by Brian Moore
‘And you say they’ve been supporting Brossard financially?’
‘Yes. On each occasion that he stayed with us for a period of over a month, a letter would arrive for him, containing a money order for 3,000 francs. Brossard would ask our almoner to cash it for him. The sender was not identified, but once, when we had some difficulty in cashing the order, our almoner made enquiries and found that the address it was sent from was that of the Chevaliers in Paris. When Brossard stayed with my friend Dom André Vergnes in Aix, a similar letter would arrive for him. Dom André, who knows someone highly placed in the Chevaliers, mentioned Brossard and the envelope. This friend said, “Of course. Pierre is one of us.”’
‘So he’s a Chevalier?’
‘I believe so, yes. And in that case, it’s almost certain that from now on he will be helped by certain clerics who are in close touch with the Chevaliers. If he follows his usual pattern there is a certain priory in Villefranche where you might find him at present. I remember that he has stayed there, on occasion, before going on to the “intégriste” priory in Nice. The Villefranche prior is a religious conservative.’
‘Do you have the address of this priory?’
‘Yes. I’ll give it to you. But there is one other fact which might be worth looking into, although I am not sure what it signifies. When Brossard was our guest here, it was his custom to go into Salon most afternoons and while away his time at a café called the Bar Montana. He would often ask our père hospitalier if he might use our telephone to phone this bar. And Father Jérôme, who was present at those telephone calls, remembers that it was always the same question. He would ask if his letter had arrived. Sometimes, he would become agitated if the answer was no. Make of it what you will. I just thought I’d mention it.’
‘I’m glad you did, sir. And the address of the Villefranche priory?’
The Abbot unscrewed the top of his old-fashioned fountain pen and began to write.
19
‘A petit vin blanc, Inspector? And the same for your friend?’ Madame Marchand signalled to her son, Jules, who was serving behind the bar. ‘Roger is in the cellar. I’ll get him for you.’
As Jules put the glasses before them, Inspector Cholet showed him the photographs. Jules, who was in his early twenties, picked up the second photograph, the one showing the older Brossard, and laughed. Jules wore a long ponytail and, in his right ear, a small gold earring. ‘Yes, I think that’s him. Old turd. Papa knows him. He had a row with him once.’
Roger Marchand, the owner of the Bar Montana, came up the staircase leading from the cellar to the trapdoor behind the bar. He shook hands with Cholet and was introduced to Roux. He looked at the second photograph and whistled. ‘You mean this is Brossard, the one who was pardoned? The one Le Meridional writes about?’
‘That’s him,’ Roux said. ‘Of course it was taken a few years ago. He might look different today.’
‘No, he’s not. Shit, if I’d known who he was I’d have given him a kick in the arse a long time ago.’
‘Papa, you remember the row about the noirs?’ Jules said.
‘Of course I do. It makes sense now, doesn’t it? Last year when he was here he came to me in a rage because some black kids came and sat at the table next to his. We don’t often get them in here, they have other cafés to go to. He started on about how could I expect customers to eat and drink off the same cups and plates that had been used by stinking noirs. I told him, “Look, you’re not a regular, you come here now and then and we’re good enough to hold your post for you. If you don’t like noirs, tell them to send your letter somewhere else.” ’
‘But he didn’t, did he?’ Inspector Cholet said.
‘No. He backed down when I said that.’
‘This letter,’ Roux said. ‘Do you remember anything about it?’
‘Yes, it was registered, I always had to sign for it. It came from Paris, that’s all I know.’
‘How often did it come?’
‘Once, each time he visited here. Usually he’d be here for a few weeks and it would come a few days before he left.’
‘And did he ever talk to you? Did he meet anyone here? Do you know anything else that might help?’
‘No, he never spoke to anyone. He’d come in the afternoon and the thing I remember about him is he always read through Le Monde and that other Paris paper, Libération. He’d order a coffee or a beer and sit on his arse for a couple of hours. I thought he was a pensioner, maybe coming here once a year for a few weeks to visit relatives. To tell you the truth, I didn’t pay him much heed.’
‘He didn’t like this,’ Jules said, fingering his gold earring. ‘Or my hairstyle.’
‘And you knew him as what?’ Roux asked. ‘I mean, what name was on the letter that came for him?’
‘Pouliot. Monsieur Pouliot. Care of Bar Montana.’
20
Judge Livi came through her outer office and saw the colonel waiting in her study. She stopped at her secretary’s desk. ‘I don’t want to be disturbed. No phone calls.’
‘Very good, Madame.’
She closed the study door behind her as she went in. They shook hands. ‘When did you get back?’
‘Late last night.’
‘Success?’
‘Yes. But we’re on a tightrope. Or, I should say, I am. You, Madame, are my superior in this matter. Only you.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I need a search warrant for a religious house and I need it at once. It will have to be prepared in the greatest secrecy. I have no idea if there could be a leak within the gendarmerie itself. But I now know that anything is possible in this case. We can’t trust the police, we can’t trust the ministry, we can’t trust the DST. In fact, if we are to trap Brossard, we can’t risk revealing our plan to any official of the French state. I’m beginning to realize that we are in a labyrinth.’
‘What happened in Salon?’
‘The man who was murdered was not Jewish. He was almost certainly a hired assassin. Yet when Inspector Cholet of the Salon police sent the corpse’s fingerprints to Paris he received a telex telling him that there is no record of those prints on any police files. Yet if he was a professional, it’s almost certain his prints would be on file somewhere. It makes me wonder. What if those prints were on file in Paris and have been removed?’
‘But why?’
‘I don’t know. As I said, it’s a labyrinth. I discovered some other things that don’t fit. First, Brossard is being aided financially by a right-wing Catholic group called the Chevaliers de Ste Marie. For a long time now, they have been sending him a monthly stipend of 3,000 francs. That’s understandable. But it seems he has also been receiving, regularly, a much larger sum of money from some other Paris source. Why?’
‘You mentioned a labyrinth,’ Judge Livi said. ‘I’ve been in that labyrinth in the past few days, stumbling through years of dossiers. And I’ve come up with a few odd facts. In 1961 when right-wing Algerian pied-noir groups were setting off bombs in Paris to protest the Algerian war, even though Brossard was a hunted felon, the head of the government’s anti-terrorist unit managed to get in touch with him, secretly, through a lawyer, asking him to act as an informer on those groups because he was known to be in touch with them. You’ll remember he had acted as a police informer in the past, in the period just after 1945.’
‘In the Rue des Saussaies, where he betrayed his friend Abbé Feren and others.’
‘And, conveniently, was allowed to walk out of prison during the Commissaire’s lunch hour,’ Judge Livi said. ‘An interesting point. The Commissaire from whose office he walked out free is now retired. His name is Henri Vionnet. He is mentioned in the dossiers again at the time of the Algerian attempt.’
‘But Vionnet isn’t anti-terrorist squad, is he?’
‘No, he was regular police. He was consulted by the DST, as an expert on Brossard. He lives in Avignon.’ Judge Livi leaned back in her chair, put her hands together as though to p
ray and smiled tentatively at Roux. ‘Colonel, doesn’t it look as though this commissaire has known all along where to find Brossard. And what does that suggest to you?’
‘That Brossard’s being protected, not only by the Church, but, more importantly, by the police – or possibly by someone high up in government?’
‘The same source that provides him, by registered post, with regular and generous living expenses,’ Judge Livi said.
‘As I said, it’s a labyrinth. But at the heart of it, there’s Pierre Brossard. And that’s why I’m here. Is it possible for you to give me that search warrant, without anyone but ourselves knowing about it?’
‘This religious house,’ Judge Livi said. ‘Where is it located?’
‘In Villefranche. I have the address.’
‘Good.’ Judge Livi leaned back and smiled. ‘When my secretary goes to lunch, I’ll type it up myself.’
21
Three Dutch tourists sat at a table beside the pool in the Novotel outside Aix, eating Cavaillon melons with white plastic spoons. T found fat people offensive, especially when they took their clothes off. He moved his sun umbrella around to block them from view. He was trying to read a série noir policier because, as he told Janine once, ‘I like fairy-tales.’ The métier was nothing like a série noir. There were no Inspector Maigrets in real life. There were guys like Pochon and who would write a policier about Pochon? T was nervous. He had been waiting here since Friday afternoon when he phoned Pochon to tell him he’d lost Brossard. Now it was Sunday afternoon. No word. No new orders, nothing. He supposed they were still looking. He read a few more pages of the policier, then heard a church bell ring. All day long it had tolled out the hours. Five o’clock. Today was the day he had promised to phone Janine and tell her when he’d be back. His fête was Tuesday. No way now. Too bad. She’ll be pissed off. She’s been counting on it.
He’d left the air-conditioning on full when he went down to the pool at lunchtime, but his room wasn’t cool when he went back up. He took off the hotel bathrobe and lay on the bed in his swimming trunks. Paris. He dialled her number.
‘Hello, yes?’ She sounded as if she’d been asleep.
‘It’s me. Are you OK?’
‘I’m not OK. And you’re a fucking liar. Where are you?’
‘What do you mean I’m a liar?’
‘Your father’s not ill. Your father’s dead.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Your sister. Farah. She left a message and her number on your machine. I rang her. You never said you had a sister.’
‘I hardly ever see her. She’s a pain in the arse.’
‘Are you in Bayeux? Don’t lie to me, now.’
‘No. I’m on a job. I’ve been held up. I rang to tell you to cancel the party for my fête. I can’t make it Tuesday.’
‘Where are you?’
‘In Provence. OK?’
‘Are you working for Muhammad? You’d better not be. You promised.’
‘No. It’s something else. Look, I’m protected on this one. That’s all I can tell you, but it’s the truth.’
‘I ordered sebas, from that Arab traiteur, you know those little honey cakes you love. I told them enough for ten.’
‘Why did you do that? I told you it wasn’t certain. I told you I’d let you know if I could make it back in time.’
‘Yes, from your father’s sick bed. You bastard. I feel like a fool. I’ve already invited six people.’
‘Janine, chérie, I’m sorry about this. Listen, do you remember that horoscope you read me? The one in Elle. I looked for Elle here in Aix but I can’t find a copy. Do you still have yours?’
‘So you’re in Aix?’
‘Never mind where I am. Do you have it?’
‘I’ll see.’
He heard her footsteps on the tiled floor of her kitchen. Then: ‘Here we are. “Virgo. With a seventh house, Saturn, in your solar return chart – ”’
‘No, skip all that. It’s the bit at the end.’
‘Mmm . . . “As Mars moves to Leo on the 9th you will be forced into an action that could do you great harm. If possible you should not agree to a proposal that others have made to you. This is no time to play the hero.”’
‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow’s the 9th. I just wanted to check.’
‘Yes, well, you’d better watch out what you do tomorrow. The stuff just ahead of that was right. Listen: “You will have to make a sudden trip and lose out on previously planned pleasures.” Dead on. No sebas for you.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘And it was very sweet of you to order them. What a pity. Listen, I love you. I’ll try to ring you Tuesday.’
‘What am I going to do with you?’ she said. ‘Anyway, take care. I love you too.’
One problem with the last two days was that he hadn’t been able to leave the hotel for fear of missing Pochon’s call. And the food in the dining room was shit. He had a feeling that Pochon might call that evening and he was right. A waiter came to his table at 9 p.m., just as he was finishing dessert. The waiter said there was a telephone booth in the alcove just outside the hotel dining room, but he didn’t take the call there. He went up to his room.
Pochon’s voice, cold and quiet. ‘Ready? Got a pencil?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Villefranche. Or, to be exact, just outside Villefranche. An abbey on the Haute Corniche four kilometres above the Hôtel Bristol. The Bristol’s a resort hotel, you can’t miss it. The subject is driving there tomorrow, coming from Aix. He’ll know your car.’
‘I thought of that, sir. I’ve rented a smaller car. In the same name.’
‘You can’t rent a new face. He has a good memory.’
‘Yes, sir, I know.’
‘Remember, the paper must be pinned to the subject.’
‘Of course.’
‘Leave now.’
‘Right, sir.’
22
When he sat down at the kitchen table, he saw that Nicole had left three tartines on his plate, buttered as in the old days. And a small pot of apricot jam. She knew he liked apricot jam. Last night she told him she’d have to catch the seven-thirty bus to La Napoule this morning in order to be at work at eight when the hotel guests started to leave. When he woke at first light he’d heard her moving about in the kitchen and then the old dog whimpering as she opened the door to leave. ‘Poor Bobi, poor Bobi. Good boy. I’ll be back tonight.’
He poured the coffee she had left on the stove. Those could be the last words I ever hear her say. I’ll miss her. It was good, being in Cannes, wasn’t it, a real détente, nobody in the whole wide world knowing where I am. Living in a flat like an ordinary person, having someone I know cook the things I like, getting pissed on good wine, instead of sleeping in a monastery guest house, eating monastery mush at a refectory table while some monk reads to us about the life of St Francis of Assisi.
He spread jam liberally on the tartines. Apricot jam and, yesterday, a cassoulet for lunch. Women don’t forget these things. Even though she hates my guts she got them for me. Poor Nicole, she never understood. I didn’t want to leave her. I had to leave her. They were after me, I couldn’t live a normal life any more. And now, after all these years, she remembered my treats. Well, I have a treat for her. When she comes home tonight, I’ll be gone. She can celebrate. She earned that Yid money fast. Only two days of putting up with me. It’s funny. After all those years of scrabbling for every sou, now I don’t even get to spend it, I have to pretend in every convent and monastery that I’m some sort of beggar, so that they’ll have that holy feeling of doing their Christian duty in putting me up. It’s a joke, eh? All I wanted after the war was a quiet life, Nicole, kids, who knows? And what did I get? A beggar’s life at a monastery door.
Here he comes, yes, Bobi, I’m in here, in the kitchen, come on in, afraid of me, aren’t you, boy? Stupid old dog. That’s it, get in under the counter. Are you safe in there? You think I can’t reach you? Well, we’ll see
. We’ll see.
When he phoned the Commissaire yesterday he said he was in Aix and would leave this morning for Villefranche. Aix to Villefranche was a two-hour drive. He was supposed to phone the Commissaire when he got there. The Commissaire would expect a call around noon. But from Cannes Villefranche was just a short hop on the autoroute. No need to leave Cannes just yet. He decided to drive down to the Croisette, park the Peugeot and take a stroll along the front. He remembered his young days, dodging furtively among the parasols on the stony beach, trying to get up close to the girls lying on lilos, sunbathing.
Would he leave a note for Nicole? Yes. Don’t keep her in suspense. He scribbled: Goodbye. Thanks. P. on the back of a pink wrapper she’d brought back yesterday from a local patisserie. In it, wrapped up and tied with a fancy ribbon, a religieuse and a Napoléon. His favourites. Who else knew or remembered what he liked? Nobody. My sister in La Rochelle, she doesn’t even acknowledge that I exist. No kids, no family. Nobody except Nicole who I had to ditch, is it any wonder she hates my guts? Nobody loves me, nobody cares. No, that’s wrong. I have enemies, at least.
He put the note on the kitchen counter near the stove. She can’t miss it there. The old dog crouched beneath the counter made the mistake of giving a frightened growl. He looked down into its blind eyes. What are you growling for? He took aim and neatly kicked Bobi in the throat. The dog choked, then howled. ‘Shut up!’ he said, in a voice that stilled the animal’s howl at once. Obeyed, he went into the bedroom, packed his things and left, locking the door with his own key.
Cannes was a safe town, well, as safe as any town could be, now that he was a cause célèbre. When he parked the car and began his stroll along the Croisette, he wore his dark glasses and a hat. Resort towns like Cannes were full of tourists, people who didn’t know each other. And the locals saw so many strange faces, they no longer noticed anyone. As for the tourists they were on the look-out for celebrities, it was film stars they had in mind, not a ‘twice-condemned-to-death’, whose last public photo was a police mug shot, forty years old.
