by Bev Spicer
Sixty-eight
The appointment with Felix Dumas was finally arranged. His offices would close for Christmas, and he would travel to the island of Réunion, returning for the New Year celebrations at his sister’s house in Cannes. The apartment would not be his until February, after the usual inspections had been carried out and the final contract had been signed.
Clement arrived in good time, nodding to Estelle and going along the corridor to the waiting room. He looked at the pictures on the walls – photographs taken of Royan, some from the past and some more recent. Apart from these token decorations, the room was soulless. There was a large window that looked out onto the street on the other side of the road, although it was placed too high to see the people, displaying only the name of a shop that sold sports clothes and, next to this, the sign for a boulangerie artisanale.
Clement was grateful for any distraction. He heard the sound of heels clicking across reception and disappearing as they arrived at the carpeted stairs. Estelle would be on her way up to the office where, shortly, he would go to sign away his father’s house. The plan that had seemed so foolproof as they had formulated it over the past days and weeks, would now be put to the test. It was a gamble. And Clement had a lot to lose.
There was the sound of the heavy front door opening and more footsteps, this time coming his way.
‘Good morning, Monsieur Berger,’ said a tall, well-dressed woman, coming into the room and sitting down opposite him.
‘Good morning, Madame Dautriche.’
‘I trust you are well?’ she said, with a prim smile.
‘Very well, thank you.’ He tried to sound casual, but felt the blood rush to his head.
Clement knew that he should continue the conversation, but he did not trust himself and so he excused himself.
‘It’s to the right, the second door,’ said the woman, crossing her legs and smoothing her skirt.
‘Thank you,’ replied Clement, practically fleeing.
Christ! What was he doing? What an imbecile! If he had wanted to arouse her suspicions, he could not have done a better job. His face was flushed and patchy and, if he tried to hold his hands still, they shook. Talk about having something written across your face! He took some deep breaths and felt a little calmer, telling himself that he was being ridiculous, that, as far a Madame Dautriche (or whatever her real name was) was concerned, he was there to sign the compromis, no doubt convinced that she and Dumas had pulled off another lucrative scam. The irony of her smug demeanour was due to complacency, and not to anything else. He must play the part of the unsuspecting victim, as agreed.
Clement heard Estelle coming along the corridor and stepped out of the bathroom, nodding to her once more, as she entered the waiting room to summon them both to Felix Dumas’ office. She, at least, kept her cool as she led them upstairs knocked, entered and waited.
‘Ah, good morning, Madame Dautriche, Monsieur Berger. Please, take a seat,’ said the notaire, shaking them by the hand and gesturing towards two strategically placed chairs, a little distance apart and standing back from his desk, as usual.
Clement listened as Dumas read out the documents to be signed, nodding when it was his turn to confirm details, aware of Madame Dautriche glancing over at him. He wished the window could be opened, despite the season. More than anything, he would like to remove his jacket, but did not want to attract attention. In his mind, he ran through the plan, hoping that la Grange and his associates might already have arrived downstairs and be waiting to arrest the slime ball sitting before him. This thought comforted him and made him smile just a little.
‘I think we are ready, Monsieur Berger,’ announced Felix Dumas, holding out a pen to him.
Madame Dautriche had already begun to sign the papers and he realised that he must have drifted off.
‘If you would like to approach the desk.’ The notaire waited patiently, still holding the pen in one hand and the wad of papers in the other. Their eyes met. Clement felt the cool gaze of the man he despised most in the world look right through him. Felix Dumas knew!
‘If you could just sign the bottom of each page until the last one, where I will ask you to write a confirmation statement,’ he instructed.
Nonplussed, Clement took the pen from the notaire’s hand. What else could he do?
It was just as Estelle had said it would be and as la Grange had suspected. The notaire had attached a cover sheet and, leaning forward, pulled back each page enough for Clement to sign at the bottom, only releasing his grip when the sheets bearing the names of the prospective purchaser had been turned face down. Clement continued signing and following the instructions he was given until the agreements were completed and had been collected. The sweat on his forehead made him shiver now.
‘I think that concludes our business for today. I am sure–’
The knock at the door was peremptory. Chief Inspector la Grange and Detective Inspector Lafayette advanced into the room, followed by two constables in uniform. Estelle stood back, feigning surprise adeptly, and Clement did his best to look startled.
‘Good day, Maitre Dumas,’ said la Grange. ‘If you would be so kind as to hand those papers to me, I would be grateful to you.’
‘Of course, Chief Inspector,’ replied Felix Dumas, delivering the contracts to the officer of the law with what seemed like a flourish.
‘Is there something the matter?’ enquired Madame Dautriche, clutching her handbag in a most comical display of shock.
‘I believe a crime has been committed here this morning, madame, and I intend to expose it!’ la Grange announced, dramatically.
Clement couldn’t help feeling that something was not quite right. Surely Felix Dumas had handed over the papers too easily? Did he not yet realise that his carefully laid plans had been scuppered?
‘I think you will find that everything is in order, Chief Inspector.’ Dumas scrutinised his clients and his secretary in turn.
Clement observed the policeman as he read through the first pages of the preliminary agreement, nodding and wearing his characteristic look of amusement. Estelle gave no sign that anything was awry. Her expression was neutral, and she would or could not acknowledge Clement when he looked over.
‘I believe these papers are correct,’ said the Chief Inspector, handing them back.
‘Would you mind explaining your presence here in my offices this morning, la Grange? I am sure you will appreciate that having uniformed offices enter my premises could do a great deal of harm to my reputation!’
‘Do not be concerned, Maitre Dumas. My officers are discreet and have travelled with us today.’
The two men regarded each other for a long moment.
It dawned on Clement that there was more to come. That perhaps he had not been party to all the details.
‘Inspector Lafayette, would you please play the recording?’
‘Certainly, sir,’ said the young woman, taking out a small device and clicking ‘play’.
Felix Dumas’ expression slowly hardened. And Madame Dautriche’s eyes bulged.
Dumas listened to his own voice, recorded earlier that morning, before 9.00, speaking on the telephone to Madame Dautriche and informing her that he had discovered his secretary’s plan to expose them, that Clement Berger was also in on the act and that he suspected his assistant Giselle to show her true colours. He assured his accomplice, whom he addressed as Margaux, that he had taken care of the papers and that her additional two thousand euros ‘commission’ would be paid over after the signing of the Acte de Vente in early February.
‘I am arresting both of you for fraud. You have the right…’
The notaire said nothing, but turned to face the Chief Inspector, who nodded to his officers to put away the handcuffs.
‘Thank you,’ said Dumas.
‘What have you done, Felix!’ cried Margaux Dautriche.
‘Be quiet!’ he replied, coolly. And, addressing the senior officer, he said, ‘You do realise that thi
s will not stand up in court, Chief Inspector?’
‘Oh, I think it might, once Mademoiselle Dupont’s evidence that you drew up false documents in advance, which you secreted in your office and which your secretary discovered is corroborated.’
The notaire flashed a look at Estelle. ‘Corroborated by whom?’
‘A certain Patrice Dumas. Your son, I believe,’ replied the officer.
‘Patrice?’
It was the first time that Estelle had heard such a note of despair in her employer’s voice.
The Chief Inspector bowed his head and led Felix Dumas away, leaving his colleague to deal with the increasingly hysterical Madame Dautriche.
Sixty-nine
Clement’s father was better, and the following weekend he collected him and went for lunch at Martha’s house. It was a sunny day and warm enough to sit outside on the decking to eat.
‘You have a beautiful house, my dear,’ said Clement’s father. ‘My wife always wanted a garden. We had a small terrace, with some pots, but not a garden.’
Clement smiled at Martha, his father had no memory of the garden that came with the apartment where he still spent his weekends.
‘Did your wife like to grow flowers?’ she said, smiling back.
‘Bougainvillea! Purple was her favourite colour. The flowers looked like paper.’
‘They are difficult to grow.’
‘Ah, not for Melanie!’ He took a bite of toast and pâté and looked in the direction of the olive tree.
In the kitchen, between courses, Clement told Martha that he had found a prospective buyer, willing to pay the full asking price for his father’s apartment. That he would rent a smaller place for himself, with a room for his father to use at the weekends.
‘Do you have to sell?’
‘Yes. The cost of the home is … well, it’s not cheap,’ he laughed, and Martha knew that he did not suspect for a moment that it had been her money that had cleared his debt.
‘Here, let me help you with that. Looks good!’ He took the chicken outside and sat down again.
Martha brought out the bread and salad, thinking that Henri Berger was not as old as he looked, but that he was still a handsome man, and lucid most of the time. He resembled his son in manner, if not in appearance. They had the same bearing as they sat together, the same gesticulations when they spoke.
‘Would you like chicken?’ asked Martha.
‘I don’t know whether I should eat it,’ he replied, giving her a strange look.
‘Have a little, Papa.’ Clement passed his plate and winked at Martha.
‘You know I found the papers!’ Henri said cheerfully, catching his son’s eye.
Clement passed him the salad and a piece of bread, taking the non sequitur in his stride.
‘What papers are these, Papa?’
‘You know, the papers. They were in that school bag of yours. Your mother put them there. Is there a little red wine?’
Martha poured a glass and handed it to him.
‘Have we met, my dear?’ he asked.
When Clement had strapped his father into the passenger seat of the car he came back to speak to Martha.
‘Thank you. He likes you. And the food was great!’ He leaned in to kiss her and slide his hand around her waist, but she stopped him.
‘Friends?’
He laughed. ‘Now you’re making me sorry!’
When they got back to the apartment, his father went to sleep in front of the television and Clement checked his phone for messages. Estelle said that she had found a new job and Sofia said that she was lonely and wanted to see him.
He checked his email, then. Two more job rejections and a final demand from the bank. Things were not getting easier. He looked at the date on the screen: at least he would get his salary soon, then the apartment would be sold and all their worries would be over.
His father snoozed, dribbling slightly onto the handkerchief his son had laid on his chest. Clement sighed, remembering him before the illness, talking to his mother, joking and laughing about something on television. He looked at the photograph they had found of her and put in a frame on the table beside the television. There she was, smiling. Behind her, were boxes. She was always tidying, putting things into storage. Packing away the past.
He smiled back at her, wishing she could have come to the lunch they had had with Martha. Wishing she could have seen how normal his father had seemed, most of the time.
Martha. She was all right. So was Sofia. But Estelle, well Estelle was something special. If only his mother were there to meet Estelle. She would love her. Still his mother smiled out from the photograph.
Boxes. He must put the boxes back. His father had finished looking through them. It had been fun, actually. But now they would be closed up and returned to the loft for the time being.
One small box had not been opened, as far as Clement remembered, but now there was a brown leather strap hanging out of it. He pulled back the lid and saw his first ever school bag. It had been a favourite one and he picked it up, opening the catch to see whether any of his schoolbooks were still inside. There was an envelope and, when he pulled out the contents and unfolded the papers, he was astonished to see that they were insurance documents bearing the logo of Swiss Life International and the names, address and personal details of his mother and father.
The policy was detailed. It was a private health scheme, it appeared. Clement remembered when his mother had gone to hospital for an operation to remove her appendix. She had gone not to the large state-run hospital, but to the newer private clinic out of town. Clement had been young then, but now he realised that the operation and the period of convalescence must have cost a lot of money. And, years later, when she had been so ill that nothing could be done to save her, she had gone to the same private clinic. At the time, Clement hadn’t thought about costs. It hadn’t occurred to him to ask.
The papers described all the illnesses that were covered and pointed out very few exceptions. On the final page there was a section about long-term care. He read the paragraph several times and then, looking back to the first page, dialled the telephone number and asked to speak to someone in Claims, his heart racing. Of course, there was bound to be a catch, an exception, but it was worth a try.
‘Good afternoon, may I have your name and policy number please?’
Seventy
Christmas was a time for family. Guy did not say that it would be easy, but he promised that he would try. Angeline kissed him and said that he would not regret it, and that she loved him more than ever. She showed him the money she had made during the months she had been in business. It was an impressive amount. She did not tell him that some of it had come from Felix Dumas.
‘We can take a holiday together, perhaps to somewhere far away. Maybe America?’ she suggested. ‘We can stay in a hotel. In New York.’
‘And we can order ice cream and pizza, like in that film, Maman!’ Adrian was beside himself.
Guy laughed and was thankful that Monsieur Valerie had told him his story. It would have been easy to fight and throw insults, to walk away. He was glad that he had not, even though he knew that he would sometimes be angry or bitter in the time to come.
Angeline begged Guy not to tell Clement about her and he said that he would tell no one, although it was entirely possible that someone else would tell him. The strange thing was that, like all gossip, the story of the washer woman and the notaire was no longer news, and had been replaced by another, more recent scandal involving a young girl who had run away with her teacher. Angeline knew that it would not take long for the people who knew her to forget her indiscretion. There would be some who would bear a grudge, of course, but these people she could live without. As long as she had her husband and her son beside her.
Clement threw a party for the New Year. He made dinner and opened champagne. Martha came with Robert Palmier, who had finally built up the courage to ask her out. Together, they made a very handsom
e couple and Martha knew that this man was different from the ones who had gone before.
Guy and Angeline arrived with Lise and Gerard. Later, they all listened to Clement as he told the tale of how Felix Dumas’ deceptions had been uncovered and how clever Estelle had been to outwit her employer. Clement told them that he had been taken on as assistant editor for a magazine in Saintes, which was booming and which could afford to pay him a salary that was far too large to reveal to his hard working, under-paid friends. When they had finished laughing, there was one more thing to reveal:
‘This is Estelle,’ he announced to everyone, slipping a hand around her waist and kissing her cheek so that she blushed.
Angeline sat close to her husband and thought about the cheque she had received the previous morning for ten thousand euros, refunding the money she had paid to Maison Verte. She smiled to herself; Martha wouldn’t miss it, especially as she would never know!
‘Do you know what will happen to Patrice?’ Martha asked Clement, later.
‘He’s staying at his father’s house for the moment – Estelle is concerned about him. Maybe you should talk to her about it.’
‘He left a message on my phone. I wish all this hadn’t happened. Do you think he’ll be all right?’
Clement didn’t know whether Patrice Dumas would be all right. He only knew that his father was where he should have been put a long time ago.
Seventy-one
Claude Cousteau sat on the bed with his eyes closed. To an observer, it would have seemed that the ecstatic expression on his face was the result of deep and peaceful meditation. In fact, the feeling that wrapped itself around his heart was one of rapture.
Boats raced faster and faster, making the boys hurry alongside the stream, one on each bank.
‘Yours is running ahead, Claude!’ the taller boy shouted, grinning from ear to ear.
