Beyond Revanche, page 5
“Shut the door behind you, Bertrand.” Commander Roux drew heavily on his Gauloises, indicating with a nod of his greying head that Mathieu should sit down. He paused before rising to the window, and stared out at the Paris landscape without seeing a single feature of his beloved city. A second deep inhalation of the rancid-smelling tobacco followed in almost desperate haste, as if time was pressing him close to a perilous precipice. His suit, unusually rumpled, reflected his spirit; his well-groomed moustache, normally cut with elegant precision looked unkempt. He sighed, glanced at the floor and then at Mathieu. Troubled. Deeply troubled.
“Sir?”
He paused again before stubbing out his cigarette. “We’re going to war with Germany.”
Mathieu leaned back in his chair and looked the commander in the eye. In the space of his five brief months in Paris his appreciation of Bernard Roux had become almost familial. He knew the man did not waste words, swallow shallow rumor, or repeat half-baked gossip. Yet he could not stop himself saying, “With respect, Sir, we’ve been going to war with Germany every summer since I can remember.”
A brooding silence spread an aura of impending trouble. Bernard Roux, fifty-seven and counting, father and grandfather, looked at Mathieu, stubbed out the cigarette, and craved a glass of Cognac to steady himself.
“Yes, I know. And every time war has been forecast I’ve said it was nonsense. In 1911 when Joe Caillaux was prime minister, every newspaper heralded the coming war. Never happened. Caillaux sought conciliation rather than war. No matter what the English said in London or the Russians in St. Petersburg, he had the courage to stand against the warmongers. Now we have a president hell bent on war.” He went to the door, opened it, glanced down the corridor, and locked them inside his office. Unprecedented.
Mathieu tried to take stock of the situation, but it did not make sense. His inner voice knew that it must be true. The commander licked his dried lips, unaware that his reaction presaged his despair.
“I have to unburden myself, Mathieu, and since I value your judgment, you have to share this with me. No one must know. No one. Not even along this corridor. Not your family. Not your friends. No one.”
“Of course,” he replied, and a second later his brain registered another phenomenon. Bernard Roux had just called him Mathieu. Merde. “How do you know, Sir? I don’t question what you have just told me, but how can you be sure?”
“You understand, no one hears of this.” It was a statement, not a question. “When I was at headquarters with the chief of police this morning, we were interrupted by the minister of war. I left the room of course, but Celestin handed me the text he had been given so that I could check the instructions we will be obliged to enforce. He has a habit of doing that. Sharing information with me. I thought, years ago, that it was a test of loyalty, but he confided recently that one of his fears was that, should he drop dead, no one would know the secrets he held. I share that fear, Mathieu.” He paused briefly to allow reflection. “Anyway, these instructions are to be sent to the mayors in every city, town, and hamlet. They will be instructed to summon anyone who owns a horse or a car, and secretly forewarn them that they must stand by to have it requisitioned. I don’t mean one horse or one car. Every single one of them.”
“Oh,” was all that reached Mathieu’s lips, though his mind was racing through a range of possibilities.
“They are preparing a General Mobilization. Call-up papers have been prepared. Standing regiments are on alert. The Army have planned exercises close to the German border and, most disturbingly, the president, the prime minister, and the minister of war will leave immediately for a state visit to the Czar at St. Petersburg. They are taking the newly commissioned battleship France through the Baltic and are scheduled to arrive in Russia on 20th July.”
“They’ll miss the trial.” Mathieu’s comment bordered on sarcasm.
“They plan to miss the trial. Furthermore, the official line from the Élysée Palace is that it is courtesy visit of no particular importance.”
“So why?”
“Now you’re missing the point.” The commander lit another Gauloises. “Everyone’s missing the point. While the French nation is focused on the most sensational murder trial of the twentieth century, their president and prime minister will be focused on ensuring that the Russians are ready for the war they intend to launch against the kaiser. You know that Poincaré and his die-hards live only to avenge themselves against the German victory forty-odd years ago. For stealing Alsace and Lorraine. I promise you, as soon as the czar’s resolve has been stiffened and those agitators are back on French soil, it will be war. President Poincaré and those who support him have a plan. A secret plan. Believe me, there have been meetings between the minister and Army high command in England and Belgium. This is not an exercise. But he will not move until our Russian allies commit themselves to his plan. The English are important, too. I know about their secret agreement. Already our entire fleet has moved into the Mediterranean to shut it down completely. The English have guaranteed to protect our coast along the channel. What comes next is war.”
Silence filled the space between them with an awkward hesitancy. Roux turned back to the window and Mathieu bowed his head, troubled and uncertain. He crossed to the window beside the commander and looked out over the glistening rooftops of Paris. A light smattering of rain caused a strange bluish hue on the slate canopies from the semblance of sunshine which struggled into the frame. There was a promise of better weather to come, but no guarantee. Every word the commander said would have been nonsense had it come from a lesser man.
“I’m flattered, Sir. I am. But won’t the others be affronted if I’m the only one in whom you confide?”
“Of course they will, if they ever find out. But they won’t because you know when to hold your tongue. You’re diligent, confident, and you understand how to deal with difficult situations. I don’t know what life was like for you growing up in Marseilles, but living in a household consumed by politics has taught you lessons money couldn’t buy. You instinctively dealt with the traumatized Caillaux woman without overreacting. You solved the problem by removing her from the scene without the attendant hysteria others would have caused. Pascal Girard is tired. I know that. He understands the Paris in which he grew up, but his mind rarely strays beyond the city boundary. The only future he can talk about is retirement. Dubois is a good detective, too, but he has no concept of flexibility. Guy Simon would want to fight with anyone and crack a few heads in the passing.”
There was more to be said, but Roux was still weighing his options. “Mathieu,” he sighed in a breath so heavily laden with sour nicotine that it could have satisfied a battalion of smokers, “my judgment tells me to trust you, and I know for a fact that you are not leaking information to other interested parties.”
Ah, so there was a leak in the department’s security. “How do…?”
“Don’t ask.”
Guy Simon broke the spell. He almost broke his nose too when he attempted to walk through the locked door. The team was back. To their disappointment, local police had dealt with the incident in the canal and they didn’t want the Tigers around to steal the headlines.
“Give us a moment.” Roux tried to be cheerful.
Guy almost insisted. “Six-thirty, chief. Café Clichy.” It was as though the whole world should understand that the evening drink claimed precedence.
The commander softened his approach. “Be with you shortly. You go ahead.” As the others trundled past the closed door, Roux turned, searched for the most appropriate phrase, and stared so hard that Mathieu thought someone was standing behind him. He picked up a file from his desk and reread the first page.
“Mathieu, I should have checked. You’re single aren’t you?”
“Yes. Is that important?”
“Yes and no. But it makes the job easier when you have to stick with a case day and night for months at a time. That poisons relationships. Married ones.”
He checked again. “Still living in Rue Pasteur?”
“In a boarding house. Clean, comfortable, and all I can afford.”
“Fine.” He placed the file back on the desk and got to the point.
“Your grandfather?”
“My grandfather? Surely you know all about him already. My grandfather considers me to be a political embarrassment.” Mathieu found it difficult to capture his sense of injustice. “He more or less exiled me from Marseilles because I told him the truth about a set-up which cost the lives of seven policemen.”
“Eight.”
“Eight?”
“Dennis Benett died three days after you left Marseilles. His death certificate claims it was from blood poisoning.”
“Benett with the shattered legs? Dennis Benett? I didn’t know his christian name. I didn’t know any of their…” Mathieu left his words to linger as his world spun slower and backwards to a nightmare of uncertainty. He didn’t know the Christian names of the men who were slain by his side on the scorched canal basin that day. They died in a pitiless massacre in which he too ought to have perished. And he didn’t know their Christian names. He knew nothing about them at all. Dennis Benett. Was he married? Did he have children? What of the others?
Roux saw the pain on Mathieu’s face and continued his short lecture in a very matter-of-fact way. “You know that the Republican Party used the massacre to gain votes at the election, and as you know, they are fiercely loyal to President Poincaré.”
Mathieu buried his head in his hands and confessed his confusion. “I distrust them all; and I don’t understand who THEY are? Where THEY are? Politics is a cover for a bigger bag of thieves than the mafia.”
Roux laughed and added his own philosophy. “Politicians are like a gaggle of blind geese, squawking around, all talking at the same time, unaware that their masters have already decided which to eat at Christmas and which to keep ’til Easter.”
Mathieu had never heard a more succinct analysis.
The commander inhaled automatically. “What about here in Paris? Did you have an association with either side?”
“Of course not. I hate politicians. The power-brokers amongst them believe they have a monopoly on patriotism and expect everyone else to be likeminded.”
“Especially Action française. Your grandfather for one.”
“My grandfather is a member of Action française?” Mathieu felt his lungs constrict until the pain forced breath back into his body,
“I checked his standing with a contact in the Bureau’s intelligence department. He was being investigated by a special unit headed by the same Captain David Rougerie who was shot dead in the ambush at La Joliette. We won’t ever be able to prove it, but that’s probably why the ambush took place.”
“But I…” Mathieu let the sentence hang while he absorbed the implication. His grandfather had been prepared to sacrifice everything, Mathieu included, to protect his political career. Bâtard.
Roux read his consternation. “We don’t think he knew you had been transferred to Rougerie’s unit until after the event.”
“We?”
“Hennion, and a few other interested parties. And you are right about power-brokers. They have allies everywhere, protected by even more powerful friends at every level of decision-making and influence. These are dangerous and ruthless criminals who will never be held accountable for their crimes.” He glanced at his pocket watch and stood up. “Look at the time. We’d better join the others at the Café Clichy. We can talk en route.”
Outside the trees swayed in a gentle wind and the heat of the day gave way to the slightly cooler warmth of early evening. It felt good to cut free from the stifling office, but Mathieu was still troubled.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you know how the system works and your judgment is sharp.” The commander stopped to light yet another Gauloises and caught Mathieu’s arm, instinctively drawing him slightly closer lest they be overheard.
“But listen to me. We need to be careful. Over the next few days and possibly weeks, we, you and I, will be closely involved with some of these so-called power-brokers because of the political sensitivities of the bloody Caillaux case. You have to keep what you learn close to your heart. Now is not the time to draw attention to our fears. It’s important that when we do go to war, our team continue to tackle all the vermin which will crawl from the woodwork to feed off rich pickings. In times like this you either lead or follow, and when it comes to police work, I want us to stay close to the real decision-makers. We are not without friends. Not at all. But we have to be very, very careful.”
Riddles again, Mathieu thought. Who were our “friends,” who were the real decision-makers?
“Tomorrow, I want you to go over all of the evidence for Henriette Caillaux’s trial. I know you’re prepared. I know that you have checked and rechecked everything, but we can’t afford a mistake, and her bloody lawyers will be ready to pounce if we have a cedilla out of place.”
They headed to Café Clichy with little interest in further casual conversation. Mathieu’s powers of concentration had been shattered by the commander’s news. Suspicion quickly found voice in the crowded café.
“What’s going on then?” Guy prodded quietly, sipping his vin rouge through thin, taut lips. “Behind closed doors, the two of you. What’s the story?”
“The commander is paranoid about the trial. He’s under pressure from all angles to keep the scandal localized. Minimize the fallout. Make sure that we can’t be blamed if anything goes wrong.”
“Hardly a reason to lock this office door,” Guy huffed dismissively. “Something’s wrong.”
He turned away, unconvinced. It would have been so easy to tell him in confidence, tell them all, but a shrug of the shoulders was all he could offer.
Mathieu shrank back into himself, feigning interest in the conversation, and caught his own image in the great wall mirrors for which the café was famous. His suit looked threadbare, faded in patches and barely acceptable for the workplace. He definitely needed a haircut. As a youngster he had hated the curls which insisted on making him look like a choirboy, but these had matured into more acceptable black waves, thick and unruly. He liked the fact that his eyes still sparkled and his moustache, which had taken so long to grow into place, made him appear older than his twenty-three years. But living in Paris came at a cost and his skin was definitely paler than it had been in the Mediterranean clime. At almost six foot in height he stood literally head and shoulders above the other Tigers, and, immodest though it was to admit, his physical appearance was still as daunting as it had been during his army service with the artillery reserve. But those clothes…
“Snap out of it, Bertrand. It’s your turn to buy.” Pascal Girard was never one to stand on ceremony. Heavy shouldered, the former boxer looked forward to retirement. Life was not good. He had married late and found relationships difficult. He bore a scar which cut across his left temple and disappeared into a receding hairline. Bullet or sword? No one knew for certain. He had paid his dues to France and the least the young whippersnapper could do was buy drink. What else kept him sane?
“Of course.” Mathieu beckoned towards the waitress hovering close to their stall. She smiled at him, pleased to be asked. Mathieu noticed she had a beautiful face, like Renoir’s painting of the girl in the low-necked green dress. Her cheeks were pink under heavy eyes that spoke of hard work and struggle. Yet they flashed in defiance. Her auburn hair had been combed-through carelessly by her own hand while watching her reflection in the mirrored wall. But her smile. He always remembered the first time he saw that smile. They called her Agnès.
“Again, Monsieur?”
* * *
“Again, Monsieur?”
This time the question was laden with resignation. Georges Formentin could hardly believe he was expected to repeat his story again. As salesclerk for the elite weapons and gun shop Gastinne-Renette, poor Formentin had suffered dozens of enquires, interruptions and useless questions from all sorts over the last four months. His normal routine as guardian of the historic dueling pistols, ancient blunderbusses, high-powered hunting rifles, and immensely expensive pearl-studded made-to-order handguns, had been disturbed on a daily basis since Henriette Caillaux swanned into Gastinne-Renette’s inner sanctum and announced herself as if she was the reincarnation of Marie-Antoinette. Perhaps she was. He told Mathieu this when first interviewed.
By the third interview, Formentin thought her a she-devil; a cursed interloper who had abused his hospitality and ruined the company name. Gastinne-Renette, 1812, armorer to the Emperor Napoleon. Was there a prouder heritage in France? Yet Henriette Caillaux was about to drag the proud emblem of dueling excellence into the courts in a miserable, clear-cut charge of premeditated murder. He ushered Mathieu into his side office and shut the door lest any customer overheard his disclosure.
“It was mid-afternoon. She breezed through the door and marched up to my counter without so much as a by-your-leave, and said, ‘I am Madame Caillaux and I want to see a revolver,’ claiming that she needed a small weapon to carry on her person. She and Monsieur Caillaux were apparently due to leave for a trip to his constituency in the country, and she felt that in the current climate of antagonism towards government ministers, she should be armed. Of course we all knew that Joseph Caillaux held an account with us, so his wife had open access to our stock.”
“She presumed that you would know who she was?”
“Monsieur, she is a Caillaux.” His look betrayed contempt. “To continue, I offered her a thirty-two caliber Smith and Wesson, but she struggled to operate it confidently. On her insistence she was taken downstairs to our basement firing range and I instructed Monsieur Dervillier to help her. The gun was simply too awkward for her to fire safely. She bruised her finger and whimpered pathetically. We brought her the .32 Browning automatic, and she immediately liked its flexibility. Madame Caillaux held it in her hand, thought it more comfortable, and indicated that she wished to purchase it.”
