 were at their desks by four in the morning. If ever there was a perfect platform for assassination, this was the day. Chief Superintendent Roux had spent most of the previous week in close consultation with every branch of the police and armed forces allotting positions, reviewing intelligence, arresting some known anarchists who had travelled to Paris. Nothing was to be left to chance.
A brigade of sparkling motor cars carried the senior representatives from all of the allied nations represented at the talks with police and secret service agents close by. A formal honor guard of French cavalry stood motionless save for the occasional snort from bored horses, obliged to stay unnaturally still all along the mile long drive from the gates of Versailles to the palace. Each appeared to carry individual tricolors in blue uniform, red and white pennant flying from their lances. In the courtyard, where even more troops were visible, rifles gleamed, purpose clear, and the invited participants mounted the Grand Staircase bordered, left and right, by the shining silver helmets with brushed horse-hair of the Republican Guard.
Mathieu mused that this overwhelming show of force usually graced the streets of the city if there was a risk of a mob uprising. With the theatrical flourish of a grand stage manager, Clemenceau included a selection of Paris mutilés, handpicked to remind all present of the victims of war. He might just as well have stood at the top of the grand staircase and pointedly shouted, “Remember, we do this for them.” On the journey out of Paris he waved heartily at the crowds and reminded them “This is a great day for France.”
To the immense relief of everyone at the Deuxième Bureau, the day passed without assassination or injury to anyone of even minor importance. That said, the crowds in the formal gardens outside the Palace of Versailles lost any semblance of decorum and rushed blindly towards their heroes as they descended from the rear terrace after the document had been signed.
“Move in now,” Mathieu shouted at a group of soldiers who grabbed Lloyd George from the clutches of his admirers before he disappeared under their acclaim. The British prime minister’s secret lover, Frances Stevenson, watched on in alarm from the terrace, and hardly dared breathe until his trademark moustache reappeared in their midst. President Wilson was almost knocked into a fountain, but his secret service agents sprang forward to save him from the indignity. Cartoonists would have relished the opportunity to capture the unfortunate incident for posterity.
Afterwards, Paris decided to have a party. But not at the Deuxième. Mathieu was obliged to monitor the revelries. At the hotel Majestic the British delegation enjoyed free champagne and an elaborate dinner with extra courses. In the grand streets and Boulevards, the cafés and restaurants shone in a blaze of extravagant light. Some motorized jokers managed to attach captured German guns to the back of their Renaults and towed them through the streets to repeated cheering and applause. How these middle-class boys loved a good jape.
“Let it go,” Mathieu ordered. “There will be no medals for enforcing the letter of the law tonight. It’ll be sorted in the morning.”
Sumptuous dining and drinking was the order of the day. And the night. But euphoria is a waning phenomenon. The leading foreigners, Wilson and Lloyd George, were uncomfortable. The Welshman turned his caustic sarcasm towards the tricolor and was heard to say, “Why, you’d almost think the French won the war on their own.”
President Wilson caught the night train to Le Havre and set off hastily for America. He wouldn’t have a headache in the morning. Europe would.
* * *
Moutie’s intelligence network continued to outsmart the police in terms of speed and accuracy. Of course, it was not encumbered by niceties like the law. He had updated Mathieu with details of Villain’s romance with Charlotte and the attempted suicide, both of which seemed unlikely until confirmed at a later date through official police channels.
“He’s talking about moving away from Paris. For some reason, he has set his sights on Danzig.”
“Why?”
“No idea…but he’s being watched.”
Mathieu was grateful, but gratitude alone did not merit Moutie’s dedication to the job.
“I think we’ve gone was far as we can with him, Moutie. I honestly think you’ve become more fixated by Raoul Villain than me.”
“Possibly, Captain, but then I knew him better than you. Conceited, arrogant bastard.”
Mathieu considered the matter finished but Moutie had one more bombshell to drop into the conversation.
“Tell me, Captain, who have you upset recently?”
Strange.
“You tell me. Too many people for me to know where to begin. Why do you ask?”
“I was questioned about you yesterday by an American who works with the Corsicans. He wondered what I knew about some drama in Marseille, which was nothing, and then he turned to a raid on one of their missions during the war. I played dumb, but I don’t know if he believed me. He left with a smug knowing look and a stark warning. ‘Don’t get carried away, my friend. Your man’s being watched. And so are you. Should he prove to have been involved in the Marseilles affair, he won’t be long for this earth. Remember, my friend, if you lie with the dogs, you’ll rise with their fleas.’”
“Nice phrase. Did he say more?” Mathieu concealed his concern. Here it was again. Someone checking up on him.
Moutie shuddered uncomfortably. “Should he have?”
Raoul’s Story
Refelctions One
On reflection, I have lived a life unfulfilled, my talent unrecognized, my genius misunderstood. My bravery remains unappreciated, but one day, history will record the facts. Of that, I am confident.
Looking back, France never deserved my loyalty. France abandoned me; my father and brother denied me; Action française betrayed me. And yet here in sun-soaked Ibiza, I have dear friends, a new house, and status. I am respected, as I should be.
My journey to the sun and sand was an unusual one. But I have been happy. Oh, yes.
I looked at a world which had changed before my eyes because of the war I facilitated and hoped that all would be well. But like the great prophets of the Bible, like Christ himself, I was not welcome in my own land. It came to me in a flash of self-realization during a sermon in Saint-Pierre de Montmartre, still my favorite church. You know how often you might fall asleep during a sermon, but the Jesuits have a capacity to construct argument with such real intensity that falling asleep is out of the question. He was a visiting spiritual advisor from Rome and delivered an eye-opening homily on why the prophet is always rejected in his own land. I felt that he was talking to me, about me. I was to leave Paris and find a suitable community which would embrace me as I am.
But where? I spoke to him afterwards on the church steps and he told me about the free city of Danzig on the Baltic Sea. It was a new city-state and needed new citizens to help create a new era. The Prussians had been thrown out and it was one of the many small communities whose creation came about because of the victorious war. In other words, me.
I fell in love with the city when I stepped from the Paris to Berlin to Danzig train. The only thing more impressive than the Long Market with magnificent ancient buildings and the grand Town Hall in its midst was the massive church of St. Mary which positively dominated all around it. A strange mixture of Russian -Byzantine and late renaissance architecture proclaimed Catholicism as the dominant force for good. I was instantly comfortable, and found a job at the casino as a croupier. I’ve always been good with numbers, and of course, it was helpful to intone the litany of the Roulette Wheel in fluent French. “Faites von jeux” and “Rien ne va plus” sound so perfect in the Parisian patois. Naturally, I perfected an astonishment when a successful gambler decided to tip me as if I had brought luck to the table. A bow of the head and touch to the heart would accompany the practiced “Personnel? Merci, monsieur,” as another mug parted with his winnings.
“You speak such good French,” they would say.
The hours were long but profitable. The company opened a second casino across the bay in Lithuania, at Klaipeda, or Memel as the Germans used to call it. Naturally, given my success in Danzig, they promoted me and sent me across to ensure it was well run. They didn’t call me manager, but I was the one who made the decisions and ensured instant profitability. Here was yet another small protectorate created by the Treaty of Versailles, thanks to me. France was nominally responsible for the region until a more permanent solution could be worked out, but honestly, my countrymen couldn’t run a simple game of baccarat, never mind a protectorate.
Realizing that they had to take action, the Lithuanians decided to occupy the region by force, and present the Entente with a fait accompli. It was a good decision, and a formal agreement was signed in Paris in 1924, which gave Klaipeda similar status to Danzig. It energized me, and my savings grew. Even so, every now and again, a second look in my direction or a furrowed brow which could have indicated recognition, made me feel uneasy. Living so deeply inside that part of Poland and the former East-Prussia made me aware of the growing Nazi party and its bullying techniques. I understood bullying. You know that.
I had some funds saved, more than anyone else knew, in fact, and in addition I inherited a small but significant gift of money. From my mother or a well-wisher, I cannot say. I could go wherever I chose. But where? If you had the whole world to choose from, my friend, where would you go?
43
February 1921 Icarus – Flown
Mathieu found his friend slumped, head turned towards the window through which his beloved Paris was beginning to embrace its post war renaissance. Blood had seeped into the blue patterned carpet from his mouth, nose, and ears as if an internal convulsion had ripped through his body and splattered his life onto the floor. Chief Superintendent Bernard Roux was dead.
He must have tried to steady himself for the reports on which he had been working were strewn across the desk in a mayhem of panic; a last effort to retain control which had gone long before he fell. So much blood. Unusual. Had the chief coughed up his rotted lungs? Mathieu stood in shock, defying the stiff, lifeless body to rise. It made no sense. But death comes like the thief in the night. He’d heard that phrase so often from his maternal grandmother that it was no surprise when she was stolen away many years since, though they never found the thief. But Bernard Roux? His mentor. His friend. The invincible Chief.
“Mathieu, have you seen…?” Jacques spoke words behind his back but they passed into the confusion and were lost. He stepped into the office and gasped in horror.
“Chief.” He moved to see if there was any lingering sign of life, any chance to offer comfort.
“Stop.” Mathieu pulled his arm back. “Don’t touch him. Something’s wrong, and I don’t know what it is. Get Paul and find a doctor…but do not touch the body. And don’t say anything to anyone. We need to buy time before the chaos begins.”
Jacques closed the door firmly and Mathieu took one careful step forward, not wishing to disturb the dead. Why was he surprised? How many times had the chief been told he was smoking far too many cigarettes? For how long had his raucous cough warned of bursting lungs?
He reached over the body and dialed an internal number. Within two minutes the photographer, a recent appointment, typical of Roux’s determination to keep the Deuxième at the cutting edge in the fight against crime, came running down the corridor.
“Prepare yourself, Dominic.”
Mathieu let him squeeze past rather than open the door wide as if he was protecting Bernard Roux’s dignity from gathering ghouls. Younger than the rest, Dominic Verlaine had learned his trade in aerial photography during the war, and served a difficult and dangerous apprenticeship. He appeared to have survived without so much as a scar on his still-lithe body, but wounds from that terrifying conflict ran deep inside everyone who witnessed the dark monster of trench hell, even from above. He found sleep very difficult. One day something or someone would trigger a memory and the beast would crawl forth and unleash itself.
“Oh, Sweet Jesus, no,” he implored and hesitated for a moment before taking flash images of the prostrate man.
“A lot of blood,” was his first comment, “though he is a big man.” He paused to look again. Dominic circled the body, absorbing detail, cautious lest he misread the signs before him.
“This isn’t an internal hemorrhage or a burst lung, Sir,” was his next. “It’s more like he’s been smashed to the floor.”
