Beyond Revanche, page 44
He continued to take photographs, tiptoeing carefully round Roux’s body to avoid the congealed blood. Dominic straightened up and looked at Mathieu quizzically.
“Well, that’s not likely, is it?” He pointed to Bernard Roux’s right hand and bent forward to take yet another photograph.
Mathieu dropped his left knee and looked again at the cigarette in Roux’s dead hand. It was as though he had surrendered his life but held fast to his addiction. It was lodged between his middle and ring fingers. Why? He used any combination of index, thumb, and middle fingers, but not the others. Certainly never his ring finger. The cigarette must have been placed there after he was dead to suggest…what? That he had smoked himself to death?
“If you were standing directly above the body, you might well make a mistake. Someone put that cigarette into his hand after he hit the floor.” He took another close-up shot of Roux’s right hand, and stood up, waiting for instructions.
“Dominic, take a couple of general shots of the room, the desk, and the door…then disappear. Tell no one. And I mean no one. Get back to me when you have developed your film.”
Mathieu sat on the window seat and opened the casement to the elements. Grey skies hovered above the city with thickening cloud drawing rain from the west. An involuntary shudder accompanied his despair. His friend; his mentor; his father figure was dead. No warning. His last words had been, “I’ll see you in the morning. Early. I want you to read this. Take care.”
Take care. The telephone rang.
“Yes?” Mathieu welcomed the distraction.
“The new assistant commissioner, Tembey is on his way up, Sir. Thought you might like to know.”
He barely had time to mutter thanks before Gabriel Tembey stood at the door, eyes widening, face as shiny as the buttons on his newly pressed uniform. No moustache. Ah, these modern trends. Mathieu’s presence surprised him as did his first question.
“Bad news travels quickly does it not?”
“Yes, indeed.” He exhaled deeply through his nose and blessed himself.
“The chief superintendent is dead, Captain?” It was a stupid question from a man who had forgotten his prepared script.
“Very, Sir.”
“What a shock, dear me. Are you certain?” He took a step forward but Mathieu extended his arm to halt his progress.
“Very, very dead, Sir. And I must ask you to wait until the doctor has inspected the body. This may be a crime scene.”
“What? Heavens above. Do you imagine that Bernard Roux was murdered? Here? Inside the Deuxième Bureau?” His attempt at lighthearted laughter betrayed a nervous undertone.
“Had you an early appointment to meet the chief superintendent, Sir?”
“Yes, well, no. I just happened to be passing so I thought I’d call in to speak with him before the day got started.”
“Of course,” Mathieu began, but was cut short by Jacques, Paul Dubois, and a doctor they had commandeered outside the Hotel Dieu, racing down the corridor in the vain hope that something might be done to save the day. They stopped to let the doctor enter first and Mathieu asked Jacques to escort the assistant commissioner to the visitors’ room and get him coffee.
The doctor bent in two, panting for breath for half a minute before standing upright to reveal a shock of grey hair you might not have expected in such a relatively young man. He clutched his left side as if he had pulled a muscle, but his attention was fully fixed on the dead body. He, too, knelt, gently pressed his fingers to Roux’s neck and shook his head.
“As a Dodo. I’d guess he’s been dead for at least six hours. Cause of death? Can’t tell yet. Looks like internal and external injuries. Needs an autopsy to determine that.”
“Foul play?” Mathieu wanted to have cause to start further inquiries. “I mean, he had a bad cough and occasional fits and spasms. Too much nicotine. Smoked continuously. But that didn’t kill him, did it?”
“No. If you contact the mortuary over at the Hotel Dieu, I’ll accompany the body. It may take some time.”
Mathieu balked. “No, it will not. You or your colleagues will conduct the autopsy this morning. Before ten o’clock. This is a matter of state security. And report to me and only me.” There was no time for nicety.
As it does, news of the chief superintendent’s death passed by word of mouth through no. 36 like a virus. Bernard Roux’s body was carried from the building to an ambulance with all the honor he deserved. Policemen, gendarmes, detectives, workers from every department lined the stairwell, hats and kepis removed, heads bowed, saluting their leader in rigid attention. Lips quivered, but silence reigned. Outside, men and women who heard about the tragedy as they arrived for work, lined the street and bowed again. Grief had yet to find its voice, but under the grey cloud, sadness enveloped part of central Paris.
Back in Roux’s office, the team began to piece together what had happened. Mathieu realized someone was missing.
“Assistant Commissioner Tembey Where is he?”
Jacques had no answer. “He followed me along the corridor, charged down the stairs, and was out the door before I could object.”
“So, Assistant Commissioner Tembey just happens to call in early to see the chief, probably expecting to find him dead and take control. He was considerably put out to find us here, and currently knows nothing about Dominic Verlaine’s photographs. We keep it that way. He’s bound to find out that the chief’s body has been removed, so send an officer over to the Hotel Dieu to keep pressure on them. Once we get the medical report we should have a better idea of time and cause of death.” There was an air of collective disbelief as the implications set in. “The chief was murdered.” Mathieu spoke with an authority which brooked no doubt. “Right here, by a person or persons who consider themselves untouchable.”
“Slow down Mathieu,” Dubois insisted. “You’re going too fast. One step at a time.”
“The chief was working late last night. Something for the Ministry. Had a report to finish. For their eyes only. He asked me to come in early so I could read over it.”
“What was it about?” Paul Dubois wanted to know. He wanted to understand why this had happened.
Jacques produced three cups of boiling hot coffee, hoping for the stimulation it might bring to their collective reasoning.
“He had the American file on his desk in the late afternoon. I don’t see it here. Does he keep it locked away, Mathieu?” Jacques picked up an empty file cover from the floor and dropped it back onto the desk
“That depends on which file. He kept special files somewhere outside the office, but we’d need his master keys to open the safe.”
“And they’d be in his pocket?” Jacques reasoned.
Silence.
“Paul, would you please get over to the mortuary before they strip Bernard Roux. Bring his clothes back here.”
The corridor began to fill with officers still arriving for work, anxious for details.
“Please, everyone, can we clear the corridor. Get back to your desks. Right now we need space.”
Minutes later Patrick Verlaine burst into the room with two enlarged photographs. He handed over the glossy images and patiently turned them around. They were focused on Bernard Roux’s hands.
“Look at the cigarette.”
Mathieu looked, gasped, half rose to his feet, then bent down on one knee and looked again. How had he missed it?
“That’s not a Gauloises.” He looked at the others standing dumb, unable to make sense of what he was saying. “It’s a Gitane.”
The others strained to see the image more clearly, knowing full well that the chief had never let a Gitane touch his lips. Ever. Jacques upended the wastebasket beside the stain-strewn desk and an empty packet of Gauloises fell to the floor.
“What was he doing when you last saw him?”
Mathieu closed his eyes and took them through his recollection.
“He’s working late on a special report. Is interrupted. He must have known his assailant or assailants. They make demands. He’d be angry. Next thing he’s on the floor. Struck down by apoplexy or violence. He’s dead. They panic. Take what is relevant, make it look as if he was smoking when he collapsed, but there are no Gauloises. One of them substitutes a Gitane, sticks it between his fingers, to mislead detection and…leaves. The only people who can walk in and out of here without special permission are us. Or a very senior officer or minister, or … who was on duty last night?”
Jacques exhaled deeply and lowered his eyes.
“Toussaint.”
“He was” Mathieu agreed. “He said Good Night when I left. Very chirpy.”
“Oh yes, you can be sure he was very chirpy.” Jacque’s sarcasm was clear and obvious.
“What do you mean?”
“Cleaners found him lying on the floor in the downstairs changing room, snoring like a pig, stinking of drink. He had an empty bottle of cheap brandy in one hand. He was incoherent. Claims that someone left the brandy on his chair while he made his usual rounds. The duty officer dismissed him on the spot.”
For a moment no-one spoke as each man tried to work out what had happened.
Jacques stared at his captain. “Mathieu,” he began, “there’s something else, isn’t there?”
“It must have been a set-up. Whoever did this knew Toussaint was on duty and knew that he couldn’t resist the drink. Whoever organized it, wanted Roux’s report and the evidence he alone had access to. And Bernard Roux was the keeper of one special file.” Mathieu paused and looked again at the murder scene, the bloodstains, the paper-strewn desk, upturned chair. The emptiness was overwhelming. He turned over the file which Jacques had taken from the floor. Scrawled in Roux’s handwriting was a single word. Icarus.
Time spun from its natural order and blew certainty into Mathieu’s understanding. He slumped against the far wall, legs shaking as if he had run a marathon.
“Does that mean something to you…Icarus?”
“All I can say, Jacques, is that they killed Bernard Roux, they’re ruthless, and they are protected.”
Of course. It must have been the Americans, or someone working on their behalf. Roux had collected and collated the secret files on Herbert Hoover, who had recently been given a senior government post in the new American government. Roux had flown too close to their sun.
The telephone on the chief superintendent’s desk had the effrontery to burst into life, rudely interrupting their misery. Jacques answered its call with a curt, “Yes!”
He gave a sharp intake of breath and passed the receiver to Mathieu. “It’s Agnès.”
“My darling, I–”
He got no further. “Mathieu, I can see that Bernard Roux is dead. The Matron and I are with the body as we speak, but they are trying to steal him. You have to get over here quickly.”
“What? They? Steal the body? Hold tight. We’re on our way.” Mathieu turned to his colleagues. “Hotel-Dieu. Move.”
They burst from the front door and ran up the Rue de la Cité in a cavalry charge of limbs and flowing jackets. Few residents or visitors were yet out and about in the relative peace of the early morning hour, but those who were, stood back in amazement. Despite the limitations set by his ankle, Mathieu led the way, through the classical entrance hall, looking in despair for directions to the mortuary. Vital seconds were lost in the dimly-lit corridors which seemed to have been designed to keep out the sun, before a clamor of raised voices and angry retorts lead them to the double-door entrance to the hospital mortuary. The detectives clambered through in time to see a covered gurney disappear in the opposite direction, attended by four uniformed soldiers. Between them and Mathieu’s team, Matron Veronique, Agnès, and the mortuary assistant stood blocking Assistant Commissioner Tembey’s retreat.
Agnès saw them and shouted, “Mathieu, they’ve taken Bernard Roux’s body. On the gurney.”
The assistant commissioner stood his ground and barked. “Keep your distance, all of you.” He waved a piece of paper in their faces and declared, “This is a judicial order instructing the hospital to release the body into the care of the military authorities.”
“Nonsense,” Matron Veronique insisted. “That’s illegal. In all my years I’ve never–”
“They stopped Doctor Lamelle performing the autopsy. Just burst into the mortuary and closed it down.” Agnès was personally offended. She’d witnessed the stupidity of military intransigence on many occasions during the war, but this was a civil hospital dealing with a civilian death. Furthermore, she knew Bernard Roux, knew Mathieu would never permit this outrage, knew it was worse than wrong.
“This is a police affair.” Mathieu stood defiant. “Do you imagine that you can simply walk out with the body of the Deuxième’s chief superintendent?”
“Imagine?” Tembey roared. “IMAGINE? Do you imagine that I’m doing this on a whim? That I had nothing else to do today?” He pushed himself into Mathieu’s face and whispered, “You have no idea how high up this goes … or how bleak your future is going to be.”
Jacques had been standing at the rear of the group and when Tembey moved to threaten Mathieu, he ducked past and ran towards the door through which the gurney had disappeared. Nothing. An empty corridor spread before him, but he heard an engine start somewhere to the left. He was too late.
“Where have you taken the chief, Sir?” he asked politely, but Tembey simply curled his lip and ignored him.
He turned to the Matron and said, “Madam, as I have already told you the autopsy will be carried out by a military specialist in a military establishment. For the moment, the chief superintendent’s untimely death is a matter of state concern which we will address formally. I understand your objections, but I have the authority to overrule them.”
“Bâtard.” Agnès could not hold back her contempt. She looked at Mathieu and saw a broken man trying to control his emotions. “Bâtard.”
When they returned to their office at no. 36 they found Paul Dubois in possession of the chief’s clothes. He had been given them before the assistant commissioner’s intrusion and knew nothing about the incident. Roux’s jacket, waistcoat, and trousers were empty. No money, no handkerchief, none of the detritus of everyday living that people unknowingly carry around. No cigarettes. No matches. And certainly no keys.
Mathieu sank his head into the curtains. They had murdered Bernard Roux and stolen the evidence. Again. His keys were missing, and assuming that they knew where he kept his secret safe, so had Herbert Hoover’s special file. It was over. Clemenceau had retired from politics and Poincaré, though no longer president, was back as prime minister. The old order had not entirely changed but a new authority had just reasserted itself.
“Jacques, Paul, I think this is what they call the end game. These people, the men who operate above the elected government, are back in charge. They’ve probably never been away. You have your families to protect. We may still have careers. But we no longer have the protection of Bernard Roux. God help us.”
Mathieu wanted to be with Agnès to share that moment of realization. He walked past the chief’s office and opened the door for one last nostalgic look. The shock almost blew him from his feet. The room stood in pristine condition as if dressed for inspection. Everything was in its appointed position. The carpets had been replaced, the desk cleared. Every paper and file had been removed. The chief’s chair stood in solitary affirmation that it no longer had a worthy occupant. Floors had been washed and polished. Not a stain in sight. A vase of flowers sat in the window closest to his desk, an alien presence in a room which had been dedicated to nicotine. The central window had been deliberately left open to encourage the circulation of fresh air. Roux was but a memory of its past.
As he left the building the concierge confirmed that someone had sent cleaners to clear up the mess. “Ah,” Mathieu nodded. “Someone.”
Within an hour, the late morning edition of Le Parisien carried a fulsome obituary for Bernard Roux. It said that he collapsed and died from a heart attack at work.
Heart attack? It broke Mathieu’s.
Raoul’s Story
Reflections Two
I won’t be long now, my friend. Please hear me out.
I yearned for the sun and the sea. Danzig and Klaipeda offered the sea, but the cold artic winds which circled the Baltic in winter ice chased any semblance of warmth from the sun. One met many different kinds of people as a croupier and it always paid dividends to flatter those with money. Remember that, my friend. A well-to-do-Spaniard who collected artworks from across the continent painted such a vivid picture of the Balearic Islands that I decided to make a permanent move in that direction. I didn’t know where these islands were, but since they weren’t too far adrift from Marseilles and Barcelona, thought it worthwhile investigating.
I don’t know even now what I expected, my friend, but you live in a very beautiful island. The rocky bays and the soft white sand mesmerized me. I checked into a small family hotel in Santa Eulària and walked down to the beach. Sunset flickered its last flecks of red across a placid sea and the warmth of the day had yet to be dispersed by the soft Mediterranean wind. Once I decided to settle on the island, I started to look for the kind of locale in which I could embrace a spiritual and personal renaissance. The boy from the country learned to love the sound of the sea. The man from Paris who could not swim or settle in the water, adored the soft sand. The prisoner from La Santé could never have tired of the pastel light of an evening on Ibiza. A new freedom offered itself. Forget the sullied past. The stench of the abattoir whose blood had flowed through Europe gave way to the clean pure air of Cala Sant Vicenç with its tiny port and colorful fishing boats.
And the artistic milieu thrilled me. Many different kinds of painters, designers, craftsmen, and gifted sculptors come here, as you know. I’ll wager you’ve been painted in your natural habitat many times over, my friend. Have you seen the works of Laurea Bunol from Barcelona? I’m in one of his beach scenes, posing as a fisherman. Look closely. You, too, may be there. His canvases are stunningly fresh.
