The Unspeakable Crimes of Dr. Petiot

by Thomas Maeder

  We can put another of Dr. Braunberger’s shirts at your disposal. I am sure that Madame Braunberger would willingly do the experiment, but I would rather it be you, gentlemen of the jury, so that you can see it with your own eyes. Try to remove the initials from another of Dr. Braunberger’s shirts, and you will find that what remains is very clearly visible.

  In the suitcases there are some shirts which have initials and some which do not, but on which the trace of initials is still visible. In his inventory, Monsieur Sannié never erred, and always wrote down what he saw. Remember this detail. Even with his microscopes, Monsieur Sannié could not say that this shirt was marked P.B., and when he described the shirt he wrote simply: “Seal number 44. A man’s shirt, blue cloth, made by David, avenue de l’Opéra.” Period. That’s it. Why? Because he could not read any initials. When he can read them, he says so. Look at seal number thirty-five. There are two other shirts from which embroidered initials were removed. Monsieur Sannié writes: “The initials which were on the left side, at the level of the belt, have been removed. It is probable that they were A.E.” Consequently, when he was certain, he wrote: “The letters are …,” and when he was less certain, he wrote: “It is probable that …” But since nothing can be seen on the Braunberger shirt, he said nothing at all. One can see that some letters have been removed—I don’t contest that—but one cannot say that they were P.B. any more than one can say they were any other letters.

  Then there is the question of the detachable cuffs—not a very clear story. Police Officer Casanova came to the stand and I asked him: “Monsieur, under seal number forty-four we find the shirt said to be that of Dr. Braunberger. You say that you also found a pair of cuffs? Why didn’t you keep them?” He replied: “Because they were a keepsake for Madame Braunberger. I did not think I could take them from her.” I asked him: “Were they the same color and made of the same material as the shirt?” and he said, “Yes.” Well, that isn’t true. Madame Braunberger came to the stand as well. She had the missing pair of cuffs with her. They were not the same, and she herself admitted it.

  And then, gentlemen, there is another question. Couldn’t they have made a verification? When I think of Estébétéguy, whom Petiot admits having killed … They went to the shirtmaker Sulka four times with Estébétéguy’s shirts, asking: “Are you sure? Are they really Estébétéguy’s?” Well, they never went to show this shirt to David.

  And the hat! Ah! the hat, gentlemen, is something truly unbelievable. Madame Braunberger was questioned before the hat was discovered. She said, “My husband had a hat from Gélot.” They look at the hat. Not a chance: it is marked “Berteil, rue du 4-Septembre.” Then Madame Braunberger says—you must pay close attention to follow the meanderings of her thought—“It’s a Berteil hat? That proves nothing. My husband bought it from Gélot, but since Gélot was closed in 1942, he took it to Berteil for repairs. That is why the label on the inside says ‘Berteil, 4-Septembre.’”

  So it is a Gélot hat, but it is marked “Berteil, 4-Septembre” because it had been repaired there. This is a completely unsatisfactory explanation for all sorts of reasons. The first of them is that Gélot hats have the name marked in the crown. Consequently, simply changing the sweatband would not remove the name Gélot from the hat. Secondly, the Maison Gélot is the only hatter in Paris that makes nothing but custom hats. When a customer goes to Gélot, they take the form of his head, just as a bootmaker makes a mold of the foot and keeps the mold for future reference.

  Since I happened to know this detail, I asked Monsieur Gélot if he could not manage to find the form he had made of Dr. Braunberger’s head. Madame Braunberger had said, after all, that her husband was one of Gélot’s customers. Monsieur Gélot sent me this mold by return post. It represents the exact dimensions of the head, with marks showing the location of the forehead and the back of the head, and bears the written inscription: “Doctor Braunberger, 207 Faubourg Saint-Denis, March 18, 1937.”

  So I performed a little experiment. I invite you to repeat it while deliberating in your chambers. I compared the shape of the hat marked P.B. with this mold. A disaster! It is much too wide and much too short; that is to say, this hat is the hat of a gentleman with, as Dr. Piédelièvre would say, a wide and short head, while, on the contrary, Dr. Braunberger’s head would be elongated. I wanted to be sure, so I took a ruler and measured. There was exactly two-and-a-half centimeters difference. For a man who wore nothing but custom-made clothes, two-and-a-half centimeters is really quite a lot. Try taking a hat which is two-and-a-half centimeters too big or two-and-a-half centimeters too small. In the former case, it would sit on your ears, and in the latter it would perch on the top of your head. You would look ridiculous either way!

  But I went even further, because I wanted to have a clear conscience. I asked Monsieur Gélot, “Were you closed in 1942?” and he replied: “Not at all. We have never been closed since September 1940.” Thus, when you are told that in 1942 Dr. Braunberger did not go to Gélot to have his hat repaired because Gélot was closed, it is not true. Gélot was open. I have his letter right here: “I state, as per request, that from October 21, 1940, the Maison Gélot has always been open.”

  Next, I tried to find out whether one could have had a hat repaired at Berteil, Quatre-Septembre, in 1942. There was only one problem: Berteil, Quatre-Septembre, closed its doors in 1939. I went to the main offices of the Maison Berteil, and the junior Monsieur Berteil told me it was not possible that anyone had had a hat repaired at the rue du Quatre-Septembre branch in 1942, because that branch had been closed in 1939, eight days after the declaration of war. It had not opened since, and will never reopen, since the site is presently occupied by a rubber manufacturer.

  Thus you will remember that, earlier in the trial, I said to Madame Braunberger: “Gélot was open. Berteil, rue du Quatre-Septembre was closed. Thus you went to the store that was closed, and you did not go to the store that was open. You say that you bought a hat at Gélot, and you say that this is the hat. But it isn’t, because the shape is completely wrong. And when you want to have it repaired, you do not take it to Gélot, who sold it to you and would fix it for nothing, because, you say, Gélot was closed, though in fact it was open, and instead you went to Berteil, rue du Quatre-Septembre, because it was open, though we know that it was closed.” Madame Braunberger replied: “I can explain. I went to Berteil, place Saint-Augustin.”

  Maître Perlès did not insist on the point yesterday, but he pointed out something which I should have guessed all along. The Maison Berteil, rue du Quatre-Septembre, must still have had a number of sweatbands with its stamp on them when it closed, and these sweat-bands could have been passed on for use by the main store or by other branches. Well, of course, I had to investigate this. And, unfortunately, it is not so. You only need look, first at this certificate, gentlemen, and then at this leather sweatband. You will easily be able to perceive that the name “Berteil, 4-Septembre” and the initials P.B. were imprinted on the same day and by the same machine. The machine is set up to make both impressions at the same time.

  I asked for details on this point. I was told: “It’s very simple. Many hatters have a machine (I do not know how it works) which makes either perforations or indentations. One puts the sweatband into this machine, and by using a sort of typesetting arrangement, one can simultaneously imprint the name of the store and any initials one cares to add.”

  I wanted to check one final point, so I asked the court clerk: “When a customer brings a hat in for repairs, the repairs are not made the same day. Consequently, the books would contain records of the date when the hat was to be delivered. Would you be so kind as to check with the Maison Berteil—the branch which is open and which has the records of the Quatre-Septembre store—and see whether Dr. Braunberger ever had a hat repaired there?”

  Well, no—there was no entry in that name. I have a notarized certificate here, and will enter it with the rest of the evidence.

  Now let me resume
the story and remind you of Petiot’s statements: “Braunberger, I haven’t seen him for thirteen years. I couldn’t even recognize him because I met him only once, thirteen years ago. And I had no reason to take Braunberger. Perhaps, you might say, I would have had some reason to take suitcases, and to take his wife, and with her, all of their most valuable possessions.” The only problem is that no one ever came for the suitcases, despite the letters Braunberger sent, and no one tried to help Madame Braunberger escape, despite her husband’s request.

  There is one explanation (and I don’t have to give you any explanations; that is not part of my task here). Think about it for three minutes. Can you see that Dr. Braunberger, either lured into a trap near the Etoile or asked to come there to treat a patient as he was told—we have no way of knowing—may have been stopped by the German police? This hypothesis seems particularly likely since Madame Braunberger has stated (and her statement is in the record) that four days [it was really thirteen days] after her husband disappeared, the Germans came to ask whether, in fact, a doctor who had served in the army medical corps during the last war lived in her building.

  Can you imagine that Dr. Braunberger may have managed to escape amidst the crowd in the métro? He was frightened. He wrote a first letter to his wife, telling her (and this is essentially what he wrote): “Don’t worry, I will try to escape. Don’t worry, I will let you know when you can join me.” He wrote a second letter, a third. He crossed the demarcation line. The man who passed him returned, having been paid very poorly for his risks. Dr. Braunberger had left home without money. He was perhaps very nervous and in a deficient mental state (I am not trying to slur his character; this is all in the dossier). He almost betrayed himself and the man who passed him was nearly caught at the border. The latter didn’t want to have anything more to do with the family. But he had a letter, and he telephoned to the maid and said: “I have passed the doctor, but I will not pass his wife and I will not come to see her. I was too badly paid.” The maid said, “Come, and we will pay you.” “No, I’m not interested anymore. I don’t want to be arrested. I have a letter for you asking you to follow me, but I won’t bring it to you, I’ll mail it.” And he did mail it.

  Couldn’t Dr. Braunberger have been arrested by the Germans between 1942 and 1944? Couldn’t he have disappeared? What reason do you have [asks Petiot] for saying that simply because I met Dr. Braunberger thirteen years ago, I am guilty? You cannot show any reason why I should have any interest in him, since he had no money, and you know that no one tried to collect any suitcases or to take his wife. What possible reason could I have?

  And then you refuse to consider the whole Allard story. You must admit that, whichever way you take it, there are three false witnesses: either Dr. Braunberger, Madame Braunberger, and their maid, Madame Bonnet-Archères; or Roger Allard and his wife and mother. Take your pick!

  I don’t know anything about it. What is certain, is that there is no way the declarations of these people, who are my adversaries here today, can be reconciled with the thesis you are trying to present.

  You have but one thing. Maître Perlès pointed this out, and he was quite right. You have the shirt and the hat. Oh, I forgot one detail. This hat—which is not a Gélot hat, which is not Dr. Braunberger’s hat, and which was never repaired at any branch of the Maison Berteil in 1942—was described yesterday as being “patterned.” At least, Maître Perlès read a letter he had received from the Maison Gélot saying that Braunberger had purchased a patterned hat. Fabrics are not my speciality, but I had the impression that patterned was the opposite of solid. I telephoned Gélot and asked him, “What was the hat like that you made for Dr. Braunberger in 1937—the one which was allegedly repaired in 1942?” He replied, “It was patterned. I even gave a sample of the material to your confrere.”

  A sample? But he never told us that! Monsieur Gélot said he would give me another sample. I have it here.

  PERLÈS I have one, too.

  FLORIOT Gentlemen of the jury, you may compare this sample with this hat. You can see that they resemble one another as night and day.

  Having finished with the eight victims Petiot denied, Floriot turned to the nineteen he admitted having killed. Armed with the dossier, police reports, and criminal records, he took each case in turn and showed that the victim in question had strong ties with the Germans. The pimps and prostitutes were not difficult. Dreyfus had signed two agreements with the Gestapo. The German Jews were harder, but not impossible. The Basch relatives had shared a hotel in Nice with the Italian Gestapo, and though they pretended to be in deathly fear and to need help moving about without being seen, when they wanted to cross the demarcation line into Paris, they went to a travel agent and booked berths in a wagon-lit. As for the Wolffs, they had their passports, and so on. The audience listened in awe. Everyone, even the prosecution, conceded that Floriot had presented a fine case. So fine, they said, that if Floriot had been defending twenty-seven individual cases rather than twenty-seven all at once, he may easily have won them all.

  FLORIOT Gentlemen of the jury, I have finished. I have gone back over each case, one by one, and examined it without tricks or deceits. I have demonstrated that, in some of these cases, Petiot had the right to execute people who were working against France in time of war. For the others, one by one, I have demolished the accusations brought against him.

  Petiot is not a murderer. Ah! he is not an ordinary man, I admit it readily. He did not content himself with just “getting by,” as so many did. He brought down his enemies, our enemies. No, this is not a normal man with ordinary qualities and faults. But do not say that he is an assassin … do not say that he is a greedy man. His entire life, and every aspect of his behavior prove the contrary. I place Petiot between your hands with full confidence. I know that you will acquit him.

  When Floriot sat down at 9:30 P.M., the court gave him a standing ovation.

  LESER Petiot, have you anything to add to your defense?

  PETIOT I would have liked to, but I cannot. I am a Frenchman. You know that I killed members of the Gestapo. You know what you have to do.

  A guard took Petiot into another room, and Floriot sent his three chief assistants to keep him company and bolster his spirits during the wait. The assistants, it turned out, were more nervous than he, and Petiot whiled away the time lecturing them on how to recognize fine Oriental carpets and how to buy wisely at auction.

  Leser, the two other magistrates, and the seven jurors filed out to deliberate. Locked in the chamber with them were the thirty-kilogram dossier with its reams of testimony; bits and pieces of evidence such as the hat and hatter’s mold Floriot wished them to compare; and a list of 135 questions. For each of the twenty-seven victims, the jurors and magistrates had to weigh the evidence and vote on five separate charges. For Madame Khaït, for example:

  No. 11—The above-mentioned Petiot, Marcel André Henri, is he guilty of having fraudulently appropriated clothing, valuables or other personal items from Fortin, Marthe, married name Khaït, in Paris or the department of the Seine on March 25, 1942?

  No. 12—The above-mentioned Petiot, Marcel André Henri, is he guilty of having willfully put to death, in Paris or in any other part of France, Fortin, Marthe, married name Khaït, born at Clichy on September 22, 1888?

  No. 13—Was the voluntary homicide specified above in question No. 12 committed with malice aforethought?

  No. 14—Was the voluntary homicide specified above in question No. 12 committed with premeditation?

  No. 15—Was the voluntary homicide specified above in question No. 12 committed with the aim of preparing, facilitating or effecting the fraudulent appropriation specified in question No. 11?

  For each question a vote was taken, and if six or more people were in favor of condemnation, the verdict of guilty was marked down. It was expected to be a long deliberation, but the journalists and spectators left packed in the sweltering courtroom did not dare move for fear of losing their places to members o
f the crowd at the door who still fought for admission. Everyone discussed Floriot’s summation and speculated on the verdict. No one had much doubt about the outcome, but of how many murders would Petiot be found guilty? And then, too, even when there is no reasonable doubt, one can always find some last lingering uncertainty to furnish the pleasure of suspense.

  It was almost impossible to believe that Dreyfus, the Wolffs, and the Basches were collaborators, but high probability is not proof. Petiot almost certainly had not known that Adrien le Basque, Jo le Boxeur, and their friends were collaborators, yet there was indisputable proof that they had worked for the Gestapo. No trace had been found of Guschinov and the Knellers, but as Petiot had said, South America is a big place, and it was obvious to everyone that the prosecution had erred in not making inquiries. There was little evidence to convict Petiot of killing Dr. Braunberger or Denise Hotin. “Presumption of guilt” necessarily relies on a strong web of circumstance, and Dupin never wove it. He forgot some facts, ignored others, and presented the few he retained in such a thin and erratic way that it was difficult to piece them into a whole as Floriot had done. Dupin, spectators muttered, had only one thing on his side; twenty-seven murders are a lot, and only one was needed to have Petiot’s head.

  The jury had no time for idle literary criticism of the trial, and though they had been well entertained for three weeks, this, in the end, did not blind them. There were doubts about some of the victims and obscure points throughout the story that Floriot had skillfully turned to his advantage. But counteracting these doubts, Petiot himself had sat before them for sixteen days, making jokes, hurling insults, mocking judicial procedure, drawing pictures, and dozing—occasionally bursting into silent tears, but always at moments just a bit too convenient to be believed. Somehow he did not fit the image Floriot wished to paint of a devoted physician and self-sacrificing patriot. He did, on the other hand, look right at home in the role the prosecution tried to depict, and it was the dispassionate, clockwork perfection of his method that weighed most heavily against him. The vision of his crimes was dreadful. It was wartime, so few questions had been asked about those who disappeared. His arrangement had the added advantage that the victims prepared themselves for the slaughter and, in advance, helped cover up the traces of the crime whose victims they would be. They announced to friends that they would vanish, they bundled their money and valuables into tidy parcels, they walked willingly into places that in ordinary times would excite anyone’s suspicion, and they even helped their murderer avoid being seen in their company. Perhaps they rolled up their own sleeves to receive a fatal injection. Some of them even paid Petiot and thanked him for what they thought he would do.