by Brian Moore
And then, as he stared dully at the last entries in the exercise book that contained the lists of abbeys and priories, he noticed, among the tiny notations, the letters CSM and, beside them, a stroke accompanied by a single letter. The letters varied M/ J/ J/ A/. Suddenly, he turned back to the previous page and saw ten addresses of abbeys and convents, marked each with the letters CSM and then a single letter. CSM. Chevaliers de Ste Marie. The payments! And the single letters could denote the month of payment. Again he turned back. The abbeys on an earlier page were listed in slightly different order, initialled for different months. But, for the most part, the places were the same. He turned back again and found a similar list of abbeys on the page before that. Again the order had been changed and the months of visitation, if that was what these letters meant, changed from year to year. Suddenly excited, he turned to the latest entries. This page had not been completed. The letters CSM had not been filled in beside the names of the last two religious establishments. The penultimate entry was the Prieuré St Christophe. The monthly initial had been filled in. It was M. Today was May the 10th. The last entry was Prieuré de la Fraternité Sacerdotale de St Donat. There were no CSM initials, no monthly initial.
Roux looked at his watch. It was 6 a.m. He picked up the phone and dialled the operations room of the gendarmerie.
33
When Rosa Vionnet woke at 7 a.m., Henri was not in the bed. She knew at once that it had to do with last night’s phone call. When she went downstairs to make breakfast, he was sitting out on the porch, staring into the car-park of the big Leclerc supermarket opposite. He did not look at her, or speak.
‘Have you had your coffee?’
He did not answer. She went into the kitchen and turned on the gas. As she did, she heard him push his chair back and go into the parlour. He picked up the phone then replaced it on its cradle, without using it. He went back out on to the porch.
When she brought him his coffee and a tartine he spoke for the first time. ‘Go up to the bedroom and wait till I call you. I have to use the phone.’
That probably meant he was going to call Paris. He never wanted her to hear his Paris calls. He told people that he was retired, but she knew he still worked for the préfecture. Sometimes he took calls from an Inspector Pochon. And talked to Pochon as if he was still Monsieur Le Commissaire and Pochon worked for him.
Anyway, she told herself, it’s none of my business. But I don’t like him getting upset. His blood pressure, those pills he takes, it’s a worry for me. After all, he’s seventy-five years old.
In the parlour, the Commissaire picked up the telephone and dialled the Nice number. Monks rose early.
‘Prieuré St Donat, good morning.’
‘Good morning, Father. I know this is early and I know it’s unusual, but I am a friend of a guest who may be staying with you. A Monsieur Pouliot.’
‘I am sorry. We do not have any guest staying with us at present.’
‘But you know Monsieur Pouliot? Monsieur Pierre Pouliot. It’s very important that I reach him. My name is Saussaies. Henri Saussaies. He told me he would be coming to visit you at this time. So, if he does turn up, would you tell him to telephone me at once. It’s urgent. He has my number.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but we are not expecting anyone and I’m afraid we don’t know anyone by that name.’
‘Well, thank you anyway, Father. And if, by any chance, he does turn up?’
‘I’m sorry, sir. I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed. Thank you. Good day.’
Of course they are not going to tell me he’s there, or admit they know him. But Monsieur Saussaies. If they tell him that name, he’ll know.
34
The priests of the Fraternité St Donat ate all of their meals in silence. The refectory was a bare whitewashed room furnished with two rough tables and benches and a Romanesque crucifix that dominated the main wall. The kitchen monks brought in a large basket filled with thick chunks of gros pain bread baked that night in the priory ovens. The coffee was bitter as chicory and served in soup bowls. It was, he knew, a penance to stay more than a week or two in this retreat, for Dom Olivier, as part of his crusade against the venality and false doctrines of the modern Church, had established here an almost medieval routine of prayer and mortification, humble food and strict adherence to the old religious rules of fasting and abstinence.
He looked around him. No one spoke. He reached for and began to eat one of the hunks of bread, but his dentures could not manage to bite through the crust. He saw Dom Olivier enter the refectory and take a seat at the head of the table, bowing his head to say a long private grace. When the Prior had finished he raised his head, looked down to where his visitor sat and pointed his index finger in his direction, in a sign which might be interpreted as some sort of warning, but was, more likely, a silent salutation.
Newspapers, other than those religious tracts published in Econe, were not available in the priory, nor was there any television. He would have to go outside to learn what the press said about yesterday’s shooting. He planned to do that before ringing the Commissaire. The coffee was not only bitter, it was tepid. He put down his bowl and ostentatiously made the sign of the cross, to show that he had finished, a tactful gesture in a religious house such as this one. But when he rose to leave the table, Dom Olivier again caught his eye and again raised his hand. He’s signalling me that he wants to see me. He nodded obediently to Dom Olivier then went outside into the hallway and stood waiting before a painting of St Sébastien, transfixed by arrows.
A few minutes later Dom Olivier came out of the refectory, walking with the too-certain step of the half blind. He nodded, indicating that he was to be followed, and led the way along the hallway and into a small parlour used as a waiting room when visitors came to speak to one of the resident priests. Then, surprisingly, from the deep lap pocket of his robe, Dom Olivier produced a newspaper.
‘I did not want to alarm you, Pierre. Poor man, you have troubles enough. But have you seen this story?’ He looked at the paper, Nice Matin, Front Page:
mysterious murder in villefranche
armed canadian shot dead in bar
Leaflet found on body – link to Brossard Affair
He moved quickly to the text of the leaflet, which was printed in full in the newspaper report. The same message as in Salon. So I didn’t make a mistake. I killed the killer.
But as he read, he was aware that Dom Olivier was watching him. He looked up at the Prior. ‘My God!’ he said. ‘Who was this man?’
‘A Canadian passport was found on the body,’ Dom Olivier said. He pulled a chair out from under the parlour table and sat down as though exhausted. A trickle of sweat ran down his cheek. ‘Do you believe in the Devil, Pierre?’
What is he talking about?
‘The Devil, Father Prior?’
Dom Olivier produced a large red cotton handkerchief and wiped his face. ‘Pierre, one of the reasons we have lost the true path is because the Devil, more than at any other time in history, has managed to conceal his ways and works. The people have forgotten that the Evil One exists. And, alas, the Church, the Papal Church, has not seen fit to remind them of his existence. If, indeed, the Papal Church believes that the Devil still exists. I am not sure of that, as I am not sure of anything in connection with present-day Rome. But the Devil is behind this attempt to kill you. Do you not see that?’
‘The Devil, Father Prior?’
‘Yes, the Devil, Pierre. We know, and we have always known, that the Jews do not have the interests of France at heart and that they are still willing to sow dissension and feelings of guilt and blame, more than forty years after the German Occupation. I see that lust for vengeance as inspired by the Devil. Don’t you?’
He nodded uncertainly. What was the Prior getting at?
‘Of course you do,’ Dom Olivier said. ‘These Jews, whoever they are, sent one of their number from Canada to kill you. When he killed you, he would leave that leaflet on your bod
y. And when your body was found there would be more publicity than ever before about your disappearance, which would give the Jews a new chance to bring up those old stories of the 1943 round-up in the Vél d’Hiver sports drome, and the deportation trains from Drancy and other places. Once again the charge of a crime against humanity would be made against certain politicians, men of dignity, men who held high positions, who now, in their old age, still face the threat of trial and prosecution. And again, through such trials, our country could be held up to shame in the eyes of the world. A pity that this leaflet was found on the body of the would-be assassin. But you didn’t know about the leaflet, I suppose?’
He stared at this man, half blind, frail, his head nodding in an involuntary dodder, his hand absent-mindedly wiping his chin with that red kerchief. ‘The leaflet, Father?’
Dom Olivier straightened up in his chair as though in pain. ‘My back,’ he said. ‘It’s such a trial at times. Yes, the leaflet. When you shot him, you didn’t know there was a leaflet on his body. Or did you? I’ve been wondering. The man in Salon was a Canadian. Did you find a similar leaflet on his body?’
‘I don’t understand, Father Prior.’
The Prior, for the first time, smiled at him. ‘You know our friend Dom André Vergnes, the Prior of the Prieuré St Christophe in Aix? Of course you do, Pierre. We both know him. He is a member of the Chevaliers. He stands quite high in that organization. I am myself a member of the Chevaliers and Dom André and I have remained friends despite our doctrinal differences. Last week he rang me up and told me he thought you would be visiting us soon. He said he felt it his duty to warn me of his belief that you killed that man in Salon. As I now believe you shot that man yesterday. No, no, don’t look so alarmed, Pierre. In my opinion your defending yourself against an assassin is a wholly commendable action. Especially as the assassin was doing the Devil’s work, I can only say, as I’ve said before, that you are one of us and that I will do my utmost to protect you against our enemies. But I am afraid for you, Pierre. Who is it who knows where to find you? Have you any idea?’
‘No, Father Prior.’
‘Have you thought of going abroad? Of leaving France? I know that in the past you did not want our enemies to force you into exile from the country you love. But now . . . I don’t know. What do you think?’
‘I think it is something I should consider.’
‘Good. Think about it. If you decide to emigrate perhaps we can help you.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Father Prior. In the meantime, I have important lay friends who may have access to a Vatican passport.’
‘I wouldn’t count on any assistance from Rome, if I were you,’ Dom Olivier said. ‘None of us can count on Rome nowadays. The days of Pope Pius, God rest his soul, are history. He knew that the Germans were not the true enemies of religion. The present Pope does not.’
‘Father Prior, my lay friends may have other sources. They know about these things. But if they fail me I will certainly be grateful for any help you can give.’
Dom Olivier rose shakily from his chair and advanced to embrace him. He felt the sick wet skin touch his cheek. ‘We are all in God’s hands,’ Dom Olivier said. ‘And I am sure that God protected you yesterday, as He has in the past. Now, I must say my mass. Would you like to join us in the chapel?’
He bowed his head in humble acquiescence. The call to the Commissaire would have to wait.
35
‘It’s a long shot,’ Roux said. ‘But at the moment it’s all I have.’
Judge Livi looked up from her study of the child’s exercise book which Roux had given her. ‘It’s brilliant,’ she said. ‘And you have the address?’
‘Yes, we turned it up at once. It seems the Fraternité is closely linked with Monsignor Lefebvre’s headquarters in Switzerland. The DST keeps an eye on that prelate and his doings. The house, in which the priory is located, was given to the Fraternité St Donat by the Mayor of Nice, against the advice of the local bishop.’
‘Why would the Mayor do that, I wonder?’
‘Another mystery,’ Roux said. ‘But if Brossard’s hiding out there now, the Prior, one Dom Olivier Villedieu, is a man who will do everything to keep us from finding him.’
‘But you’ll find him,’ Judge Livi said. She moved to a typewriter. ‘I have great faith in you, Colonel. If you’ll give me that address, I’ll make up the search warrant.’
‘Here you are.’
She began to type, then stopped. ‘You know, now is the perfect time to bring Brossard in. With this latest killing the case will be more than political.’
‘What do you mean, Madame?’
‘You know what the media are like. They’re not interested in history. Murder is a much more selling item than old wartime tales. A double murder, two dead assassins, and the stink of Church involvement. If you can bring Brossard in, it will be an international story and that will make it much easier for me to see that the other gentlemen charged with a crime against humanity are no longer protected by my superiors in the Justice Ministry and the Elysée Palace. Their trials will follow inevitably on Brossard’s.’
‘If I can find Brossard in time,’ Roux said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s a race I could lose,’ Roux said. ‘Someone else wants to find him and kill him. Someone who knows him and his movements better than we do.’
‘I’ve been thinking,’ Judge Livi said. ‘Why has he been paid a large sum of money regularly by someone in Paris? Someone who doesn’t seem to have anything to do with the Church and the Chevaliers. The Chevaliers’ stipend is 3,000 francs a month. Modest. A charitable donation. But this other payment seems to be a large one. What does that suggest to you?’
‘Someone who’s paying him for services rendered?’ Roux said. ‘Or paying to keep him quiet.’
‘Someone who desperately doesn’t want to see him caught and brought to trial,’ Judge Livi said. ‘And who could that be, do you think?’
‘Some important personage who faces a similar charge?’
‘Exactly,’ Judge Livi said.
36
He knelt in the rear of the Fraternité’s chapel but did not pray. On the altar Dom Olivier was saying mass, the Latin mass as it had once been celebrated in every country on the globe. But all that was ended. Now, the saying of the Latin mass was an act of rebellion against the Papacy and the present. Watching Dom Olivier perform the familiar movements, hearing the remembered Latin phrases, he was transported back through the decades to those days before the war, to that gentle France Charles Trenet sang about, that France now gone for ever. Today, at the end of his life, what was there to keep him in a France run to benefit beurs and noirs, a France where a presidential pardon could be overturned by some new law brought in by international Jewry?
It was in the course of that mass, here in the safe haven of Dom Olivier’s protection, that he made his final decision. Even if the Commissaire refused to help with a passport, even if they refused to keep sending his payments, he would leave France. As he knelt here, he could reach into the fat money belt he wore at all times and touch part of his life savings, the payments he had thriftily hoarded over the years. With that, and the deposits he had made in a bank in Bern, he had enough to live on for some time.
The mass was ending. He rose with the others, genuflected to the altar and went out into the corridor, looking for Father Rozier, the père hospitalier who had promised to let him use the telephone. But when he went into Father Rozier’s office, Father Rozier was not there. A very young priest sat at Father Rozier’s desk.
‘Are you Monsieur Pouliot?’ the young priest asked.
‘Yes, I am.’
‘I didn’t know where to find you,’ the young priest said. ‘I looked in your room.’
‘I was at mass. What is this about?’
‘A gentleman telephoned earlier this morning and asked for you by name. Of course I said we had never heard of you. But he seemed to know you w
ould be here. A Monsieur Saussaies. He wants you to call him. He said you have his number.’
‘Thank you. By the way, Father Rozier told me yesterday that I could use the bindery telephone and that I wouldn’t be disturbed there.’
‘Of course,’ the young priest said. ‘The bindery’s not in use any more.’ He rose from his desk. ‘I’ll show you the way.’
In the bindery on the third floor, the shutters were closed against the sun, leaving the room in almost total darkness. The young priest opened a shutter, showed him where the telephone was, then withdrew, closing him in.
Avignon. He dialled. The Commissaire picked up on the first ring.
‘Monsieur Pierre here, sir.’
‘Where is here?’ the Commissaire asked irritably.
‘Nice, sir. I’m at the Prieuré St Donat. You rang earlier, sir?’
‘Yes, I did. Where the hell have you been? Why didn’t you phone last night?’
‘It was difficult, sir. You know what happened yesterday?’
‘Of course, I do. The whole damn country does.’
‘I know, sir. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’
‘No, you listen to me,’ the Commissaire said. ‘The other day you mentioned us getting you out of France. I think the time has come for us to do just that.’
He felt a sudden rush of relief, a strange weakness as though he could weep. ‘Sir, that’s just what I was thinking myself. As soon as possible, sir. Would it have to be South America, sir?’
