The Statement

by Brian Moore

  ‘It’s hard to pass judgement on what people did back then,’ the colonel said. ‘We haven’t lived with Germans walking up and down our streets. France had lost the war. Pétain was an old war hero, perfect casting as the honest broker between France and Hitler. Who was de Gaulle? Some jumped-up general in London, someone our parents had never heard of, someone working with the British who’d let France down, someone who sounded like a potential dictator. And let’s be honest, de Gaulle’s primary interest wasn’t fighting the Germans and winning the war. It was making sure the Anglo-Saxons accepted him as the leader of Free France and that France would emerge as one of the winning team. And claiming a victory France didn’t deserve.’

  ‘You’re not a Gaullist, I see.’

  ‘No. I was a socialist once. Now, I don’t know.’

  ‘I was just thinking of de Gaulle,’ Valentin said. ‘Hard to believe that it’s forty-four years since the Liberation.’

  ‘Yes, but what does that mean to a twenty year old?’

  ‘I wonder. I suppose they’d consider us fools for trying to bring to justice some old French fascist who killed Jews before this generation was born.’

  ‘I know,’ Roux said. ‘Yet, I consider this the most important case of my career.’

  Valentin glanced sideways at him, a tall, military figure, his head up, his step brisk. Suddenly, Roux paused in his stride and said, ‘Because of that I’m grateful for what you’ve done today. You’ve given me two avenues of pursuit. One is to look more closely at this murder. Do the Salon police know something they haven’t released to the public? Also, your information has opened up more strongly the line I used with Monsignor Le Moyne.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘I put into his mind that I’m a less dangerous pursuer than these Jewish avengers. I believe it had an effect. It will, I hope, have a similar effect if I use the same tactic with our friend Dom Vladimir Gorchakov. If someone’s betraying Brossard to this group, I’ve got to get to him before they do. For both these reasons I’m going to Salon.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tonight.’

  ‘Bourride!’ Inspector Cholet pronounced the word like an actor announcing a pageant. ‘Colonel, today is the one day, the only day of the week, in which Mère Michèle prepares it for luncheon at her restaurant, the Tout Va Bien. When you telephoned me this morning I took the liberty of reserving a table for two. In the pantheon of fish stew, Mère Michèle’s bourride is the summa.’

  Roux, estimating the inspector’s weight at closer to three than two hundred pounds, realized that this lunch would not be a matter of forty minutes. And, indeed, when they arrived at the Tout Va Bien, a workers’ restaurant a few streets behind the Salon Préfecture de Police, they were shown, with the special handshakes and greetings accorded to regular patrons, to a table in a secluded alcove, ideal for a tête-à-tête. Inspector Cholet seated himself with his back to the wall, a chequered napkin tucked into his shirt collar, a glass of Chablis in his hand, with the air of a man whose afternoon at the office will be short.

  But he listened carefully. He was, Roux guessed, one of those affable fat men who successfully conceal the razor-sharp inquisitor lurking within their bonhomous responses. The story Roux had elected to tell him was an edited version of Valentin’s discoveries, namely how, through a confidential source, Roux’s office had learned that Brossard had been a guest in the Abbaye de St Cros and had left abruptly on the evening of the day of the murder. Roux emphasized that he, as the officer in charge of the hunt for Brossard, was giving this information to Inspector Cholet because he felt it his duty to inform him that there might be a connection between Brossard and the murder. In return, he asked if there were any elements in the case which the Salon police had not made public.

  ‘You know, of course, that we have interrogated the Abbot of St Cros?’ the inspector said.

  ‘So I’ve been told. He did not, I imagine, mention that he had played host to a wanted criminal?’

  ‘Indeed, he did not. Although when I looked up our records, I discovered that back in ’71, just before the presidential pardon, we visited the abbey to make inquiries in this connection. The inquiries, I admit, were perfunctory. And of course, after the pardon, the inquiry was dropped.’

  ‘But later, when the new charge came out – the complaint of a crime against humanity – wasn’t the inquiry reinstated?’

  The inspector smiled and, reaching across the table, refilled Roux’s glass. ‘Officially, yes. The inquiry, as you know, was run from the préfecture in Paris. All I can tell you is that, here in Salon, we were not asked to check on whether Brossard was still in this region.’

  ‘That’s odd.’

  The inspector shrugged. ‘Yes, I must admit, I do find it odd. There are those who say the police didn’t really want to find him. As I wasn’t personally involved, I don’t know if that’s true or false. I hope it’s the latter. In any event, I want to assure you that, so far, I’ve received no instructions from my superiors on how I should deal with you. Therefore, as a fellow police officer, I intend to give you my full co-operation.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Very well, then. We’re colleagues. Personally I don’t care who finds Brossard. My job is to put the collar on criminals. I’m no politician. I don’t suppose you are, either. So let’s look at this together. Who would want to shoot him? Relatives of his victims? Most of whom were Jews. Correct?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘A Jewish group, then, Colonel. Not one of the well-known Nazi-hunters like the Klarsfelds or the Wiesenthal Centre. It’s not their style. But possibly relatives of victims, people with a personal score to settle.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Do you know of such a group, Colonel?’

  ‘No. It’s just a hunch, a supposition.’

  The inspector leaned back, sniffing the air.

  ‘Smell that? I believe it is the bourride. Colonel, you’re in for a treat.’ He offered the bottle. ‘A petit vin blanc?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. It’s good wine. Local?’

  ‘From the Luberon. Our wines have greatly improved in the past decade. So, to go back to your supposition, Colonel. The question I ask myself is this. If this man was a would-be assassin and if Brossard killed him in self-defence, why did he take his money and papers?’

  ‘Perhaps to make it look like a simple murder and robbery? In that way no one would connect him with it.’

  ‘Could be,’ the inspector said. ‘But he forgot something. Something we haven’t made public. There was a revolver in the glove compartment of the dead man’s car. It was fitted with a silencer. Not the sort of weapon a Canadian tourist would carry on a European holiday. In addition, it was doctored. No serial numbers. In addition the dead man’s clothes, his trousers, shirt, jacket, were French, not American or Canadian.’

  The inspector broke off, putting down his glass and holding up his hands in a gesture of welcome.

  ‘Ah! Here it comes, the first part of our bourride. And Madame herself! Colonel Roux, may I introduce you to Mère Michèle, one of our national treasures.’

  Mère Michèle, accompanying the waiter who carried the first portion of bourride, shook hands with both the inspector and the colonel, then smilingly watched the serving of the soup.

  ‘Bon appetit, Messieurs.’

  When Mère Michèle had moved on, Roux sampled the bourride. ‘Delicious. We shouldn’t spoil it by talking business. But I must say I was fascinated by your comment about the dead man’s gun and his clothes. Possibly the Canadian driver’s licence was to throw us off the scent. It’s more likely he was French and a relative of some of the Dombey Jews who were all French citizens.’

  The inspector shook his head, then wiped his mouth with his napkin. ‘A relative? I doubt it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I saw the corpse. It was not circumcised.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  The inspector nodded. ‘Quite sure. We ran a check to see
if he was someone with a criminal record, a professional, hired by this group. I sent his fingerprints to Paris and I got a telex from the préfecture saying that there is no record of them on any files, including those of the Canadian Mounted Police.’

  For Roux, at that moment, the restaurant sounds, the muted noise of conversation in the larger room, the rattle of cutlery, the thud of doors as the waiters exited from the kitchen, all blended into a confused and distant roar. The préfecture in Paris. He stared dully at Inspector Cholet who, smiling, watched an approaching waiter.

  ‘Ah! Here comes the second part of our bourride, Colonel. I believe today’s fish is turbot.’

  18

  Father Jérôme, the père hospitalier, crossed the courtyard of the Abbaye de St Cros and entered the atelier. Twenty monks sat at their potting wheels. Six others were at drawing tables, working on design. Brother Julius and the Abbot were in conversation at the far end of the room. The Abbot saw him enter.

  ‘Yes, Jérôme?’

  ‘There is an army officer in the visitors’ room, Father Abbot. He wishes to speak to you. He gave me this card.’

  The Abbot glanced at the card, then put it in the sleeve of his robe. He turned to Brother Julius. ‘The shipment for Dijon,’ he said. ‘Let me know when it’s ready.’

  ‘Yes, Father Abbot.’

  ‘Take him up to my study,’ the Abbot told Jérôme. ‘I’m going there now.’

  As he crossed the yard and climbed the winding stairs, the Abbot took out the card and looked at it again. Gendarmerie. Army police. This new judge has transferred the dossier to the army. And it’s on the dossier that Brossard has stayed with us in the past.

  Dom Vladimir entered his office and went over to the rough table that served as his desk. He put the ceramics order from the Galeries Lebrun in Dijon into the box with letters to be answered. As he did, he heard a knock. He went to the door and opened it, extending his hand in welcome to the visitor.

  ‘Colonel Roux? Good morning. Please, come in. Take a seat. What may I do for you?’

  He approved of this officer. Dress uniform, gloves, impeccable tenue. Dom Vladimir had, in a former life, served in a cavalry regiment.

  ‘I don’t know if you’re aware of it, sir, but the gendarmerie has been assigned the task of finding the fugitive, Pierre Brossard. I came to see you, to ask if you can help us with our inquiries.’

  ‘Brossard. Yes. What did you want to know?’

  ‘I’m told he was a guest here for a period of almost a month, earlier this year?’

  ‘Were you indeed?’ Dom Vladimir’s tone was cold. ‘May I ask who gave you this information?’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s confidential, sir.’

  ‘Well, as you may know, Colonel, in most monastic orders, including ours, asylum offered to a traveller who requests it is also a confidential matter. So, before I answer your question, I’d like to know if you were told this story by a lay or a clerical source.’

  ‘A lay source, sir. But a completely reliable one.’

  Dom Vladimir raised his hands in a gesture of bewilderment. ‘Tell me. Who is a completely reliable source in matters of this kind? What do you know about this “source’s” prejudices or priorities?’

  ‘I believe that this informant is disinterested, sir.’

  ‘No informant is completely disinterested, Colonel. To clarify matters, let me tell you my prejudices. I am the son of White Russian aristocrats. I was a servant of the Vichy Government before I took Holy Orders and I believe that God’s mercy is superior to man’s justice. I suppose that last belief, or prejudice, if you will, is the most important one in this case.’

  ‘Again, without disrespect, Father Abbot, may I ask if you believe that clerics like yourself have the right to forgive Brossard for his crimes?’

  ‘Our pardon is granted in the name of God in the sacrament of confession. We are instructed to grant God’s pardon to all sinners who honestly repent of their sins.’

  ‘But has Brossard ever repented, Father Abbot? According to those who pleaded his case in the past he has pretended that the killings and the tortures he committed were military actions, that everything he did, he did as a servant of Vichy, loyal to Maréchal Pétain.’

  ‘I am not his confessor, Colonel, so I can’t answer that. But Monsignor Le Moyne, who was his confessor, assures me that Brossard asked God’s pardon for his acts and received absolution in confession. The Christian act of pardon does not countenance revenge, no matter how heinous the crimes of the sinner.’

  ‘But surely, sir, that’s a falsification of the Church’s teachings?’

  The Abbot exploded in an angry laugh. ‘Indeed? Please, enlighten me on my error, Colonel.’

  ‘It seems to me, sir, that a pardon is false which ignores those who have been injured and maltreated and which is given solely in response to a confessional oath of repentance. I think that’s confusing Divine pardon with pardon given by one man to another. In this case, a pardon granted Brossard by Monsignor Le Moyne.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’ve missed my point, Colonel. Be that as it may, you must remember that an official pardon was given by one man to another, in this case the President of the Republic who granted Brossard a pardon in ’71? Yes, ’71. The President believed then, as our current President believes now, that so many years after these events it’s time for reconciliation, a time to put the wrongs and rancours of the years of Occupation behind us. I must say I agree with that sentiment.’

  ‘Father Abbot, as you know, Brossard is now charged with a crime which no president has the authority to pardon, the international charge of a crime against humanity. The law must take its course. But I didn’t come here this morning to ask you to do something your conscience will not permit you to do. I am asking for your help because Brossard is now in great danger. He is an old man. If he is arrested and tried before a court of law he may be acquitted, or he may spend the rest of his life in prison. In either case he will almost certainly live out his allotted span of years. But if we don’t find him and take him into custody within the next few days, he may be murdered.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘You remember the tourist who was shot and his car thrown into a ravine some days ago. The police came to see you about it?’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’

  ‘We now believe that the dead man was a professional assassin. We believe he was hired by a Jewish commando, probably to avenge those Jews Brossard executed at Dombey. We also suspect that this group is in contact with someone who knows Brossard’s pattern of movement. For he does have a pattern. We know that in the past year he has moved from one clerical residence to another, rarely staying more than a few weeks in any particular place. We also know that Cardinal Delavigne has made a request to the French clergy that, henceforth, all clerical doors be closed to him. So he must now seek out those who will ignore the Cardinal’s wishes, possibly among those right-wing clerics known as “intégristes”.’

  ‘I am not one of them,’ the Abbot said. ‘They have been disavowed by Rome. However, I didn’t comply with the Cardinal’s request, which, by the way, is my right as Abbot of a monastic order.’

  ‘But would you know where I might contact these “intégristes”? Or where I might reach Brossard?’

  The Abbot rose from his desk and went to the window of his study. A misty morning sun floated over the rock-strewn ravine surrounding the monastery walls. The Abbot spoke quietly, his back to his visitor.

  ‘You are not being honest with me, Colonel. This would-be assassin was murdered, wasn’t he? And you believe the man who shot him was Pierre Brossard. If I could help you find Brossard, you will put him on trial for this killing.’

  ‘That would be a decision for the Salon police,’ Roux said. ‘And it wouldn’t be easy for them to prove their case. Apart from the plea of self-defence, I imagine an old milicien like Brossard wouldn’t leave any incriminating evidence. In fact, the Salon police suspect that he removed the dead
man’s papers for that reason.’

  The Abbot turned suddenly from his contemplation of the ravine. ‘So the police do believe that Brossard was the killer?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And you, Colonel, what do you think?’

  ‘I believe he killed him, yes. And I also believe that this group will almost certainly send a second assassin to kill Brossard. They are obviously well organized and well informed. That’s why I’m asking for your help, sir. We must find Brossard before they do.’

  ‘Or before he kills again,’ the Abbot said.

  There was a moment of silence. Then, the Abbot walked back to his worktable, his heavy boots loud on the wooden boards of the study. He sat down in his chair, opened a worn leather notebook and looked up at Roux.

  ‘Colonel, I am going to help you as much as I can. Not because I want to save Brossard from an assassin’s bullet, although I do not want to see him killed. But if what you say is true, I have foolishly given shelter to a murderer, a murderer who, if threatened, may kill again. I now see that I was in error in ignoring the Cardinal’s request.’

  The Abbot paused and looked down at his notebook.

  ‘So. I know something of Brossard’s habits. In recent years he has been supported financially by a group known as the Chevaliers de Ste Marie. Have you heard of them?’

  ‘A Catholic lay group, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, about four hundred members, predominantly ultra-conservative, but also including people who were members of the Resistance. As you may know, Colonel, many French Resistance fighters were as anti-communist as they were anti-Nazi. Some of them are now Chevaliers. It’s a sort of crusade, anti-communist, anti-freemason. Anti the enemies of France.’

  ‘And anti-Jewish?’

  ‘Not openly, no. Bishop Grasset is the head of the movement and, of course, he’s part of the established Church. The Chevaliers have links to the “intégristes”, those right-wing Catholics who have defied Rome, but the Chevaliers themselves have managed to remain within the body of the Catholic Church. As a proof of this, with the blessing of the official hierarchy, they hold an annual religious ceremony on Good Friday in Sacré Coeur basilica in Paris, where they parade in velvet capes, embroidered with a golden cross. The age of chivalry, knightly crusade, that sort of thing.’