by Elaine Young
Chapter 7
VICTOR DUBOIS
August 1974
Dubois’ secretary knocked softly. It did not help her day to upset Monsieur so early. He looked up from his desk where he had been writing. His eyes narrowed at first, and then he called, ‘Enter.’ She came in quietly, closing the door behind her. ‘What is it?’ She was a very pretty young thing with long legs, chosen for her looks as much as for her typing skills. However, she was intelligent enough to know that she had to tread circumspectly around the great man. A contemporary of his daughters, she was not a political creature. She was far too young to know anything about his early life and did not much care about his present business. As long as he paid her well, she would keep her own counsel whatever happened.
‘Your lawyer, M. Darrieux is here, Monsieur. There is also a man here to see you, a M. Pantin. He says you are expecting him?’ she ended uncertainly, as she placed a sheaf of typed notes on his desk.
‘Let Pantin come in first.’
When he entered, Louis Pantin fawned over Dubois, unaware that the object of his worship despised him.
‘What is it Pantin?’ The voice was hard. It cut across the ingratiating speech of the other as Dubois retrieved his hand and wiped it with a perfectly white silk handkerchief.
‘Well, remember you said I should try to find out more about the camps from Eduard Faron? As you know, he is dying of cancer and he is in the hospital in Drancy . . .’
‘Yes. Yes. You have told me all that.’
‘Well, I have visited him and tried to get him to speak of the old days, but he doesn’t seem to trust me and he . . . ’
‘So why are you here? What are you doing about it?’
‘I have . . . euh . . . made friends with one of the nurses on the ward. She says that sometimes he speaks about the war. I have been able to find out things about her too, that will make it easy to, shall we say . . . oblige her to help me . . .’ Pantin broke off as he became aware that Dubois was scribbling notes in the margin of the typed page before him, and did not appear to be listening to him. As he sat still, staring at the moving pen, Pantin could hear the ticking of the clock on the mantel in the silence.
‘Go on.’
Pantin almost jumped out of his chair. ‘Bien.’ he said, licking his dry lips. ‘I spoke to Faron’s brother Raoul, who thought that before he dies, maybe his brother needed to get something off his chest about the war and I mentioned that maybe this Jew I met recently, Aristide Mayer, would be the one to speak to, as he was interested in those days . . .’ his voice trailed off and he looked at Dubois expecting praise for his cleverness. None was forthcoming.
‘And . . .’
‘Well, Raoul took him there the other day and it seems Eduard spoke to him very frankly about the Bremen Camp. The nurse will tell me if Mayer comes again, and she will try to listen to any talk.’
‘Well done Pantin.’ The voice was amused, patronising. ‘You must have found out something very interesting about her!’
‘The stupid cow has been stealing drugs. I went into her office to borrow a pen and I discovered her moving stuff from the patient’s medicine trolley into her bag. She tried to justify it and I said I wouldn’t tell anyone, but I realised I had her. She has been very co-operative so far!’ He chortled and made a rude gesture. He became aware that Dubois was observing him with a look of slight distaste on his face. He stirred uneasily in his chair.
‘Eduard Faron is dangerous,’ Dubois snapped. ‘He knows too much. See to him, Pantin.’ Dubois turned back to his writing as Pantin stood awkwardly by the desk.
‘Yes. Mon copain . . .’ he seemed uncertain of what he should do. Suddenly the handsome head was raised and icy blue eyes stabbed him.
‘I said, see to him. That will be all.’
The scruffy old man seemed to crumple. Silently he turned and left the office, hesitating at the door for a moment. Dubois was reading something on the desk in front of him and did not look up again. He merely lifted the phone and told the secretary to show the lawyer in.
The lawyer, Etienne Darrieux, was very tired of this case, but he would see it to the end for the sake of the prestige of vindicating this famous man. He was weary too, of the endless postponements and of being at the rough end of Dubois’ tongue. He was not told about the previous visitor or what he had to say, and although he was intrigued at the appearance of the somewhat bedraggled visitor who had just left, he did not dare ask about him.
‘There is no way we can avoid this court case Monsieur. We cannot stall any longer. I have notice here that the case will begin within a couple of months.’ He waited for an outburst of anger from his client; he had been treated to several of those in the past, but there was no visible emotion now. The man across the desk merely nodded, almost as though he had not heard what had been said. Dubois stood up without offering his hand and saw the lawyer out himself.
He was quivering with barely veiled wrath, so that as he tried to pour whisky into the tumbler his hand couldn’t hold the crystal decanter steady and he spilled some of the liquid on the floor. ‘Merde!’ he cursed through clenched teeth and wrenched the door open. ‘Fetch someone to clean up this mess!’ he bellowed at the secretary. She jumped to obey as he turned to sit down at his rosewood desk to examine the documents the lawyer had brought. The girl came in silently with the butler and supervised the cleaning up.
‘Pour me another drink.’
She was frightened by his rage and she hurriedly obeyed and almost ran from the room when she had finished.
That Darrieux is a fool, for all I pay him so well. He threw down the papers angrily and moved over to the drinks cabinet to splash more whisky into his glass. He swallowed it in a gulp and almost slammed the glass on the desk. Facing him were silver-framed pictures of his two lovely daughters. There was no picture of his wife. As he sat there trying to master himself, Dubois stared down blindly at his well-cared-for hands that were edged with crisp white cuffs, deliberately turning his mind to what Pantin had told him.
It was time to get things under control. Pantin had been his faithful shadow during those war years and was possibly the only one who knew his true identity. He had his uses, though. Pantin was like a faithful dog. No brains, but loyal, always talking about the glorious past. A buffoon, yes, but a dangerous one if ever he was made to tell his secrets.
Dubois’ face darkened into a scowl. It was almost inconceivable that someone who had known the original Dubois should have survived that appalling camp. The man had to be silenced. Dubois was sure that Pantin was in no doubt as to what he meant, when he told him to take care of the matter of Faron. His anger rose as he thought of the years of success, the false identity that he had forged so cleverly. He had buried that old life, got rid of peasant-born Marius le Duc, alias Jacques Marteau and then metamorphosed into the respectable Victor Dubois. No-one must be allowed to disturb that grave. He would see to that; and that good-for-nothing Pantin had mentioned that Jew again. He’d have to do something about him too.
