Paris Ransom

by Charles Rosenberg

  “After what happened to me in Los Angeles six years ago, I have trouble trusting police anywhere. You know they tried to get me sent to San Quentin for murder.”

  “In truth, I do not know much of this. You were there, and I was here and you were not talking to me then.”

  “If you’d been there, you would understand.”

  “This is ridicule. The police here are not the police in Los Angeles. And the general, he rescued Jenna’s liberty for her, did he not?”

  “Yes, but for all I know it was so that he could follow her and learn what she knows. And anyway, he is in the army, not the police.”

  “I think you and Jenna are both children.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I am trying to help and to warn.”

  “What is there to warn about?”

  “I wish us to be married. Then I would be able to tell you much.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  She got up and began pacing about the room. Then she left the room and was gone for five or ten minutes. Meanwhile, I sat and continued to read Le Monde. Finally, she returned.

  “I have received permission to tell you two things,” she said.

  “It bothers me that you have to get permission to talk to your future husband—from a person whose name I don’t even know. But go ahead.”

  She glared at me. “I will not respond to this. Here are the two things. First, they know now that the finger is not the finger of Oscar.”

  “How do they know that?”

  “In your state, when you become a lawyer, you must give your fingerprints. They have checked with your state the records of Oscar, and they find that the prints do not correspond.”

  “So the finger was sent by the kidnappers to frighten us.”

  “Yes.”

  “And the general and his friends were going to keep from us that the finger was not Oscar’s. In order to leave us still frightened, right?”

  “I do not know why they did not tell you.”

  “Fine. What is the second thing you got permission to tell me?”

  “They have traced the signal that sent the text to Jenna. This one the general showed her at the café.”

  “Where did it come from?”

  “From somewhere near Digne. They cannot say for sure exactly where.”

  “That’s great. It means we’re more likely to find Oscar by going to Digne.”

  “It means you are more likely to be killed in Digne. I pray you not to go.”

  “I promise to be careful. But we are going.”

  CHAPTER 25

  I called Jenna first thing in the morning and suggested we take the train that left at 11:05 a.m., from Gare de Lyon to Aix-en-Provence, with a change there to the line to Digne-les-Bain. But Jenna protested that she had some errands to run first, so we ended up taking the 4:05 p.m. instead, which wouldn’t get us there ’til very late.

  The first leg of our trip, from Paris to Aix, took about four hours on the high-speed TGV. Surrounded by four other passengers in our compartment, we didn’t talk to each other very much, just read and looked out the window as the scenery zipped by. After we switched trains in Aix, we were seated in a compartment that had four seats and was entered via a sliding glass door. Two of the seats were empty and remained that way, even as I heard the whistle indicating that the train was about to depart.

  At the last second the sliding door opened and in stepped a priest, dressed in an old-fashioned long black cassock with buttons up the front from bottom to top and a white clerical collar. A large gold crucifix hung around his neck. He looked to be in his eighties, if not older, with a big potbelly nicely covered by the robelike cassock. He introduced himself as Monseigneur Jean-Claude Pardet from Digne-les-Bain.

  It was soon clear that he did not speak English—which pushed Jenna back into her book—but I decided to press on in French and see what I could learn about Digne.

  “Have you lived in Digne for a long time?” I asked.

  “Yes. I have lived there all my life.”

  “So you have seen many people come and go.”

  He gave me a quizzical look, as if it was an odd question, which I suppose it was. “Well, yes,” he said. “I suppose you could say that. I have seen them born, seen them married, seen them have children, and seen them die.” He paused a moment. “And I have seen them lured away by the demon places.”

  “The demon places?”

  “Why yes. Like the big cities, where iniquity and sin await them.”

  “But isn’t Digne a tourist town, known for its hot pools? I would think sin and iniquity could easily take root there. You know, in the les bain part of it.”

  He stared at me again. “I think, monsieur, that you are making fun of me. But perhaps I am making fun of you, eh?”

  I didn’t know quite how to respond, and finally said something I hoped was very neutral. “I am simply trying to understand your world view.”

  “Eh, I see. And may I ask, what is bringing you to Digne-les-Bains?”

  It ran through my head to say that we were going there for a little hiking in the mountains and relaxation and maybe a dip in the hot pools, but then I thought better of it and decided to just go for it.

  “Well, Monsignor, a friend of ours purchased some antiquarian books in Digne, and he thinks he was cheated—that he was sold a counterfeit book.”

  He laughed uproariously, causing his substantial belly to shake beneath his cassock. “Ah, non. Not another one.”

  “Another what?”

  “Another fool.”

  “Why a fool?”

  “He has fallen victim to an old tale—that in the early nineteenth century, there was a priest in Digne who collected old books, books that were not so very old at the time, but are now, with the passage of time, very old.”

  “Is this legend not true?”

  “Not so far as I can tell.”

  “You have investigated this?”

  “Yes. You see, I preside over the very church in which this mysterious priest was supposed to have lived.”

  “You aren’t retired?”

  “Eh, yes, formally. But I still live on the grounds while some young squirt of a priest runs the church.”

  “What did you discover?”

  “This priest’s name was supposedly Père Gaudet.”

  “I thought he was a monsignor.”

  “Sometimes in the legend he is a humble prêtre—a village priest. Sometimes he is a monseigneur, and there is even one in which he is an évêque—a bishop. Imagine that!”

  “What makes you think, by whatever title the priest is called, that he did not exist?”

  “Because there is no record in the church of such a priest. Indeed, there is nothing in the records of the town or the department that a person named Gaudet ever lived in Digne.”

  “Does the church building perhaps have some secret room in which the books were kept?”

  “The church does not even have a basement, Monsieur. And if there were a secret room, I would have found it.”

  At that point, Jenna looked up from her book and asked, “What is he saying?”

  “He says that the story that a priest in Digne collected old books is just a tall tale.”

  “Try asking him if he’s ever seen old books for sale in Digne,” she said.

  I turned back to the priest. “Monsignor,” I said, “have you ever seen rare books for sale in Digne?”

  “Eh, yes, of course. Almost every town in France has a store that sells anciens livres. The French are besotted with books. They will buy almost any old book, especially if it is said to be very old. They will even buy it if the cover is rotting away, which for most true collectors would make it of small value.”

  “What is the name of the store in Digne?”

 
; “Bibelots et Livres.”

  “So it’s a store that sells both trinkets and books?”

  “Yes. And if you want to hear the legend spun in all its glory, go see the proprietor, who is an expert spinner.” He smiled. “If you wish, he will even sell you one of Père Gaudet’s famous books, and give you a special price because you are an American.” He winked at me.

  “Where does he get them?” I asked.

  “I think he goes to the great city of iniquity and buys them from the booksellers along its river.”

  “Paris.”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you for this information,” I said.

  “You are welcome. Now if you will excuse me, I have some reading I must catch up on.”

  “Of course.”

  I then brought Jenna up-to-date on all he had related to me.

  “You know, that’s very interesting,” she said. “But our friend Oscar doesn’t strike me as a gullible person. And didn’t he say he paid fifty thousand euros for the book?”

  “I think so.”

  “I’d expect him to have investigated the whole thing before plunking down that kind of money. Oscar is not the type of person to rush out and buy something on a whim.”

  “Don’t you remember? He said he had found what he called an ‘authenticator’ that swept away all doubt. I think those were his exact words.”

  “I’d forgotten that. I wonder what it is.”

  We both went back to reading. At one point, I cast a glance over at the priest to see what he was reading. It was L’Amant de Lady Chatterly, which I assumed was a translation into French of Lady Chatterley’s Lover. So much for avoiding iniquity.

  We disembarked in Digne-les-Bains in late evening. The train station was nothing fancy—just a small two-story concrete building with a red tile roof. We walked quickly through the waiting room and out to the street, where there was only one taxi lined up. To my surprise, the priest was getting into it. And for the first time I noticed his footwear—blood-red tennis shoes.

  He turned, saw us, and said, “Where are you heading?”

  “To the Hôtel Central.”

  “That is on the way to my church. We can share this cab, and you can save some money.” He smiled. “You will have more to spend on rare books.”

  “We’re not planning on buying any, but we’ll share the cab since there are no others. And thank you very much.”

  We all clambered in, Jenna in the passenger seat, and the priest and me in back. I couldn’t help saying to him, “I see you wear red tennis shoes. I’m surprised a priest would do such an iniquitous thing.”

  “Eh bien, have you seen the red slippers the old Pope wore, the one who retired?”

  “Yes.”

  “If the Pope can wear red slippers, an eighty-five-year-old monsignor can surely wear red tennis shoes, eh?”

  The hotel was only a few blocks from the station, and not long after that exchange the cab pulled up in front. I thanked the monsignor for letting us share his cab, offered him ten euros to cover it—which he declined—and heard him offer to buy us an aperitif the next evening if we were still in town. He handed me his card.

  “I will call you,” I said. “We will perhaps still be here.”

  The hotel, when we entered it, was old, but clean, and charming.

  “I’m surprised at your choice of hotel,” Jenna said. “Usually, you want to stay at the nearest thing to a five-star hotel you can find, wherever you go.”

  “This was close to the center of town. It’s just a guess, but who and what we want to find are probably near here somewhere, and not in the burbs.”

  Once we had checked in and gotten our keys, I said, “Do you want to grab a drink?”

  “It’s late, Robert. I just want to go to bed.”

  “Alright, I’ll see you in the morning. Our rooms are next to one another, so if there are any problems, just bang on the wall.”

  “What kinds of problems could there be?”

  “I don’t know, but you never know. Maybe you’ll be arrested for shoplifting or something.”

  “Very funny, Robert. Sleep well.”

  After I had undressed, brushed my teeth and gotten into bed, I called Tess. There was no answer on the landline phone, so I called her cell, which she picked up after only one ring. After the usual how-are-you pleasantries, I said, “Tess, do you know the name of the priest in Digne who fathered your grandmother? When you told us that story, you never mentioned his name.”

  “Oui, his last name was Gaudet.”

  “Do you have a picture of him?”

  “Non. I have only the letter he mailed to the father of my great-grandmother.”

  “What letter?”

  “That one in which he says he is désolé for that which he has done and offers to pay for the child.”

  “Did they let him?”

  “I do not think so. The histoire is that they never answered his letter.”

  “Okay, I will see you soon,” I said.

  “Are you at least staying in a nice place?” she asked.

  “Yes, at the Hôtel Central. Old but clean.”

  “Good.”

  She paused, then said, “Je t’aime, Robert. Be careful what you do in Digne.”

  “I love you, too, Tess. And I will be careful.”

  “Good.”

  “Good night my love, sleep tight.”

  “What does this mean?”

  “Never mind. Dors bien. Sleep well.”

  CHAPTER 26

  I was awakened by a banging on the wall. At first, it was part of a dream in which a car I was riding in was backfiring. When the fact that the noise was real penetrated my consciousness, I sat up. It took me a few seconds to remember that I had told Jenna to bang on the wall if there was a problem. The banging grew louder. I jumped out of bed, threw on my robe and opened my door. A policeman was banging on Jenna’s door and saying in French, “Police. Open the door please. Now.” Another officer, with his weapon drawn, was standing to the side and slightly behind him. French police don’t usually carry guns, and he looked nervous holding it, which made me nervous.

  “Officer,” I said in French. “What’s going on? It’s five in the morning!”

  “I am the chief of police in Digne-les-Bains, and I have a warrant for the arrest of the woman who is staying, according to the hotel, in this room. Please step back and do not interfere.”

  “She is my colleague. I will ask her to come out if you will tell me what this is about.”

  “She is accused of theft in Paris.”

  “That charge was dismissed.”

  “This warrant says that it is a new charge, issued just yesterday. As the local police chief, I am obligated to find her and detain her until she can be returned to Paris.”

  “Alright. Let me phone her and explain.” I stepped back into my room, grabbed my cell and called. She answered on the first ring.

  “What? There’s some jerk banging on my door.”

  “Jenna, that jerk is a police officer. He has some kind of warrant for your arrest on a theft charge in Paris. I’m sure it’s just a mistake of some kind, but you’d better come out.”

  “I’m not coming out so these assholes can hassle me again.”

  “You have to or they will come in and get you.”

  “Alright, I suppose I don’t have much choice. I’ll come out.”

  I rushed back outside and waited for the door to open. It did, revealing Jenna still in a bathrobe. As soon as she emerged, the police chief thrust a piece of paper at her. After she’d glanced at it for only a few seconds, he told her, in French, to put her hands behind her back. She didn’t comply, of course, because she didn’t understand.

  “Monsieur,” I said. “She does not speak French. Let me translate, please.” A
nd without waiting for a response, I said, “They want to handcuff you. Please place your hands behind your back.”

  “This is outrageous. I don’t even know what that piece of paper says. What kind of country arrests people while telling them why in a language they can’t understand?”

  “Jenna, please just comply so we can straighten this out. You and I both know that in the United States, if you continued not to cooperate, you would be charged with resisting arrest. So whatever the underlying charge here, you don’t want to add to it one for resisting lawful authority.”

  She grudgingly put her hands behind her back, and I watched as the police chief cuffed her and started to read her the rather limited set of rights that are available in France—in French, of course.

  “He’s telling you that you have a right to a lawyer and the right to remain silent.”

  “Great. Please find me a lawyer.”

  “I’ll call Tess and see if she can help.”

  A door down the hall opened, and Tess herself appeared. I was stunned. “Tess, what the hell are you doing here?”

  “I thought you two would get in trouble, so I took my plane to Grenoble last night—the airport that is close to here had much mountain fog—and rented a car and drove here in the night. I drove three hours.”

  The police chief looked at her and said, in French, “I must ask you both to stop speaking in English since I do not understand it, and I do not want you plotting the escape of my prisoner.”

  Tess walked up to the policeman, removed a placard of some sort from her back pants pocket and flashed it at him. She shoved it back in the pocket so quickly that I couldn’t see exactly what it was except that it had some kind of embossed red seal on it. The police chief reacted to it as if he’d seen a snake. He actually shrank back.

  “Chief, please walk down the hall with me for a moment,” Tess said.

  The two of them walked down the hall, and engaged in quiet conversation. When they returned, the police chief unlocked Jenna’s handcuffs. Then he said to her, still in French, “You must take yourself to Paris within forty-eight hours to present yourself to the juge d’instruction named in the summons for investigation. And you must now surrender your passport to me.”