FIVE
A military band was playing in the square outside Saint-Jacques Tower. The conductor used his baton with sharp, confined movements, his eyes showing little joy. The general strike posters had been removed from the walls; all that remained were the ghostly outlines of flour paste. Duchene watched the men play.
Here to exorcise the spirit of the Resistance. Or to assert the city is still theirs to control.
On bollards around the square, council workers were plastering up official posters: in one, a helmeted German stared out over a blood-red sky as workers progressed towards factories. In French, the text read, They give their blood – give your work to save Europe from Bolshevism. The posters were a year out of date.
Duchene walked back to his apartment building and knocked on the door of his downstairs neighbours. Monsieur and Madame Junet were elderly and polite, and had more need of a pastry than him. He knocked again and called out their names. Nothing. It was a rare occasion that they went out, but it wasn’t unheard of.
He went upstairs and tapped at Camille’s door. No response either.
When he turned to place his key in his lock, he paused. The worn brass of the keyhole had been scratched, sharp and clean. Looking at the tip of his key, he considered the frequency with which he’d inserted and removed it.
He stood frozen for a moment. The corridor was too long to run and hope to turn before gunshot or mishap. His heart pounding, he unlocked the door and braced himself for whoever was on the other side.
As he pushed the door open, he saw Lucien sitting at the small dinner table, clutching an unlit cigarette. Two men sat opposite. It seemed that in crossing the room they had toppled several books, and some of these lay open, while others had their pages bent.
Duchene held up the box from the patisserie. ‘Glad I have tart. Wouldn’t want to come home to company empty-handed.’
Lucien half-smiled before remembering where he was. He lit his cigarette and leant forward. ‘Auguste, I’ve been asked to make an introduction.’
‘Close the door,’ said one of the men. He was younger than Duchene, his black hair thinning around a widow’s peak. His damaged ears and broken Roman nose suggested many years spent playing rugby. The scars were a contrast to the delicate silk scarf and woollen cardigan he wore, and his voice betrayed a city education despite his damaged features. ‘Please sit down, Monsieur Duchene.’
‘Of course. And you may be?’
‘Philippe Angevine. And this is Armand.’ He indicated the smaller man beside him.
Armand tipped his fedora, a size too big, which only accentuated his diminutive height.
‘Please, take a seat,’ Philippe said.
As Duchene sat at the table, the strangers shifted to face him, and the pistol tucked into Armand’s belt became clearly visible.
‘Lucien has a lot to say about you,’ Philippe said.
‘He does?’
Lucien gave a tight smile and stared at the table, spinning his lighter between two fingers.
‘Oh yes.’ Philippe nodded. ‘You are perhaps wondering who we are, Monsieur. Why we are here. Let us start with that.’
‘Both good questions.’
‘We would like you to answer them for us. Consider it a demonstration of your skills as an investigator.’
Duchene leant back in his chair, its creaking the only sound in the room. ‘I don’t perform tricks,’ he said.
‘No,’ Philippe said. ‘I don’t imagine you do. Tricks are frivolous. But this is not a frivolous situation.’
‘The stakes are high,’ Armand said. ‘Very high.’
Duchene looked at Lucien. ‘This is absurd.’
‘Auguste, please, just go along. This is important.’ The movement would have been subtle, perhaps, under other circumstances, but here in this room, surrounded by these men, Duchene noticed that Lucien’s cigarette hand was trembling.
Duchene stiffened in response. ‘You’re Resistance. You’re an educated man, Parisian. That Sorbonne badge on your lapel says you were an academic before the university closed, well placed to lead a cell in the city. Armand has come from the country, a maquisard who fought in the Normandy hinterlands during the landings – his revolver is an Enfield No. 2 from a British airdrop. You’re here because you want me to find someone, obviously, because this test is to demonstrate that I notice things others wouldn’t. You know that families ask me to find their missing children. They’ve been doing this for almost a year now. As you’re Resistance, I imagine the person you want me to find is not a child. Is that enough?’
Philippe’s face lit up. ‘Wonderful.’
‘You speak German?’ Armand asked, his eyes narrowed.
‘Until last year I was a German and English teacher. I’ve spoken German since I was young. You can be loyal to France and speak other languages.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Philippe. ‘Don’t take Armand to heart. He’s just committed.’
‘Clearly.’
‘It’s a valuable skill when finding people in a country occupied by Germans.’ Philippe took out a packet of Gauloises cigarettes, offered one to Duchene, then paused, waiting to see his reaction.
It wasn’t their dedication, the desire to see France free of the Germans, that was Duchene’s concern. Far from it. He shared their goal and was impressed, almost awestruck, by their ambition. It was the other side to that coin, the fanaticism, the unwavering belief in a simple answer – with us or against us – that caused his fear. The box of cognac sat on the floor under the table. He was glad he’d already placed the German cigarettes inside with the last two bottles and closed it; it was unlikely Philippe and his men would approve of where it had come from.
Duchene took the cigarette and held his face towards Philippe’s lighter.
‘You’re quite correct,’ Philippe said. ‘I’m here to make use of your services.’
Duchene placed the pastry bag and the wrapped confit on the table, and tapped his cigarette into an old porcelain saucer he used for an ashtray. ‘I’m not sure I can help.’
‘Manners,’ warned Armand.
‘We need you to find someone,’ Philippe said.
‘Who?’
‘For the specifics, we would need you to agree. And explain your hesitance.’
‘Do I need to? You’re Resistance. Associating with you is a death sentence if the Germans find out.’
‘But aren’t you doing that right now?’ Philippe asked, indicating the four of them at the table.
‘You broke into my home and are carrying guns.’ Duchene looked straight at Lucien, who turned his palms upward.
It was easy enough for Duchene to imagine how his friend and the Resistance were connected. But he refused to speculate on what had led Lucien to bring them to his door; later, when they were alone, he would demand answers.
‘I’m not sure if the Germans would see it that way,’ said Philippe. ‘Nuance does not interest the Gestapo.’
‘You’re probably right. But this is as far as it’s gone, right now. I’m having a conversation that would mark me out as a political opponent. It’s one occasion, in a private room. However, if I start walking around Paris in search of your missing person – well, I’m not sure how I can conceal that from the authorities and their informants.’
‘True,’ said Philippe. ‘But, Monsieur, your thinking is flawed.’
‘How’s that?’
‘You’ve assumed you have a choice.’
‘You just told me you won’t reveal who the missing person is until I agree to help you.’
Philippe smiled and held his large hands up toward the ceiling to emphasise his point.
‘Before the war, no one thought Parisians would need to be convinced to aid in overthrowing foreign fascists, but there you have it. When liberty falls, fraternity is quick to follow.’
>
‘People are frightened. Afraid for their lives.’
‘You’d be a fool not to be, but that’s no reason not to act. The fear of death, well, that I can understand. But look at Armand, he’s testament to the fact that if you are clever, you can survive.’
Armand grinned. ‘Killed more Boche than they’ve killed of me.’
‘So, what’s your threat?’ Duchene asked.
‘I’m sorry?’ said Philippe.
‘You said I don’t have a choice.’
‘I don’t have threats. Just an observation.’
‘Feels like semantics.’
‘Perhaps. But it helps me to get by.’ Philippe used the tip of his cigarette to light a second, then stubbed it out in the saucer. ‘You have a daughter, a traitor.’
And there it was. A numbness crept through Duchene, a lethargy and futility – he was useless to do anything of consequence, he had no threats to counter, was capable of no violence to bring this sham conversation to a decisive and bloody end.
From the moment his daughter had taken a German lover, consequences had awaited her. Duchene couldn’t even summon the effort to blame himself. His paternal influence had been lost a long time ago, when her mother had left, and in that moment he’d felt a similar futility. He would always bear Marienne’s blame for not having done more to change that part of their lives.
‘Well, do you understand?’ asked Armand.
‘He does,’ said Philippe. ‘Let the man be. Let him think on this.’
‘How can you truly fight for all of France if you’re prepared to murder one of your own?’
Armand spat. ‘Not one of ours. A traitor.’
Duchene snatched up the pastry bag. ‘What about her, the woman who bakes for the Germans? What about the workers who sweep the streets? The police who maintain order? Are these our enemies too? Must Paris cease to function so its citizens can be spared your accusations?’
‘But we’re not talking about them,’ said Philippe. ‘We’re talking about Marienne.’
‘A whore,’ spat Armand.
‘Armand, please. Monsieur Duchene, your daughter is sleeping with the enemy. She may well be young and foolish, but there she is and here we are. We can’t change history, as much as I wish every day that I could.’
‘What would you have her do? Stab him to death in his bed?’
‘One less German,’ Armand said.
Philippe tilted his head. ‘But that’s not what we want. Can we move forward? Let’s take it as read that you’re being compelled.’
During their exchange, Lucien had made himself as small as possible –wrapping his arms around his waist, crossing his legs and pulling his feet under the chair. The cigarette in his mouth was unsmoked; it hung there as it burnt to ash. His head was turned from Duchene as much as possible without putting his back to him.
Duchene locked eyes with Armand and placed the box back to the table. He made a sharp gesture with his open hand. Proceed.
‘We’re looking for a priest. Father Bertrand Ramelle. He’s gone missing with the weapons he was hiding for us.’
‘So, it’s this cache of weapons you’re after?’
‘Ultimately. But the priest was a friend. We think he might have moved the guns and be in hiding somewhere.’
‘From the Germans.’
‘Who else would he hide from?’ Armand asked.
Duchene felt it was best not to say.
‘We’d like you to find him as quickly as you can,’ said Philippe.
‘By Wednesday, midday,’ said Armand.
‘That’s less than forty-eight hours.’
‘We didn’t approach just anyone,’ Philippe said. ‘We came to you. You’re the man who finds things.’
Duchene scowled. ‘The man with a compromised daughter.’
There was something fragile about the outer shell of civility Philippe tried so hard to maintain. Duchene had seen it many times during the Great War – every part of a man spent until only that shell remained. They clung on to it with desperation, recognising at some level that it stood between them and barbarity.
Duchene broke the silence. ‘When and where did you last speak to the priest?’
‘Thursday, at his church,’ said Armand.
‘And you?’ Duchene asked Philippe.
‘Sunday before last. In the rectory below Saint-Lambert’s.’
‘So how did you become aware that he was missing?’
Philippe straightened his scarf. ‘We went to collect the cache on Sunday afternoon. There were about a dozen parishioners, still gathered since that morning. Ramelle hadn’t said the Mass – they were concerned about him. So, we spoke to his maid, and she hadn’t seen him in two days.’
‘Why had the parishioners only just become concerned?’
‘He shares his responsibilities with another priest. But on Sundays there are several Mass times, and he failed to show for the later Latin Mass.’
‘Did this other priest know about the cache?’
‘No,’ said Philippe. ‘Only Ramelle. He is part of the Resistance.’
‘You realise that when I look for him, I will ask questions of people, and they will begin to suspect something.’
‘Tell them you’re a concerned citizen. You’re looking for the priest on behalf of the parishioners.’
‘Any parishioners who can vouch for this?’
‘I’m sure we can find some,’ said Armand.
‘Describe for me this cache. How large, and what was it packed into? How many men does it take to move it?’
‘Six crates,’ said Armand. ‘Rough wood. It would take two men to move a single crate without dragging it.’
‘And in them?’
Armand paused.
‘He’s needs to know if he’s going to find them,’ Philippe replied.
‘One crate of Bren machine guns, three crates of Lee-Enfield rifles, a crate of grenades, and one of Webley pistols.’
‘British weapons. These were from an airdrop?’
‘Yes. They were costly to retrieve. Lives lost – good French lives.’
‘How did you get them into the city?’
Armand glanced at Lucien.
‘Of course,’ said Duchene. ‘That much should have been obvious. So, from what you are saying, if this priest, Ramelle, moved the crates and went into hiding with them, he probably had help. Or could he alone have dragged them? I’m assuming you went to where he hid the weapons. Were there drag marks?’
‘No,’ said Armand.
‘So, he must have had help, or …’
‘Or what?’
‘He’s dead, and someone else has your weapons.’
‘Then find out,’ said Philippe. ‘If the Germans have them, we need to know where they’ve been taken.’
‘So you can get them back?’
‘They’re needed,’ Armand said.
Philippe held Duchene’s gaze. ‘And you have forty-eight hours to find them.’
SIX
The shadow from the church steeple fell across the street. Its spire, like a finger, pointed at Armand. To Duchene it seemed an accusation.
Implicated in the abduction or death of a priest.
There was a possibility that Father Ramelle had fled, but it made little sense that he would take the weapons with him.
What does a priest want with guns?
The Church of Saint-Lambert de Vaugirard had made its opinion known, and Duchene was inclined to agree. With its heavy sandstone bricks, imposing tower and narrow arched windows, it asserted its authority. Unlike many Parisian churches, this one had not been neglected. The time on the steeple’s clock face was accurate, the paving stones behind its wrought-iron fence swept and maintained.
Armand was standing on the other side of the road, s
moking a cigarette. After their meeting, he had loitered outside Duchene’s apartment block until he and Lucien emerged, then followed them through the city. The purpose of his joining them was unclear to Duchene – he had already threatened Marienne – but it seemed Armand wasn’t taking any chances. Perhaps he feared Duchene might take Marienne and leave the city.
He smiled to himself; he had a better chance of finding the priest than forcing Marienne to leave.
Turning to Lucien, he asked, ‘How long have you worked for them?’
‘I don’t. For the past two years, we’ve had a deal – I help them, they turn a blind eye when I sell to Germans.’
‘And you had to bring them to me?’
‘Auguste, please believe me, I didn’t get you involved in this. They know you find missing children. It was only a matter of time before they required your services.’
‘A service is freely given.’
Lucien rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I’ll do everything I can to warn you from now on, I promise. But I couldn’t say no to them.’
‘Did they pay you?’
‘Do they look like men who pay? You’re not the only one in a precarious position.’
‘All right. Show me where you put the guns.’
Duchene started up the stairs to the heavy wooden door under the arched entrance, but Lucien held back. ‘So, you believe me, yes?’
Does it matter?
‘Auguste?’
‘It’s fine, Lucien. I know you’re compromised.’
The whole of Paris is compromised.
The inside of the church had the same imposing architecture as the exterior. Marble, not sandstone, lined the walls, while above the entrance door a dark wooden organ looked down at the pews.
In the reverent stillness Duchene was taken back to his childhood, when he’d shared this faith and marvelled that Jesus was present in the thin wafers he ate. Such a ridiculous fiction to him now, but so alive and present when he was young. He recalled the last time he’d taken Communion, and betrayed both God and himself. He had lost his belief long before then, but in that trench in Verdun, when it seemed that hell was all around him, he took the army chaplain up on his offer as he made his way down the line of mud-encrusted men. Two shells later and most of those men were dead, blown to pieces or suffocated under the earth that had once protected them.
The Paris Collaborator Page 4
