Edith Troppard sat silently and looked at Renard. Her face was expressionless. “You are shocked, I imagine, that I can tell this story without coming undone.”
“I am shocked, madame,” said Renard, “at the horrors you had to endure. I am sorry that I had to ask you about it.”
“I don’t object to talking about it, Monsieur Renard. It was only one of the small horrors of the time. And by far not one of the worst. Anne Marie and Onesime Josquin, mother and son; Marie Livrist, Onesime’s fiancée, were massacred as were countless others. Your own father spent years of hunger and deprivation in Russia. And there’s poor Jean, whose family was killed and who was then left behind.”
“Do you know Jean Josquin, madame?” said Renard.
“I knew him only slightly,” she said. “We had one very odd encounter after everything was over, which in itself was enough, all by itself, to make me love him. I will tell you about it, and then I’ll go home. I’m tired.”
“Of course, madame.”
“It starts just the same as the rape started, with me on my knees in my garden and a man standing at the gate. I jumped when I looked up and saw him. I was momentarily carried back to August of 1943. But the war was over and well behind us. It was Jean Josquin standing there, whom I knew a bit through Anne Marie. He asked if he could come into the garden. I said of course he could, and he did. He removed his hat and approached me very cautiously as one might approach an invalid or a sick child.
“‘Judith,’ he said when he stood in front of me. Nothing more. Just ‘Judith.’ Everyone in the resistance had a secret name, and Judith was my resistance name. I do not know how Jean knew it. Do you know who Judith was? It’s a story in the Apocrypha. Judith was the Jewish princess sent out to seduce Holofernes, who was besieging the city. When he was sated, she took his sword and cut off his head. Judith sacrificed her virtue for the good of her people.
“Anyway, Jean said that he had hated me and wished me ill for loving a German officer—Helmut Büchner. Simon had explained that I had been with the maquis all along. And I had. Then, according to Jean, Simon had given him strict instructions to seek me out and ask my forgiveness. ‘Fall on your knees and beg her forgiveness’ were apparently Simon’s words.
“What is so remarkable is that Jean told me all of this. It was almost like a religious act of contrition on his part for whatever sins he had been obliged to commit. He even tried to get down on his knees in front of me in my garden, but I would not let him. Instead we stood facing one another like the two sinners that we were.”
XXVII.
LOUIS WAVED AWAY THE SMOKE from Renard’s cigarette. They were sitting at what had become their regular table—the one beside the large concrete planter—in front of the Hôtel de France. It was a chilly day. But the sun was shining and Louis was loathe to sit inside. He pulled his broad-brimmed hat down to his ears and turned up his collar.
Renard had laid the investigation aside for a while. There had been other, more-immediate business that required his attention. But when that business was finished and Renard lifted the collaboration files out of the file cabinet—they had multiplied and now filled the front half of the top drawer—somehow Louis seemed to know.
Renard had to admit that he was glad to have his American friend to talk to about the case. Louis could discern things that went past Renard. Maybe it was the fact that he was a foreigner, maybe it was his own past, whatever that past might have been. Louis spoke very little about his American life, except for the occasional dark references to what he called “the temples of iniquity” or, his preferred phrase, “the sordid world.”
“Are you talking about the United States?” said Renard. “That doesn’t seem quite fair.”
“Not the entire United States,” said Louis. “Only one corner of its government. A musty, secret corner. And anyway, it isn’t meant to be fair.” It seemed only natural that Renard would turn Louis’s interest to his advantage. “So, what’s next?” said Louis.
“I need to find Simon,” said Renard.
“Why?” said Louis.
“To get answers,” said Renard.
“To which questions?” said Louis.
“Well, who betrayed the resisters, for example. Who set up the parachute operation.” Renard felt like he was back at the police academy. “Who—”
Louis did not let him go on. “What did Piet Chabrille tell you?”
“He was dead.”
“All right, if you insist. What did his assassination tell you?
“Was it an assassination?”
Louis decided to ignore Renard’s obstreperousness. “Who would fear Chabrille’s testimony enough to kill him?”
“A lot of people could want him dead. He brutalized Edith Troppard.…”
“She’s over eighty, and from everything you’ve said, she’s not vengeful.”
“Jean Josquin was part of an assassination team.…”
“At that time it made sense,” said Louis. “It is nothing to worry about now, is it? It was a patriotic act.”
Louis pulled his hat lower on his head. He gazed across the square at the Cheval Blanc and tried to imagine German soldiers going in and out. “No, it has to be someone who could be seriously damaged if his past actions came to light. Someone who has something to lose. Someone who fears his life will be destroyed if it comes out that he was a collaborator.”
“You’re going somewhere with this,” said Renard. “Why not just say it?”
“A politician. A high-stakes person, a politician, maybe?” Louis was pleased with himself. High stakes was a new French phrase for him.
“Like who?”
“Or a nobleman, maybe, with a big reputation to protect?”
* * *
Finding the Count Maurice de Beaumont was easy. All the Beaumont properties were listed in the Registry of Châteaux and Historic Places. Renard wrote letters to the count at each address, and after eight days a letter on blue stationery arrived in the morning mail. It was addressed by hand in blue ink.
Monsieur Jean Renard, Inspecteur
Saint-Léon-sur-Dême
My dear Monsieur Renard,
I was very pleased to receive your letter and, I am obliged to add, none too surprised. Your inquiries have certainly not gone unnoticed in certain circles, and so it seemed as though it would be only a matter of time until you found your way to me. The assassination of Piet Chabrille has had the same effect as someone batting at a nest of hornets with a stick.
I fear, however, there is very little I can offer you in the way of information about the betrayal of the heroes of Saint-Léon. All that I have are ambiguous stories and dubious surmise.
Nonetheless, I would be happy to welcome you to my home. I remain very fond of your father. If there is anything I can do to help you lay these mysteries to rest for your own peace of mind, then I am happy and honored to do so. I shall look forward to meeting you. Please contact me again to set up an appointment.
In the sincere desire to hear from you in the very near future, I remain your faithful and obedient servant,
Maurice, Comte de Beaumont
* * *
“You told the count that I was coming with you?” said Louis.
“The count apparently has a great fondness for Americans. He was happy when I said you might accompany me.”
A small sign directed them down a long gravel lane. Dried leaves flew about behind the car. The house was hidden from view behind a tall cedar hedge. Renard stopped the car at a massive wooden gate. He got out and pulled on a chain suspended from the top of the gate, which rang a bell in the house. After a few minutes the gate swung open and a man waved them through.
Renard parked the car and he and Louis got out. “I am Christoph de Beaumont,” said the man, and shook their hands. “Please follow me.”
The house was not large or elaborate. But it was beautifully proportioned, with two rows of tall windows and a row of dormers above. There was a broad flagstone ter
race in front, surrounded by a balustrade and a carefully trimmed boxwood hedge. Christoph held the door and showed the two men inside. He led them to a long sitting room, which looked out on a formal garden. “I will be in the next room,” he said, and left the room.
“Why did he say that?” said Louis.
“As a warning. He’s protecting his father,” said Renard. “They’re frightened.”
The rosebushes had lost most of their leaves, but a few faded red blossoms clung to the canes. Dried leaves and petals swirled about in little eddies and rattled against the windows. The wall opposite the windows was hung with tapestries and paintings. Louis was studying one of the paintings when Maurice de Beaumont came into the room. He was a tall, erect man. He gave the impression of being both vigorous and fragile.
“Welcome, Monsieur Renard,” he said. Then in English, “Welcome to my house, Mister Morgon. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“The pleasure is mine,” said Louis. “Please allow me to say, you have some lovely paintings, monsieur.”
“That’s a Daubigny you were looking at,” said the count. “And a Tiepolo next to it. They have been in my family for generations.”
“I congratulate you on your excellent English,” said Louis.
The count smiled slightly and nodded his head. “I’m just showing off,” he said. Then in French he said, “May I offer you both something to drink?”
They sat down at a small round table, with Louis and Renard facing the garden. The count raised his glass. “A votre santé,” he said, and then, nodding toward Louis, “To your health.”
The count chewed on the wine for a moment and then set his glass aside. “I fear we all are in danger, Monsieur Renard. By ‘we’ I mean all of us who know anything from that time. Or rather all of us who someone thinks know anything. Chabrille was a wretched excuse for a human being. But his death was a warning, which I take seriously. And you should too.”
“I understand,” said Renard. “Thank you.”
“As I wrote, Monsieur Renard, I doubt that I can provide you with any help, but I will tell you what I know. I should say right away, I do not know where or, for that matter, how to find Simon. He disappeared more than thirty years ago.”
“Well, monsieur,” said Renard, “I have some questions that I would like to ask, if I may. Simply to form a better picture of the events in question.”
“Please, inspector. Go ahead.”
“If I may turn to that night … I know very little about what happened the night everyone—including your wife—was killed. Please allow me, monsieur, to offer my condolences, even this long after the fact.”
“Thank you, Monsieur Renard. It is very odd, but it does not feel as though it was long ago at all. When someone close is taken from you in that fashion, violently, suddenly, it remains in the foreground of your experience forever. If anything, it grows more vivid. You can’t put it behind you. When I look at my children, Marielle and Christoph, I still see Alexandre in their faces, in their gestures and manners.”
“What do you know about how it happened, monsieur?”
“Very little. She was to meet a company of parachutists, but there were none. She would not be alone, of course, but she did not know ahead of time who else would be there or how many of them there would be. And, instead of parachutists, a band of militia fired on them and killed them all. It was over very quickly. But a great deal of confusion remained.”
“Confusion?”
“A great deal,” said the count. “Many militia were killed too. There were bodies strewn across the field. Everyone was armed, so it was impossible to determine with any certainty who belonged to which group. There were survivors, of course. Yves Renard, your father, for instance. And others. But they all told different stories.”
“What do you know about how it happened, monsieur? How do you think it came about?”
“I didn’t visit the scene until many hours after it had happened. The dead and injured had been removed. Yves was not there. He was arrested immediately, I think. I was visited by police, whom I did not know, and told that Alexandre had been killed. I went to the site. I didn’t know for a long time where they had taken her. There were Germans everywhere, French Gestapo, police. The bodies had been removed, as I said.”
“But how did the … how did it come about, monsieur? In your opinion.”
“Well, both groups—ours and the militia—were alerted by a coded message on the radio. Whoever did it announced a false parachute drop. They then gave both groups a message. The maquis were alerted to meet a British parachute drop and escort them out of the area. And the militia were alerted by a different message that there would be a gathering of maquis and that they should be … killed.”
“You were not there that evening, monsieur?”
“No,” said Maurice. He sat up even straighter in his chair. “I often wish I had been.”
“So that you could have prevented it?”
“No. No one could have prevented it. No, Monsieur Renard. So that I could have died.”
“Do you still know what the code words were, monsieur?”
“I cannot forget them. The carrots are cooked. The carrots are cooked. Alexandre got up, kissed me, and left the room. I continued to listen.”
“Did you also have a mission that night?”
“No, I did not have a mission, as it turned out. I was waiting for one—a different message—which is why I continued to listen. That was when I heard the message that I now know sent the militia: The enchanted trout still eats her young. The enchanted trout still eats her young. It’s odd, but I have forgotten the message I was supposed to be listening for.”
“Did the words mean anything to you, monsieur? The enchanted trout?”
“Yes and no,” said Maurice. “They did not mean anything, per se. But I found them … odd.”
“Odd?”
“Yes. It is a little difficult to explain. You see, usually the coded messages had no specific meaning. They never made reference to real events or people or places. That would have been dangerous. But the enchanted trout? That referred to a local bar, a place named Le Pêcheur but nicknamed The Enchanted Trout.
“I found this odd. The codes were always indefinite, without any meaning whatsoever, invented by someone far away. This one seemed as though it had been made up by someone from Saint-Léon, someone who knew Saint-Léon and wanted to say something about it. And it referred to something a lot of people would recognize. Including many Germans. It seemed like a serious breach of security.”
“What do you think it meant?”
“I don’t know. Was it made up by someone from the militia who did not know the protocol for constructing coded messages? Did the words have a secret meaning for someone?
“Believe me. I have analyzed the words a thousand different ways. The enchanted trout still eats her young. Why still? Was that suggestive or significant somehow? It was no use. If it meant anything, I couldn’t figure it out. In any case, the local reference seemed dangerous to me. A giveaway of some sort, a clue.”
“A clue? What sort of clue?”
“I don’t know that either. But something. Where the event was happening, maybe? I know Yves Renard, your father, found it odd too.”
“How do you know that, monsieur?”
“He told me so. Years later, after he returned from prison, when he and I met again. You know he believed, I think, that I was the informer. I know I believed that he was.”
Renard seemed taken aback.
“Do you still believe that?” Maurice hardly noticed that it was Louis who had asked the question.
“No, I don’t think so,” said Maurice. “I am very fond of Yves. And he suffered a great deal, during the war and in prison. But you never really know such things, do you?”
“Monsieur le Comte,” said Louis, “may I ask something else, something—forgive me—slightly uncomfortable? When your suspicions were aroused by the message, did you try to prevent your
wife from going?”
“No. I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Well, I had nothing but the vaguest misgiving. And one had constant misgivings in those days. Everything was suspicious in some way or another. One was always fearful that things would go wrong. You simply couldn’t pay attention to such misgivings. They would paralyze you. Besides, we—Alexandre and I—didn’t … how shall I say?… we didn’t work that way.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s a complicated story.”
“May we hear it?” said Louis.
“Yes, you may,” said Maurice, after hesitating only briefly. “But it will only raise more questions than it answers. Like all such stories.
“My wife and I ran a sort of underground hostel for political refugees in one of the caves. We sheltered and escorted refugees—wanted partisans, wounded soldiers, Jews, anyone we could help. It was a large and complicated operation, and inevitably a lot of people knew about it.
“There was a Gestapo officer, a nasty little martinet named … what was his name?… Essart. That’s it. Lieutenant Essart. He was a sadistic bully. Anyway, Essart got wind of our cave sanctuary somehow. My wife, Alexandre, had been spotted leaving the cave with two men. As it happened, they were Jews who were high up in the resistance and on their way to London, but nobody knew that.
“Essart thought he had us. To be honest, I did too. But when he confronted my wife with his eyewitness account, she broke down and confessed that one of the men was her lover, a high German officer. And the other man was supposedly the officer’s driver. She refused to give her lover’s name. She said he was a high officer in Tours.
“It was a brilliant lie, and it threw Essart completely off his stride and made it all but impossible for him to investigate further. You see, he couldn’t very well investigate the love affairs of a German colonel who might turn out to be his superior.
The Resistance Page 28
