“Mademoiselle Dupont, the museum is planning on beginning museum tours soon, and I was wondering if you would be interested in taking on a new position. My sister tells me that you have been conducting bus tours in and around Paris for a few years and that you are comfortable doing such tours.” This would be a fresh start, she thought, and did not hesitate to accept the position.
The Louvre had apparently just hired its first guided tour leader. Madame Gagnon was pleased that her brother was in such a position and that he would be there to keep a watchful eye on Françoise. Life would begin again for Françoise.
CHAPTER 9
“This letter was hand-delivered to me last week. The man delivering it would not give it to me until he was certain that I was Father Richard Merrill,” Father Dick related to Jim Howard.
Mon cher richard,
It has been over thirty-five years since we have communicated to each other, and this letter is very difficult for me to write to you. Since you had decided to remain as a priest, I did not want to complicate your life with mine; we were so far apart from each other. My life has been good since I left Paris in 1955 and married Amhad Maurier who, at the time, was the Crown Prince and next heir to the throne of the small country of Khatamori, a country rich in oil north of Saudi Arabia. Amhad and I were not blessed with children and now that he is older, he worries that he will have no heir to the throne that he inherited following his father’s death in 1965. He is seventy now and has trouble with his kidneys. We have the finest doctors looking at him but there is only so much they can do.
Khatamori has a law that any child of the monarch is eligible to inherit the throne. The child does not need to be from our marriage, he can be from a previous marriage, his or mine. The law here states that when two people marry, their family becomes as one, including children that come from either the man or the wife, even though such children were not from a marriage. Amhad and I have been married but once and to each other. You are most certainly wondering why I am telling you all of this when we have been apart for so long.
Richard, you were my first experience in lovemaking, and I will remember that forever. A few months after you returned to America, I found that I was with your child. You must understand that this is very bad for a young Catholic girl in France since we were not married. On May 9, 1951, our twin sons were born and I named them Charles and robert. I had not worked for several months before the babies and could not raise them myself. I sent them to the orphanage of the Sisters of Mercy in Giverny. Soon they were adopted to separate families and, over the years, I have kept in contact with the orphanage and had them send money from me to their parents. But I do not know where they live and what their last names are. They would be thirty-six years of age today.
There is trouble I fear, and I must ask you to help. General Answa Talon is the head of the military here in Khatamori and that is but like a police chief to regulate violators of our country’s laws, mostly small crimes. Since Amhad’s ill health, Talon has begun an investigation to verify that there are no living heirs to the throne, a position that he will get if there are no children to succeed Ahmad. I am not certain if he knows about Charles and robert, but if he does, he will surely do anything to kill them before allowing either of them to accept their rightful place in my kingdom. I am forbidden from leaving the country without Amhad, that is the law, and I have sent this letter to you in the hands of my most trusted servant.
Richard, I should have told you about the boys years ago, but did not want you to worry about them or me. I do not know what you can do but any help is needed. I fear Amhad may not live until June of the coming year, so I have been told.
Françoise
“I need you to find my sons, Mr. Howard,” blurted Father Dick. “I need to be sure they are safe and remain safe but I don’t have a clue how to do this and, at my age, I can’t move around like I used to. I’ve saved over one hundred thousand dollars and I can get more from an old trust fund my mother had set up for me years ago. Can you help?”
Jim Howard had lived a strange life since being discharged from the Army following Vietnam. For a short time, he had served with the CIA as an undercover agent in Europe keeping tabs on Russian activity in the area just after the Bay of Pigs incident and Cuban blockade. His CIA service, combined with his former military years was enough for him to take a government pension in 1985. Bored to death, he took to selling insurance just to keep himself busy. Howard had never married and the steel plate in his right leg, a reminder of Vietnam, kept him from doing much more, even at the young age of forty-five.
“What exactly do you want to do once someone finds them, Father, or at least finds out where they live?”
“I’ll figure that out when they’re found. Right now, I need to find them first.”
“Let me see what I can do, Father, and I’ll get back to you.”
Howard still had contacts in Europe who, when they left the military together and did operative work, could be trusted to do this, and some of these contacts were in France. Jim left the rectory and informed Father Dick that he would know pretty quickly if his contacts were still active and what the cost would be to locate them. Jim indicated that there wasn’t much he could do beyond that.
Father Dick thanked Howard for his time and asked him to not use his name with any of his contacts; they had no need to know whom the request came from.
Two days later, Father Dick answered the phone at the rectory, “Ten thousand plus expenses to locate them, and twenty thousand will give you their life history. Father, that’s for each boy—twenty thousand up front and the rest when I get the report from my man in Europe.” Jim Howard had drawn on an old favor from a former Army buddy who worked for the American embassy in Paris. Since the government prohibited embassy employees from having side jobs, Jim merely told Father Dick that the assignment had been taken by a good reliable contact in Europe. The money was wired that afternoon and news of any progress would be faxed to Jim as quickly as possible. The starting point would be the orphanage.
The two-story orphanage housed one hundred and twenty children of all ages, from a nursery with infants, all the way to a few teenagers, with the older ones having supervisory duties of some of the younger ones since there were not enough nuns to handle such a large number of children by themselves. While the stone building looked quite old and in need of repair, the interior facility was kept in spotless condition. Karl Pelland’s appointment with Sister Marie-Louise Laliberte was for 2:00 p.m. and Karl was right on time. She greeted the visitor warmly and, after being seated in her small but tidy office, asked the nature of his visit.
“That is out of the question, monsieur; we do not give out such information. We must respect and protect the names of the women who have left babies here over the years. We cannot and have not done this before and will not do so now. If that is all, then I bid you good-bye monsieur.”
Exactly what he expected to hear. Karl, however, did not rise from his chair upon hearing this news from Sister Marie-Louise; instead he asked to be heard.
“Are you familiar with the name of Françoise Dupont, Sister?”
“No, monsieur, I am not. Why do you ask?”
“What about the Princess of Khatamori?”
“No, monsieur.”
“May I ask how long you have been the Superieur at the orphanage, Sister?”
“Since just after the war, in the early 1950s, monsieur, and many children have come through this orphanage and have gone on to live very happy lives.”
“It must be difficult to run such a large place with mostly donations from the people in the area, Sister. Do you often get other money from wealthy people who perhaps were once orphans themselves?”
“But of course, monsieur; we grow much of our own food from the gardens, but that is not enough. We need clothes and other things for the children. Why do you ask?”
Karl could see that this questioning was upsetting the good sister.
“For nea
rly twenty years, you received money from the princess to be forwarded to the parents of two adopted boys from this orphanage. In return, the princess included an additional tidy amount for use by the orphanage, is that not so?”
“How do you know this, monsieur, and why are you seeking these children?”
“Did you not get all this money from the princess every year for all this time?”
“Yes, monsieur, from the Princess Farah, and yes it was for two boys named Charles and Robert. I never knew why she sent the money for these boys; she was not the mother to my knowledge. Unless, oh mon dieu, unless the princess was not always a princess. What is this all about?”
“Nothing to be alarmed about, Sister. The princess has sent me here to bring you a final gift of five thousand dollars for all your kindness over the years,” Karl announced as he produced a banker’s check from the Banc Nationale de Paris made out to the Sisters of Mercy. “All that she asks in return is the names of the two couples who adopted the two boys and the latest address you have for them. The princess wants to send the parents more money as she is getting old and had promised the boys’ mother that she would always take care of them. I am sure you can understand the need for the addresses, Sister.”
“I don’t know, monsieur, this is highly unusual, but the Princess Farah has been so generous to us, we even have named our Jardin de Farah flower gardens after her and the children’s dining area is now Farah Hall.”
“Will you deny this wonderful lady the chance to do more good for the boys and for the orphanage?” Sister Marie’s eyes never left sight of Karl’s hand holding the check where she could plainly see its amount and who it was made payable to.
“The records are old, monsieur, and I do not know exactly when these boys came here. I do not believe we still have this information; it has not been for fifteen years or so since we heard from the Princess Farah.”
“May, 1951, Sister, Charles Andre and Robert Conrad.”
Sister Marie-Louise asked Karl to accompany her to a basement file room where an old folder was kept listing all entrants to the orphanage by their date of admission. Next to each name were the names and addresses of adoptive parents, the date of the adoption, and the natural mother and father’s names, if they had been given.
“May 23, 1951, here it is, monsieur, the two children’s names and their mother’s name, Françoise Dupont. I wonder how the Princess Farah knew Mademoiselle Dupont?”
“I really don’t know, Sister. What are the names of the adopting parents?”
“Jean-Paul et Catherine Larouche, twenty-three rue Bernier, Chartres, for Charles Andre and Carl and Judy Elliott, 5 boulevard des Agneaux, Paris.”
Karl presented the check to Sister Marie-Louise and thanked her for her assistance. The first step in finding the sons of Father Dick had just been taken. The journey was far from over.
Twenty-three rue Bernier in Chartres was an apartment house with four apartments. The owner had purchased the property in 1965. All four units were large five-room flats that served as quality residences for executives working in Paris and wanting to live on a quieter street in the suburbs. The owner was not familiar with the Larouche family but mentioned to Karl that one of the tenants had lived there since the early 1950s and, perhaps, he could help. Karl’s persistence paid off as the long-time resident did indeed remember Jean-Claude Larouche as an interpreter for the American Red Cross office in Paris. They had bought a house in Chartres some years ago but that he had lost touch with them. He suggested to Karl that he try the Red Cross office, which was still located in Paris. Instead, Karl’s visit to the town hall produced records that indicated that the Larouches had purchased property on rue St. Jean in 1965 and there were no records indicating any sale of the property since then.
“Madame Larouche, my name is Karl Pelland from the American embassy in Paris. Is your son Charles at home?”
“Charles does not live here anymore, monsieur, may I ask what this is about?”
“Yes, of course, madam, but it would be best if I could explain to both you and your husband, Jean-Claude, I believe.”
“Jean-Claude passed away two years ago, monsieur, and I live alone now that Charles has moved to Dijon. But why are you looking for Charles?”
“Madame, forgive me for being so bold, but does Charles know that he once lived in the orphanage in Giverny? It appears that he has been left money from a woman who claims to be his real mother. Have you ever told Charles that he was adopted by you in 1951?”
Obviously surprised to hear the news in such a sudden manner, Catherine Larouche, a woman in her early sixties, immediately became defensive as her expression revealed the unexpected announcement she had dreaded to hear for years. It was not that the Larouches had not told Charles of his origin when he was a teenager, it was the news that his birth mother, who had abandoned him, suddenly wanted to now enter his life, a woman who, she feared, would steal the affection of the only living being still close to her.
“My son knows that we adopted him when he was an infant, barely a month old, but the orphanage does not reveal the name of the mother if that is the mother’s wish. Charles had tried to find out her name, something he wanted to know, but never was able to.”
“I need to speak with Charles, madam. May I have his address or do I need to find out some other way where in Dijon he lives? The mother does not live in France, madam, and I do not believe she has an interest in interfering with Charles’s life, merely to leave him some inheritance when she dies. I cannot tell you her name, but I do know that she is quite wealthy now. I have just been asked to verify his whereabouts.”
Charles Andre Larouche was a history professor at the Universite de Bourgogne in Dijon, single, and a blond-haired six-footer, nothing like his adoptive parents who were both of much smaller stature. Karl headed for Dijon that afternoon.
It was late when he arrived in Dijon so he decided to check in to a hotel, enjoy dinner and a glass of wine, and get to bed early for a fresh start in the morning. But first, before he got too comfortable, Karl sent a fax to Jim Howard updating him on his progress and his next steps. Once the status of Charles Larouche was assured, he would focus his attention on beginning the search for Robert Elliott.
Dinner at the hotel was at 7:00 p.m. Karl’s fax had gone off by 6:15p.m. This gave Karl time to relax in the hotel lounge with a pre-dinner glass of brandy, just the thing on a cold early November day. The lounge was very typical of tastefully decorated lounges in a quiet hotel in France. Large stuffed Queen Anne chairs by a fireplace were ideal for unwinding over an aperitif and catching up on the news of the day from the assortment of newspapers neatly arranged on a corner credenza. Karl’s brandy arrived almost immediately once ordered and he reached for the afternoon edition of the local newspaper, Le Bien Public. In the lower right hand of the front page were the following headlines:
UNIVERSITY PROFESSOR FOUND DEAD AT HOME
At 9:00 a.m. this morning, a colleague found the body of Charles Andre larouche, a professor of history at the Universite de Bourgogne. The colleague, Prof. Jean Marchand, was meeting Prof. Larouche at his flat where the two were working on an upcoming seminar they were presenting later this month at the college. The police arrived at the scene to find the professor’s flat in a shambles, the obvious result of a struggle. Professor larouche suffered from a blow to the head from a blunt instrument thought to be a fireplace poker found nearby. The police have sealed the flat while attempting to amass more information from the crime scene. They were not aware of any motive for the professor’s death which could have resulted from a conflict following the intrusion by an assailant on the professor. Professor larouche, 36, was single and is survived by his mother, Catherine larouche of Paris who has been notified of the professor’s death. A suspect is being sought based on a description given to the Paris authorities by Madam larouche of an individual earlier today seeking her son’s address.
Karl gasped as he read the story. Madam Larouche would rem
ember his face and name. Why had he said he was from the American embassy in Paris, which is where he really worked? Surely the police would go there and figure out from photographs what Karl Pelland looked like. What kind of assignment had Jim Howard given him, what the hell was going on here?
CHAPTER 10
The phone rang at Jim Howard’s apartment in Providence. It was one o’clock in the morning and Jim was quite groggy when he answered.
“Jim, what the hell are you doing to me, what mess have you gotten me into?” Karl shouted over the receiver from the telephone vestibule of the hotel.
“Who is this, Karl, is that you, Karl? This better be important, do you know what time it is here? I got your fax a little while ago, sounds like good progress.”
“Forget the fax, you asshole, the kid is dead, he was murdered this morning, it’s all over the front page here in Dijon, and I’m the only guy they’re looking for right now. The mother gave the Paris police my description. I didn’t see any reason not to tell her about the American embassy in case she needed to contact me with more information later on, but, shit man, I never expected her to give this out.”
“Calm down, Karl, you didn’t do anything wrong. From the time you left Mrs. Larouche’s house to the time you checked into the hotel will surely show that you were on the road from Paris to Dijon all that time.”
“How the hell do I know when this guy was knocked off, the paper just said that they found his body at nine a.m. this morning, not how long he had been dead. What’s going on here, you son of a bitch, what the hell have you gotten me into?”
“Karl, I didn’t expect anything to happen, only that you would trace the whereabouts of the two kids. Can’t the embassy vouch for you being there yesterday or last night as well? If you can account for your time, you’ll be eliminated quickly as a suspect. But if they question you, Karl, tell them the truth, that I hired you to find the kid.”
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